There was a trollish chuckle from the two men who had come in together. The leader whirled his head around for an instant. "Both of you - quit! What an impression you're making on the valuable Mr. Pettigrew!"
Valuable Mr. Pettigrew… there was a phrase Peter, used to being snapped at to "pay attention", "get it through his thick skull", and "hurry up already!", rarely heard. Sirius was always being told: "Black, shut up, slow down". Peter was always told just the opposite. It wasn't that he wasn't clever; he had a lot of worldly wisdom and a razor-sharp wit. But rarely had he been able to understand the complications of magic or arithmetic or finesse in sports - Peter preferred the "give it all" approach instead of the ones coaches tried to adapt him to: "Use your head". It was enough to calm him for just a moment, but the "adrenaline" was still there at the surface, ready to fuse.
The leader, who looked suspiciously like Rihaldt Baddock, come to think of it - don't think, Peter, don't think - turned back to Peter carelessly. "My apologies, Mr. Pettigrew. Now, you were saying that you 'won't do anything evil'. Care to elaborate, Peter?"
It was unnerving, how Baddock kept saying his name. "I. Won't. Do. Anything. Evil." Peter spat each word slowly and deliberately, letting his anger grow. "Which part don't you understand?"
The stocky one made a move toward Peter before restraining himself at a sharp glance from Baddock. "Evil," Baddock mused. "Hmm. I'm confused, Peter - what's evil?"
If Baddock's civil addresses were unnerving, this was a total shock. Peter felt himself reeling as this question sunk in. "E-Evil is anything - anything wrong."
"Wrong?"
"Yeah, you know," Peter sneered. "Wrong? Let me see, cruelty, taking lives, taking what's not rightfully yours, torturing living things, defying the government that's for the common good of us all, oh, what else? Vandalism, rape, murder, raiding… there's a goodly long list of things that are wrong that are probably in your creed."
"Gracious, Mr. Pettigrew," Baddock - it was Baddock, wasn't it? - said mildly. "You really must watch that temper of yours. We might have expected it from some of your more… temperamental… friends, but never you. One of the reasons you were so much more important to us than they were."
More important than the great James and Sirius? That was a new one…"Perhaps if you applied yourself more - did you ever take a good look at the work Black and Potter do?"
"I don't understand it… even when partnered with Sirius Black, he couldn't perform the countercurse for the Climatic Curse if his life depended on it…"
"Yes, yes, Randolph Potter's son is brilliant with those, isn't he?… yes, yes, I agree… oh, no, not all - that Peter Pettigrew can never seem to reach up to that level…"
But it was true. Sirius might have passed his Defence Against the Dark Arts exams while half-asleep (and during the later teenager years, that happened a good bit) but he couldn't keep his temper if his "life depended on it".
Hmm.
Peter, they're trying to fool you - you've been over this a million times; this is exactly what those trainers were trying to prevent you to believe. "How nice," Peter said coolly, although it fell a little flatter than his other contradictions. "That's probably the worse compliment I've ever been paid, but thank you kindly for the effort."
Baddock considered him a moment. "Say, Peter?"
Peter refused to reply.
"If we were, say, from the Ministry, or Gringotts, or Hogwarts, or the Filbuster, or even some down-trodden little quill-maker shop, and we had told you all this, trying to see if you'd join our cause, you'd've been considerably warmed up, wouldn't you've? You'd be flattered, wouldn't you?"
There was no point in saying "no"; it was true, and Peter's adrenaline - something had happened to it. He was bargaining for time now. "Yes."
"So why aren't you with us?"
"Remember that little 'evil' thing I mentioned?"
"Ah. Yes. Doing 'wrong'; I do remember indeed, Mr. Pettigrew. You even gave me a list of what sorts of things are considered wrong, which I'm quite grateful for your insight on."
"Charmed."
Baddock laughed a false, polite laugh. "What sparkling wit, Mr. Pettigrew! I admit to being wildly envious, my mind can't stretch itself to smaller things such as that - I'm always worried about the bigger picture. Very well. Mr. Pettigrew, you do know that my organization doesn't consider those things 'wrong'."
"Yes. I do." Peter's tone was getting colder and colder.
Baddock reached into his pocket; Peter gripped his wand. Baddock's gaze scanned this and he glanced at Peter almost reproachfully. "I have no inclination to harm you unless I'm forced into self-defence, sir." He pulled out a phoenix talon. "Your powers of observation have always been praised, Peter. Tell me what you see."
"The claw of a poor, helpless, either dead or in very great pain phoenix, which is definitely wrong, too."
"Describe it to me, Peter. Pretend that there is no word to term this as, and describe what it seems to look like."
Peter scowled. This was like a predator playing with its food before destroying it, and Peter didn't like being toyed with. "I don't feel like playing games."
"Just describe it. I'm afraid my colleagues can be a little temperamental so late at night when they're so…hungry." See? The irony of it all is great. At least I get to be amused the last few moment of my life.
"It's a dark grey colour; one end is quite pointy and quite sharp. The other end, looking to have been ripped out -" Peter, who hated cruelty (and having a great sympathy since the age of fifteen for very small animals), glared at Baddock accusingly " - is jagged. It's small. It fits in the palm of a hand. It looks a great deal like flint. It's a good few centimeters long. It's in a curved, portion of an 'O' shape." Peter looked up from the talon to Baddock and scowled. "Good enough?"
"Very good, Peter. That seems to be what I see, as well." He paused for a moment. Death Eaters liked to be dramatic. "Do you think what an ant sees would be quite the same?"
Peter scowled. "I see where this is going; please don't undermine my intelligence in that matter, sir."
"Ah. My apologies. But would it be?"
Peter closed his eyes an instant, scared, not knowing what to do or what to pretend to do. "Yes, an ant's view would be different." His voice sounded smaller, weaker, from the hesitation. No, I'm not defeated…!
"Yes." Baddock smiled triumphantly. "Does that mean the ant is wrong?"
Peter sighed. "No. I see what you're doing; the view depends upon who looks at it."
"No, wait, wait… I'm taking it a step further. Is your view of right and wrong correct? Or just for you?"
Peter didn't reply.
"Does that mean that, in our case, our views may be correct as well?"
Peter was silent.
"Peter, Peter. Don't give yourself a headache over this. Mightn't you at least listen to our views for a while? I'm sure you'd think this over fairly…"
Peter had to wonder why on earth they would think murder was right, he had to admit. If he could find out safely, why, that almost wasn't a bad idea. Just to get into the mind of the enemy, after all…
An hour later, Peter found himself sitting down at a table with Death Eaters over a social tea, having been listening raptly to Baddock, hearing his closing sentence:
"Good and evil are an illusion, Peter. There is only power, and those who are too weak to see and seek it - and those who are not. Your friends are too weak to. Will you be as well?"
When the quartet of Death Eaters were showed to the door docilely shortly afterward, Peter locked it in a daze. Staring about at the table his guests had been sitting at, he realized he felt awfully odd. Different.
Enlightened…
*
He repeated it to himself fervently as climbed the staircase to the second floor. Thankfully the doctrine had returned to him again; he had been in shock for the past week. "Good and evil are an illusion. There is only power, and those who are too weak to see and seek it - and those who are not."
"I can't feel pity for Lily and James - they were too weak to see it, they were!" he continued adamantly, or as adamantly as he could considering he was mumbling to himself. "Prongs, sorry, in fact, you were rather one of the best friends I ever had, but you were blinded by idealistic ideas. You should have listened to the Death Eaters when they talked to you. Lil, I wish I could believe your act of playing big sister to me. It was nice, I admit, it was nice to think someone cared about me that much. But Muggles are filth, and you were one, too. There's no such thing as a Muggle-born witch." He had been taught the last one by Baddock and Lucius Malfoy by the teaching tool of Cruciatus Curses - many of them. Peter knew to deal with that pain; that was part of the game.
"Baddock was my sponsor, he explained it all to me," he continued, almost as if excusing himself to Lily. That was stupid, almost James-like, but it came sort of naturally as well. "Death wouldn't hurt you; you weren't worthy of it… you'd be better off then. And our world had to be rid of you. It is better now, Lily, isn't it? Isn't it?…
"Just look at your other 'friends'. None of your other friends told you the truth, that you didn't deserve to exist… And looked how they turned out, Lil! Look how they turned out! There was the good, great, brilliant, charming, drop-dead handsome Sirius - did you see him, Lil, Prongs? I did. He didn't seem so sparkling that night. He's rotted away; he's insane. You saw him! The blundering idiot, spent too much time attached to the hip of idealists like James! And yet it could have all been prevented, had he thrown off the brainwashing ideas of good and evil off. He was brilliant; he'd've climbed the ladder of the Death Eaters within seconds! And look! Everyone believes he was anyway; the Light Side can't win no matter which way they play!
"And Lil, what of your precious, caring, trustworthy, intelligent Remus? He's denying his true nature and what use he has. Baddock explained that to me, too, he said…" Peter frowned to himself. Twelve years of Scabbers had annoying played tricks with his mind; "what Baddock said", the doctrine he had committed to memory painstakingly, seemed to have faded, and all the while he was trying to repeat it other memories kept bursting into his mind - Lily, the pretty, innocent redhead young girl smiling brightly at him as she gave him a hand as he struggled with his luggage… James, face jaunty and bright, offering a hand into the boat he and Sirius were already inside of… Sirius, grinning wickedly, gathering his unsuspecting roommates in the dead of night with a sudden brilliant plan for revenge on Professor Zambia… Remus, smiling shyly, still disbelieving, as Peter returned it encouragingly - "C'mon, we better catch with Jay and Sirius, else we'll be late, Rem"… Linda, hiding a smirk as she pointed out the star on the map Peter was looking for as suddenly both ducked, grabbing each other instinctively as an unapologetic Sirius threw an Exploding Bonbon their way… Sammy, with a look of unbounded joy, crying "I'll get you, Pete, you've got about two seconds to live!" as she dove for a broomstick to chase her quarry… Bella, her face utterly confused and near tears, before Peter softly clasped her hand - "Here, Bel, I'll show you over, ignore those idiot Slytherins, they're all hot air…" - and the nice feeling within him as Bella's practically miserable face brightened in gratitude…
Forget that, Pettigrew, they decided not to join your side, remember? Amazing how little details he seemed to have forgotten sprang up on him now… Think, now! He found a memory of a hard-faced Baddock and concentrated on it -
"That's right," he muttered unconvincingly to anyone but himself, "if werewolves don't have the sense to use their abilities for our Master's service, they are just dumb beasts, if they're not able to see… you were nearly as idealistic as James, Rem, but where exactly did it get you? That was a sweet little story you told to the kids to win their trust, but most of it's your own fault - and your life for the past decade or whatever could have been drastically different if you weren't so bloody stubborn, thinking you could make those idiots who call themselves the "Light Side" one day trust you…"
Peter fingered the wand in his pocket. "At least you were good for something," he whispered grimly. In his hand was a Damasky - known to the "Light" fools as a Dark Copy - of Re - the werewolf's wand. Of course, having to do it in the splitest of seconds, it hadn't gone completely without a hitch. Like most advanced magic Peter had learned from the Death Eaters (known as "Dark Magic" to those idealists), the first time Peter had tried it, it had embarrassing side effects. Twelve years ago, cornered by Sir - Black, he had attempted the Killing Curse and ended up blowing apart the Muggle street. Last week, he had sent some sort of weird explosion in Ron's direction. Peter felt a slight twinge of guilt; Ron wasn't all that bad, especially compared to Percy… but that was the price to pay at times for the game of power. And Ron was one of those idealists, too.
Peter felt a bit better. The words were coming back to him. He had something to cling to, to hold on to. He slumped against the wall, resting his eyes.
*
Peter had been five when his father died, and about seven when his uncle Partin came to live with him and his mother.
"Peter, dear," his mother had warned him fretfully from her bed, where she was resting, surrounded by every medicine known to the wizarding world, "your uncle Partin is a little… particular. But he's doing us a great favour, so I want you to be nice and cooperative, okay?"
Peter nodded solemnly. "Is he Dad's brother?" Then he wished he hadn't asked, because, as usual when Dad was mentioned, Mum's eyes filled heavily with tears. He shifted uncomfortably until Mum recovered herself.
"Yes, this is your father's brother," Mum said in a broken sort of voice.
Peter winced; that voice usually made him think of silverware grating on porcelain. "Sure, Mum," he said, trying to sound as cheerful and reassuring as possible, "I'll be good. I promise." He slipped from the room as quickly as possible, deciding that he might as well live up to that promise by stopping for a second to run a brush through his hair. He'd have to show Uncle Partin in, after all.
Then he ran quickly into Mum's quiet writing room, which doubled as a library, and also happened to be the room Peter spent more time in than the whole rest of the house combined - and that included where he slept (since usually he could be found asleep in there with a book in hand anyway… although it was rare that he would fall asleep over a book). He loved this room; he always felt better just by going into it.
Only stopping to check the mantel place to see if there might be a picture of Uncle Partin (there wasn't), Peter scanned the much-loved bookshelves. Most had too many big words (although he was rather proud of himself for wrestling through Six Ashwinder Eggs, even if he didn't understand too much of it), but there were several that he could read and had time and time again… not those babyish picture books, showing very primitive pictures of young witches and wizards with baubles that had no use Peter could discern and miniature broomsticks that didn't look as though they could last through one week. Peter felt very old and mature when his mother showed him those.
He made a grab for Purple, Red, and Green, which was his very favourite "chapter book". Rivan and Easle were his two greatest heroes in the world, and he almost never tired of their short adventures in that little village school by the pond. (Purple, Red, and Green had accumulated in a sort of never-ending series, getting more and more modern as the ninety-year old author got new ideas from the children in her own village. Rivan and Easle had been nine and eight for about sixty years now, and had gone through perhaps fourteen Christmases, although few readers seemed to care until after they got a little older. Peter's mother had handed him one of these books after he finished his O.W.L.s and was waiting for results when he had trouble sleeping due to anticipation. It was a well-meant attempt, but Peter had nearly died of humiliation as he re-read it. "I used to like these?" "There's nothing wrong with that," Mrs. Pettigrew assured him, "they're excellent books." Peter was never able to agree with her.)
Mum always tried to convince him to read his books aloud, so that Peter would develop better speaking skills - to make his voice and words clearer, to get rid of that annoying stutter he had not yet outgrown - but Peter never was able to take the slowness of it. Reading silently was so much faster. "Chapter First," his eyes scanned quickly, desperate to get to the chilling climax, when Easle decided whether to stick up with her brother, who had snubbed her, or go with the Bullies (whose titles always seem spelled with capitals). "Rivan was in a great hurry, for today was the day that Madam Gordon would call on him to report on what he had found during his study of the pond. But as usual, Easle was yelling about her lost satchel…"
Gone. Peter wasn't about to come about out his revive. He was a chapter in…
" 'But what if you don't make it home in time?' Easle said quietly.
'Never mind that,' Rivan said. He turned again to Andurm. 'I'll be there. Do you think we'll really see the ghost Richard?'
Andrum nodded. 'Yeah - didn't Cassidy tell you about the time we were there, last spring, and we had hid behind the firewood? Well, we were just waiting for Cass's pet salamander, when this big silvery thing came right behind us, and - '"
"Ruthina didn't tell me that I would be so rudely greeted when I arrived," a curt voice announced.
Peter dazedly pulled himself from the book. This part, in which Richard had scared them, was one of his favorites - but there was no denying the cold voice. He looked up and saw a very tall man framed in the doorway. His deep brown robes and eyes, coupled with his height, were very intimidating.
"H-Hello," he managed, "I - er - I'm s-sorry, I d-d-didn't h-hear you kn-knock… I'm sorry, M-Mum t-t-told me t-to wait f-for you - Oh! I m-mean, erm," he finished timidly, "if you're Uncle Partin, t-that is."
"I'm Partin Pettigrew," his uncle said. "Where's Ruthina?"
"M-Mum's in h-her - her room. Up-upstairs," Peter finished lamely, mentally disgusted with this impression.
"Shouldn't she be downstairs doing something?" Partin demanded.
"N-" Peter was nonplussed. Technically, no. Mum was an off-and-on invalid (or that was the terming their medi-wizard had given them with a slight chuckle) and today was one of her "on" days. But he had a hard time telling Uncle Partin "no". "Er, I m-m-m-mean… y-yes, I-I guess… well, I… I-I'm not s-s-sure."
"Slow down and speak properly," Uncle Partin ordered sharply, eyes narrowing. "That's no way to talk."
An odd knot was forming in Peter's stomach. He pushed down the sudden desire to cry, which would go against the pride of his newly seven-year-oldness. "Y-Yes, sir."
Uncle Partin didn't look entirely pleased but let the slight hesitation pass for the moment. "Well, take me to her, boy, I can't very well know where everything is from the start."
Somehow, it was a relief to know that he wasn't all-knowing. It gave Peter the courage to put the book down and hesitatingly get up and walk past Uncle Partin. "I-It's j-just over h-here -"
"Watch your speech!"
Peter swallowed and took a deep breath. Speaking slowly and carefully, he tried again: "Mum's just right upstairs here. It's on the right side." He glanced at Uncle Partin to see if he was satisfied; Uncle Partin's face didn't show the least bit of affirmative or negative.
Things went rather glum from there. Peter wasn't sure how long Uncle Partin would say. (Mrs. Pettigrew may have said, but he had been seven and any length of time past "tomorrow" or "next week" is an eternity that you really can't comprehend.) It seemed like he might stay forever, but Peter found himself finding hope in that Uncle Partin was not pleased with anything in their home.
He thought Mum (whom he always referred to as "Ruthina", a little to Peter's discomfort - most people called her "Ruth") lazy and indolent. Often he ordered her to do this or that, to take more responsibility on home chores or with Peter. He fired the witch who had come in four times a week to cook and clean, saying that Ruthina had to conserve money and could do it herself.
Mum's health grew erratic after this; it grew much worse and then better, on and on for a while, but by the time Peter was in his third year it was decidedly bad. Peter most missed the fact that after a little while with Uncle Partin, the laughing light left her blue eyes, she rarely laughed, and she stopped telling bedtime stories. Likely Uncle Partin had forbid them, anyway.
His uncle also had an undying attempt to "raise Peter properly". This seemed to consist of breaking him of his stutter, getting him to play outdoors more often, trying to improve his memory with lengthy verbal examinations each night, and taking him to Ministry cocktail parties, among a few other things. Peter found most of it tedious stuff.
He soon learned to fear speaking in Uncle Partin's presence, and since Uncle Partin was always around, Peter went through several years before Hogwarts where he didn't talk at all. When his mother and uncle called attention to his silence, which Peter hadn't consciously considered before, Peter soon make a game of seeing how many days he could go without talking. His record was seven and a half days.
Uncle Partin thought it perfectly unnatural that a boy Peter's age should spent so much of his time reading.
Mum said dryly the first time she heard this: "You mean Peter? He spends all days out of doors terrorising the neighbours with the stray Crup that goes around. He vandalises the houses of little old witches by breaking windows and chalking them. He flies at night to attract the Muggle Awareness Protection Squad and then skives off to get them in trouble. Don't stop him from reading, Partin."
Uncle Partin was not amused and made it clear. He kept a firm hold on Peter's reading time, even charming the library so it would repel him. Peter thought this a high calamity and tried many things to counteract this, one of them accumulating in getting a Crup (perhaps inspired from Mum's words) and setting it to go into the library and fetching him a book. Perhaps a Kneazle would've been better - the Crup chewed up everything in the library. Uncle Partin had thoroughly scolded him for that incident. Peter also grew into a habit of causing various others bits of mischief in rebellion. Uncle Partin never wavered, and while Peter wasn't happy with the loss of his books, he had to admit that causing mayhem was actually sort of fun, when you didn't get caught.
He hated the "history lessons" Uncle Partin gave every night, which nearly all seem to begin with: "When Grindelwald and his Gewhtle were looking for followers around Europe…" Peter soon learned to obediently digest it, and then promptly forgot all of it. It all sounded very political and dull. But woe betide him if he couldn't answer a question. Uncle Partin believed in verbal and corporal punishment of many kinds.
Peter had met interesting people at those stuffy get-togethers, however. James Potter, for one.
Valuable Mr. Pettigrew… there was a phrase Peter, used to being snapped at to "pay attention", "get it through his thick skull", and "hurry up already!", rarely heard. Sirius was always being told: "Black, shut up, slow down". Peter was always told just the opposite. It wasn't that he wasn't clever; he had a lot of worldly wisdom and a razor-sharp wit. But rarely had he been able to understand the complications of magic or arithmetic or finesse in sports - Peter preferred the "give it all" approach instead of the ones coaches tried to adapt him to: "Use your head". It was enough to calm him for just a moment, but the "adrenaline" was still there at the surface, ready to fuse.
The leader, who looked suspiciously like Rihaldt Baddock, come to think of it - don't think, Peter, don't think - turned back to Peter carelessly. "My apologies, Mr. Pettigrew. Now, you were saying that you 'won't do anything evil'. Care to elaborate, Peter?"
It was unnerving, how Baddock kept saying his name. "I. Won't. Do. Anything. Evil." Peter spat each word slowly and deliberately, letting his anger grow. "Which part don't you understand?"
The stocky one made a move toward Peter before restraining himself at a sharp glance from Baddock. "Evil," Baddock mused. "Hmm. I'm confused, Peter - what's evil?"
If Baddock's civil addresses were unnerving, this was a total shock. Peter felt himself reeling as this question sunk in. "E-Evil is anything - anything wrong."
"Wrong?"
"Yeah, you know," Peter sneered. "Wrong? Let me see, cruelty, taking lives, taking what's not rightfully yours, torturing living things, defying the government that's for the common good of us all, oh, what else? Vandalism, rape, murder, raiding… there's a goodly long list of things that are wrong that are probably in your creed."
"Gracious, Mr. Pettigrew," Baddock - it was Baddock, wasn't it? - said mildly. "You really must watch that temper of yours. We might have expected it from some of your more… temperamental… friends, but never you. One of the reasons you were so much more important to us than they were."
More important than the great James and Sirius? That was a new one…"Perhaps if you applied yourself more - did you ever take a good look at the work Black and Potter do?"
"I don't understand it… even when partnered with Sirius Black, he couldn't perform the countercurse for the Climatic Curse if his life depended on it…"
"Yes, yes, Randolph Potter's son is brilliant with those, isn't he?… yes, yes, I agree… oh, no, not all - that Peter Pettigrew can never seem to reach up to that level…"
But it was true. Sirius might have passed his Defence Against the Dark Arts exams while half-asleep (and during the later teenager years, that happened a good bit) but he couldn't keep his temper if his "life depended on it".
Hmm.
Peter, they're trying to fool you - you've been over this a million times; this is exactly what those trainers were trying to prevent you to believe. "How nice," Peter said coolly, although it fell a little flatter than his other contradictions. "That's probably the worse compliment I've ever been paid, but thank you kindly for the effort."
Baddock considered him a moment. "Say, Peter?"
Peter refused to reply.
"If we were, say, from the Ministry, or Gringotts, or Hogwarts, or the Filbuster, or even some down-trodden little quill-maker shop, and we had told you all this, trying to see if you'd join our cause, you'd've been considerably warmed up, wouldn't you've? You'd be flattered, wouldn't you?"
There was no point in saying "no"; it was true, and Peter's adrenaline - something had happened to it. He was bargaining for time now. "Yes."
"So why aren't you with us?"
"Remember that little 'evil' thing I mentioned?"
"Ah. Yes. Doing 'wrong'; I do remember indeed, Mr. Pettigrew. You even gave me a list of what sorts of things are considered wrong, which I'm quite grateful for your insight on."
"Charmed."
Baddock laughed a false, polite laugh. "What sparkling wit, Mr. Pettigrew! I admit to being wildly envious, my mind can't stretch itself to smaller things such as that - I'm always worried about the bigger picture. Very well. Mr. Pettigrew, you do know that my organization doesn't consider those things 'wrong'."
"Yes. I do." Peter's tone was getting colder and colder.
Baddock reached into his pocket; Peter gripped his wand. Baddock's gaze scanned this and he glanced at Peter almost reproachfully. "I have no inclination to harm you unless I'm forced into self-defence, sir." He pulled out a phoenix talon. "Your powers of observation have always been praised, Peter. Tell me what you see."
"The claw of a poor, helpless, either dead or in very great pain phoenix, which is definitely wrong, too."
"Describe it to me, Peter. Pretend that there is no word to term this as, and describe what it seems to look like."
Peter scowled. This was like a predator playing with its food before destroying it, and Peter didn't like being toyed with. "I don't feel like playing games."
"Just describe it. I'm afraid my colleagues can be a little temperamental so late at night when they're so…hungry." See? The irony of it all is great. At least I get to be amused the last few moment of my life.
"It's a dark grey colour; one end is quite pointy and quite sharp. The other end, looking to have been ripped out -" Peter, who hated cruelty (and having a great sympathy since the age of fifteen for very small animals), glared at Baddock accusingly " - is jagged. It's small. It fits in the palm of a hand. It looks a great deal like flint. It's a good few centimeters long. It's in a curved, portion of an 'O' shape." Peter looked up from the talon to Baddock and scowled. "Good enough?"
"Very good, Peter. That seems to be what I see, as well." He paused for a moment. Death Eaters liked to be dramatic. "Do you think what an ant sees would be quite the same?"
Peter scowled. "I see where this is going; please don't undermine my intelligence in that matter, sir."
"Ah. My apologies. But would it be?"
Peter closed his eyes an instant, scared, not knowing what to do or what to pretend to do. "Yes, an ant's view would be different." His voice sounded smaller, weaker, from the hesitation. No, I'm not defeated…!
"Yes." Baddock smiled triumphantly. "Does that mean the ant is wrong?"
Peter sighed. "No. I see what you're doing; the view depends upon who looks at it."
"No, wait, wait… I'm taking it a step further. Is your view of right and wrong correct? Or just for you?"
Peter didn't reply.
"Does that mean that, in our case, our views may be correct as well?"
Peter was silent.
"Peter, Peter. Don't give yourself a headache over this. Mightn't you at least listen to our views for a while? I'm sure you'd think this over fairly…"
Peter had to wonder why on earth they would think murder was right, he had to admit. If he could find out safely, why, that almost wasn't a bad idea. Just to get into the mind of the enemy, after all…
An hour later, Peter found himself sitting down at a table with Death Eaters over a social tea, having been listening raptly to Baddock, hearing his closing sentence:
"Good and evil are an illusion, Peter. There is only power, and those who are too weak to see and seek it - and those who are not. Your friends are too weak to. Will you be as well?"
When the quartet of Death Eaters were showed to the door docilely shortly afterward, Peter locked it in a daze. Staring about at the table his guests had been sitting at, he realized he felt awfully odd. Different.
Enlightened…
*
He repeated it to himself fervently as climbed the staircase to the second floor. Thankfully the doctrine had returned to him again; he had been in shock for the past week. "Good and evil are an illusion. There is only power, and those who are too weak to see and seek it - and those who are not."
"I can't feel pity for Lily and James - they were too weak to see it, they were!" he continued adamantly, or as adamantly as he could considering he was mumbling to himself. "Prongs, sorry, in fact, you were rather one of the best friends I ever had, but you were blinded by idealistic ideas. You should have listened to the Death Eaters when they talked to you. Lil, I wish I could believe your act of playing big sister to me. It was nice, I admit, it was nice to think someone cared about me that much. But Muggles are filth, and you were one, too. There's no such thing as a Muggle-born witch." He had been taught the last one by Baddock and Lucius Malfoy by the teaching tool of Cruciatus Curses - many of them. Peter knew to deal with that pain; that was part of the game.
"Baddock was my sponsor, he explained it all to me," he continued, almost as if excusing himself to Lily. That was stupid, almost James-like, but it came sort of naturally as well. "Death wouldn't hurt you; you weren't worthy of it… you'd be better off then. And our world had to be rid of you. It is better now, Lily, isn't it? Isn't it?…
"Just look at your other 'friends'. None of your other friends told you the truth, that you didn't deserve to exist… And looked how they turned out, Lil! Look how they turned out! There was the good, great, brilliant, charming, drop-dead handsome Sirius - did you see him, Lil, Prongs? I did. He didn't seem so sparkling that night. He's rotted away; he's insane. You saw him! The blundering idiot, spent too much time attached to the hip of idealists like James! And yet it could have all been prevented, had he thrown off the brainwashing ideas of good and evil off. He was brilliant; he'd've climbed the ladder of the Death Eaters within seconds! And look! Everyone believes he was anyway; the Light Side can't win no matter which way they play!
"And Lil, what of your precious, caring, trustworthy, intelligent Remus? He's denying his true nature and what use he has. Baddock explained that to me, too, he said…" Peter frowned to himself. Twelve years of Scabbers had annoying played tricks with his mind; "what Baddock said", the doctrine he had committed to memory painstakingly, seemed to have faded, and all the while he was trying to repeat it other memories kept bursting into his mind - Lily, the pretty, innocent redhead young girl smiling brightly at him as she gave him a hand as he struggled with his luggage… James, face jaunty and bright, offering a hand into the boat he and Sirius were already inside of… Sirius, grinning wickedly, gathering his unsuspecting roommates in the dead of night with a sudden brilliant plan for revenge on Professor Zambia… Remus, smiling shyly, still disbelieving, as Peter returned it encouragingly - "C'mon, we better catch with Jay and Sirius, else we'll be late, Rem"… Linda, hiding a smirk as she pointed out the star on the map Peter was looking for as suddenly both ducked, grabbing each other instinctively as an unapologetic Sirius threw an Exploding Bonbon their way… Sammy, with a look of unbounded joy, crying "I'll get you, Pete, you've got about two seconds to live!" as she dove for a broomstick to chase her quarry… Bella, her face utterly confused and near tears, before Peter softly clasped her hand - "Here, Bel, I'll show you over, ignore those idiot Slytherins, they're all hot air…" - and the nice feeling within him as Bella's practically miserable face brightened in gratitude…
Forget that, Pettigrew, they decided not to join your side, remember? Amazing how little details he seemed to have forgotten sprang up on him now… Think, now! He found a memory of a hard-faced Baddock and concentrated on it -
"That's right," he muttered unconvincingly to anyone but himself, "if werewolves don't have the sense to use their abilities for our Master's service, they are just dumb beasts, if they're not able to see… you were nearly as idealistic as James, Rem, but where exactly did it get you? That was a sweet little story you told to the kids to win their trust, but most of it's your own fault - and your life for the past decade or whatever could have been drastically different if you weren't so bloody stubborn, thinking you could make those idiots who call themselves the "Light Side" one day trust you…"
Peter fingered the wand in his pocket. "At least you were good for something," he whispered grimly. In his hand was a Damasky - known to the "Light" fools as a Dark Copy - of Re - the werewolf's wand. Of course, having to do it in the splitest of seconds, it hadn't gone completely without a hitch. Like most advanced magic Peter had learned from the Death Eaters (known as "Dark Magic" to those idealists), the first time Peter had tried it, it had embarrassing side effects. Twelve years ago, cornered by Sir - Black, he had attempted the Killing Curse and ended up blowing apart the Muggle street. Last week, he had sent some sort of weird explosion in Ron's direction. Peter felt a slight twinge of guilt; Ron wasn't all that bad, especially compared to Percy… but that was the price to pay at times for the game of power. And Ron was one of those idealists, too.
Peter felt a bit better. The words were coming back to him. He had something to cling to, to hold on to. He slumped against the wall, resting his eyes.
*
Peter had been five when his father died, and about seven when his uncle Partin came to live with him and his mother.
"Peter, dear," his mother had warned him fretfully from her bed, where she was resting, surrounded by every medicine known to the wizarding world, "your uncle Partin is a little… particular. But he's doing us a great favour, so I want you to be nice and cooperative, okay?"
Peter nodded solemnly. "Is he Dad's brother?" Then he wished he hadn't asked, because, as usual when Dad was mentioned, Mum's eyes filled heavily with tears. He shifted uncomfortably until Mum recovered herself.
"Yes, this is your father's brother," Mum said in a broken sort of voice.
Peter winced; that voice usually made him think of silverware grating on porcelain. "Sure, Mum," he said, trying to sound as cheerful and reassuring as possible, "I'll be good. I promise." He slipped from the room as quickly as possible, deciding that he might as well live up to that promise by stopping for a second to run a brush through his hair. He'd have to show Uncle Partin in, after all.
Then he ran quickly into Mum's quiet writing room, which doubled as a library, and also happened to be the room Peter spent more time in than the whole rest of the house combined - and that included where he slept (since usually he could be found asleep in there with a book in hand anyway… although it was rare that he would fall asleep over a book). He loved this room; he always felt better just by going into it.
Only stopping to check the mantel place to see if there might be a picture of Uncle Partin (there wasn't), Peter scanned the much-loved bookshelves. Most had too many big words (although he was rather proud of himself for wrestling through Six Ashwinder Eggs, even if he didn't understand too much of it), but there were several that he could read and had time and time again… not those babyish picture books, showing very primitive pictures of young witches and wizards with baubles that had no use Peter could discern and miniature broomsticks that didn't look as though they could last through one week. Peter felt very old and mature when his mother showed him those.
He made a grab for Purple, Red, and Green, which was his very favourite "chapter book". Rivan and Easle were his two greatest heroes in the world, and he almost never tired of their short adventures in that little village school by the pond. (Purple, Red, and Green had accumulated in a sort of never-ending series, getting more and more modern as the ninety-year old author got new ideas from the children in her own village. Rivan and Easle had been nine and eight for about sixty years now, and had gone through perhaps fourteen Christmases, although few readers seemed to care until after they got a little older. Peter's mother had handed him one of these books after he finished his O.W.L.s and was waiting for results when he had trouble sleeping due to anticipation. It was a well-meant attempt, but Peter had nearly died of humiliation as he re-read it. "I used to like these?" "There's nothing wrong with that," Mrs. Pettigrew assured him, "they're excellent books." Peter was never able to agree with her.)
Mum always tried to convince him to read his books aloud, so that Peter would develop better speaking skills - to make his voice and words clearer, to get rid of that annoying stutter he had not yet outgrown - but Peter never was able to take the slowness of it. Reading silently was so much faster. "Chapter First," his eyes scanned quickly, desperate to get to the chilling climax, when Easle decided whether to stick up with her brother, who had snubbed her, or go with the Bullies (whose titles always seem spelled with capitals). "Rivan was in a great hurry, for today was the day that Madam Gordon would call on him to report on what he had found during his study of the pond. But as usual, Easle was yelling about her lost satchel…"
Gone. Peter wasn't about to come about out his revive. He was a chapter in…
" 'But what if you don't make it home in time?' Easle said quietly.
'Never mind that,' Rivan said. He turned again to Andurm. 'I'll be there. Do you think we'll really see the ghost Richard?'
Andrum nodded. 'Yeah - didn't Cassidy tell you about the time we were there, last spring, and we had hid behind the firewood? Well, we were just waiting for Cass's pet salamander, when this big silvery thing came right behind us, and - '"
"Ruthina didn't tell me that I would be so rudely greeted when I arrived," a curt voice announced.
Peter dazedly pulled himself from the book. This part, in which Richard had scared them, was one of his favorites - but there was no denying the cold voice. He looked up and saw a very tall man framed in the doorway. His deep brown robes and eyes, coupled with his height, were very intimidating.
"H-Hello," he managed, "I - er - I'm s-sorry, I d-d-didn't h-hear you kn-knock… I'm sorry, M-Mum t-t-told me t-to wait f-for you - Oh! I m-mean, erm," he finished timidly, "if you're Uncle Partin, t-that is."
"I'm Partin Pettigrew," his uncle said. "Where's Ruthina?"
"M-Mum's in h-her - her room. Up-upstairs," Peter finished lamely, mentally disgusted with this impression.
"Shouldn't she be downstairs doing something?" Partin demanded.
"N-" Peter was nonplussed. Technically, no. Mum was an off-and-on invalid (or that was the terming their medi-wizard had given them with a slight chuckle) and today was one of her "on" days. But he had a hard time telling Uncle Partin "no". "Er, I m-m-m-mean… y-yes, I-I guess… well, I… I-I'm not s-s-sure."
"Slow down and speak properly," Uncle Partin ordered sharply, eyes narrowing. "That's no way to talk."
An odd knot was forming in Peter's stomach. He pushed down the sudden desire to cry, which would go against the pride of his newly seven-year-oldness. "Y-Yes, sir."
Uncle Partin didn't look entirely pleased but let the slight hesitation pass for the moment. "Well, take me to her, boy, I can't very well know where everything is from the start."
Somehow, it was a relief to know that he wasn't all-knowing. It gave Peter the courage to put the book down and hesitatingly get up and walk past Uncle Partin. "I-It's j-just over h-here -"
"Watch your speech!"
Peter swallowed and took a deep breath. Speaking slowly and carefully, he tried again: "Mum's just right upstairs here. It's on the right side." He glanced at Uncle Partin to see if he was satisfied; Uncle Partin's face didn't show the least bit of affirmative or negative.
Things went rather glum from there. Peter wasn't sure how long Uncle Partin would say. (Mrs. Pettigrew may have said, but he had been seven and any length of time past "tomorrow" or "next week" is an eternity that you really can't comprehend.) It seemed like he might stay forever, but Peter found himself finding hope in that Uncle Partin was not pleased with anything in their home.
He thought Mum (whom he always referred to as "Ruthina", a little to Peter's discomfort - most people called her "Ruth") lazy and indolent. Often he ordered her to do this or that, to take more responsibility on home chores or with Peter. He fired the witch who had come in four times a week to cook and clean, saying that Ruthina had to conserve money and could do it herself.
Mum's health grew erratic after this; it grew much worse and then better, on and on for a while, but by the time Peter was in his third year it was decidedly bad. Peter most missed the fact that after a little while with Uncle Partin, the laughing light left her blue eyes, she rarely laughed, and she stopped telling bedtime stories. Likely Uncle Partin had forbid them, anyway.
His uncle also had an undying attempt to "raise Peter properly". This seemed to consist of breaking him of his stutter, getting him to play outdoors more often, trying to improve his memory with lengthy verbal examinations each night, and taking him to Ministry cocktail parties, among a few other things. Peter found most of it tedious stuff.
He soon learned to fear speaking in Uncle Partin's presence, and since Uncle Partin was always around, Peter went through several years before Hogwarts where he didn't talk at all. When his mother and uncle called attention to his silence, which Peter hadn't consciously considered before, Peter soon make a game of seeing how many days he could go without talking. His record was seven and a half days.
Uncle Partin thought it perfectly unnatural that a boy Peter's age should spent so much of his time reading.
Mum said dryly the first time she heard this: "You mean Peter? He spends all days out of doors terrorising the neighbours with the stray Crup that goes around. He vandalises the houses of little old witches by breaking windows and chalking them. He flies at night to attract the Muggle Awareness Protection Squad and then skives off to get them in trouble. Don't stop him from reading, Partin."
Uncle Partin was not amused and made it clear. He kept a firm hold on Peter's reading time, even charming the library so it would repel him. Peter thought this a high calamity and tried many things to counteract this, one of them accumulating in getting a Crup (perhaps inspired from Mum's words) and setting it to go into the library and fetching him a book. Perhaps a Kneazle would've been better - the Crup chewed up everything in the library. Uncle Partin had thoroughly scolded him for that incident. Peter also grew into a habit of causing various others bits of mischief in rebellion. Uncle Partin never wavered, and while Peter wasn't happy with the loss of his books, he had to admit that causing mayhem was actually sort of fun, when you didn't get caught.
He hated the "history lessons" Uncle Partin gave every night, which nearly all seem to begin with: "When Grindelwald and his Gewhtle were looking for followers around Europe…" Peter soon learned to obediently digest it, and then promptly forgot all of it. It all sounded very political and dull. But woe betide him if he couldn't answer a question. Uncle Partin believed in verbal and corporal punishment of many kinds.
Peter had met interesting people at those stuffy get-togethers, however. James Potter, for one.