Between Death and B e t r a y a l
A thin blanket of powder hugged the rolling hills. A gentle mist of snowflakes swirled to the tune of village hymns, not too far off. A patch of orange light danced in rhythm along the empty fields. No, not empty; nearly empty.
It was hard to imagine such a picture of Christmas innocence hosting a scene of betrayal.
Peter thrice told himself to go back, that he couldn't do it, that he wasn't strong enough. Thrice his back turned to fire blazing in the distance and froze, unable to leave anymore than he was able to convince himself to carry on. But he had only to go so far before the rest would be done for him.
How could he hurt his friends on a night like this?
"We seem to have company," a voice noted, hidden by the night. Or was it the night that had spoken? The cloaked figures surrounding it turned their hooded faces toward Peter, two rising among them. A silent spell passed undetected through the wind, hitting Peter square on. He reached the flames in an inhuman speed, falling to his knees in front the one figure who neglected his hood.
What was there to do when a face so evil was before you?
"M-my lord," Peter stammered, kissing his master's feet. His own feet were ice-cold, unable to move from their position in the snow. He could feel the stares of the other Death Eaters surrounding him, blocking his escape, undoubtedly whispering. Whispering about Peter. Always whispering about Peter.
Not even there did he belong.
"Wormtail," his voice was colder than night, colder than the murder he was going to commit, helped by Peter... But was Peter willing? The death cold voice spoke again. "You have news." It was not a question. You didn't need to ask questions when you already knew the answers.
Voldemort always knew the answers.
"Yes, m-my lord," came Peter's shivering response. No flames could warm his frozen heart, his frozen lungs. He choked on his words, they scarred his throat. "I know where the P-potter ch-child is." Cheers erupted from beneath the hoods. How they would celebrate the death of the one that could destroy Voldemort... But Peter would not. It would be the moment he lost hope of escape- there was no leaving Voldemort, and even if he could, his friends would never forgive him… But if he didn't tell Voldemort, he would find out another way, and the only difference would be Peter's death reported in the papers.
Had there ever been a choice?
"We're waiting, Wormtail," came the voice of night. 'Come, post-pone your death, yes, it will come someday... what're your friends' lives to what you could have, Peter? But I will find out, I will know, and you will be dead... your life means nothing to me...' The unspoken words echoed in the night, washing over Peter and bringing with them memories of when he had first heard them. He gasped with the effort to keep Voldemort out, to keep his mind his own. Without it he had nothing, nothing...
He had nothing but a secret.
"Godric's Hollow."
This isn't the first chapter, but I have yet to write the first, so... here's a preview, I guess. Review and I'll write more sooner!
Disclaimer: It's all JKR's- I'm just filling in a gap.