Disclaimer
All names, places and concepts related to
Buffy the Vampire Slayer are the property of Joss
Whedon.
All names, places and concepts related to
Harry Potter are the property of JK Rowling.
This applies to the entire work.
I have given a rating of MA due to
adult themes and strong level violence.
This rating may be increased for later chapters.
AN: Apologies again for the length between posts for fans of this fic… you know who you are. My exams were actually what gave me the incentive to get another chapter done. Won't say much about the post but keep reading: It will be worth it if I don't say so myself. I appologise again for not doing personal replies to my wonderful reviews but there has been a few and I can't remember where I left off last. Next time they will be there. Thanks again.
§ - sonofgloin
The full moon had risen over Hogwarts.
"Run! Now!" yelled a voice "Leave it to me – RUN!"
The Professor's wand lay on the ground and he saw his chance.
"Expelliarmus!" screamed the boy "Stay where you are!"
It was too late. Pater Pettigrew had transformed into his Animagus shape and was scurrying as fast as his four legs would take him in to the Forbidden Forest. He only saw grass and trees before him and nothing behind. Hopefully the bear and wolf were not after him; he knew from his marauder days that he couldn't outrun or even hide from them. As Wormtail entered the forest of trees all sound went out. He used his eyes and nose as he ran, searching for a safe place to rest and think. Small pockets of silver light caressed the bracken and dead leaves at spots in the undergrowth giving the dead figure some ill-defined guidance. He wasn't worried where he was going now though; all he knew was that he had to run.
The rat was streaking deeper into the forest. He hadn't been here for over twenty years but still knew every path and turn. He had to know them. If they ever lost control of the werewolf he couldn't be eaten, he had to escape. The most courage he ever had was when he came to the forest by himself just to make sure he knew how to get out, how to survive. Now was like those times, he couldn't let the monsters get him, find him and kill him. Not James, not Sirius or Remus, not Dumbledore. The thought of this last name made him squeak and run even faster and further into the woods.
He came to a small river no further across then an easy jump for a short, stocky man but couldn't risk it. The forest wasn't safe for humans, if that was what he was. Clinging to a decayed log he gripped his way across falling hard and awkwardly on the other side. He could hear bowtruckles in the trees and knew he was getting close. He had been to this place many times before. It was a small clearing of circled trees, elms and oaks, where the boys used to come on the full moon. Surrounding it were wand trees and that's how he knew he was near. As though he willed it the clearing opened before him. Wormtail sniffed the air and breathed heavily; he listened and felt for vibrations in the earth. When nothing moved he changed. His claws became hands, his fur to clothes and skin, his face to a man's but still having the pointed nose and watery eyes. He was sobbing, sobbing into the night.
"No, no, no," he said to himself "What have I done? Not good, not good."
He heard a twig snap and instinctively crouched down in silence. There were centaurs near here that liked this clearing for their divination; he knew he could not stay long.
"What do I do?" Peter whispered "Where do I go? Can't go back, can't go forward."
He rubbed at his face with his crusted hands.
"What to do, what to do, what to do?"
He sat and breathed.
"They'll kill me if they catch me or send me to Azkaban, give me the kiss," he choked.
Again he heard another twig snap and rushes like voices in the grass.
"Decide, decide, must decide what to do."
Thirteen years as a rat had not served him well.
He scratched at his arm and it hurt. Pulling back the sleeve of his tattered and filthy jacket Peter saw his burn. Just looking at it terrified him, skull and the snake. He had cried when he got it and he cried again as he looked at it.
"It's your only choice Peter," he said vocalising his thoughts "The lesser of two evils, Dumbledore or the Dark Lord."
THUD
Peter drew breath sharply. There were hoof falls and voices coming. The centaurs would find him and kill him.
Run you fool he thought Run!
The centaurs found no trace of Peter Pettigrew, not even the strong smell of dirty rat. He was gone from there; he was an expert at hiding and running. He was gone. He had to get to Hogsmead.
Peter had no gold or wand – Sirius and Remus had seen to that – so as the rain pelted down at Hogsmead station at midnight he was the proverbial drowned rat. His dirty-brown hair clung to him in clumps where filth and refuse glued the fibres together. Wormtail had spent the day eating fallen scraps in the Hogs Head being kicked and trodden on more then once as he scrambled around for some kind of sustenance. Even in the dark pub where people who were not the most law abiding went, he couldn't risk being in his true form. He was still too close to Hogwarts and even after thirteen years of being dead he may still be recognised by some lonely, lost soul.
"You've just made it madam," called the conductor over the torrent of water and driving wind as the witch placed her bags down "The train leaves in a few minutes."
Peter knew he had to get to London. He had no wand and even as a man it would take him a week to get there even if he could walk in the open. He knew his only option was the Hogwarts Express. The red engine billowed grey smoke in front of him as he hid under a nearby bench in the shadowed light of a station lamp. The Hogwarts Express was a normal train that went between wizarding towns like the English underground. It was hired by Hogwarts on the first day of September but on other days it made regular runs. Peter knew this would be the last train to London before the weekend. He couldn't wait that long. He saw his chance and took it.
The witch had placed down many bags. All of them were shut tight, all that was except her handbag. Keeping to the blackness the rat scuttled towards the carry-on. Climbing the leather strap he jumped into the contents and buried himself under her handkerchief and… her wand.
The conductor blew his whistle, white fog coming from the cold metal.
"All aboard!"
The witch lifted her handbag and stepped onto the warmth of the train. She walked through the last carriage to an empty compartment and slid the door closed. Peter knew what he had to do. He had to be fast though.
"AAAHHH!"
The witch screamed as a fat, wet rat jumped out of her bag with her wand in its mouth. The scream didn't last though and was indeed caught in her choked breath as an aged and scrubby looking man appeared before her.
"Who are you?" she gasped.
"You'll never know, Obliviate!"
A jet of green light hit the woman in the chest.
"Madam, are you alright?"
"Sorry dear?"
The old witch who pushed the lunch cart had bustled into the room looking terrified.
"I heard a scream."
The sitting witch looked at her as though the cart lady had lost her mind.
"I didn't scream, I didn't in fact hear anything."
The grey-haired Express employee looked at her strangely.
"It-it is quite late. Perhaps I nodded off for a moment."
The passenger looked at herself and smiled.
"That must be it; I'm quite fine, although I could use a cup of tea. It was rather chilly out there."
"Certainly," replied the other woman and closed the compartment door quietly, heading off to the front of the train.
Peter slid down the wall, his knees coming up to his chest. He was breathing extremely fast but held it as the lunch witch's footfalls and shadows had left his hiding place behind. To his right was the cold, wet door of his enclosure, to the left the sterile porcelain toilet and basin of the train's amenities. He had been so close to being caught, so close to being hauled away to a cell in Azkaban. All he could do was sit and wait.
As the train sped back towards London Peter crouched in the dark, stinking and feral, holding the stolen wand so tight and ready to strike it may have snapped at any moment. All he hoped was that he could stay awake until they got to platform nine and three-quarters.
If it were possible London was even colder and wetter then Hogsmead had been. From where he hid Peter could hear the rain and wind and even distant thunder rolling away into the east. Several shadows and bangs issued past the chink of puce light that lit his feet; the man still crouching in the black willing everyone to leave so he could make his escape.
"I just have to use the loo Deirdre."
There was no chance of Peter falling asleep like before. At the sound of the man's voice his eyes flew open and he hit the back of the receptacle choking on his shock.
"Can't it wait till we're on the station Henry?"
Peter hoped it could.
"No dear, it's rather an emergency; all that mead of Rosemerta's."
Peter raised the wand. He could see the man's feet. His hand shook. The handle was turning.
Hex the door, hex the man, kill the man, run… Run… RUN!
"AAAHHH!"
As the wizard had opened the door to Peter Pettigrew's hiding place a fat and tattered rat had run out between his feet to a tremendous shriek from his wife Deirdre. Wormtail streaked for the carriage exit dodging shoes and heels and more then one poorly aimed jinx.
"You filthy, stinking creature," screamed Deirdre trying to curse the rat while trying to run from it "Get out of it, get out of it!"
In her tether and rather poor attempt to shoo the rat, one of the witch's blows actually connected with the rat sending it careering into the wet blackness. Peter skidded over the slimy pavement landing near an empty waste basket. For a good while he didn't move, or couldn't move as he strained under the impedimenta jinx. Dirt and grit washed into his red eyes and yellow-toothed mouth as he lay under a storm pipe trying to regain the use of his limbs. The sound of more then one tabby roused him though and slowly but surely Peter made his way gingerly toward the secret barrier between platforms nine and ten.
As he reached the end of the platform he stopped in horror, so deep and piercing he thought he would die. Only once before had he seen this site and hoped never to again. Gliding inches from the ground, black ethereal robes billowing in the silent wind, either side of the barrier were Dementors, three of them. Peter had heard voices on the train say the beasts were ordered back to Azkaban. Why were they still here? Had Padfoot not been caught?
"Just look away Margaret."
Peter hesitantly looked up into the spattering torrent to see a wizard and his daughter heading for the barrier.
"It hurts daddy, I'm scared," said the girl.
"Shh," the father soothed "Just shut your eyes and walk through, I'm here with you."
The father and daughter approached the wet bricks. Each Dementor turned its head and drew a long, stuttering breath. All of Wormtail's body constricted as the feeling of ice cut through him. The father doubled over too but rushed through the barrier, disappearing onto King's Cross station. There was nothing for it, no visions or feeling or lack of them could stop Peter from what he had to do. His whiskers twitched as he shook and he closed his eyes running for his life.
BANG
Peter bounced three feet back off the marble pillar he had run into. Luckily though the Dementors spared him less them a look, and reserved it was better to keep his eyes open he rushed through the barrier to the Muggle world beside.
King's Cross station was deserted. Those that had been with him on the Express were nowhere to be seen and had probably used Side-Along-Apparition. The clock on the tower of the ascending stairs was slowly ticking past two o'clock with a few crows cawing at its arrival. Shafts of misty light dotted the Muggle station as rain and fog draped itself lazily over the pavement. Wormtail couldn't risk changing yet though, he was still too close to the wizarding world. Sewer pipes lay everywhere and Pettigrew was acquainted with these. He could even now hear the squeaks of his brothers searching for scraps of their next meal. He would use the drains; it was the only way to get to where he was going.
"Watch it! Watch where you're going."
Peter Pettigrew, broken and retched, had stepped out of the deep shadows of a London alleyway straight into a group of young men walking in the other direction.
"Sorry," he mumbled releasing the grip on the wand as the boys continued on their way.
Peter had been in Muggle London before but there was something rather ominous about it in the embryonic hours of the morning that he didn't remember. Buildings were lost in darkness, as were streets and signs. He couldn't remember how far he had to go; all he knew was that he had to go East. He was tempted to see if the Knight Bus was still in service but he had no wish to be caught and had no silver anyway. He would have to walk. Apparating was out of the question, he shouldn't have used magic on the train. He would have to get out of England before it would be safer again.
The streets were as bare as the station, devoid of life only for silent shadows passing home or into some building they weren't supposed to.
"How about it honey?"
Peter stopped as a woman stepped in front of him. His face was hidden as he cowered away from her.
"Well old man?" she asked again.
"I-I don't have any money," he spluttered into his chest.
"Figures," spat the woman walking off "No one rides for free grandpa."
At her words Peter looked down at himself, his yellowing, crusted hands, and felt his bitter, stubbled face. She had called him an old man. Indeed he resembled one but was far from it. He knew in his heart of hearts he was to blame for that, but it was so much simpler to persecute someone else. Making a sound somewhere between a sob and a squeak he started off again even more determined then before.
It was now nearing sunrise. Peter's stomach was howling and every joint in his body was burning from fatigue. He stood in the darkness across the street from a music shop and a book store. There was however another business in-between that of all on the street Pettigrew alone could see. Small candles lit the windows of the Leaky Cauldron but Peter didn't notice it. All he knew now was the fear of what was to come. He was a fool, and worse he knew it. He wasn't meant to be like this. He wasn't brave, or smart, or handsome. He was the one that followed orders, not the one to make decisions on his own.
The door to the Leaky Cauldron opened as the bar keeper Tom swept out the dust with his self-start broom. He yawned widely in the still navy morning and squinted out into the street. For a moment he fancied he saw something, short and solid, looking at him from across the pavement; but as a paper truck passed shining its lights over the cobble-stone walkway there was nothing but a few stray pages of yesterday's 'The Times' floating on the tailwinds. Seconds before he may have seen a large rat running into a nearby drain but now it was gone. There was more then one way for an Animagus rat to get into Diagon Alley.
Diagon Alley was not however where Wormtail was heading. The desperate shape was nearing its less friendly counterpart Knockturn Alley before the first apothecary or Gringotts had even opened. A small pop issued down a lane as Peter transformed and took a few steps to be outside Bourgin and Burkes, a shop that was synonymous with rare and dark artefacts, or a place you went if you needed something special. Peter was desperate so had to risk entering the store; he would have to be careful though.
The bell tinkled three times and Peter Pettigrew was sure to keep his head down. The store seemed empty until a middle-aged warlock stepped out of a back room.
"It's early," said the shopkeeper drawing deeply on his lit pipe "You must be in great need of something."
"Y-yes," said Peter taking a few steps nearer the counter, making sure not to look at the wizard of the shrunken heads in a nearby cabinet.
"Well?" asked the man "Best I know what you need. We stock many things but you must be specific."
He drew again on his pipe and Peter chanced a look at him. The shopkeeper didn't look suspicious but rather amused at his customer's hesitant manner, like he was a naughty child that was somewhere he shouldn't be.
"Speak up!" roared the wizard suddenly making Peter jump with fright.
"Y-yes," mumbled Peter again nearly at the register.
"Best go to Heslop's Healing Hut if you want a cure for those stutters boy," jeered the man with a cruel smile "Mr Bourgin and myself don't take with the healing, more the hurt."
"You're the owner?" asked Peter resting his hands on the counter.
"Joint owner and proprietor Artemis Bourke at your service Mr…"
"Black," said Peter "Mr Black."
"I see," said Bourke "And what may I do for you Mr Black?"
Peter looked at him and the owner glared back. Wormtail knew Artemis saw right through him.
"I need a Portkey."
"A portkey you say?" asked Bourke "An illegal Portkey I take you to mean?"
Peter nodded.
"Well," sighed Bourke "Such a thing is difficult, and not cheap."
Pressing these last words Peter looked down reaching slowly into his pocket.
"But you can do it?" questioned Pettigrew "You can provide me with a Portkey undetectable by the Ministry."
This comment only deepened the owner's grin.
"Who can say?" answered Bourke "But you can try nonetheless, to hide I mean, if that is what you intend to do."
Peter looked up and scowled.
"I came here under the impression gold was exchanged not words."
This was taking too long.
The look he received back however was very different. Bourke was looking at him as though trying to figure something out.
"Do I know you?"
Peter's hand tightened on the stolen wand.
"No," said Peter simply.
"Yes," said Bourke "Yes I do, years ago you were in here asking after a certain trinket for your mother."
Peter stared at him.
"You're Hetta McNally's son."
Peter relaxed a little.
"Sorry no, my parents are both dead and never went by that name."
Bourke eyed him for a while longer.
"The Portkey," prompted Peter.
"Oh yes," jumped Bourke as though being shocked out of some memory.
He reached under the desk and lifted up an old cardboard container. Inside were many things including broken jars, old papers and a Muggle tyre pump that looked as though it was stained with blood. Bourke however took from it a single raven feather and placed it on the bench top.
"Where to?"
Peter thought for a moment.
"Albania," he said definitely "The town of Gilnorost."
Again Bourke eyed him for a moment but took out his wand, placed it to the lost plumage and muttered a few words. The feather glowed blue for a moment then turned back to normal.
"That will be fifty galleons."
Peter gaped at him.
"F-fif-,"
"Fifty, yes," affirmed the shopkeeper.
Peter reached into his pocket again taking hold of what was there.
"Wait," gasped Bourke with sudden realisation "I know where I know you from now… I know who you are… But…"
His mouth had fallen open.
"You're dead, you're Peter Pettigrew, you're dead," he muttered.
Before he could talk again however Peter had taken out what he had a hold of.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A powerful jet of emerald light left the wand hitting Bourke square in the chest. Without another breath he lay dead on the floor with his pipe still burning in his left hand. With another flick of the wand the body of Artemis Bourke vanished in a light if flame and ash. Peter looked around and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Reaching down he lifted the feather from the cabinet and watched as the room around him melted in a wind of sound and colour.
Peter considered his fortunes very bad as he landed on the outskirts of a dark and characteristically deserted looking town. Where before he had huddled in the darkness from the rain, he now pulled his rags close around himself to stop the pounding sleet from jarring down his back. He had no real idea where he was going, only following the track of a few hurried words he had picked up in some way or another over the past thirteen years. No one talked of the Dark Lord anywhere and all the Death Eaters were either dead or in gaol or hiding, so finding his master had a lot to do with luck and chance. Considering his history Peter didn't like the probable outcome. Nonetheless he knew that if he were to find He Who Must Not Be Named, here would be the best spot.
The town was small and secluded with no more then twenty buildings, each with thatched roofs and billowing chimneystacks. No one magical or otherwise was to be seen so Peter decided it best to look around. Most of the structures were houses although there was also a general store and what would pass for here as a pub. It looked more like a stable that had been converted into a watering hole.
The smells of bread and mead came to Peter as he walked past the establishment but what he was looking for was on the other side of the town. Reaching up into the cerulean sky was a forest of fir trees with ash and witch-hazel dotting the perimeter. He squinted between the boughs from behind a building but saw nothing. There was only blackness. It was so deep and everlasting that Peter thought it was even a presence within the trees, moving and shaping all things around it and taking all those that entered its outstretched arms. A horse whinnied somewhere behind him to a few harsh shouts and a dog barking. He had to move on. He had come this far and had neither gold nor means of travel to take him anywhere else. His only rest lay with his broken master that may or may not lie dead amongst the trees.
Peter took a deep breath. If he had feared the Forbidden Forest of Hogwarts it was nothing to what he felt now. He barley breathed he was so afraid and cold and lost to himself as well as the world. He considered though that a rat may be braver and safer then a man in the wood and so he melted and formed once again into Wormtail. Watching for snakes and owls he crept into the open, scurrying through slush and debris from weather and decay.
As he came into the night of the forest he was relived a little. The floor was dry and soft; if no light could get through then no water or ice could either. The most foreboding part though was that there also seemed to be no sound. The air was so thick and heavy that nothing creaked or crunched. All there was was stifling stillness and the incandescent glow of many watching eyes.
Wormtail didn't know where to go in here. It was hot and grey and no sense he had could help him along the way. He reserved then only to go deeper, as deep as he could go and maybe hope to find his way out again.
For over three hours he trekked through the gloom finding no respite or clue of anything, until in places the texture of the ground changed. In places it was harder, in places softer then the constant litter of leaves and needles that had been. He knew he shouldn't look but he did. His foot was resting in something wet. Looking down Wormtail saw it was the viscera of some recently dead creature. He could only tell it was small and furry for its head and appendages had either rotted or been eaten away. Nearby he saw bones and skin with glazed eyes looking into his. It was as though every thing near him had suddenly decided to die and be eaten from the inside. Organs had liquefied and become like thick charcoal. Blood caked the remnant hair matting it to the vacant frames. Legs and arms and bodies were contorted and deformed and even in death the faces of the beasts still showed unbelievable pain.
'Another treat for the mist.'
Wormtail froze and turned his fat body to look behind it. Four black rats gnawed at the ground rummaging for roots and old berries and even the fresher meat of the dead fauna.
'The mist?'
'Away past the bending trees.'
'What way?'
'Follow the music and you will see the shining dirt.'
'What is it?'
'Dark, evil, eater, hungry.'
'How do you know?'
The rat moved closed and Wormtail backed away in disgust and terror. The side of the other animal had been eaten away to leave a pustulated and gaping raw wound. Yellow pus and congealed blood still flowed from the cavity that was black and evil.
'It is here we die after we are taken."
Wormtail couldn't watch or take any more. The other rats had revealed burnt flesh, missing paws and blind and gutted faces. He knew if he found the mist he would find something, he only hoped it was his master.
Two hours later the only thing that had changed was the number of carcases on the forest floor. In the gloom he tried to count but they were too many and too many rats for his liking. He couldn't change though, not yet. As he entered a grove of black and bare trees choked with vines and brambles he heard water. It was slow, almost stagnant, but loud enough for him to hear. Could this be the music? He had considered birds or some other creature in the riddle but there was nothing different accept for this sound and the only birds he saw lay dead like the seasonal waste of the trees. Not much further along he found a course of grey-green water flowing steadily on into the barrenness. Before long though it stopped and opened into a swamp of mangroves; the bending trees. All around here was an eerie fog. There was no breeze but it swept and moved as though it had life. There was nothing here but that ghostly vapour and as Wormtail hesitantly went forward it seemed to envelop him.
"M-master?"
Now he knew it safer to walk as a man. Something had taken those animals and he would have more chance of defending himself with a wand then a set of broken and yellowing teeth.
"Master?" he called again.
The fog seemed to draw back at his voice, more curious like a shy child then something that wanted to hide. Then he heard it.
"Wormtail."
The call was deadly; hollow and gutted like filth and vomit given life. The air stilled and became horribly cold.
"Wormtail," it came again like a great intake of stifled breath.
He however was on the ground, too terrified to move; he hardly breathed was his fear. The mark warmed upon his arm, he could taste him on the air. He was so close to finding his master, finding Voldemort.
Crawling in the grime Wormtail stuttered forward, slipping in the bile, the very essence of death bleeding between his fingers. He could see nothing but grey mist and felt nothing but absolute, penetrating fear. The world was void, so desolate and broken that only he existed, and he knew he too would soon slip away.
"Wormtail."
Out of nothing grew a tree, so dead and black that it looked to be made of the very ash of the earth. On one of its crusted and gnawed braches clung a black crow with dark feathers and evil red eyes. Wormtail looked up at the animal and it stared back, looming over the man like a king over his hovel. It didn't move or caw but simply gazed with its ruby eyes. Peter wanted to speak but under the shadow of the tree and its occupant he couldn't work his voice. Without warning the bird's eyes went jet black and it fell like a stone from the tree into the swamp. Wormtail rushed over to find it dead and mangled, effluent fluid spewing from its beak and eyes. Rain started to fall over the mangroves and Peter turned into the weather. Where the bird had sat lingered a vile cloud of green mist. It was torn and shredded like it was broken and ruined in ages past. Wormtail stared at it, enthralled to follow its course even as it seeped towards him.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The acid entered him like a foul breeze, filling all of him so fully that there was nothing of Wormtail left. Daggers of ice and fire cut him. They were blunt and sheer reaching deep into him tearing him inside out. He felt only tortuous agony and saw only dreams of what life was once like before this defilement. He writhed on the ground, or thought he did, like a beaten animal cowering and bloody at its abusive master's feet. He was in fact standing and raising his right hand. He tried to stop but it would not. Wormtail felt a burning chorus convulse within him and erupt from his lips like feral life and empty suffering. He had no control as black light jetted from the stolen wand and crashed into the earth drawing from it a small shape that he couldn't see.
As quickly as the pain had come it seemed to leave. Peter Pettigrew fell backward into the dregs of waste and twitched with latent anguish. The putrid air seemed fresh and cool with the dark light and chill rain being sun and clouds of repugnant joy.
"Wormtail."
Peter's eyes snapped open. This call was strong and clear, more solid and purposeful then the pleas of before. Wormtail pushed his way up, squinting through the cloud. Under the tree on a mound of turned earth was a dark and burnt figure. Peter choked on his vomit as he looked on the scarred baby, like some foul demon that had clawed its way up from hell.
"Quickly Wormtail," it spat.
Peter knew it was his master but he was so afraid he couldn't move. This, thing, was unworldly, so cruel and evil that nothing alive should be made to look at it.
"Now!" it croaked maliciously "I need you fool!"
Wormtail slid to his knees and wobbled awkwardly over to the body. It looked up at him through serpent eyes and smelt his disgust through its vacant nostrils.
"Wrap me in a cloak," it said "We must leave here."
Peter didn't know why he did what it asked. He could simply have left it here to die like the waste it was or even taken its life like it deserved, but he had to help. He needed his master back. It was the only way he could survive. He conjured a cloak with his wand and unfolded it. Reaching out with the material he covered the atrocity making sure not to touch its scabbed and weeping skin. He cradled it like a mother would her child but there was no love for this thing. If there was it was cold and forced and frightened, too contorted and thought about to have any real meaning. It was a love only from fear and solitude, a false safety and shelter of words and stone that hurt and cried and slept not even in unconscious thought because the Dark Lord could sense this ruined love and fed on it, killing all those that had it not.
Peter stood up with the bundle and turned. Voldemort, or the shadow of him, was a dead weight to the man. His master seemed to feed on his body warmth but produced none of its own. The shape lay still and breathed, its black slits looking about the corroded sky.
"We must go to the village Wormtail, take me there."
Peter nodded wordlessly, not looking down, and set off back through the trees.
There was nothing in the room but a dull murmur. Rain and hail and wind battered the windows as Peter sat by the crackling hearth, his eyes focused on the shimmering and inviting light. He shivered as the constrictor swept about his legs chasing the rats that scuttled about the room. Wormtail would have killed it in an instant but his master needed this snake. Voldemort spat and gulped strangely at it so Peter could harvest its venom for his black food. The Dark Lord had just been fed, gagging and draining the congealed waste as Peter was made to hold his head, glutinous strands of hair and skin seeping onto him as his master drank. Was this all her could be?
"Wormtail!"
Wormtail jumped. He turned his head.
"Wormtail!" screeched Voldemort insistently.
Peter left his seat and went to his master's side stepping cautiously over the snake.
"Y-yes master?"
Voldemort looked up at Wormtail from his tattered cloak. In ages past Peter may have been able to discern some emotion in the Dark Lord's features, but this mockery of life gave nothing but thick, palpable evil. One thing cruel arm pointed towards the door.
"Go and eat," said Voldemort staring through his keeper.
"But I can't leave-,"
"You are no good to me weak or dead," said Voldemort cutting him off "We may need to leave here in a hurry."
Peter nodded feebly and stood again. He knew better then to question his master; too much pain had come from it before. Wormtail took three steps to the door and stepped out into a long narrow hallway. The walls were covered in peeling and mould-stained green wallpaper. Underneath it revealed old timber that was marked with water and decay. The floor was not much better, covered in dust and mice droppings, several cockroaches feasting on a lizard that had found its way inside.
Peter went down the stairs and found himself in a dimly lit room scattered with several people. It was cold and damp despite the sizeable fire in the far wall and smelt strongly of hay and stale urine. This however was the only place they could rest. His master had told him he couldn't travel yet so this was where they had to wait. Peter went to the bar in the old pub and sat down. The barman, a grizzly looking woman with dark eyes and a shadow across her upper lip stared at him. She winked and grinned revealing only three or four yellow and haggard teeth.
"Eat?"
Peter looked at her and nodded. The accent was strong but the hostess managed a few words. She stepped out from behind the bar and hobbled across to the fire. Burning quietly above it was a large copper pot full of some day old stew. She reached in and within moments was pushing a bowl in front of Peter with her other hand outstretched.
"Money," she said firmly.
Peter did not look at her but stared at the meal. It was grey and lumpy and more then one cockroach scuttled from it onto the table. A dry piece of brown bread sat beside it. He grimaced.
"Money."
He reached into his pocket but did not put anything into the owner's hand. It lay open and bare yet she nodded and walked away to deep calls from a hoard of drunken patrons. Peter put his wand away and picked up a fork, it too crusted and stained with age.
A door opened loudly behind him and slammed too, definite footfalls coming into the establishment. He did not look up though, his cloak still over his disgusted head.
"Right bad weather isn't it chap?"
In his shock of hearing English Peter turned towards the voice. Sitting next to him was a woman who looked to be about the same age as him and that somehow she was here only by a sudden whim, like she had gone out for milk but decided on an adventure. There was something about her though, other then the accent that was vaguely familiar. She smiled at his level face and extended a red-nailed hand.
"Bertha Jorkins."
Peter's eyes flew open. Bertha frowned.
"No," she said "I expect you can't speak English like the rest. Ber-tha, Jor-kins."
This couldn't possibly be the Bertha Jorkins Peter had gone to school with; the one that had told the whole school what she caught him doing in a seventh floor closet. Forgetting his pittance of a meal Peter stood up abruptly.
"No need to leave on my account," Bertha chortled reaching out for Peter.
She grabbed a hold of his cloak and its hood fell back as he spun around to pull free.
The woman's eyes narrowed.
"Do I know… Peter? Peter Pettigrew?"
Her face had turned to shock, strong, violent horror yet not without a gleam of excitement at what she would no doubt be soon telling everybody. She stood hastily but faltered as she looked around the room. Cups were risen, laughs half laughed and the barmaid with her hand in the still simmering pot. Everyone was frozen. Bertha looked at Peter who pointed his wand back.
"I-I, you can't leave Bertha," said Peter stepping closer.
"Must have been mistaken," offered the woman now looking scared "Long dead this fellow, mind's slipping."
She laughed nervously.
"It will," said Peter moving closer still.
Bertha's hand shot into her pocket but before she could stop him Peter yelled.
"Expelliarmus!"
Her wand flew out of her hand in a wide arc towards the fire but as Peter followed its movement she charged at him pushing him to the floor. His hand hit a table painfully and his wand too slid across the ground. As he looked up Bertha was running for the door. As she reached for the handle hands grabbed at her and turning she scratched at the attacker with her long talons. Wormtail's face seared as blood dripped from the three shallow cuts.
"Let go!" Bertha screamed ripping at him violently "Let-,"
Her cries were muted as Peter struck her across the face with the back of his hand. She fell to the floor dazed but soon found her voice again.
"HELP!" she roared, kicking and biting, looking furiously at the stone onlookers, trying to get away as Wormtail reached out.
"HELP, PLEASE, SOMEBODY!"
Peter had grabbed her by the hair and was dragging Bertha across the wet, dusty floor.
"HELP!"
"SHUT UP!" screamed Peter "SHUT UP!"
"No," pleaded the woman as hair ripped from her scalp and splinters of wood cut into her back "Peter don't."
"Shut It!" he roared as the pulled her to the stairs, heaving her up them violently as she struggled at his hands, trying to get away.
He was bleeding and bruised and Bertha had managed to get to her feet. She scratched and hit him and in her attempts to run both of them fell backwards down the broken stairs to the hard stone below.
Bertha's head lolled as she woke up. Her mouth was dry and for some reason she couldn't move. Opening her eyes she saw she was in a small, black room, a shadowy figure cowering in a corner looking at her from grey, watery eyes. Suddenly remembering what had happened Bertha tried to struggle but it was no good. Looking down she was tied to a chair with ropes so tight they cut into her.
"Peter," she sobbed helplessly "Peter please."
Peter had watched her sleep, carried her up the stairs and tied her down. He now watched as she begged him, tore him apart with her tears because all she wanted was to be let go.
"Peter," she whimpered.
"THAT'S NOT MY NAME!" screamed Wormtail hopelessly from his filthy corner, retreating then back into the folds of his cloak.
"True," said a new voice and Bertha drew sharp breath "Peter Pettigrew is long dead, but his cowardice, his need, his incompetence still remain."
A jet of red light streaked across the room hitting Wormtail in the chest. He writhed on the ground, twitching and gagging as every part of him was tortured.
"Who's there?" asked Bertha as Peter fell silent.
Candles stuttered and the fire died a little as the voice answered.
"A shadow of my former self, but it is you my dear who I should be asking that question of."
Bertha's eyes darted around her hutch, a window, a door, her breath coming and going exceedingly fast. Still she struggled at the ropes.
"It will do no good," said the voice in a low hiss "As you will have already noticed I have made it impossible to Disapparate or Apparate into this building and I am assured your bonds are quite firm."
Bertha began to cry and the voice gave a wicked laugh, high and shrill.
"Crucio!"
"AAAAAAHHHHHH!"
Bertha shrieked madly under the curse, convulsing so violently that the chair threatened the break under her. The spell lifted.
"Those were not nice thoughts my dear," cackled the voice "You had to be punished. But for other thoughts, thoughts I have seen about a certain boy, you might be rewarded."
"What boy?" choked Bertha.
"Bartimus Crouch," the other replied.
"I don't know any- AAAAAAHHHHHH!"
Again Voldemort put her under the unforgivable curse, holding her under it until froth congealed in her mouth.
"Now what did I say about lies?"
Bertha was struck dumb in the chair. Her eyes were in the back of her head. She couldn't breath. The Dark Lord lifted the curse and Bertha vomited blood all over herself and the room. Her eyes were burnt and gaping, skin blistered and pale. She gasped for air and vomited again, the scarlet river flooding around her like a lake of fading life.
"I saw it," said Voldemort and now his voice was venomous "I saw you enter the crouch's house, I saw you leave, but what happened in-between girl? You cannot hide it from Lord Voldemort!"
Bertha shrieked again, dark smoke rising from her black skin.
"I don't know," she cried pointlessly, helplessly, pleadingly "I don't know."
"Fortunately my dear," said Voldemort "There are ways I can find out."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"All things are going as I had hoped Wormtail."
Peter tried to smile but he could not. His master was happy, but still he was a meek servant grovelling at the feet of his fallen lord. Would this plan work? Could Harry Potter be taken from under Dumbledore's watch to restore Lord Voldemort?
"W-wonderful," stammered Peter as he took a goblet of his master's potion back to a tray by the window.
Peter looked out over the valley where little lights dotted the dark, summer surrounds. The weather was warm and dry yet a fire burned in the room and Nagini slithered about on the hunt for any prey.
"Did you find it?" asked Voldemort "Was it there?"
Peter sighed deeply. That morning he ventured into Little Hangleton, into the town's graveyard, looking for a certain headstone. There he found it, large and grey between that if the fallen's parents, the grave of Tom Riddle, only thirty-six years alive.
"Yes," said Wormtail "It was where you said it should be."
"Excellent," hissed Voldemort "Soon I shall see my father again."
Peter took a glass vial over to the serpent and began to milk it, watching its fangs bleed death into the container.
"Take it and make more Wormtail," said Voldemort watching the venom rise "I am finding I need more frequent meals."
"Yes my lord," nodded Peter getting to his feet and walking back to the tray "I will not be gone long."
Voldemort watched as Peter walked past him towards the door hearing it open.
CRASH!
Voldemort's eyes and ears flashed.
"Wormtail?"
Wormtail however was in the ground, sliding frantically on his back towards the room's far wall. He was looking at something in the hall, terrified even more then he had been when he had first looked upon the current form of Voldemort.
"What is it?" demanded the Dark Lord not hearing or smelling a thing.
There was however a shadow that had fallen across him and as He Who Must Not Be Named looked up his eyes opened as wide as Peter's. He was staring at a man he had long before killed… James Potter.
"Voldemort?" said James with a mocking raised eyebrow.
"This," he motioned with a sweeping hand "Is the great Dark Lord?"
Voldemort however was silent, his dark eyes frozen on the man's face. Peter was still kicking at the floor, trying to get further away. James looked at him and frowned in disgust.
"Shut your m-,"
BOOM!
The wall above Peter exploded in a hail of fire and ash as the killing curse Voldemort had aimed at James Potter had passed right through him. James laughed dryly.
"You'll have to try better then that this time," he scowled, but then smiled looking around "Nice place."
James put his hands behind his back and walked around the room, stepping over Peter cowering on the floor and to look out the sizable blast in the structure.
"Who are you?" Voldemort demanded coolly.
"James Potter," he said simply.
The Dark Lord hissed.
"You are not James Potter, I killed him."
"Hmm," shrugged James.
He walked over to Peter who was sobbing quietly on the ground. Peter gazed up at him with terrified apology, like somehow he could take back his death. But James didn't look interested and simply knelt down to be at Wormtail's eye level.
"Then maybe I'm someone else."
Peter screamed and banged his balding head hard against the wall to get away. James had not spoken those last words; they were soft and feminine with a warmth that was there even in this moment.
"Shut your whimpering you impotent little man," said Lilly Potter "I don't know how I stood it as long as I did. Maybe it was a good thing you killed me."
"Lilly I-,"
"Shh," said Lilly quietly, lifting a finger to Wormtail's lips and looking at him with mock concern.
Her emerald eyes saw right through him. Peter could smell the ripe strawberries of her hair.
"Even now you're thinking about me."
"I, what, no," spluttered Peter.
"HA!" yelled Lilly throwing her head back, chestnut hair billowing behind her "There wasn't a day went by when you didn't gratify yourself thinking of me."
She sneered at him.
"You always were a filthy little rat, taking it up ass from the biggest bully around."
Peter was a mess, crying so harshly the woman in front of him was nothing but a blur. Lilly however had stood again and moved back towards Voldemort. He was silent all through this and apparently had no idea what to do. Lilly spoke for him.
"So here's where you ask yourself" she said darkly "Why would Lilly Potter come here tonight? I mean, you raped me of my son, my life, my husband."
She growled these last words and shot a furious look at Peter.
"You stole everything I had, tore me apart. But then why?" she asked "It could only be one of two things. One, to kill you, which I know you know can't happen; or two-,"
Lilly stared at Voldemort more seriously then she had before.
"I want something."
"What?" asked Voldemort almost involuntary.
Lilly smiled.
"Just three little girls."
The wind blew into the room sending everything dark, so dark only her hair and the Dark Lord's eyes shone in the blackness.
"I don't know how I-,"
"They're at Hogwarts," interrupted Lilly airily "And I need your assistance to get them, versed as you are with the enchantments around the school."
"Why would I help, whatever you are?" asked Voldemort.
"Because Tom, you will whether you like it or not."
Voldemort froze. He looked up at himself, or what could have been him fifty years ago, tall and handsome and whole.
"You killed me Tom," said the man "Killed me and killed my name, perverting it to what you are now."
"No," whispered Voldemort.
"Yes," said the man "Say hello to father."
Spells hit every wall of the room.
"Look at you," spat Tom Riddle in disgust "The filth you are."
"Shut up!"
"I should have hunted you down when you were a child and beat your head in when I had the chance!"
"SHUT UP!" screeched Voldemort.
"What Tom? You couldn't take the fact your stinking whore mother raped a Muggle and left you like the animal you are, alone and broken with the other human trash!"
"SHUT UUUUUUPPPPPP!"
The whole house shook under Voldemort's voice, dust and fire and wind streaking through the air. Peter cowered and hid under his master's furious rage. Then as suddenly as it came it fell away, leaving the house as silent and black as it was before. Voldemort breathed shallowly gazing around.
"Well?" asked a voice and again James Potter stepped out of the shadows, looking at the Dark Lord through his round glasses.
"What do I have to do?" hissed Voldemort obediently.
James smiled.
"Now then, I know I feel better."
Now then, who saw that coming?
§ - sonofgloin
