Women's History, task 2: Write about someone unexpected having great influence.
Word Count: 1139
Dorcas traces her Hufflepuff yellow painted fingernail over the weathered arm of the chair, her mind drifting. She doesn't think of anything in particular; it all seems to blur into a nonsensical swirl inside her mind—Caradoc's disappearance, a Muggle family of five murdered, the Death Eaters growing rapidly in number. With a groan, she closes her eyes and massages her temples. Dwelling on the darkness for too long never fails to give her a headache. Part of her hates it whenever the Order holds their meetings here. The sad energy seems to remain long after everyone has gone.
"Everything okay?"
Dorcas jumps, a squeaky gasp escaping her lips. When she sees Peter, she relaxes. How could she have forgotten he was there? "You scared me half to death," she grumbles, tugging nervously on her ash blonde braid.
He offers her a sheepish, contrite smile. His dark, beady eyes shift from side to side anxiously as he holds up a bottle of wine. "You looked like you needed a drink," he says.
Dorcas shrugs. It's true enough, but she hadn't expected Peter to actually indulge her. "I thought you only wanted to talk." She grins as she watches him pour the first glass. "I didn't know you wanted to get me drunk."
Peter lets out a shaky laugh. His hands tremble, and he spills wine onto the white tile floor. "Sorry," he murmurs, offering Dorcas the glass before casting a quick cleaning spell to remove the burgundy puddle.
Dorcas smiles as she watches him. Peter is a sweetheart, but he's so different from his three friends. James and Sirius' confidence levels are so high that they border on arrogance, and Remus, though infinitely more reserved, is always warm and welcoming. Peter, on the other hand, is always so awkward and nervous. Once, Dorcas had felt bad for him for it. Now, she finds it rather endearing.
"What did you want to talk to me about?" she asks once the mess is cleaned and Peter is sitting across from her.
"They don't take you seriously."
His bluntness takes her by surprise. For several moments, Dorcas can't find the words to say. Instead, she sips her wine, waiting.
"You've noticed it," Peter adds, his pudgy fingers drumming against his fair hair. "I know you have. The way they look at you… I don't know how you can take it."
Sipping isn't enough. Dorcas takes a large gulp of wine, enjoying the slight burn of the light alcohol. "Why are you being so mean?"
Peter sets his own untouched glass of wine aside and leans over, resting his hand on her forearm. "I'm not being mean. I understand how it feels because they treat me the same way."
Dorcas shifts in her chair, clearing her throat. She's just as guilty as the others of not taking Peter seriously. Of course, she doesn't point this out to him.
"It hurts, doesn't it?"
She drains her glass in one final gulp. It's tempting to deny it, but there's no point. They both know the truth. "Yes."
"What if I told you that I can help?" he asks. "I can make sure your brilliant mind will be appreciated."
A soft laugh spills from her lips. Dorcas shakes her head, her braid thumping against her neck. "Are we done here? It's late, and I need to go to bed."
"You don't want gold or glory," Peter says. "All you want is for someone to appreciate you, to recognize all the hard work you do."
Dorcas bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes the faint metallic tang of blood. She's never confided her darkest thoughts in anyone. Her doubts and insecurities have been kept hidden away. How does Peter know?
"My master can give you that."
Master. Dorcas knows of only one person who wants to be called that. Her jaw drops, and she stares at Peter as though she's seeing him for the first time. He's always been a bit off, but there's no way he could actually be a Death Eater….
"It will be worth it," he says eagerly. "Think about it."
She doesn't want to think about it. Dorcas has spent the past year trying to fight against the Dark Lord. How can anyone expect her to join him?
And yet the idea is strangely tempting. Peter is right. Dorcas has noticed the way the others look at her when she speaks; they seem to think she's a child, that she doesn't know what she's talking about. Is it possible that he's right?
With a sigh, she rubs her head again. It's too much to take in at once.
"Trust me," he urges.
She knows she shouldn't, but it's hard not to. Peter is so harmless that she can't help but smile. How can someone like Peter have this much influence over her? It has taken him almost nothing to make her ponder her choices and consider an alternative.
Finally, she nods mutely. "Yeah. Okay."
…
"Another one, Wormtail?"
The cold voice makes Dorcas shiver. She looks around, but all she sees are masked faces.
"You have done well. I must say that I am surprised," the voice continues.
Peter bows slightly. "Thank you, my Lord," he says before straightening his posture again and giving Dorcas a gentle push forward.
Dorcas stumbles slightly but manages to keep her balance. The Dark Lord stands above the others, extending his hand to her. "Wormtail has told me so much about you," he says, his slender fingers wrapping around her wrist. "Dumbledore is a fool to not recognize your greatness. To him, you are little more than a pawn. Isn't that right, Fenwick?"
"Yes, my Lord."
The nasal voice makes Dorcas' head jerk to the side. Though his face is hidden, Dorcas would recognize Benjy's crystal green eyes anywhere. "Benjy?" she whispers.
"Another of Wormtail's recruits," the Dark Lord explains, a hint of pride in his voice. "If anyone can get through to the unwanted, it's him."
Even in the dim light, she can see the color flood Peter's cheeks. His lips twist into a hint of a scowl, and he keeps his eyes fixed pointedly on the ground.
"It's okay, Dorcas." Caradoc's deep, reassuring voice brings tears to her eyes.
Everything seems to fall into place now; it all makes sense. The Death Eaters have grown because of Peter. They've been able to combat the Order so easily because of all their insiders.
She turns her attention back to Peter, and now she fully understand exactly how much she had underestimated his influence. If she's honest, she's pretty impressed. One man—the quietest, most nervous man in all of the Order—could have just ensured the Dark Lord's victory.
Without a second thought, she kneels and presents her arm. When the world changes, she will be ready.