TRYING TO PICK UP THE PIECES
Chapter five: Waiting in the dark.
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Dumbledore sighed, "Well, ladies and Gentlemen, we have a certain Peter Pettigrew to find".
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Peter Pettigrew lay in a cell in Azkaban, a tattered blanket wrapped around him as he tried to stay warm.
'Warmth?' he thought bitterly, as a Dementor glided past causing him to shiver, 'Warmth is a luxury these hooded bastards don't allow you to have'.
That was the way of Azkaban- no warmth, no comfort and no forgiveness for your sins.
Just – madness, grief and death, the stench of death hangs heavy in that place.
Peter slipped into a fitful sleep, because, in Azkaban only escape from your haunting demons is death. To become on of the masses that took their own lives, many a time Peter would see the Dementors burying the lifeless body of a former prisoner.
With sleep out of the question, Peter had no choice but to remember.
He gazed around his dark cell that he had Dumbledore to thank for; it had no windows and no doors just a hatch they threw food through that had about six padlocks on the other side.
"NO CRACKS FOR YOU TO CRAWL OUT THIS TIME, WORMTAIL!" the memory of Sirius' words echoed in his mind, they had been the last thing he had heard before they dragged him to this hell on earth.
Peter had noticed that Sirius had not had Harry with him at the trail 'Wouldn't want the little brat to be traumatized for life by the sight of me, would we?' he thought a smile playing on his lips.
Peter would have his vengeance.
Not for his master.
Screw his master.
For himself.
On the bastards that put him there.
Harry and Dumbledore.
He would wait for his chance.
Wait in the dark.