Chapter 2
Wormtail's Secret
The Writer sat back in her chair, quietly spluttering to herself after what she had recently witnessed, when there was a knock at the door.
"Hm?" it wasn't usual for someone to knock. Usually they burst in, or were dragged in, after being 'encouraged' by a friend of hers called Chloroform.
"Come in..." she called.
A ratty face appeared round the door. The most worthless, spineless Death Eater, Peter Pettigrew. He opened the door, pointing his wand at the Writer.
"You're a Death Eater and you knock?" the Writer laughed, "I would have thought you would have blasted open the door!"
"I wish to leave no evidence of a struggle," he rasped, wand still raised, "my Master has tasked me with ending your pathetic life."
Ignoring the fact that what he had just said was probably the worst case of 'the pot calling the kettle black' in the history of the known universe, the Writer just sat back and grinned.
"But why you?" the Writer asked, "why not Bellatrix?"
"She...still can't look at Him without crying."
"And Snape?"
"Has only just stopped throwing up."
Then, in a split second, the Writer hatched a brilliant plan in her mind. She beamed like a Cheshire Cat that had just got the cream.
"Where are my manners?" she smiled politely, gesturing with her hands to the chair in front of her desk, "please, have a seat."
Sensing no danger – even from the one who had made known to the Death Eaters that their Master was a transvestite – and took the seat.
"I suppose you don't get to do this sort of thing very often?" the Writer asked, faking intrigue.
"Well, not really, no..." Pettigrew was stunned, someone was talking to him without it being an order or a curse of some variety, "even less now that His disciples are out of Azkaban."
"I don't often have people over," the Writer stood up from her desk and went to a shelf in the far corner, "I have a nice bottle of Chianti going to waste, do you want some? I'm not the kind of person who drinks, you see..."
"Oh, um..." Pettigrew thought about it, "yes, please."
Unstopping the cork and pouring a glass, the Writer came back and put it carefully on the desk in front of him.
"It's not often I'm allowed wine, or anything I would like, for that matter..." Pettigrew took a sip. Then a look of comprehension came over his face, "oh, no..."
The Writer smirked, "What's wrong?"
He slapped his hands over his mouth, but it didn't work.
"My favourite film is Titanic! I love to do the gardening!" he screwed up his face with the pain of forcing his jaws to shut, but they burst open again, "I'm in love with Lucius Malfoy!"
"Now this I've got to see!" the Writer once more removed the memory from the head of her weeping prisoner. She prepared to send him on his sorry way, but remembered something, if he went back with his memory, he would just come back to try and kill her again. She pointed her wand at him.
"Obliviate," she muttered.
So Peter Pettigrew walked out the door with no collection of telling anyone anything about the man he loved more than anyone in the world, and wondering why he felt slightly drunk.
The Writer, however, did know.
"Another trip to the Pensieve, I feel..."
