Disclaimer: Peter, James, Voldemort and the rest do not belong to me. I am making no money off of this.

Warning: Er...there is a possibility this may be slash later. Keep that in mind!

Dedication: For Tara, who sent the rabid plot bunnies of this fic after me. I hope it's as good as expectations!

Author's Note: Okay...so I'm doing something I thought I'd never do. A James-Back-From-The-Dead fic. But it's not going to be all happy and kittens and roses. No no no! I need my angst! Anyway, this is just an attempt, let me know how it is. If you want the rest, let me know and I'll write the rest. I have the arch planned out, it's just expending the effort to write it.

Body and Blood

It was the sort of magic that was generally performed on a dark and stormy night. It was he sort of magic associated with claps of thunder, crypts, and midnight masses. It was magic of the darkest sort, but those who were performing it were well used to journeys into the macabre. And black magic was black magic, even when it was being preformed on a warm spring afternoon.

"Is all in readiness?" The voice was slick and serpentine, the s' long and syllabant.

"Y-yes master." The second voice was weak and frightened, and one that sounded as though it attached the word 'master' to a great many of it's sentences.

"Good, Wormtail. I was nearly afraid your trademark cowardice would ruin this as well." The soft voice held a hint of amusement, and Wormtail-who still called himself Peter in the deepest recess of his mind-hung his head.

"No, master."

"Good. Now...you know what you must do."

"Yes, Lord Voldemort." Wormtail bowed, hands clasped tightly together before him. He slipped out of the room, revulsion forming into a solid ball in the back of his throat. He wanted to be ill. Being in the presence of Lord Voldemort always did that to him, giving him that feeling that his skin was crawling and his lunch was about to come up. He ran ah and through his hair, tucking it behind his ears.

//He doesn't know what he's getting into...// Peter thought to himself, fording his breathing to remain calm. Voldemort's obsession with death, reanimation, and power were finally all coming together in one 'brilliant experiment'. Peter personally saw nothing brilliant about it. He actually thought it was a stupid, dangerous thing to do. Not to mention risky...

//Not for him, though. Just for me.// And what did it matter to the Dark Lord, if Peter Pettigrew was lost? As long as he got his precious prize...

//There are some things that are better left alone. This is one of them.// It didn't even matter that, in theory, he was being given a chance to right wrongs he had committed in his past. But he didn't think it was worth it. He was expendable to Lord Voldemort, but not to himself. He decided he very much wanted to live. He had done too much given too much for his life to waste it. In a way, he owed James his life. And, he figured, owed James his own peaceful rest.

//Dead is dead. People aren't supposed to come back from the dead.// Peter sighed, picking up the shovel he had prepared for this event. Voldemort would perform the actual ritual, but Peter had to prepare for it. He had gotten all the ingredients that were needed, though some were quite difficult and unpleasant to achieve. He could only thank whatever deity looked over him that James had been an Animagus, and therefore a stag heart could be substituted for a human heart.

Peter Apperated to the cemetery where he knew James to be buried. He wasn't looking forward to this at all. He felt wrong, dirty, and ashamed. He had never visited James' grave before, and he didn't like doing it in this situation. He found the grave, a simple but elegant one. He knelt, swallowing hard. He ran his fingers over the words on the tombstone, finding them somehow fitting. Simple, and unassuming, much like James himself had been in life.

"James Potter. Beloved Husband and Father."

"I'm sorry James." Peter whispered, not entirely sure what he was apologizing for. The betrayal, or this thing he was about to do. He knelt there for a while, not sure what to do. He took a deep breath, feeling wrong simply returning to James to unearth him. There was so much he wanted to say, wanted to make known. He had spent so long alone with his thoughts, he needed to let them out. And James was the only one he felt deserved to hear them.

"I...I don't want to do this." Peter continued, nervously. "I didn't really want to do the other thing either. But...I did. And I'm going to do this. I don't really want to, but I...I can't say no. I want to, I have the words in my head, but they won't come out. They stick in my throat. He'll kill me James, and I don't want to die! not that I wanted you to die but..." He could feel tears behind his eyes and a sob welling up in his throat. "You don't know what it's like! You weren't there, you've never had him do to you the things he did to me! If you did, you'd have done the same thing." He could feel the tears on his cheeks now, hot and shameful. "I didn't do it because I believe in Voldemort. I don't. Not really. I mean, some of it yeah, but not all of it. I did because I was scared! I've always been weak, you know that. Why did you use me as your Secret Keeper? Didn't you know..." He sobbed out loud, falling onto his stomach on the grave.

He knew he was wasting time. But he needed to get that out of the way, before he continued. He dried his eyes, and stood up, taking the shovel in hand. He cast a charm over the plot, so that no one would see what he was doing. Or at least not pay any attention to it. He began digging, trying hard not to think while he did so. After an hour or so he hit the solidity of the coffin, and used his magic to lift it up out of the hole, and fill it in again. He shuddered, thinking of what was inside the coffin. He didn't want to. He swallowed hard, the stale scent of old death leaking out of the coffin. James was in there, or what was left of him.

"I put you here." Peter whispered, sucking in his lower lip. Tears began leaking out of his eyes again. It was as if only this could fully illustrate what he had done. James was dead. But not for long, if Voldemort's spell worked.

"The dead should stay dead." Peter mumbled, sighing. He didn't think this was right. Regardless of the circumstances, James was dead. Dead was dead, it was eternal, it was the end. But not for James. //What will he think of me, when he comes back?// He swallowed hard, not wanting to think about that. None of this was right, but there was nothing he could do.

He placed a hand on the coffin, gagging at the feel of half rotted wood and smell of decayed flesh, and Apperated back to Voldemort's lair.

~~~~~

If you like, there will be more.