Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Edmond/Peter.

Edmond was explaining, for the umpteenth time in a few short days, that he indeed did not know his name or his identity. This time it was to Dumbledore. Why was it so hard to grasp, he wondered, that a person might not know who he was? One could not know what one had never been told. He tried to be calm, at least on the outside, but it was difficult. He supposed that Dumbledore knew it was a lie because, in fact, Edmond knew at least who his parents were. He sensed that Dumbledore also knew more than he was telling, and it hurt badly. His mind, he realized, had unwittingly created a sort of paradise of Hogwarts. After all, its headmaster intimidated Voldemort. What had he expected? He felt ashamed at even hoping. His suspicion made him distrust. His fear made him scared to hope. He came to a conclusion; a world of safety and care only existed between the covers of a book by some idealistic Muggle. Some of his disgust must have appeared on his face, for Dumbledore interrupted whatever Edmond had been droning on about.

"Are you even listening to what you're saying?" It was not, needless to say, what Edmond had been expecting to hear.

He replied immediately, though, "I've heard it all before. Why should I bother?"

Dumbledore nodded almost absentmindedly. "Now," Edmond remarked softly, "you are the one not listening."

The headmaster smiled. After a moment, he finally said, "You are far more obstinate and argumentative than I would have expected for someone."

"What euphemism are you looking for?" Edmond butted in. "Someone in my particular situation, someone with my background, why don't you just say it? Someone whose spent his whole life under torture. I'm like I am because it didn't matter what I said. I was going to get hit anyway."

Dumbledore definitely wouldn't meet his eyes anymore. Edmond felt some sick bit of satisfaction well up inside him. He had won his battle, whatever battle it was, he didn't know. He had spent his life in a silent battle against everyone else he knew. He could not imagine the real reason Dumbledore had looked away. He had never been introduced to compassion, except in tales of fiction. It was, to give him some credit, the first time he had ever felt a pang of guilt at a verbal victory. He subconsciously settled down to what he thought was a gentler attitude after that first outburst. It wasn't a kindness; it was a precaution. He did not understand what he was dealing with, and he dared not be bold until he understood. He did not apologize; Dumbledore did.

"What I did does not deserve forgiveness.Edmond," Dumbledore began, "I assumed where I had no right to."

"I don't want to hear it," Edmond butted it, "for it certainly isn't anything I haven't heard before. I forgave you for it a long time ago. You assumption is only foolish in hindsight. I should, by all accounts, be dead. Expecting me to be alive was nearly expecting a reincarnation. I forgive you for that mistake."

"Ah, so you know who you are after all?"

"I only know my parents' names, and that was more than enough family history for me," Edmond smiled bitterly.

"You told me you did not know who you were," Dumbledore frowned.

"Am I my parents? I don't really see how that would work. I would be a mixture of oil and water then. I do not know who I as an individual am. A child is not his parents nor his guardian."

Dumbledore nodded, looking pleased. "Your name is Peter."

Edmond, or rather Peter, laughed aloud at that. "Talk about ironic! How did I come across that particular one? I hope you're not one of those people who judge others by what their parents or namesakes were! Now, let's make this a full circle; how am I related to Cornelius Fudge?" That last bit was sarcasm, he hoped.

"So you know the whole story of." Dumbledore began, but newly named Peter butted in a childish singsong voice:

"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs

One is dead, one has fled
What a curious bunch of friends
One has tail, one's in jail
Loyal to the end of ends
Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs"

"Of course I know the story. You think I wouldn't by this point? Well, I know the song needs revising at this point, considering the fact that the Marauders' situations have changed drastically in the last two years. I just have had other things to think about."

Dumbledore looked frankly surprised at the callousness with which Peter treated the subject. Peter said softly, "Look Dumbledore, I am sorry that James Potter is dead, and Remus Lupin, from what I have heard, does not deserve his fate, but as for the rest of them, to hell."

"Sirius Black was innocent of his crimes," Dumbledore corrected.

"Of his crime of betraying the Potters and killing Wormtail, yes, he has been absolved of those by me, and rightfully so. But there are other crimes not so easily written off. Other crimes that he is indeed guilty of committing."

"I am sorry you feel that way, Peter," Dumbledore sighed, "for if you but had the chance to get to know him."

"Then I would hate him even more, Professor. If I knew him to be good, then what he did will become even more unforgivable in my eyes. If I knew him to be evil, then what he did will become the expected, and that would be unbearable. I do not want to know him. He might be my father by blood, but the connection is strengthened by no other means."

Dumbledore said nothing. Peter continued, "I see what you are thinking. You wonder what I must think of my mother. I cannot even describe how much I hate her. You cannot fathom it."

"You owe some fealty to your parents; you cannot just throw them off as your worst enemies."

"They are not my worst enemies, first off. And the only reason I have to be loyal to them is the fact that they gave me life, for they certainly have done nothing for me since. And there have been many nights when I have begged for non-existence, or at least death."

"Sirius would have been a father to you if he had not been unjustly sent to Azkaban, Peter. Even now, after all these years, he would jump at the chance to make it up, but, alas, that is not to be. Be fair, even if fairness has not been shown to you. He did not choose to abandon you."

"Yes, he did, actually," Peter returned adamantly. "He chose his love of revenge over his love for his son. He didn't have to go after Wormtail. He could have gone into hiding and let it go."

"Would you have?"

"I would not have left what I still had to destroy what had taken other things from me."

"You are sure? How do you know what you have not experienced."

"Trust me Dumbledore, I am sure. I am far more certain of this than many things in my life. Yet, let's not dwell on could-haves, should-haves, and would-haves. They are almost as unproductive as ifs," Peter said, trying unsuccessfully to avoid painful subjects without letting anyone know they were painful.

"Can I trust you to stay here for a moment? You're arrival is wholly unanticipated. I need to speak with someone before making my decision."

"You can trust me, Dumbledore; my left arm scarred, but not with that particular mark."

Peter was surprised when the headmaster took him at his words and left. Maybe he really had gotten the professor wrong. But he could not understand those emotions at all, much more the actions. Later, he began to suspect that whatever person Dumbledore needed to talk to was not about his decision on whatever he was deciding about. Later, when he started to understand who Dumbledore was, he began to realize that the professor had left Peter just when Peter needed to be alone. Something no one else had ever even come close to doing.

I lied to Molly Weasley, he thought miserably. I lied because I was ashamed of myself. I did not want her to look down on me because of my heritage. I am such a hypocrite.

But then again, many would argue that his ancestry was something to hide. After all, to the majority of the population, Sirius Black (even though they thought him a serial killer) was still the good side of the family. He had told the truth when he said he would never forgive his parents. One night, his father had gotten drunk and picked up the first hooker who looked at him. Unfortunately for Peter (because he maintained that never existing would be better than his life), it was no prostitute, but a Death-Eater. Bellatrix Lestrange, as a matter of fact. Peter was the bastard result of incest. He had gathered, over the years, that it had been a set up. Voldemort had wanted him to be born, and Peter did not know why. He hoped, sincerely, that Dumbledore would have some information over that area. Not that, his pessimistic self reminded him, anyone would ever bother telling me that lovely piece of news.

His pessimism was actually as close to optimism as he could get. For all of his remembered nearly sixteen years, he had been a prisoner in the houses of various Death-Eaters. His earliest memory was of his mother handing him over to the Dark Lord, gladly. There simply hadn't been any kind of joy in his life, aside from books. He held that his survival was completely indebted to those Muggle tales. They had not been easy to procure, but they were fellow prisoners, the spoils of war. Nearly every Death-Eater had shelves and shelves of books stolen from their previous owners, Muggles who had crossed the Dark Lord in his first rising. They had calmed him, and by thinking about their unreality helped him forget his reality. Even now, when worry was once again upon him, he instinctively mouthed his mantra of names.

"Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Dumas, Barrie, Burnett, Dickens, Lewis, Tolkien." on and on for several minutes, through centuries of writing and all around the world. Dumbledore had still not come back and his lips continued to speak without the urging of his mind, now moving to his favorite characters from each of the books, nearly all of them had been his name at some point in time. He was on "Artful Dodger" when the headmaster returned from the errand spawned either from necessity or imagination.

"Oliver Twist?" he asked.

Peter grinned wryly, "I've had a bit of free time on my hands of late. I've been catching up on my reading."

"Personally, I am partial to David Copperfield."

Peter laughed inwardly. It was the first time in nearly five years he had discussed a book with anyone. Yet it was not fated to be a long conversation, as almost immediately Dumbledore changed the subject, "How old are you, Peter?"

"Nearly sixteen."

"How nearly?"

"About three months. My birthday is in late March."

"Think you can survive that long?"

"Why does it matter? I mean, I have survived this long, and I might continue to do so until my sixteenth birthday. But what's to stop someone from killing me April first, or tomorrow for that matter?"

"As to tomorrow, we can only pray to keep you safe. As to April first, you honestly don't know why Voldemort kept you alive? Or is this another one of your I-don't-know-who-I-am-but-I-know-more-about-my- familiy's-history-than-anyone-else things?"

"I don't know, if I knew than I could possibly use it to my advantage," Peter said honestly after a pause.

"Peter, it matters if you make it to sixteen because if you do, then you will be virtually immortal. The reason Voldemort wanted you, the reason we all want you, is because you have the potential to be the most powerful person that ever walked the earth."

"Including Merlin?" Peter laughed at the absurdity.

"Including Merlin," Dumbledore nodded seriously.

And Peter realized he was telling the truth. "All I have to do is survive?"

Another nod.
Oh, well, that explains a lot, the lucid part of him thought. The most powerful person ever. Immortal. Why, why couldn't I have been born three months earlier?

Then the logical part of him butted in, Voldemort will never let anyone so powerful as you survive long enough to destroy him. You're Frodo, but you have neither Gandalf nor Aragorn to distract the Dark Lord from his quarry. There are more than nine Nazgul in this Earth.

But that attitude of doom had been his for many years. This was a game to Peter, be it as it may a game of very high stakes. He had been playing insane games like this all his life. Now, three months was a challenge he was more than willing to accept.

"Sound the hunting horn," he smiled. "The fox hunt just got more interesting."

Dumbledore stared, and even Peter could not blame him. "Oh, Dumbledore, what did you expect of me? I am not doing battle with death itself, only Death-Eaters."

Dumbledore looked far from satisfied, but Peter could give nothing more than what he considered the truth.

"You really should have gotten to know your father," Dumbledore said with a sad smile.

Peter shook his head mentally at the headmaster's incomprehension. He really, really hated his father. Nothing was going to change that.