I am a necessary evil.
Some would say that no evil is ever really necessary, but they're wrong. How does light exist without darkness? How can a day exist where there is no night? Most simply, they don't – can't. For the world to be true, there must be evil – just as to live, you must die. Perhaps evil is too harsh a word.
No, wait.
No one would agree with me on that. If, however, I am evil, then it is only so because I am a coward.
Someone once said that a fool is nauseous, but a coward worse.
Woe to those who are both.
I am not, nor will I ever be, evil in the way Voldemort is – neither will I ever be good in the ways of Albus Dumbledore, or my only friends.
Yes, I still consider them my friends. They were the only people that were ever truly kind to me. A monster, a coward, a fool. Judas. The betrayer.
I am one of the sad few who is disappointingly ambiguous, though my outward loyalty is to evil.
Disappointment – something I know much of.
Wizarding is genetic, you know. Wizards are, in fact, a form of mutant. Muggles are the true people. This irony is lost on Voldemort, but not on me. Oh no, never on me. My parents were disappointed in me, more then could be imagined by a truly loved child. When I was young, I showed no signs of being a wizard – not until my invitation to Hogwarts arrived, at least. My parents, noting the lack of any magical manifestation form their youngest son, assumed I was a squib.
A powerless wizard.
A muggle, even.
And therefore, and imbecile.
A failure.
All because of a birth I couldn't control. I was treated as lower class in my own home – not that I ever really thought of it as much of a home. You were loved at home.
When September first, 1973 arrived, I was ecstatic. To leave this hell, this abyss, this world were I was unloved and treated like trash. It would be nothing short of a new life, I thought.
Oh, if I only knew then what I know now.
They say the sorting hat never makes mistakes. Twenty-five years ago, I would have disputed this argument – it placed me in Gryffindor, didn't it? But now… now, I think that perhaps it was no accident.
The world ebbs, flows, shifts. What has to be will be, and as I said before, evil is integral to the survival of the world.
What irony.
Before you continue, reader, understand this – I do not pity myself. I simply wish with all my being that what I've done can be undone, and understand with all of my sad heart that I am a creature of consequence. I am doomed to die a coward, a fool, evil and vile.
This much I will accept. My root sin is that I'm a coward, and so, I have damned myself with the consequences of being such.
Again, this much I will accept.
Through fourth year, I had no friends. Remus Lupin, Sirius Black and James Potter were all a year head of me. I walked through the halls, head bowed, never looking at anyone or talking. Never volunteering information. I was mediocre in everything I did, and no one felt I was worth his or her time.
A change so small can be so large. It was because the Marauders befriended me that I killed two of them. The night they saved me from death was the night they condemned themselves – two to death, one to prison, and one to thirty years without friendship. How I wish, more then anything, that they had been on time for their secret rendezvous in the astronomy tower the night, instead of just a little earlier then usual. I had never been to the tower so early in the morning, and felt fairly assured that no one would be present.
If only they had let me suicide. No one would notice the death of an overweight boy with horrendous acne who never made a peep. Who knows if my parents would have even buried me? Perhaps they would have just cast Incindro on my body.
But no, they had stopped me. A fourteen year old boy who wished to end his life – they knew something was wrong about that. So they befriended me, casting aside my weaknesses. Slowly, the only reason I lived was for the three of them – four, when Lily began to hang about with us in fifth year.
When Voldemort looks at me, he sees a thin, balding man, a lowly servant suitable only for criticism and – one day – sacrifice. If he knew of the debt I owe, I would be dead. As it is, though I am only forty years old, I fear (oh, the fear is never far!) that I approach death. Perhaps it will come to meet me, and my fears will be abated, and the debt will be repaid. Just as I am necessary, so is the payment of this debt. I exist merely to take my part in the play, the theatre of life, and so I play my part.
The past is a pain that can never be alleviated. When I die, I will not go into the welcome arms of my friends, the warmth of their love and happiness. Sirius will never grin at me and tell me it's fine. Remus will never pat me on the back and give a consoling smile. Lily will never shake her head and throw her arms around me, and James will not beam proudly. Perhaps, if I were allowed a second in heaven, all of this would happen.
They were, and are, good people.
Harry, however, has given me a gift that is on par with the heaven I will never see, and so I will readily accept hell when the time comes. I cannot be redeemed, and I will harbor no hope for imaginary forgiveness. I do not deserve to be forgiven.
One night, three years ago, Harry Potter saved my life, despite the fact that I was the direct cause of his parent's death. It is this debt I now carry on my shoulders – I will save his life when the time comes.
It is a welcome weight.
P. Pettigrew
Note: Dates are approximate. :)