Silver lands with a thump, heavy and audible and yet lacking something in
its hollowed-out state, against the thick wood of the table in front of
him. Uncomfortably, the aging man shifts in the stiff metal chair,
crossing his legs and resting his one good hand in his lap. He lets escape
a weary sigh, over a decade of hiding and lying released in that one breath
of air, hanging thick like London fog in front of him. A scarred tongue,
marred by years of accidental, nervous bitings and burns, slips out to
moisten parched lips, only to return to its place of hiding in the dank,
cavernous recesses of his mouth.
"You want to know why I did it, don't you? That's why you've brought me here, isn't it?"
His eyes are a watered-down blue, yet they retain a beady quality, an apparent side-effect from his double life. His good hand lifts to pat down thinning blond hair, more of a nervous habit than anything. He refuses to look me in the eye, keeping his gaze on the smooth, greenish linoleum instead. He doesn't look up when I lean forward, gaze darting to meet mine only when the click of the recorder echoes against the wall.
"Yes, Peter. I do want to know why. Will you tell me?"
A sad smile spreads across his lips as I sit back in my chair, forbidding my face to show any expression. His eyes look perpetually full of tears, and he seems to shrink into the molded metal, as if he wishes to hide away from his past and pretend his innocence is truth. He looks the part of a rodent, although at this milestone in his life, he could easily be classified as more of a mouse than a rat. The timid nature of his boyhood is once more brought to the fore, and it takes him several moments before he finds composure in a silent place and is able to begin.
"Power. It's the only reason anyone does anything drastic. I killed the Potters for power."
He pauses here for effect, raising his eyes to me. He appears to wipe away a tear, but the skepticism that has been implanted in my mind has taken firm root, and I doubt his sadness is much more than an attempt to gain my pity. In this, as in most of what he has ever done, he fails miserably.
"I was scared though.. I was promised power and safety.. he said I'd never have to worry about anything again.. and I believed him.
"I've always been the insignificant one.. James was the perfect student, Sirius was the ladies' man, Remus.. well.. he had his own little quirks. Even Snape had marks of individuality.. things that made him special. What did I have? I wasn't good at anything I did, and it was a wonder that they found a friend in me. Maybe they pitied me.. I'll never know.
"When I was approached, I was scared.. but if I said no, I knew I'd be killed. He knew what I wanted.. he promised it to me.. and I had it, you see.. I wanted power, and I wanted to be memorable.. and I am, now."
He stops here, wiping at his forehead; beads of nervousness glisten on his forehead and cling to the colourless hair, plastering the strands to his forehead. He laughs a sad little laugh, hollow and empty and ringing like a church bell's funeral toll.
"I was a better servant than any of the others, though. I was loyal."
The glassy eyes well over with tears, and a few leave glistening trails along his cheeks, staining the pallid skin with shine of which he is most undeserving. I make no move to console him; how can I? I only produce a handkerchief, dismissing his thanks with a nonchalant wave of my hand. He blots his eyes, and I notice the shaky movements; he knows what follows his confession, no doubt, and he is afraid. After a few choked sobs, he manages to find his voice once more, and he glances up at me, gaze searching and pleading for a few more moments to continue. I nod slightly, he swallows hard, and the silence is cut with the echo of his voice against the cool stone walls.
"I was the killer in London. I laid the bodies to rest forever.
"Sirius'll hate me forever, for all of this. Remus will, too. I only wish they could understand that I had to do what I did, for myself. I couldn't die.. I just couldn't."
He weeps openly now, as I reach forward to switch off the recorder. The click signals finality, and his heart leaps into his throat. Mine has slipped downward into my stomach, and nausea is beginning to set in. Abruptly, I rise and leave the room, shuddering as shadowy figures drift in. In my mind's eye, I can picture them advancing upon him, and I see him facing death with false bravado.. I know he has never known bravery, and this will be his final lie. The door clicks behind me, and I pull back the hood worn to conceal my identity. I am surrounded by familiar faces, voices, consoling touches. Dumbledore smiles, as always, and he embraces me. His presence alone comforts me in ways no one else will ever know.
The amount of comfort and consolation I receive in the moments following my all-too-brief meeting with Peter are endless, but eventually, everything is quiet, and I am left alone with my thoughts. I step out into wizarding London, surrounding myself with sights and smells and sensations I have not freely been able to enjoy for well over a decade. I close my eyes, pausing in the middle of the walkway, and allow myself to feel a bit of joy, for doors that would never close in the past are finally sealed shut.
My reverie is interrupted by a hand sliding into my grasp and squeezing it, a soft voice near my ear, breath tickling the flesh.
"You did the right thing, Padfoot.. I'm proud of you."
I glance over to my mate, the other surviving Marauder, and he holds me as the tears stream from my eyes; simple blue eyes filled with everything the colour embodies.. sadness and peace, anguish and calm mixing together in rough seas. Now that the anguish has ended, and freedom is mine once more, will I be able to find peace?
God, how I hope so.
"You want to know why I did it, don't you? That's why you've brought me here, isn't it?"
His eyes are a watered-down blue, yet they retain a beady quality, an apparent side-effect from his double life. His good hand lifts to pat down thinning blond hair, more of a nervous habit than anything. He refuses to look me in the eye, keeping his gaze on the smooth, greenish linoleum instead. He doesn't look up when I lean forward, gaze darting to meet mine only when the click of the recorder echoes against the wall.
"Yes, Peter. I do want to know why. Will you tell me?"
A sad smile spreads across his lips as I sit back in my chair, forbidding my face to show any expression. His eyes look perpetually full of tears, and he seems to shrink into the molded metal, as if he wishes to hide away from his past and pretend his innocence is truth. He looks the part of a rodent, although at this milestone in his life, he could easily be classified as more of a mouse than a rat. The timid nature of his boyhood is once more brought to the fore, and it takes him several moments before he finds composure in a silent place and is able to begin.
"Power. It's the only reason anyone does anything drastic. I killed the Potters for power."
He pauses here for effect, raising his eyes to me. He appears to wipe away a tear, but the skepticism that has been implanted in my mind has taken firm root, and I doubt his sadness is much more than an attempt to gain my pity. In this, as in most of what he has ever done, he fails miserably.
"I was scared though.. I was promised power and safety.. he said I'd never have to worry about anything again.. and I believed him.
"I've always been the insignificant one.. James was the perfect student, Sirius was the ladies' man, Remus.. well.. he had his own little quirks. Even Snape had marks of individuality.. things that made him special. What did I have? I wasn't good at anything I did, and it was a wonder that they found a friend in me. Maybe they pitied me.. I'll never know.
"When I was approached, I was scared.. but if I said no, I knew I'd be killed. He knew what I wanted.. he promised it to me.. and I had it, you see.. I wanted power, and I wanted to be memorable.. and I am, now."
He stops here, wiping at his forehead; beads of nervousness glisten on his forehead and cling to the colourless hair, plastering the strands to his forehead. He laughs a sad little laugh, hollow and empty and ringing like a church bell's funeral toll.
"I was a better servant than any of the others, though. I was loyal."
The glassy eyes well over with tears, and a few leave glistening trails along his cheeks, staining the pallid skin with shine of which he is most undeserving. I make no move to console him; how can I? I only produce a handkerchief, dismissing his thanks with a nonchalant wave of my hand. He blots his eyes, and I notice the shaky movements; he knows what follows his confession, no doubt, and he is afraid. After a few choked sobs, he manages to find his voice once more, and he glances up at me, gaze searching and pleading for a few more moments to continue. I nod slightly, he swallows hard, and the silence is cut with the echo of his voice against the cool stone walls.
"I was the killer in London. I laid the bodies to rest forever.
"Sirius'll hate me forever, for all of this. Remus will, too. I only wish they could understand that I had to do what I did, for myself. I couldn't die.. I just couldn't."
He weeps openly now, as I reach forward to switch off the recorder. The click signals finality, and his heart leaps into his throat. Mine has slipped downward into my stomach, and nausea is beginning to set in. Abruptly, I rise and leave the room, shuddering as shadowy figures drift in. In my mind's eye, I can picture them advancing upon him, and I see him facing death with false bravado.. I know he has never known bravery, and this will be his final lie. The door clicks behind me, and I pull back the hood worn to conceal my identity. I am surrounded by familiar faces, voices, consoling touches. Dumbledore smiles, as always, and he embraces me. His presence alone comforts me in ways no one else will ever know.
The amount of comfort and consolation I receive in the moments following my all-too-brief meeting with Peter are endless, but eventually, everything is quiet, and I am left alone with my thoughts. I step out into wizarding London, surrounding myself with sights and smells and sensations I have not freely been able to enjoy for well over a decade. I close my eyes, pausing in the middle of the walkway, and allow myself to feel a bit of joy, for doors that would never close in the past are finally sealed shut.
My reverie is interrupted by a hand sliding into my grasp and squeezing it, a soft voice near my ear, breath tickling the flesh.
"You did the right thing, Padfoot.. I'm proud of you."
I glance over to my mate, the other surviving Marauder, and he holds me as the tears stream from my eyes; simple blue eyes filled with everything the colour embodies.. sadness and peace, anguish and calm mixing together in rough seas. Now that the anguish has ended, and freedom is mine once more, will I be able to find peace?
God, how I hope so.