-1Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, so please simply enjoy this story as the ravings of a n educated fan.
Vinegar Veins
He was a cowardly, groveling thing.
A rat who bit at the chains and bones of prisoners, hidden away in buried dungeons, where not even murder rises to the ground. A rat who gnawed at the flesh of his own friends when he became too hungry, a rat who far too easily succumbed to power in his own smothering weakness.
A man, who was always chasing after things bigger and better than him, always a few steps behind, just enough in the shadow to catch a few leftover crumbs.
A rat who was always hungry, always looking for food, always smelling, sniffing, scrounging, with that twisting, coiling, writhing feeling in his stomach.
A man who had no pride, a man who hoped for pity, for some sort of dark comfort and closure.
A rat who had so far avoided the poison, tasting and testing each morsel that came his way. A rat who had only lost a finger so far, not his life. A rat, when it was getting harder and harder to avoid the snap of the trap.
A man who hoped for sympathy, for love, and most of all, for forgiveness. A man who tells himself that yes, that is indeed what he wants, forgiveness. Forgiveness. When in fact, he has given up so long ago.
A rat, who grew so hungry it turned on its companions, its friends. A rat who ignored their dying screams, who grew deadened and immune to the hate, to the hurt in their eyes.
A man who's only hope for glory, for immortality, is another man's legacy.
A rat who finally bit its own tail, and was so consumed by hunger it began eating anyway. Bones, blood, and all.
A man.
A rat.
A traitor.
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Peter shuffles through the darkening graveyard, sparing no space of mind to the care of the bodies he casually treads on. No thought but the fact, that, in time, one of those bodies might be his.
How many have you killed?
He clutches his left arm, still searing with pain from where the mark burned dark like the twilight sky.
Dark as you are now.
He flexes his silver hand, strong enough to crush bones, cause pain, and vaguely he wonders what he could do with it if he comes across a certain werewolf on a forsaken night.
A werewolf who knew a dog.
He can feel the air zinging with tension as new arrivals, old comrades snap out of the air.
A dog who befriended a stag.
There they are. Lucious, proud and cold, a faint glint the color of moonlight, glinting from behind a pure white mask.
A stag who loved a flower.
Macnair, so cold, perhaps not as cunning as some, but swifter to the axe and the wand than the average comes to hope.
A man who knew a rat.
There are the Lestranges, Bellatrix still unforgiven still wincing from past punishments, her husband dark and unmoving.
A rat who would betray them all.
They are all behind masks, to conceal their identities.
To hid their shame, their fear.
Peter recognizes, now, that these are his real friends. Not some far distant memories. Pointless remembering anyway.
So darkly corrupts the mind, so swiftly.
The voices are back. Or perhaps that is his conscience muttering warnings to him, but he brushes it away. It is as weak as he once was.
As weak as you are.
A dark figure sweeps into the midst of the group, its head turning to point scarlet, accusing eyes at each of its trembling followers.
Trembling fools.
The Dark Lord begins whispering commands, his voice rising with intensity to a hysterical, insane note.
Insanity can be forgiven. Conscious murder cannot.
For once, Peter is glad that the Mauraders failed something. They had tried for years to build a blood oath between them. But success could have only brought downfall to him and his master.
Slave.
And besides, when all's said and done vinegar's thicker than blood, and he always knew he had something sour in his veins.
A rat...