20 July 1978—The Daily Prophet reports: Aurors persist that the events and evidence surrounding the deaths of Prospera Nitt and Mikhail Drost, two young law enforcement wizards, have no apparent connection to the rumored doings of the group known as the "Death Eaters" and their enigmatic leader. The Ministry seems very keen to put a stop to whispers of terrorism and have refused to acknowledge that such an organization exists. However, one official, who chose to remain anonymous, relayed this message regarding the mysterious kingpin: "We urge British citizens to keep their warding and protective charms sharp. One turn down a dark alley and, well, you-know-who could be lurking." With that, the search for 'you-know-who' continues in earnest."
The rat scampered through the gutter and dodged a wet, moldering copy of the Prophet that had clumped together with the recent rain. The sun was setting, reflecting brilliantly off of the windows of the enormous house before him. The rat bounded behind a large hedge along the side of the house and, after a few moments, Peter Pettigrew emerged, brushing petals from his shoulders and hair.
He walked around to the Potter family's porch and climbed the steps. James and Lily had been tight-lipped about the meeting—even Sirius was in the dark—but James had divulged that Headmaster Dumbledore himself would be present.
This had piqued Peter's curiosity; rumors of a brewing conflict had been building throughout their years at Hogwarts. Peter had to admit that they had been far more concerned with pranks and girls than with whispers of a cult of wannabe Dark Wizards. James and Sirius had written it off in fifth year when they'd heard that Severus Snape was an aspiring member.
If they'll take Snivellus, James had sneered. They must really be hard up for members.
Despite the Ministry passively denying their existence, Peter had heard of the Death Eaters and the mysterious "You-Know-Who." There were rumors that he had magic beyond any wizard, and that he had already committed unspeakable horrors. He had managed to stir enough discord that some people believed the sound of his very name could cause misfortune to befall whoever uttered it. Some families had reported threats: a symbol carved into their front door, or mutilated animals left on the lawn. A few people had even been attacked by masked figures in twos and threes.
It sounded to Peter like a crueler version of the gangs he'd grown up with in Lincolnshire. They targeted the people foolish enough to cross them, of course, but they typically left everyone else well enough alone.
But he didn't want to think about that. Even without all the facts it made Peter uneasy, so he was content to keep his head down and avoid offending the sorts of people that left a skinned cat on your front steps.
Peter studied the front door for a moment. This was the first time he had been to Mr. and Mrs. Potter's house since he'd come to escort a red-eyed, listless James to the funeral. The Potters' joint illness had been long—they had not even been able to attend the commencement feast. It was hard for Peter to imagine that James had the place all to himself now. He hesitated, and knocked.
"Oi, Pete!"
Peter turned to see Sirius coming up the pavement. He was wearing his beloved black leather waistcoat. He had bought it as a jacket from a muggle secondhand store in his fourth year and separated the sleeves with a deft Diffindo. He thought it made him look more dangerous, and, being muggle clothing, it had the added benefit of annoying his family.
Sirius was grinning slyly and holding hands with Dorcas Meadowes. "I thought Lark and I spotted you there, running into the bushes." Dorcas—whom Sirius had nicknamed 'Lark' out of a thorough, if private, disdain for her given name—entwined her arm with Sirius' and smiled admiringly at him. Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
Behind them, the door opened to reveal Lily, her red hair glowing against the dim interior. "Ah, there you are. We were about to start without you!" Lily hugged Peter warmly and kissed Lark on the cheek. "Sirius, fashionably late—as usual."
"I'm late?" Sirius affected an injured look and gestured behind him to Peter and Lark. "What about them?" He winked at Peter and slid past Lily into the foyer.
The inside was refreshingly cool compared to the July heat. Peter peered into the extravagant dining room where the late Potters had hosted their monthly society dinners and, on Sundays, a Gobstones club with their neighbors. He followed Sirius and Lark into the large parlor down the hall.
The Potters' parlor was lined with rich, dark wood and stuffed with tastefully-upholstered chairs and chaises in different shades of gold velvet. Within, Peter counted about twenty others locked in hushed conversation. Emmeline Vance—a pretty, willowy Ravenclaw who had been a few years ahead of him—was seated at one on the card tables serving tea to a brown-haired couple and Marlene McKinnon, one of the old Gryffindor chasers. Peter spotted Remus leaning against the fireplace with the flame-haired Prewett twins; he looked up at Peter and raised a hand in greeting, but he didn't smile. When does he ever, lately? Peter mused to himself.
In the back corner, James was chatting with Lily's best friend Mary MacDonald. Sirius strode over and ruffled James' already-mussed hair. They hugged, and Sirius beckoned Lark over to join the conversation.
Peter failed to catch Sirius' eye—he was not entirely sure this was accidental—and settled for sitting with Caradoc Dearborn. Caradoc smiled and handed Peter a plate of biscuits. "All right, Peter?"
"All right," Peter nodded and took one. "You? I heard you got offered a job at the Ministry."
"'Fraid so," he grinned. Caradoc had been a handsome and popular Hufflepuff prefect, and a shoo-in for Head Boy before James had been awarded the honor out of nowhere. Peter used to wonder if Caradoc had taken it hard. "I'm pushing paper at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, assisting Mr. Crouch."
"Blimey, that's impressive. Is he a good boss?"
Caradoc shrugged and tossed his sandy hair out of his eyes. "He's all right. Strict, but I suppose that's to be expected at the DMLE. What are you up to?""
"Not much. I do a bit of heavy lifting at Madame Malkin's once in a while, when her shipments come in, but I'm still exploring my options." Peter felt himself grow hot with embarrassment.
"Good to keep busy," Caradoc said, without a hint of condescension. "I'll be happy to keep my ear to the ground at work, if you like." He squeezed Peter's shoulder warmly.
"Sure. Thanks." Peter wondered—not for the first time—why he hadn't socialized outside of James, Sirius, and Remus while he was at school. He looked over his shoulder at James and Sirius, who were holding court against the wall.
Prongs and Padfoot were a mirror of each other: fit and handsome and dark-haired. But where James was taut and wiry from training, Sirius had the kind of effortless muscle that came from excellent breeding (although Sirius would never admit it—he never wanted to attribute any of his good qualities to the Black lineage).
Peter's eyebrows knitted; he was neither athletic nor handsome, although he had a round, pleasant face that invited the sort of confidence a knight had in his humble squire. He reached back and tugged at his own dishwater-colored hair, which had grown a tad too long in the back.
"What do you think?"
"Sorry?" Peter turned to see Caradoc looking evenly at him.
"What do you think?" he repeated, waving a hand. "Of all this?"
"I'm…not sure," Peter admitted, feeling confused. "Do you know why we're all here?"
"You don't know?" Caradoc looked surprised.
"…No," Peter felt rather stupid, although he knew that James and Lily had been the ones determined to keep the meeting a mystery. "What?"
"You know that group of nutters out there attacking people, the Death Eaters?"
"Yes. Well, sort of."
"Dumbledore thinks they're arranging some kind of government overthrow. Word is the Ministry won't listen, so Dumbledore's looking for people to start a resistance."
Peter's stomach dipped. Caradoc was waiting for a response, so Peter grasped at something he could handle: "Dumbledore is here?"
Albus Dumbledore was indeed there, joined by a hard-looking bloke with long hair and a set of piercing black eyes. Dumbledore looked up, his spectacles glinting, and stood to address the room. The place fell silent instantly.
"Hello," he began, clasping his hands in front of him. "I want to thank Mr. Potter and Miss Evans sincerely for allowing me the use of their parlor. I know most of you haven't a clue why I've called you here, so without further ado, let me explain." He paused. Peter pursed his lips; he had anticipated Dumbledore's flair for the dramatic.
"I am quite sure that much of the information you've heard is compiled from whispers and rumor. I am here to offer you the truth."
Peter glanced around the room; a few people met eyes with him and quickly looked away. Dumbledore went on. "Many of you may be aware of the growing threat looming in our world: a group of witches and wizards known as the Death Eaters, led by the man who calls himself Lord Voldemort."
Dorcas gasped, and the hard-faced man next to Dumbledore glared out at the group; a long scar ran down his left cheek.
"If you are not familiar," Dumbledore continued. "The Death Eaters champion the cause of blood purity—a cause some of you may already be aware of."
Sirius' face hardened.
"Sadly, many have taken up this cause and sympathize greatly with Lord Voldemort's perspective. I know this might not sound like much cause for alarm—after all, this is not a new crusade in our world. However, this particular man is…cunning, and has amassed far more followers than I had anticipated he would."
Dumbledore's expression shifted. His eyes lost their usual sparkle and turned hard. "Voldemort is exploiting an existing weakness—the weakness of prejudice and hatred that so often consumes our hearts. He is very adept at selecting his instruments; usually they are witches or wizards already swelling with resentment and feelings that they are special, important. Better. Lord Voldemort feels these things deeply about himself; therefore he can easily recognize it in others.
"He has already created a divide among families and among friends. People have gone missing, or turned up dead." His voice had lost none of its softness, but he did not sound gentle anymore. The room vibrated with the coiled nerves of two-dozen former students of this great and fearsome man. Peter tried not to fidget or look anywhere but into those chilly blue eyes. "This divide may grow to split all of wizarding society against each other." He turned and walked toward the mantel, one weathered hand reaching up to grasp it. "Many of us know too well what can happen when we are pitted brother against brother, mother against son. Friend against friend."
In the corner. Lily was sitting between James and Sirius, looking at her hands in her lap. Sirius's handsome face was thrown into profile—he was looking right past Dumbledore as if he wasn't there. Peter thought of young Regulus, and of the sister that Lily had mentioned only once.
"Left unchecked, I fear the Death Eaters will soon gain enough power to enact control over the authorities of our world, and potentially attempt to eliminate anyone whom they deem unworthy of the magical community." James wrapped a protective arm around Lily.
Now the headmaster turned back, looking tired. "Which brings me to why we are gathered here today: I have reached out to my students—the very best resource I have—and I could not be more pleased to see that you did not disappoint me," Dumbledore's brow wrinkled. "I'm sorry to say that I should have taken these threats more seriously before now. It appears my initial group of recruits was not enough, despite our age and experience. But I have a deep faith that the abilities and allegiance of the bright and capable young witches and wizards in this room can overcome the growing dark."
Worry flared in Peter's gut. Dumbledore was so matter-of-fact about the whole thing; so certain of their victory. Maybe you can do this, Dumbledore. Or Sirius and James. But I'm not so sure about me.
"Excuse me." Mary McDonald raised a hand. Everyone turned to look at her. "I''m sorry to interrupt, Headmaster."
Peter wasn't entirely convinced of this. Mary was Lily's closest friend in school—after Snape was out of the picture, of course—so Peter had tried to make nice, but it had not been easy. Mary had always been very outspoken, and considered it her business to interfere.
His face softened and he gestured kindly to her. "Not at all, Miss McDonald. Go on."
"What exactly are you saying? Is this person is going to come after the people who oppose him? And their families?" Her stare was piercing, her back ramrod straight; she looked ready to dash out of the place. Every face turned back to Dumbledore.
He met Mary's gaze levelly. "I'm sorry to say that is true. Voldemort is absolute in his thirst for power, and anyone who does not yield to him will be considered his enemy. That does, sadly, include the threat of violence. Even death."
Peter's eyebrows practically hit his hairline. Death? What exactly were they signing up for, here?
"Thus," Dumbledore said, after a significant pause. "I must ask for your support and participation. It is my intention to form a society that will lead the strike against Voldemort and his followers. Naturally, I will not force anyone in this room to join, and if you are unwilling to take this risk—and I would not fault you if you are not—you are free to leave. But before you do, I must warn you that to speak a word of this meeting or this organization to anyone would be terribly unwise."
Dumbledore's gaze fell on all of them in turn—Peter suppressed a shiver as those eyes passed over him. He had only seen that look in Dumbledore's eyes once before: the night when Sirius had nearly gotten Snape killed.
Only four people chose to leave. Peter did not recognize the Pakistani wizard or the older black-haired one, but Dirk Cresswell—still a student, and a regular at the Slug Club—ducked out immediately, and Mary McDonald had a barely-stifled argument with Lily in the front hall.
"Mary, you can't be serious?" Lily spoke in a low, disbelieving tone. "Aren't you the one who got so mad at me for associating with 'one of them'?"
Mary cut across her angrily. Peter imagined Mary's permed, red-brown crop bouncing with frustration. "Oh, no you don't. You don't get to blame me for the choices you made in your friendships. Or in your family, for that matter—I actually speak to mine, and I care whether they live or die!" Peter heard the door slam. After a few moments, Lily entered the parlor with teary eyes and a reddened face, her jaw set.
Dread burned in the region of Peter's solar plexus. He wondered how many other people had considered bolting. He couldn't blame them—of all his friends, only he and Remus still had families in the picture. Peter thought of his mother, and thought of what it would be like if he lost her. He wasn't terribly close with his mum, but she was all he had and vice-versa.
I should visit her soon, he thought fleetingly.
The room was deathly quiet; everyone seemed anxious not to disturb the fragile understanding the remaining witches and wizards had forged.
Dumbledore surveyed the sober faces, then glanced at the hard-faced man with the scar who was glowering by the china cabinet. "This is not an easy decision, and I applaud all of you for taking this risk in order to ensure that we will rise out of this darkness."
Peter glanced sideways at the rapt—if uneasy—expressions on most of the people around him.
"On the theme of rising," Dumbledore continued. "I hereby christen our organization in the name of the phoenix: dedicated to bringing light and healing."
And confronting imminent death? Peter's brain supplied automatically. Facing death was a lot easier for a phoenix, though, wasn't it? There was always the promise of rebirth on the other side.
