-Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. However, the storyline and the history and characteristics not mentioned in the books are my creation.
-Genre/Story type: Angst
-Series: Harry Potter
-Warnings: Contains spoilers for those who haven't read "Prisoner of Azkaban" or don't know of the circumstances of the Potters' deaths on Halloween 1981.
-Author's Comments: This idea BIT me and insisted that I retaliate. For the record, I don't particularly care for Peter Pettigrew, but I enjoy casting an understanding for him. If you, the reader, develop a new perspective by reading this piece of crap, then the purpose for this fic's existence has been fulfilled. ^-^v If not... I guess I just suck at this. ^^; No surprise. PS-- I did reload. Sorry about that. ^^; When I finished this, it was in the wee hours of the early morning and my brain was fried and I just. Wanted. To. Post. So I did, but then the next morning I looked over it and decided it needed a few things added. ::cough::
-Thank yous: Kimmy and RS (esp. RS, thank you!), thank you for scanning the incomplete draft and reassuring me I wasn't off my rocker. ^_- And thanks to Jazz for showing interest in seeing this and helping out! It nudged my willpower to write this. (And I assure you, my desire to finish this toward the end was pretty pathetic.)
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skin deep
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Have you ever seen moonlight splayed on stone after worming through cracked glass?
It's pretty. It's a spindly web of fractured light that is pure virgin white in some places and faded, invisible gray in others, bleeding with the haunting luminescence of will-o'-wisps. It's malevolent.
Malevolent because it convinces people of its beauty and seduces most to conclude its opposite must be ugly by nature. Most people, by nature, are stupid.
Existence is not neatly filed in either light or darkness. Good or evil. Black or white. It's defined by ever-lightening, ever-darkening, shifting shades of grey. Grey so light, the color of fresh, Arctic snow under the blazing sun on a summer day. Grey so dark, the exact hue of the buried earth where corpses nestle, asleep in death.
Yes, the dark is beautiful too. Unlike the light with its burning brilliance, the dark hoards silky shadows woven from phantasmagoria. It's twisted, layered, incomprehensible, and uncontrollable. Because of those characteristics, it terrifies. People aren't afraid of what they truly don't understand. They fear what they _can't_ understand for it shakes them to acknowledge something, but to have no control over it. They realize they understand very little and control even less due to imperfect knowledge and they fear. Fear of the dark, like the dark itself, has a kind of raw sensuality. They are irrational; both indiscernible and indomitable. When you renounce logic, it shows you the impossible is possible-- and possibility is the dangerous addiction of the dark.
Innocent and corrupt, harmless and deadly, sometimes the dark is rightly feared. But too often the most violent, cruel, and unsavory examples are seized to embody the dark. That's like having a rock show what the mountain it came from is like. One focused aspect cannot define the whole. The dark is humanity at its worst as well as its best. Beautiful. Ugly. Honest. False. Sane. Mad.
Humans are a little mad when they appreciate light. In admiring, we nurse an instinctive hatred for the dark, which can be ugly and conceals countless things discernible to the scrutinizing eye. The light hides nothing for it shows only what we can see and we see little beyond what we want to, since humans really hate seeing all that they can be. So when we cling to light, we live half-blind and we find it engaging.
Maybe that's why I've been huddling in the dark with my deadened eyes riveted to the web-like lines of light crawling through the cracked window. The threads heave leadenly like rotten fruit and I half-expect to see the light burst open and spill forth the secrets of the universe: heaven's poisoned wine. I wish I could drink the moonlight and fall into a drunken stupor. I wish I could live half-blind. It'd be engaging.
The edges of my lips twitch up ruefully in my roundish face as I prop my head back against the worn, stone wall and let my eyelids slip shut. Blessed nothingness snuffs out the tantalizing light. Well, almost. Its pattern is burned into the back of my eyelids. But it's the things that can't be seen as well as the things that can that sear into my brain.
I don't need the light to show me the secrets of the universe. They're in my head. They shine in my pale blue eyes. I see them in the dark. I see midnight.
Midnight, when the veil between real and unreal thins to the thickness of a strand of spider's silk.
Midnight, when fire stretches toward the sky with wanton heat, licking its dark, carnal filth with ravenous tongues, filling its black haven with blood-red as an emerald skull glitters like an illusory, splintered halo above it. Lying motionless beneath, like abandoned marionettes, two forms burn, consumed by scalding ash. Lily and James, murdered by the _Avada Kedavra_.
I wish it's just my morbid imagination, but I'm not imagining things. The vision is gleaned by my damned Foresight. I bitterly thud my head against the wall once, biting my lip, and comb a pale hand through my ruffled, white-gold hair. So, it will happen then I acknowledge, tucking my cold hands into my thick, voluminous black robes. Lil and Prongs will die tonight. Tonight, on Halloween, the day when we pray for souls to ascend to heaven.
Shit, sometimes I loathe my Gift. I'm a Diviner, a true Seer. It's the mark and curse of the Pettigrews. Flashes of the future, movements of the stars, and the destiny that awaits us present themselves to me. I never let on to anyone about the secrets, though the higher powers stuff them in my head. Silence, my parents preached, is the most reliable weapon. If I want to share a secret, I relinquish control over the knowledge it brings. A secret cannot be shared between two, for it loses its potency. If there's something in my visions that must be changed, I go at it alone because my knowledge is power of a dangerous kind. Handled wrong, it will corrupt its wielder, even if they were good-hearted and wise. My aunt and grandfather went mad that way.
But even without my Foresight, I know the Potters will die. How could I not? I am the one who gave Voldemort the secret of their location. I, their chosen Secret-Keeper, signed their death warrant. I will erase my friends from life because they have to die.
They have to, because if they live, Voldemort will never be stopped. I See it. The world will fall to ruin.
Voldemort is one of the worst, or best, examples of the dark: destructive, amoral, ingenious, adaptive, and invincible. He too has the basic sight of a Seer, though not to a dangerous degree. He is our bogeyman sociopath. Voldemort has no equal-- unless James and Lily die. Harry, their son, has the power, potential, and circumstances to become a wizard that can defeat Voldemort.
Raised an orphan, Harry will mature to his fullest potential under expectation, obsession, and oppression whereas half his power would never manifest if Lily and James raise Harry to be a normal kid.
Normal. Well, I can't really say he'll ever be that with the position he's in. He, too, will be a Seer. He is the only trigger that can destroy Voldemort's reign; and he will only be so motivated if the force that kills his parents is Voldemort. That will have him on the side of Light--and striving to be everything Voldemort is not. The world needs him that way. Voldemort must be destroyed. Lily and James must die.
Knowing this, I went to Voldemort and swore myself his servant. Knowing this, I told Voldemort I knew where Lily and James hid. Knowing this, I will go to Godric's Hollow and watch Voldemort kill my trusting friends. And on their deaths, I will watch little Harry take the first step in destroying Voldemort.
Harry will live; I'll make sure of that. He will live to become like me, a toy of the universe, the universal Fate of the Seers. I even have an induction speech for him when he comes into his Sight although he'd never listen to me: Welcome to eternity where you're Fate's bitch and all the Gods screw you over. I think it has a nice, sadistic ring to it.
I wonder if I would behave any differently if I were not a Gryffindor. What would another House do if Fate tromped by to sentence them to a hideous future? A Slytherin would probably try to cut his losses, survive, and plan a strategic, gruesome revenge. A Hufflepuff would probably burst into tears and collapse on the spot. A Ravenclaw would most likely try to find any error and debate against his Fate; basically he'd stall until the decision is taken out of his hands. And a Gryffindor-- I suppose a true Gryffindor would tell Fate to fuck off and lunge into battle against existence itself. But honestly, that isn't necessarily the bravest thing to do.
House of the brave and true of heart, that is what people think of Gryffindor. Look at me, I'm a Gryffindor. No one will think of bravery or trueness of the heart when they look at me, but strength manifests itself in many, many ways. Both good and bad, as relative as those terms are. I'm not particularly ordinary or confrontational. Nor am I extremely sly or full of wit. But in terms of bravery and trueness of heart-- The Sorting Hat is right to place me in Gryffindor. The characteristics manifest as my guts to grit my teeth and do what has to be done no matter what. It is what I'm doing now, but I doubt if anyone would agree.
Still, it's undeniable that it takes guts to betray my friends. It takes guts to turn my back on all I love to do what I think should be done. It takes guts to do anything it takes to see fate unwind towards the path of "good."
I have sworn to never forsake the greater good because of my feelings. It is my only guide to keep from being poisoned by the power I hold. My duty to the many outweighs my duty to one.
Duty. It's my duty to use my Sight wisely. It's my duty to benevolently guide us to the best fate whenever I can. It's my duty to serve destiny, to stain my hands with the blood of my friend, and to be a traitor. It's my goddamn duty to serve a raving psychopath and murder my friends. Am I bitter? Maybe. Just a bit.
I can just imagine the others' reaction. "Fuck duty, you stupid psycho! There is another way!" they'd insist. "There must be. There will be. There has to be another way."
There is no other way.
Seers don't know everything, but what we do know simply is. It is or it can only be countered to result in certain alternate futures. Lily and James must die now or they must live to die later. If they die later, the world will belong to Voldemort. If they die now, their son will stop Voldemort.
Have I mentioned I hate my Gift? It's nice when it tells me of certain tricks, like Sirius' completely moronic prank with Snape and Remus, but there are instances when it goes: Hey, guess what?! The world's going to end! But wait--you're in the perfect position to do something about it! Just kill off your dearest friends and betray those who'd die for you!
It's times like those I wonder if fate had deliberately set me up into the perfect position to screw with my head. I hate being fucked over.
I'm sure Voldemort will also hate being fucked over, but he's a Seer and thus can't avoid it. I can picture the charming scene unfold. Voldemort and his gaggle of Death-Eaters will march up to Lily and James' house in a parade and rap on their door. And contrary to the expectation of some very frightening threat, the poor bastard will chirp, "Trick or treat?"
I believe that is a Muggle custom; Voldemort has a sick sense of humor. Well, so do I. The door will open and Voldemort will spring his trick. It's a trick; there is no treat. But, at the same time by succeeding at his "treat," he'll screw himself over. From his meager Sight, he knows he has to eliminate the Potters to reign uncontested. He doesn't know that by killing Lily and James before Harry, he'll sign his own demise. It's a trick; there is no treat. A stifled laugh hums in my throat. Irony is a spiteful, scorned bitch.
Who would have thought that I, the weakest of the Marauders would turn out to be the true Marauder? A rouge that plunders and destroys stability and security, those precious spoils of happiness. Who would have thought that I, deemed the most sincere, am the one who lied the worst? Well, the best liar is the one who honestly meant every lie he said. Who would have thought that I, who adored the Marauders the most, would be the one who destroys them all? A lump settles in my throat. Regret's bitter sting is sharper than a thousand knives and crueler than the devil's leer. I hate doing this, but I am doing it anyway and it's too late now. Would mother be proud of me? Would anyone?
My parents would. Severus Snape might. He is the most cunning, sly, and intelligent man I have ever met. He, like me, isn't quite like the typical Death Eater. Voldemort wooed him with knowledge, not with prejudiced pride or corrupted power, which drew most other Death Eaters. Severus recognized my acting skill. He knows what I am. He knows what I can do-- but not even he knows the lengths I will go.
I imagine even he would be horrified if he hadn't been seduced and enthralled by desires beyond his control too. Then again, he might be clinically admiring and say I should've been Sorted to Slytherin, which is renowned for ruthless survival and heartless backstabbing. I might have fit in, actually, but the only difference is I truly love those I hold dear. I have a funny way of showing love, don't I? I'm unfair. I'm sick. I'm a bastard.
Raising my head, I stagger to my feet.
My lies are skin deep and so much more...
I draw in a deep breath, gazing sightlessly at the simple, unused room Sirius hid me in, and walk toward the door. It's time to go. Fate unwinds.
If I kill them...
Sirius will come and realize something is not right. He must be accused of murder. He and Remus will hate me--and Voldemort.
His enmity will feed Harry's and Harry will become what is he destined to be. As for me...
I will always be the traitor, the Judas. No one will know. But then I'm the only one who has to Know. I close my eyes briefly against the pain of my Sight as I glide through the door.
Twelve years until we who remain meet again. Twelve years.
I will go mad.
*end*
-Genre/Story type: Angst
-Series: Harry Potter
-Warnings: Contains spoilers for those who haven't read "Prisoner of Azkaban" or don't know of the circumstances of the Potters' deaths on Halloween 1981.
-Author's Comments: This idea BIT me and insisted that I retaliate. For the record, I don't particularly care for Peter Pettigrew, but I enjoy casting an understanding for him. If you, the reader, develop a new perspective by reading this piece of crap, then the purpose for this fic's existence has been fulfilled. ^-^v If not... I guess I just suck at this. ^^; No surprise. PS-- I did reload. Sorry about that. ^^; When I finished this, it was in the wee hours of the early morning and my brain was fried and I just. Wanted. To. Post. So I did, but then the next morning I looked over it and decided it needed a few things added. ::cough::
-Thank yous: Kimmy and RS (esp. RS, thank you!), thank you for scanning the incomplete draft and reassuring me I wasn't off my rocker. ^_- And thanks to Jazz for showing interest in seeing this and helping out! It nudged my willpower to write this. (And I assure you, my desire to finish this toward the end was pretty pathetic.)
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skin deep
----------------
Have you ever seen moonlight splayed on stone after worming through cracked glass?
It's pretty. It's a spindly web of fractured light that is pure virgin white in some places and faded, invisible gray in others, bleeding with the haunting luminescence of will-o'-wisps. It's malevolent.
Malevolent because it convinces people of its beauty and seduces most to conclude its opposite must be ugly by nature. Most people, by nature, are stupid.
Existence is not neatly filed in either light or darkness. Good or evil. Black or white. It's defined by ever-lightening, ever-darkening, shifting shades of grey. Grey so light, the color of fresh, Arctic snow under the blazing sun on a summer day. Grey so dark, the exact hue of the buried earth where corpses nestle, asleep in death.
Yes, the dark is beautiful too. Unlike the light with its burning brilliance, the dark hoards silky shadows woven from phantasmagoria. It's twisted, layered, incomprehensible, and uncontrollable. Because of those characteristics, it terrifies. People aren't afraid of what they truly don't understand. They fear what they _can't_ understand for it shakes them to acknowledge something, but to have no control over it. They realize they understand very little and control even less due to imperfect knowledge and they fear. Fear of the dark, like the dark itself, has a kind of raw sensuality. They are irrational; both indiscernible and indomitable. When you renounce logic, it shows you the impossible is possible-- and possibility is the dangerous addiction of the dark.
Innocent and corrupt, harmless and deadly, sometimes the dark is rightly feared. But too often the most violent, cruel, and unsavory examples are seized to embody the dark. That's like having a rock show what the mountain it came from is like. One focused aspect cannot define the whole. The dark is humanity at its worst as well as its best. Beautiful. Ugly. Honest. False. Sane. Mad.
Humans are a little mad when they appreciate light. In admiring, we nurse an instinctive hatred for the dark, which can be ugly and conceals countless things discernible to the scrutinizing eye. The light hides nothing for it shows only what we can see and we see little beyond what we want to, since humans really hate seeing all that they can be. So when we cling to light, we live half-blind and we find it engaging.
Maybe that's why I've been huddling in the dark with my deadened eyes riveted to the web-like lines of light crawling through the cracked window. The threads heave leadenly like rotten fruit and I half-expect to see the light burst open and spill forth the secrets of the universe: heaven's poisoned wine. I wish I could drink the moonlight and fall into a drunken stupor. I wish I could live half-blind. It'd be engaging.
The edges of my lips twitch up ruefully in my roundish face as I prop my head back against the worn, stone wall and let my eyelids slip shut. Blessed nothingness snuffs out the tantalizing light. Well, almost. Its pattern is burned into the back of my eyelids. But it's the things that can't be seen as well as the things that can that sear into my brain.
I don't need the light to show me the secrets of the universe. They're in my head. They shine in my pale blue eyes. I see them in the dark. I see midnight.
Midnight, when the veil between real and unreal thins to the thickness of a strand of spider's silk.
Midnight, when fire stretches toward the sky with wanton heat, licking its dark, carnal filth with ravenous tongues, filling its black haven with blood-red as an emerald skull glitters like an illusory, splintered halo above it. Lying motionless beneath, like abandoned marionettes, two forms burn, consumed by scalding ash. Lily and James, murdered by the _Avada Kedavra_.
I wish it's just my morbid imagination, but I'm not imagining things. The vision is gleaned by my damned Foresight. I bitterly thud my head against the wall once, biting my lip, and comb a pale hand through my ruffled, white-gold hair. So, it will happen then I acknowledge, tucking my cold hands into my thick, voluminous black robes. Lil and Prongs will die tonight. Tonight, on Halloween, the day when we pray for souls to ascend to heaven.
Shit, sometimes I loathe my Gift. I'm a Diviner, a true Seer. It's the mark and curse of the Pettigrews. Flashes of the future, movements of the stars, and the destiny that awaits us present themselves to me. I never let on to anyone about the secrets, though the higher powers stuff them in my head. Silence, my parents preached, is the most reliable weapon. If I want to share a secret, I relinquish control over the knowledge it brings. A secret cannot be shared between two, for it loses its potency. If there's something in my visions that must be changed, I go at it alone because my knowledge is power of a dangerous kind. Handled wrong, it will corrupt its wielder, even if they were good-hearted and wise. My aunt and grandfather went mad that way.
But even without my Foresight, I know the Potters will die. How could I not? I am the one who gave Voldemort the secret of their location. I, their chosen Secret-Keeper, signed their death warrant. I will erase my friends from life because they have to die.
They have to, because if they live, Voldemort will never be stopped. I See it. The world will fall to ruin.
Voldemort is one of the worst, or best, examples of the dark: destructive, amoral, ingenious, adaptive, and invincible. He too has the basic sight of a Seer, though not to a dangerous degree. He is our bogeyman sociopath. Voldemort has no equal-- unless James and Lily die. Harry, their son, has the power, potential, and circumstances to become a wizard that can defeat Voldemort.
Raised an orphan, Harry will mature to his fullest potential under expectation, obsession, and oppression whereas half his power would never manifest if Lily and James raise Harry to be a normal kid.
Normal. Well, I can't really say he'll ever be that with the position he's in. He, too, will be a Seer. He is the only trigger that can destroy Voldemort's reign; and he will only be so motivated if the force that kills his parents is Voldemort. That will have him on the side of Light--and striving to be everything Voldemort is not. The world needs him that way. Voldemort must be destroyed. Lily and James must die.
Knowing this, I went to Voldemort and swore myself his servant. Knowing this, I told Voldemort I knew where Lily and James hid. Knowing this, I will go to Godric's Hollow and watch Voldemort kill my trusting friends. And on their deaths, I will watch little Harry take the first step in destroying Voldemort.
Harry will live; I'll make sure of that. He will live to become like me, a toy of the universe, the universal Fate of the Seers. I even have an induction speech for him when he comes into his Sight although he'd never listen to me: Welcome to eternity where you're Fate's bitch and all the Gods screw you over. I think it has a nice, sadistic ring to it.
I wonder if I would behave any differently if I were not a Gryffindor. What would another House do if Fate tromped by to sentence them to a hideous future? A Slytherin would probably try to cut his losses, survive, and plan a strategic, gruesome revenge. A Hufflepuff would probably burst into tears and collapse on the spot. A Ravenclaw would most likely try to find any error and debate against his Fate; basically he'd stall until the decision is taken out of his hands. And a Gryffindor-- I suppose a true Gryffindor would tell Fate to fuck off and lunge into battle against existence itself. But honestly, that isn't necessarily the bravest thing to do.
House of the brave and true of heart, that is what people think of Gryffindor. Look at me, I'm a Gryffindor. No one will think of bravery or trueness of the heart when they look at me, but strength manifests itself in many, many ways. Both good and bad, as relative as those terms are. I'm not particularly ordinary or confrontational. Nor am I extremely sly or full of wit. But in terms of bravery and trueness of heart-- The Sorting Hat is right to place me in Gryffindor. The characteristics manifest as my guts to grit my teeth and do what has to be done no matter what. It is what I'm doing now, but I doubt if anyone would agree.
Still, it's undeniable that it takes guts to betray my friends. It takes guts to turn my back on all I love to do what I think should be done. It takes guts to do anything it takes to see fate unwind towards the path of "good."
I have sworn to never forsake the greater good because of my feelings. It is my only guide to keep from being poisoned by the power I hold. My duty to the many outweighs my duty to one.
Duty. It's my duty to use my Sight wisely. It's my duty to benevolently guide us to the best fate whenever I can. It's my duty to serve destiny, to stain my hands with the blood of my friend, and to be a traitor. It's my goddamn duty to serve a raving psychopath and murder my friends. Am I bitter? Maybe. Just a bit.
I can just imagine the others' reaction. "Fuck duty, you stupid psycho! There is another way!" they'd insist. "There must be. There will be. There has to be another way."
There is no other way.
Seers don't know everything, but what we do know simply is. It is or it can only be countered to result in certain alternate futures. Lily and James must die now or they must live to die later. If they die later, the world will belong to Voldemort. If they die now, their son will stop Voldemort.
Have I mentioned I hate my Gift? It's nice when it tells me of certain tricks, like Sirius' completely moronic prank with Snape and Remus, but there are instances when it goes: Hey, guess what?! The world's going to end! But wait--you're in the perfect position to do something about it! Just kill off your dearest friends and betray those who'd die for you!
It's times like those I wonder if fate had deliberately set me up into the perfect position to screw with my head. I hate being fucked over.
I'm sure Voldemort will also hate being fucked over, but he's a Seer and thus can't avoid it. I can picture the charming scene unfold. Voldemort and his gaggle of Death-Eaters will march up to Lily and James' house in a parade and rap on their door. And contrary to the expectation of some very frightening threat, the poor bastard will chirp, "Trick or treat?"
I believe that is a Muggle custom; Voldemort has a sick sense of humor. Well, so do I. The door will open and Voldemort will spring his trick. It's a trick; there is no treat. But, at the same time by succeeding at his "treat," he'll screw himself over. From his meager Sight, he knows he has to eliminate the Potters to reign uncontested. He doesn't know that by killing Lily and James before Harry, he'll sign his own demise. It's a trick; there is no treat. A stifled laugh hums in my throat. Irony is a spiteful, scorned bitch.
Who would have thought that I, the weakest of the Marauders would turn out to be the true Marauder? A rouge that plunders and destroys stability and security, those precious spoils of happiness. Who would have thought that I, deemed the most sincere, am the one who lied the worst? Well, the best liar is the one who honestly meant every lie he said. Who would have thought that I, who adored the Marauders the most, would be the one who destroys them all? A lump settles in my throat. Regret's bitter sting is sharper than a thousand knives and crueler than the devil's leer. I hate doing this, but I am doing it anyway and it's too late now. Would mother be proud of me? Would anyone?
My parents would. Severus Snape might. He is the most cunning, sly, and intelligent man I have ever met. He, like me, isn't quite like the typical Death Eater. Voldemort wooed him with knowledge, not with prejudiced pride or corrupted power, which drew most other Death Eaters. Severus recognized my acting skill. He knows what I am. He knows what I can do-- but not even he knows the lengths I will go.
I imagine even he would be horrified if he hadn't been seduced and enthralled by desires beyond his control too. Then again, he might be clinically admiring and say I should've been Sorted to Slytherin, which is renowned for ruthless survival and heartless backstabbing. I might have fit in, actually, but the only difference is I truly love those I hold dear. I have a funny way of showing love, don't I? I'm unfair. I'm sick. I'm a bastard.
Raising my head, I stagger to my feet.
My lies are skin deep and so much more...
I draw in a deep breath, gazing sightlessly at the simple, unused room Sirius hid me in, and walk toward the door. It's time to go. Fate unwinds.
If I kill them...
Sirius will come and realize something is not right. He must be accused of murder. He and Remus will hate me--and Voldemort.
His enmity will feed Harry's and Harry will become what is he destined to be. As for me...
I will always be the traitor, the Judas. No one will know. But then I'm the only one who has to Know. I close my eyes briefly against the pain of my Sight as I glide through the door.
Twelve years until we who remain meet again. Twelve years.
I will go mad.
*end*