"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."
Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.
"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."
-- Hagrid, in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his sundry acquaintances belong to J. K. Rowlings, Warner Bros, and half-a-million other corporations. This is a work of fan-fiction; I am not making money off of it. That's actually kind of a shame when one considers how much time I'm spending writing this …
A/N: Thanks to PhoenixMage, tsuki tatsu, TheRedFeatheryPlug, vmr, spangle star, Phoenix, Stonehenge, Luna Rose, livic88, Taracollowen, Jeva, Kaydee, and Giesbrecht (and anyone who has reviewed since I last checked) for their comments on Chapter Three. I'm really thrilled that people are enjoying my writing. :-)
I've responded to a few questions by reviewers down at the end of this chapter.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
NO HIGHER PRAISE:
CHAPTER FOUR
" … Decent people are so easy to manipulate, Potter…."
~ Barty Crouch, Jr., in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
* * *
The Dark Lord was nearly snarling with anger. Peter huddled in one corner of the cold room, keeping as far away from his master as he could. He watched the tall, thin man pace restlessly before the cold hearth, cursing in hissed whispers – probably speaking Parseltongue – and almost wished himself back in the Shrieking Shack, being threatened by Remus and Sirius.
But only almost.
It had been eight days, and Lucius Malfoy's men were no closer to finding James than they had been before they even started. The Dark Lord was growing very angry. Malfoy had suggested that "Potter" might have fled to Hogwarts, but He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had shot that suggestion down immediately. For some reason, he seemed absolutely certain that James would not have gone to Hogwarts, or gone to Surrey after his son, or even gone to the Ministry. Instead of considering these perfectly logical possibilities, he continued to insist that James could be found in the vicinity of Godric's Hollow.
Peter couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that heads would begin rolling if Malfoy didn't get any results soon.
He pulled even further back into the corner, holding his silver hand protectively in front of his face, when the Dark Lord suddenly stopped pacing. Those frightful red eyes turned slowly toward him, and Peter looked quickly down at the ground, his flesh creeping in fear. "Wormtail, my little friend," He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named whispered, voice cold with menace, "something has just occurred to me." He reached Peter's side in three long strides, and Peter forced himself to look up, quivering nervously.
"My Lord? I – I hope I h-h-haven't offended you in any way –"
"As if anything a rat like you is capable of could actually *offend* me, Wormtail. Really, that is quite insulting." Peter's heart sank, and he gulped nervously. "But, come, I have a few questions for you, Peter. Have you, perhaps, neglected to mention a few things to me?"
Peter's mind raced wildly. Whatever could the Dark Lord be talking about? "I – I don't think so – c-certainly not intentionally, My Lord – I would never even think of –"
"Let me phrase this in a way even your feeble brain can understand, Wormtail. While you were telling me that entrancing story about yourself and that fool Sirius Black becoming Animagi, did you somehow forget to mention that James Potter had also become one?"
For a moment, Peter thought his heart would actually stop beating. It was true – he had left all mention of James out of his explanation as to why he had managed to survive in hiding for twelve years. It hadn't seemed important – he had thought James was dead. He had mentioned Sirius because Sirius was, without a doubt, very much alive, and the Dark Lord had needed to know. But there had been no point in dragging up old pain by having to talk about James. Frantically, he searched his mind for a feasible explanation.
The only solution he could come up with was to throw himself face-down on the cold floor and clutch at the Dark Lord's robes. "Forgive me, Master – I – I did not think to mention it – I swear, Master, that if it had once occurred to me that it might be important, I w-w-would have told you everything! I never meant –"
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was manifestly not pacified by Peter's frantic babble of explanation and apologies. He kicked Peter's hands away and angrily hissed, "You little fool. Eight days since you learned that my servants are searching for James Potter, searching tirelessly for our key to Harry Potter, and it never once occurred to you that he might be hiding in his Animagus form? Not even when you, yourself, spent twelve years doing just that? Either you are too great an idiot to even deserve being kept alive, or you have deliberately been concealing this matter from me."
That sounded like a death sentence if anything ever had.
And it wasn't even deserved! He had been too busy trying to wrap his mind around the idea that James was alive again – too busy feeling sick to his stomach, terrified, guilty, and, most frightening of all, pleased – to think about technicalities such as how James was avoiding the Death Eater hunters.
"What kind of animal is he?" the Dark Lord snarled. His eyes seemed almost to be glowing with rage.
Peter hesitated a fraction of a second before answering. He felt a curious reluctance to give up the information, and it troubled him. He had certainly felt nothing of the kind while informing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that Sirius Black could take on the form of a large black dog with pale eyes. But time was running out, and he had to answer.
"A – a stag, My Lord! J-J-James always turned into a stag."
"I'm glad you finally remembered, Wormtail," the cold, silky voice said. "Perhaps you'd care to describe the creature?"
"It – it was fairly dark-colored for a deer…" Peter stammered helplessly.
"Is that all you have to say?" the Dark Lord asked, a touch incredulously.
Peter racked his brains for a way to describe it. He remembered exactly what Prongs looked like – every hour the Marauders had spent together in animal form was engraved on his memory. But, not having seen many other deer, he really had no way to point out easily identifiable features of the stag in question.
"It had thin legs," he finally said, aware that none of this was very helpful, "and sharp antlers. Uh … g-grey eyes. It had grey eyes. With light patches around them."
Thankfully, the Dark Lord seemed satisfied. "Thank you, Wormtail," he said graciously. "That should be very helpful … though, of course, it would have been much more helpful if you had thought of this last week."
"I – I – I am happy to have b-b-been of s-service, My Lord," he stuttered desperately. He had a feeling that his master was not going to let him off that easily for the delay.
He was right.
"Crucio."
* * * * *
The aches and pains from the curse were still present at noon three days later when Lucius Malfoy apparated right into the middle of the room, radiating smug triumph.
"My Lord," he drawled, bowing smoothly. "I am delighted to report that our search has finally succeeded." He flicked a graceful hand back as three other Death Eaters tumbled out of thin air, obviously disoriented by their portkey journey. When they straightened, Peter could the still form of a stag sprawled on the ground between them.
"Well done, Lucius," the Dark Lord murmured, a current of excitement running through his voice. "Well done, indeed."
Malfoy bowed again in acknowledgement of the compliment, managing to look poised and in-control even with leaves stuck in his otherwise-immaculate hair and mud on his expensive boots. "You flatter me, My Lord."
Voldemort nodded at him with the courtesy that he reserved for Malfoy alone out of all of his Death Eaters. Peter frowned in his corner. If he, Wormtail, acted an eighth as arrogant as Malfoy, the Dark Lord would have skinned him alive years ago. Hell, the Dark Lord would have done that if he acted an eighth as arrogant as Severus Snape, even. His eyes flickered unwillingly to the muddy, matted fur of the stag that lay motionless on the flagged floor, barely breathing, and he caught his breath nervously.
"Wormtail," called He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, with the peculiar mixture of disgust and patronization that he commonly used on Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, and Wormtail himself. "Come here, rat."
Much as he hated that particular tone of his lord's voice, Peter found himself scrambling quickly to his feet and scuttling to Voldemort's side. "Y-y-yes, My Lord?"
Malfoy arched his eyebrows, looking at Peter as he might have looked at an insolent house elf. Peter braced himself for a cutting remark from the Death-Eater-of-the-Day, but, as always, Malfoy seemed to consider actually speaking to Wormtail beneath him.
"So, Wormtail," the Dark Lord murmured, laying a cold hand on Peter's shoulder with false friendliness, "is this who we think it is?"
It was. Of course it was. Even after fourteen years, he could still recognize Prongs in a flash. "I – I – I th-think so, M-My Lord."
"You think so? Tsk, tsk, Wormtail, what a vacillating manner you have." The long fingers on his shoulder tightened, bruising his skin. "I don't really approve of uncertainty, Wormtail."
"Y-y-yes, My Lord, it's – it's – it's him."
"James Potter."
"Yes."
"Good." The Dark Lord actually patted him on the head then, with the approval one might show a pet that had finally managed to fetch a stick. Peter shrunk away, then stood staring down at the stag. He could count its ribs easily – it was as thin as … well … it was thinner than he had ever seen it before. The long legs were scratched and covered in mud and burrs; one branch of the antlers had broken off. The eyes were closed, for which he was deeply, deeply thankful. He wasn't ready yet to look at the face of his oldest friend, the man he had betrayed to death … but, no, he had never really died, had he?
It was all too confusing.
He gradually became aware that Malfoy was talking, explaining, in that unhurried, cool voice, how they had systematically combed the forest, following cloven hoofprints, and, just an hour ago, found this stag grazing in a small clearing. Apparently Malfoy had sent his confederates away once they got close to a potential target … probably, Peter had to admit, a smart move. If they had tried to surround him, Prongs would certainly have noticed their scent on the wind. But thinking about Prongs was making him feel ill again, so he turned to slink back to his corner.
"I do not believe he noticed me as I approached him," Malfoy was saying. "I stunned him, then put him into a deep sleep – and he should be quite unaware of what occurred. Once my … companions … brought the portkey you had provided us with, I apparated here with the news. I trust we carried out our mission to your satisfaction, My Lord?"
"Oh, quite," Voldemort murmured. He was twirling his wand in his fingers, a sure sign that he was in a good mood. "Very good, Lucius, excellent work. Are you proficient with reverse transfiguration spells?"
"I am," Malfoy answered, somehow managing to convey in those two words his injured pride at even being asked such a question.
Before beginning the spell, Voldemort sent the other three Death Eaters away (with stern instructions not to mention this little matter to anyone else, on the pain of … well … pain). Peter looked away as he and Lucius did the spell; not only did it bring back rather unpleasant memories of a certain evening in the Shrieking Shack, but he just didn't want to see James. Not James, but just Potter, he reminded himself. I'm not his friend any more … I'm his enemy … and I'm powerful while he's a prisoner who could be killed at any moment. I needn't feel so frightened of what he'll think when he finds out what I did … what I'm doing now.
A snort from Malfoy broke the room's silence. "Doesn't look too healthy, does he?" the cultured voice queried scornfully. "I suppose those are the robes he was buried in, too … good heavens, they're not even worthy of being called rags."
"Thirteen-and-a-half years of being in a tomb will do unpleasant things to most garments," the Dark Lord agreed, sounding faintly amused. "No glasses, I see. Hmmm …"
"I can provide a pair," Malfoy suggested.
"Excellent. Wormtail can tell you what type he used to have – try to acquire something similar."
"Yes, My Lord."
"This clothing issue has suggested something to me. Rather than turning the man himself into a portkey, we should simply turn his robe into one. Much easier for us, much more difficult for the wards to identify and keep out, just as likely to work – as long as he doesn't decide to run around in Surrey naked."
Malfoy made a noise of agreement, then added, with just the right degree of hesitant deference, "Although … it has occurred to me, My Lord, that since the place is a Muggle neighborhood … we could, perhaps, provide him with Muggle garments. If he is wearing a robe, he might discard it in order not to surprise the Muggles, which would compromise the plan."
"A wise insight, Lucius," Voldemort murmured approvingly. Peter wondered, sulkily, what terrible curses the Dark Lord would have put on him if he had dared to criticize, however deferentially, The Plan. Now that he was no longer dependent on Peter for his continued existence, as he had been at the Riddle manor, Voldemort was unlikely to deal with any "insubordination" with a mere tongue-lashing.
"It will probably take the rest of the day to finish the necessary charms," the Dark Lord continued. "You can probably find a suitable 'Muggle' outfit in that extensive wardrobe of yours – fetch one here immediately, and then provide the glasses by … shall we say … ten o'clock this evening. Wormtail!" he added sharply, and Peter jerked his head up. "You may spend the intervening time going over your lines. If you bungle this job, Wormtail, you will wish I had turned you over to the Ministry to be given a Dementer's Kiss. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, My Lord," Peter whispered. "I s-s-swear I will be t-totally convincing – he w-w-won't suspect a thing, My Lord, I –"
"He had better not." Peter shut his mouth, gulping at the cold threat in his master's voice.
He really should not bungle the job.
* * * * *
James gradually became aware that he was warm, comfortable, and free from painful bruises – three very unusual conditions for him. His sleep-fuzzed mind went no further than this in its analysis of the situation, and he burrowed down into the satiny sheets, wondering sleepily where Lily was. There was something nagging at the back of his mind, but he pushed it away, determined to maintain this feeling of cozy euphoria. The bed was soft and warm, he felt fine, he could even hear a fire crackling somewhere in the room. Nothing to worry about, no need to face the day. He rolled over, curling up, and felt the frames of his glasses push painfully into the side of his face.
Wait.
His hand arrested itself in its journey up to twitch the offending lenses away from his face. He never wore his glasses in bed … and what's more, he was fairly sure he didn't even have glasses any more. There hadn't been any at the tomb … and with that thought, the past month-and-a-half came crashing back into his mind.
He pulled the glasses off anyway, in order to roll over and bury his face in the pillow. Burying one's face in the pillow was always a good idea if one felt distinctly un-manly tears coming on.
Once he had finished suppressing the wave of grief that always swept over him when he remembered that he was alone in the world, he took time to wonder why on earth he was human again. He had spent the past six or so weeks as a stag, wandering aimlessly in the forests by Godric's Hollow. The grass there wasn't the tastiest, but at least the forest had changed enough that every glade and every tree didn't bring back painful memories of nights spent "out with the boys," charging with reckless, joyful abandon through the woods with his three best friends at his side.
Further wracking of his mind left him with no clue as to why he'd woken up in a bed (with glasses!) as a man rather than in a thicket or hollow as a bedraggled stag.
"J-J-James?"
He had his glasses back on his face within half a second of hearing the familiar voice. One frantic glance around the room revealed a short, light-haired, slightly overweight man standing at the bedside, gazing at him through small, beady black eyes.
Peter.
James let out a strangled yelp of joy and leapt from the bed, dragging half of the covers with him, to fling his arms around the smaller man. "Peter!" he rasped, voice hoarse from disuse, "you're alive!"
Peter had stiffened and tried to back away, but at those words, he went suddenly limp. James transferred his grip to his friend's shoulders, pushing him away so that he could see his face. He was aware that he was grinning like an idiot, and that his eyes were filling up with tears behind his glasses. But he couldn't really bring himself to care. "You're alive," he repeated, unable to even believe it. "You're alive! I thought everyone was dead."
Peter smiled shakily. He was probably close to tears himself, poor chap – Peter generally had trouble keeping from sniffling when he was happy or sad. "I-I-I-it's g-good to see you t-t-too, James," he stammered, making a convulsive movement with one of his gloved hands.
James beamed – then abruptly stopped as he recollected why he had thought Peter was dead. "What happened, Wormtail?" he asked, his voice shaking. "What – what happened? Why did Voldemort – how could he get into our house?"
Peter had flinched at the name Voldemort, but now he took a deep breath and seemed to calm himself down. "Y-you'd better sit d-d-down for this, P-P-Prongs," he said gravely. James was happy enough to collapse back onto the bed – he really didn't feel well.
Peter joined him cautiously on the edge of the bed before speaking. "Y-y-you know how w-we thought Remus might be the s-s-spy?"
All of the happiness drained out of James as he remembered. "Wasn't he, then?" he asked miserably, already feeling intolerable guilt at the thought that he might have misjudged Remus. "Were we wrong?"
Peter nodded shakily, looking very upset about the whole thing. "It w-wasn't Remus, James. It was – it – it was S-S-Sirius."
James gaped at him blankly for at least twenty seconds before his mind snapped back into gear. "No!" he shouted, leaping to his feet and nearly falling. "Not Sirius – it couldn't have been, couldn't, couldn't! He would never follow Voldemort. Never! Not Sirius – not in a million centuries!"
"That's what you said when w-we told you it was R-Remus," Peter pointed out, looking even more upset. "H-He told Y-Y-You-Know-Who that I w-was the Secret Keeper, and … and …" Peter's beady eyes filled up with sudden tears, and James felt a horrible cold hand clutching at his heart.
Peter couldn't be right – he had to be mistaken.
Peter took a deep, quivering breath before finishing, "and told him where I was. They caught me and th-the Death Eaters – they g-g-gave me Veritaserum and t-tortured me – I'm not s-s-strong l-like you, James, I – I – oh, J-J-James, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry – it wasn't my fault, I never meant for it to happen, I'm sorry, sorry –"
He dissolved into hacking sobs, and James stood quite still on the rug before the bed, wishing he had stayed in that coffin and suffocated. Then he resisted the urge to grab Peter by the shoulders and shake him back and forth until his neck snapped. Instead, he forced himself to think about Peter – little Peter Pettigrew, the boy he'd met on the Hogwarts Express, the loyal, staunch friend who gamely struggled to overcome his stutter and get good marks even though he was an average wizard at best. Peter was right, after all – he really wasn't as strong as James and Remus and … Sirius. He wouldn't have been able to stand up to Voldemort and who-knows-how-many Death Eaters – it wasn't his fault. He'd probably been torturing himself with guilt for years.
"I forgive you, Peter," he heard himself say distantly. "It's – it's not your fault."
Peter kept sobbing for several minutes, and James tried to distract himself by looking around the room. "Is this your house, Peter?" he asked, not because he cared, but because he desperately wanted to stop thinking.
Peter looked up, tears running down his pale face, and nodded.
James rounded on him suddenly. "Wait – that can't be true. If Sirius was – was planning to turn us over to Voldemort, he would have been the Secret Keeper himself. You're wrong, Peter – it must not have been him. He –"
But Peter was shaking his head, looking sorrowful and grieved. "Y-y-you've forgotten how the Fidelius ch-charm worked, James," he said. "When it w-was performed, the Secret Keeper h-h-had to be l-l-loyal – if he was p-p-planning to b-betray the secret, it w-wouldn't have w-worked. S-so that's why Sirius suggested that you u-use me instead."
"I don't remember that," James protested feebly, fighting the horrid realization. His head was swimming, and he felt distinctly nauseous. "I don't remember ever being told that."
"Y-y-you've just f-forgotten," Peter said helpfully. He added, "You d-d-don't look so good, Prongs. You'd beter c-come sit down."
James dropped onto the edge of the bed and cradled his head in his hands. "Sirius would never do something like that," he repeated dully.
Peter bounced to his feet, fairly steaming with sudden anger. "You've got to look the facts in the face, James!" he shouted shrilly. "J-J-Just because you've always t-t-trusted Sirius m-more than the rest of us doesn't m-m-mean it automatically excludes him from all s-s-s-s-suspicion! It's his fault, all his fault! He should have let D-Dumbledore be the Secret-Keeper – then none of this would ever have happened!"
James brought up a hand and wiped helplessly at the tears in his eyes. "But – Sirius – he wouldn't, he just wouldn't," he croaked miserably. "It's got to be a mistake, Peter – I –"
"You'd rather keep believing it's Remus?" Peter demanded, his voice rising even higher. "You always just suspected Remus because he's a werewolf – you should have known that it could never be Remus! He didn't ever join You-Know-Who – he hated You-Know-Who – y-y-you only thought it was him b-because Sirius told you to! There was never a scrap of evidence showing R-Remus did anything – think, James, if Sirius was s-s-so blooming innocent, why was he so eager to make everybody think R-R-Remus was a t-t-traitor?"
James was shaking violently, still in denial, but he found himself grasping desperately at the one piece of good news in the whole cursed, hellish business. "Is Moony innocent, then?" he asked, his voice revealing more of his desperation and pain than he had intended it to.
"Yes, James," Peter said, his own voice shaking suddenly.
"Where is he?"
Peter stopped, looking away, and gulped. "I – well – I hate to tell you – he's … It's been fourteen years, James."
"Fourteen?" James repeated faintly.
An old fact from a textbook in his Hogwarts days floated across his memory.
Few werewolves live more than ten years after receiving the bite, though there have been instances of lycanthropes surviving as many as thirty years …
The textbook was notoriously faulty, but it still provided credence to the growing fear in his mind.
"He's d-d-dead, James," Peter finally whispered. "He died three years ago – the Ministry went out and … er … killed a whole lot of w-werewolves. I didn't find out till too late … I didn't get there in time…" His face screwed up and he bit back a sob.
Numb now, James stared down at his hands. "What happened to Sirius, then?"
"He – er – they put him into Azkaban. He tried to k-k-kill me and Moony, and … well … the Ministry caught him." Peter took a deep breath, then resolutely plowed on, "However, he b-broke out of Azkaban last year … they haven't caught him yet … he's trying to kill Harry …"
"Harry?" James demanded, stiffening and seizing Peter's shoulder. "What about Harry?"
"He's alive!" Peter squeaked, pulling away. The words tumbled out quickly. "He couldn't live with S-Sirius because – because Sirius was in Azkaban and I was really sick and they don't let werewolves take care of kids so they sent him to live with L-L-Lily's sister Petunia, the Dursleys, you know, and he lives at Number Four, Privet Drive, in Surrey, and he's fifteen years old now and he looks just like you, James, and he didn't die after all, and –"
"I need a wand," James said, distractedly. His head was spinning, his heart pounding as if he'd run a ten-mile race.
Harry is alive!
"J-Just wait a minute, James!" Peter cried, disentangling himself from James's grasp. "L-Look, wait a minute, and I'll – er – I'll get a portkey to take you down there. I d-d-don't have another wand. Just – wait a minute. H-h-have to g-go get it." He staggered quickly out of the room, and James stood up, quivering with excitement.
Peter was back in a flash, and grabbed James's arm. "Th-that outfit is f-f-fine for Muggle neighborhoods," he stammered, and James glanced down at himself in faint surprise. He was wearing a grey shirt made out of what was obviously very expensive fabric, and khaki pants that … well … were probably in the same category as the shirt. Peter must be doing well financially.
"Come on," he begged. "Hurry up."
Peter was fumbling with a box, unwrapping something with shaking hands. "R-r-remember, it's N-number Four, Privet Drive. Th-this portkey only works for one, and it doesn't take you r-right to the h-h-house, so you'll have to find it by y-y-yourself."
James nodded impatiently. "Hurry up. I've got to see him."
Harry's alive – I didn't kill him after all and he's alive and well and I can see him and everything will be all right after all – he's not dead! Hurry up, Wormtail, I need to see my son –
"Here." Peter shoved a marble toward James, who seized it instantly. He felt the familiar tug, and the room dissolved around him.
He wondered, one last time, why Peter had been wearing gloves.
END OF CHAPTER FOUR
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A/N: Don't worry – chapters 6 & 7 will consist almost *entirely* of explanations for all of the weird and implausible things mentioned thus far. :-)
Responses to reviewers:
PhoenixMage: Harry will be meeting James right away (although I guess you can probably tell from the chapter above.) It may take me a while to get the next installment done, though – it's going to be the most difficult chapter thus far.
spangle star: I don't remember much about what I've read on the rate at which clothing decomposes, but I would think that fourteen years wouldn't quite be enough to rot cloth totally away (I mean, hey, look at Egyptian mummies …)
Kaydee: Thanks for the compliment! As regards your question, I think Harry may be a trifle too busy in the coming year to spend much time noticing Ginny. As a matter of fact, they're both still pretty young to be getting seriously into romance … there may not be any real ships at all in this story, though I'm still working on the details for later chapters. (And I'm not necessarily an H/G fan myself … still trying to make up my mind.)
Blanket thanks: Wow – thank you all for reviewing. I'm *really* flattered by some of the comments that have been made – though, for the record, remarks that NHP is up to the same standard as Prongs Rides Again or Charmed Curses really are just flattery. :-) If anyone missed my suggestions to go and read those two peerless fanfics – well, go, now, and do so! They are wonderful!