Title: Among the Trees of the Garden
Rating: PG-13?
Synopsis: The fall of Pettigrew.
Disclaimer: Not mine at all, never ever.
Dedication: For Tori, with love. May Peter/James live long and prosper!
Notes: Short little piece. This doesn't focus on the cold, superior part of Lucius' supposed personality, becuse it's not about him or his thoughts, it's about the Marauders, and specifically, Peter. Lucius just happens to be a pawn in the game, the one who calculates Peter's fate. It was originally going to be a poem, but that didn't work out, obviously. It's mostly stream-of-consciousness, so the grammatical errors are.. stylistic, hah.

Now the serpant was more crafty than any of the wild animals.
(from the Book of Genesis, 3:1)

It was too easy. There was no need to take a knife—a pumpkin knife, short and jagged and pliable and perfect—to sever the butter-soft layers of thought passing through each of their four respective heads. Their thoughts were painted on their faces, in their eyes. It was a wonder that no one else noticed; but they wouldn't, would they? It was too easy.

James, with goody-goody eyes larger than a cat's choked-up furball and about twice as disgusting. They leaked syrup. They should be cut into pieces and sold in Honeydukes. Potter Eyes: eat one and get out of any scrape of trouble, they'll make you look like an angel! So green and sickly and dragon flesh or chicken flesh or the flesh of a tree cut deeply. All that passed through James' mind were brooms, sliding back and forth across the empty expanse of gray matter. Brooms and the scent of sweat and victory, of an honest challenge, so fucking honest, like a god damn child's doll. He'd break as easily. But where was the sport in that?

The scent of sweat and victory were also immediate in Sirius' mind. Only they were sweat and victory of a different variety. Of a less honest and wholesome variety. They were carnal and sweaty tangled limbs and animal-magnetism and savage. With his wild hair that flew in everyone else's eyes, and his sultry I-Know-It sway, he was a rock star without a guitar. He was a cock star. He knew it. He milked it for all it was worth. It was only fitting that the only things in his mind were heat and steam and sex. And ironically, it was quite possible that he was the most physically virginal of the Four. But in his head, Black had done it all, and the bastard had such a convincing dramatic way about him that he made the whole world believe he'd done it all, too. No, no, couldn't crush Black. Those steel petals would leave nasty marks.

A softer flower bloomed in the mind of the pacifist. So quiet and gentle and cheerful, and he was a mischievous little bugger, to be sure, though he masked it well behind a face of humility and deadly calm. He should be a fucking monk then. Stoicism is for esoteric, not the runty pebbles on the shore. All that slid through Lupin's mind were pale images, sheer as watercolour. Of moons hanging over dark water, rippling in the sky and the reflection. Mist and fog and haunted moors, with watermills churning desolately, loudly, he must be hungry. The feel of stone and the way shortbread tastes when it's warm and the way you feel when you're writing a letter but don't know who you're going to send it to yet. Yes, he's such a bloody poet. Ruin him, and you've only given him something else to be a martyr for.

Who does that leave us with then, pretty? Ah, of course. The scapegoat, the shunned, the one who is Just There. Little Pettigrew's thoughts stain his face so richly that it's appalling the whole sod of a world isn't aware by now. With his chin in his hand and his head subtly tilted in the direction of his affection, he is the epitomized picture of oblivion. Lovingly engraved in his mind is the face of dear sweet James. All Peter is capable of thinking about is the fall of Potter's hair and the grazing of Potter's smile and the way Potter flies and the food Potter always eats first at breakfast and the jokes Peter always laughs at when Potter makes them and the fun he and Potter always have and the whole world is just so damn perfect. Peter stays close to James, and Remus and Sirius are just benefits. Strange that the rest of them seem to think the only reason the wimp hangs around is to feed off their popularity. If only they knew it was because he—had—an—infatuation—with—the—Golden—Boy. It's so obvious. It's right there. It's too easy. It's settled.

I'll dissolve him. Peter. Pettigrew. I'll force him to see the other side of light. So cliché. There is power to be had, and soon Pettigrew will be striving for it, stealing it for others, tying it up with ribbon for the stronger of the mortals, against his Beloved Potter. It's too easy. He'll be so fun to corrupt. They won't know what hit them.

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As the Divinations class ends, the students drag themselves from their daydreams and sleep. They pull themselves off of each other's shoulders, where they had fallen and drooled. They shake themselves awake and stumble to their next class. Most of them are thinking the same exact thought: Good God, is that class ever dull! Most of them, except for five—James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, and Lucius Malfoy, who waits like a snake about to strike, head down and eyes bright.

It's too easy.

The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever.
(from the Book of Genesis, 3:22)