Disclaimer: Everything mentioned here belongs to J.K. Rowling and her fantastic imagination, Supplier Extraordinaire of fodder for all my fanfic dabblings.
Author's Notes: This is a Peter-centric instalment, and he would continue to feature prominently in this story. He is also portrayed in a sympathetic light. So to all those who abhor the man and wishes to have nothing to do with him, you have been warned. Alternatively, if you are still interested, do read on and I hope that you may get converted yet.
Windmills of Time Chapter one - The Way We WereNovember 1979
It was well into the wee hours of the morning before Peter arrived at the front door to the block of grey London flats where he lived. Really, the wrong side of midnight to be getting home, he grumbled to himself.
But such was the way of life these days. There was so much paperwork to be processed each day at the Ministry, especially in his department – the Department of Magical Deaths and their Causes. Peter found it rather morbid to say the least to be working in such an office during the height of a war. It had been rather disconcerting at first to have seen numerous names, names belonging to people whom he had known, end up filling his in-tray on his desk. There had been the Prewetts, Meadowes, the Robertsons, the Bones…
Over the past few months, Peter had learnt to shut down his emotions as he dealt with his daily work. He had to, or he would have cracked under the emotional strain of it all. The subject matter was draining enough as it was.
His thoughts drifted to Derek Perry. His name had found its way to Wormtail's desk that particular day. Perry had been the Gryffindor Quidditch captain for four of the seven years Peter had been at Hogwarts. James especially, had revered him, claiming him to have been the best coach one could have gotten. The report had stated that Perry had been killed while being caught in crossfire between a group of Aurors and Death Eaters in a pub up in York.
Peter wondered if James had heard the news yet.
Heaving a leaden sigh, Peter chased the thought out of his mind as he focused on disabling the wards protecting the flats. Taking care to re-set them upon entry into the building, he slowly dragged himself up two flights of stairs to his flat on the second floor, turned the key in the lock and stepped into the darkened room.
"Lumos," he muttered. The tip of his wand ignited and he went about lighting some of the lamps that lay about the flat.
As he prepared for his shower, he heard ole Stormy (no one knew his real name), who lived on the ground floor come home, belting out a song at the top of his lungs. The singing was so off-kilter Peter couldn't decipher the melody or the words. His neighbour was permanently inebriated. Wormtail was used to seeing the tippler swaggering home on a nightly basis, bellowing raucously. He was harmless really, though Peter admitted the nocturnal attempts at opera were at times irritating if he was trying to sleep.
Peter cast his eyes over to the clock on the mantelpiece as he wrapped a dressing gown round himself following a quick nip in the shower.
It was two-forty two in the morning.
Another five hours, and he would have to be back in his office.
Downstairs, Stormy was still singing. Loudly. Very loudly.
Peter was about to shout down to him out the window to shut it when his heart skipped several beats and he froze in his tracks.
There, standing in the centre of his living room, tall, dark and silent, were three Death Eaters.
Peter opened his mouth, but no sound came out. A gasp was stuck in his throat.
"Greetings, Mr Pettigrew," said the Death Eater in the middle. His tone was calm, soft. Polite even.
Despite the door and windows being shut, Peter felt the temperature in the room plummet several degrees.
"I suppose you must be wondering the circumstances regarding this house call?" asked the same Death Eater, filling the silence.
Still Peter neither spoke nor moved. Not only could he not physically speak or move, he found he had no intention to negotiate with Voldemort's brethren. He remained tenaciously mute.
The Death Eater (Peter assumed he was the leader out of the three) was not deterred.
"We wish for you to join us, Mr Pettigrew."
The words filtered through Peter's ears but they made no sense. Instead, when he found his voice a fraction later, he demanded (rather rudely in his mind),
"H-how did you get in h-here?"
"Apparated, my friend."
Peter flinched at being referred to as a 'friend' by the Dark wizard.
"There are wards around this b-building!" he countered, surprising himself with his boldness.
He could see the two Death Eaters flanking their leader shift impatiently and could almost picture them rolling their eyes underneath their hoods.
"There were none," their leader told Peter coolly.
Damn ole Stormy! Peter thought furiously. He must have left the wards down after coming in. Drat that drunken bastard!
As there was nothing to say in reply to the lack of security, Peter held his tongue.
"Would you care to come away with us, Mr Pettigrew? The Dark Lord awaits."
Peter's head snapped up and he forced himself to face the cloaked figure towering before his own short stature. He bit his tongue in an effort to steady himself before replying.
"No," he said. "Sorry," he added as an afterthought in an attempt to break the tensioned silence that had descended upon the living room. And to maintain the current civility the Death Eaters had been displaying towards him so far, though why they were extending him courtesy above and beyond the norm baffled him.
The Death Eater to the left clicked his tongue impatiently. He and the other on the right retreated into the shadows of the room where the flickering lamp light could not reach them. The negotiator remained in his spot.
"You choose to decline this offer, my friend?" he questioned calmly, his tone betraying none of his emotions.
"Y-y-yes," stammered Peter. Just go away, he thought desperately to himself. Leave me alone!
"I do not deny that you have valour," remarked his tempter, a filigree of subtle approval delicately lacing through his voice. "It comes as no surprise you were placed in Gryffindor."
What?
"How did you— " began Peter when the Death Eater cut him off.
"We know things, dear friend. The Dark Lord knows all."
His words, chilling and haunting, hung invisible in the air.
Peter felt an ice-cold shiver dribble down his spine. He wished for Sirius' bravery at that moment. Sirius, who never lacked in courage and who would be able to defend himself much more competently than Wormtail was doing now.
The thought of Sirius made Peter think of what his friends would do if they were in his situation right now.
"No," Peter said, more firmly this time. "P-p-please leave," he continued as brusquely as he could, emphasised with what he hoped was not a feeble gesture towards the door.
Wormtail sensed what must have been intense scorn directed at him through three pairs of masked stony eyes. He fought hard against his ardent urge to bolt.
"Our Master does not look kindly on noncompliance, little man." One of the back-up Death Eaters finally spoke up, vitriol saturating in his voice. He and the third of the Death Eaters slunk back into the light. "He values deference."
"He is not my Master!" cried Peter recklessly. He knew if he paused to analyse the situation, he would be far too unnerved to stand his ground.
"Pity," murmured the leader in a low, mysterious tone, with the slightest tinge of underlying sneer. "The Dark Lord treats his faithful well. He would have been so pleased with you."
The last comment completely threw Peter for a loop. He felt flustered, but hurriedly banished the comment from his mind.
"G-go to h-hell," he retorted, the words shooting forth from his mouth before he could engage his brain. Years of being in close proximity to Sirius had engrained certain colourful phrases into his subconscious.
The two lackeys made to tackle Peter, but their leader held up his hand and aborted any action instantly. He surveyed the paunchy wizard before him, and Peter could feel an invisible pair of eyes boring into him like laser beams.
"Very well, suit yourself," the Death Eater said mildly, still preserving utmost civility in his manner of voice. "But should you ever change your mind, Mr. Pettigrew, do not hesitate to inform us."
Peter thought he heard a snicker come from the direction of one of the back-up Death Eaters. It's just your imagination, he told himself sternly. It looked as if the Death Eaters would be leaving him unscathed. He was thankful. He wanted them gone now.
The three Death Eaters gathered round the centre of the living room where Peter had initially spotted them.
"Thank you for your time," acknowledged the leader.
Peter thought it a rather twisted show of gratitude.
The Death Eater flicked his wand.
A thick heavy cloud of black smoke snaked out from the tip and encircled Peter. Peter tried desperately to escape from its suffocating grasp and the pungent smell, but he remained rooted to the ground. The ominous haze looped forebodingly round his head, and he could feel it infiltrating him through his eyes, his nostrils, his ears and his mouth. It arrested his breath, causing him to splutter, and for a brief moment, Peter thought he would choke to death.
Upon recovering, he drew himself to his full height in readiness to shoot an accusatory look at the Death Eaters, but found he was glaring into empty space. The three figures had Disapparated as clandestinely as they had come.
Wormtail shivered. He was cold, but not from the wintry November weather. He screwed up his courage (Gryffindor courage indeed!) and went about his flat, lighting every lamp and fearfully searching for the presence of any more Death Eaters lurking amid the shadows.
There were none.
Peter set up triple the wards around his flat that night, though he dared not step out of the confines of his flat to enable those wards which surrounded the building itself. He tumbled into his bed, but despite his bone exhaustion, he could not drift off to sleep until ages later. And even then, the slumber had been fitful, with shadows flitting in and out of his dreams.
Wormtail was extremely relieved when his alarm rang at seven o' clock. It was the first time in his life that Peter Pettigrew was thankful he had only been given three hours' worth of sleep.
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