As Nagini is finished with her feeding, she comes to rest upon the varnished tabletop of fine wood, massive and regal in her gluttonous content. Voldemort toys with the tip of her tail absently before announcing the council closed. Death Eaters file out of the room in solemn, grim silence, handsome faces impenetrable. Pettigrew lets them slip past him, their footfalls muffled by a carpet, their robes susurrating like conspiratorial whispers. No gazes received, he duly keeps his spine slouched and prepares to take a leave himself, even though he is invisible, he's an invisible, talentless boy, stupid boy, even now that his temples are graying and his joints give him grief, he's still just a scared boy.
"Wormtail."
Voldemort's gaze is aimed elsewhere, past Pettigrew and through the wall behind Pettigrew, perhaps even attempting to lance the elusive matter of time and through that jagged, painful rift witness the epoch of his utopian reign. Despite the deplorable reputation of Divination, sometimes Pettigrew wonders if, of all wizards, Tom Riddle's gift was great enough to actually master that art.
"Yes, my Lord?.."
Voldemort's hand glides into mid-air gracefully, a motion of swanlike paleness, his long-nailed, slim finger making a succinct gesture. Pettigrew understands. He always understands, his complaisant gut instinct exacerbated by the timid sensitivity of said innards. He whisks to his knees with nimbleness contradictory of his stout physique – the courtesy of twelve years of creeping, sneaking, crawling, hiding, fleeing. Sometimes he thinks he will never get rid of the reek of dust and mildew gathered between the walls of Weasley house and many, many other houses.
With practiced promptness he raises the hem of his Lord's black robe, folding it neatly over the stomach (it never, never moves, does he even breathe? how much humanity exactly have the horcruxes sucked out of him?)
There is nothing underneath, as if Voldemort is impervious to the chill of British autumn as well. Pettigrew's stubby fingers splay over the hairless, pale smoothness in precursory caress. Genuineness is not expected, but the quality of performance is important. His small, watery eyes flicker upwards to check for possible displeasure, and oh, how he dreads a returned stare. But Voldemort is mercifully dismissive, his cheek placed atop the back of his hand, hooded blues seemingly concerned with the sight beyond the window glass, the velvet black bespangled with prickly stars. Pettigrew has acquired a loathing towards celestial bodies, for he is used to acting in darkness, for the judgement of light is scorching.
He casts a moisturizing spell – can't insult the hope and magnificence of the pureblood world with something as prosaic as spitting in your palm – and clasps the flaccid shaft with calloused fingertips, with reverence of a flamen entrusted with a sacred artifact (does the Potters' Secret still burn, Peter?)
It's like fondling a dead snake, the kind bred white for pure aestheticism, but Pettigrew never complains even in his head. The level of prestige is tremendous, stupefying, insane, something Bellatrix would gnaw her own hand off for, but Pettigrew beat her to that as well. The enigma of Voldemort's preference used to confuse him as much as the toughest of McGonagall's tests, especially when he stood next to Lestrange, a slender-waisted, bright-eyed beastie of a woman that was probably capable of incredible tricks in the sack, especially for her deified idol, until he's spent enough time gratifying to realize that Voldemort needs – no, wants, the Dark Lord never stoops to need – not a lover but a commodity, a back-scratcher sentient enough to correct itself, and Pettigrew is exactly that, never was anything else, not to Voldemort, not to James, Sirius or Remus. Yes, the spite is getting to his brain and garbling whatever might be the truth, has been for decades, fertilizing the soil for the fungus of treason that entered its heyday in 1981.
He strokes and squeezes with utmost gentleness, his thumb running up to the head to press into the slit, the other, metallic, hand cradling the balls. He is enraptured to see the effect settle in as the noble flesh darkens and swells, veins growing prominent. It's quite long and perfectly devoid of the slightest curve, just like in a worthy Death Eater's dreams. Pettigrew's tongue trembles upon the contact when Voldemort speaks. It is not an anomaly by any means, yet Pettigrew's inner self shrivels to a squeaking rat every time he feels that serpentine cadence slithering into his ears.
"More times reducing the meetings to disposing of negligible garbage and I'll start losing my temper. The biding is long overdue."
Pettigrew proceeds, listening. Might be unwise to be unable to repeat the words of indisputable importance, though there is never a single sign indicative of Voldemort bothering to acknowledge Pettigrew's existence in such moments. His mouth full, warm air billows down his nostrils with soft rustle – the breath of a man with his health on the steady decline. He knows not whether it's age, weight or the toll of a rat's life. There is only the hope of death taking him in his well-deserved sleep, on the bed of some muggleborn whose house will be confiscated in Pettigrew's favor. He dares not dream of more, of…
"We are ready for the ascension. The wind of change has storm clouds roiling, there, in the distance. I can see it even at night."
Pettigrew's lids sink, shutting out distractions. There is only the girth of lukewarm cock sliding along the root of his tongue and down his throat, the taste of precum and withering softness of an old man's belly against his nose. The nature of human body is indifferent to the greatness of mind. Strangely, Voldemort never corrects the pace or intensity, but over the time Pettigrew has gauged out the technique that seemed to elicit the best response and learned the reflexes of his master. He makes a gulp to push the reaction, feels Voldemort's hips budge. Sometimes Pettigrew gets a firm smack for that. For seizing the control. Sometimes he doesn't. This time – nothing, just a grunt on labored exhale preceding the next phrase.
"With the entirety of power on our side, with their inelaborate defenses crushed, we'll take over Hogwarts with ease and…"
Pettigrew nudges the process to a closure, adding the sweeping, wriggling movements of tongue and engulfing the member to the root along with the balls. A tiny, abject part of him is blooming with complacency, and his own cock twitches in unison with the other man's pulse.
"…and…and Potter will be dead."
Pettigrew senses the flavor of Voldemort's seed flourishing over his palate. No time to reach the peak and spill himself in his pants like it happened the previous time, and he's grateful for that, albeit unsure why, for pride is a concept as distant as the memories of his innocence.
Naturally, he swallows, drinks it all up with diligence he never displayed in class, sucking until a cold hand estranges him. After some hesitation, he glances up with mind pristine clear of expectations. There is never any telling with Voldemort.
"No Marauders tonight. Why?"
Ah, there it is. Legilimens meanders idly through his thoughts like a leech. The idea of resistance does not even briefly cross his mind. His breath hitches, something beneath his breastbone crumbles and falls into abyss.
"…B-because I only love you, my Lord…"
The non-verbal hex shoots through his tooth nerves like a lightning, as dazzlingly white and hot.
"Lies," Voldemort states calmly, and his fingers creep along Pettigrew's mousy features. It is rather touch-reading than caress. Then – a curt wag of wrist, and he knows he's free to pull the robe back into place.
"As far as that pathetic emotion goes…I see red hair…and freckled nose…flush of pink on a young man's skin."
Pettigrew hangs his head, neither in denial nor in admittance. Comments have no point in the piercing light of Voldemort's knowledge. Suddenly, the Dark Lord rises, fabric streaming downwards, swaying half an inch shy of his bare feet while Pettigrew scrambles awkwardly to give way to Voldemort's paces before trying to stand up himself. Inaudible, terrifyingly majestic, the wizard with the face of a snake passes his paltry servant, his forearms folded behind his back.
"One thing I can say in your defense is that you know better than Snape…you desire your own kind."
Pettigrew's wishful thinking offers an image of Snape just as belittled, just as abased by having his memories dissected right in front of him. But that's wishful thinking. The inexorability of facts suggests otherwise. Peter Pettigrew cannot be half the man Snivellus Snape's always been. Maybe even Prongs, Moony and Padfoot knew all along but never told him out of the degrading pity he would still not throw back in their faces had he the chance to revert the time.
"This war will reward everyone who's ready to make a due contribution. And although restoring your limb was more than enough to pay for your services, if you manage to overcome your uselessness in the battle, I will give you what you want, for it is not much. You are not wired to aspire for greater things. This is why I am where I am and you are where you are."
Pettigrew's head nods on its own volition, his subservience scampering ahead of his thoughts, and he is finally standing instead of groveling, yet there is no shift on the inside. Heart of a rat is racing, pounding within his ribcage, exploding with colorful fantasies, as sweet as they are nauseating. Shuffling forward, he is about to reach out, shaking with hate and gratitude, and offer doing something, anything, just to show how much he…
"Now get out of my sight."
"Of course, Your Lordship."
Pettigrew backs away with abundance of bows until he bumps into the door and slinks out into the hallway. He spends the rest of the night with his face buried in a musty pillow and a yellow-toothed grin distorting his ugly chubby face. He is a good pet.