Dedication: For Tara...here you go, the chapter you've been waiting for!
Author's Note: I am full of good food and humor. All is well in the world today. I have three days off of work, and I'm going to catch the midnight showing of Die Hard this Friday. To celebrate, I'm catching up on my fics.
End of All Hope
Peter
Why are the followers, the workers, those who build the empires, always forgotten? Without them, nothing would ever be done. But they were ignored, insignificant, uncared for once their task was done. They were tossed aside, no longer needed. A tool whose purpose was done was cast to the side.
Peter had no illusions. Not anymore. They had all been broken, along with his will. He had once believed himself to be needed, important. Those thoughts were dead, cast aside much as he himself had been.
How long had it been, since they called upon him? How long since they sought him out, enlisted his aide? He was nothing. Forgotten. They didn't even know his name. Where would they be, without him? Hadn't it been he who raised their lord and master back to strength? He had toiled and sacrificed, and they had done nothing. Waited, watched, sat in their safe palaces, lying to the world until the time was right. They rode on the blood, sweat and tears that Peter had shed.
They say that the broken are useless, but that is not true. The broken, once mended, can be quite dangerous. Peter had cultivated his resentment, nurturing it until it grew to full blossomed hatred. He carried it with him, cared for it as he would a child. It was the only thing he was certain of. They had used him.
He had spent his life being used, but not like this. Those he harkened to before had never abandoned him quite like this. He had been a fool. He had made a grave mistake, and he was paying tenfold for it now.
Even the broken can break.
No one took any note of him. They did not see when he gathered is meager belongings together. They did not see when he slipped off into the night. They didn't see when he removed the Mark that would allow their lord to find him. He had lost one arm already, what was one more?
Peter was used to pain. And he knew what to do, to stop the bleeding. He could ignore it, push it aside as he made his way across the countryside. He spent his life in misery, in hatred. The focus of those feelings just shifted. From vengeance to vengeance he flittered, like some twisted gift giver.
They had used him. He hated being used. Why did no one ever take him for what he was? Why was he seen as only a tool, a means to an end. They had filled him with promises, strung him along, and never followed through. And what could he do?
That was their mistake. It is far, *far* better to be underestimated. Low expectations can always be caught by surprise. Peter doubted a single member of the Dark Lords forces saw him as a threat. They forgot he was a wizard, and a powerful one. Powerful enough, in his own mind. He had a wand, and a will. And a burning drive inside of him.
Even a dog that is beaten will eventually snap at it's master. Peter would be ignored no longer. They would see him for what he truly was, and they would learn their lesson the hard way. He was not to be taken lightly. To promise him power, glory, and give him nothing but obscurity.
He knew their secrets. He knew things he probably shouldn't know. Things they had thought hidden from the likes of him. And he would deliver that information right into the hands of those who desired it most...
Voldemort *would* pay.
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