His first stop after a shower was to apparate to Godric's Hollow. He barely caught himself as he stumbled through the door.
"Peter," James cried, "it's good to see you! We weren't expecting you until Harry's birthday party tomorrow."
"I—" the words died in his throat, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste on his tongue. Hadn't anybody told them? "I thought I'd come over for, er, dinner? Make sure everything's alright?"
"Well, come in," James ushered. Peter could hear Lily soothing Harry through a tantrum upstairs; the boy was just as difficult now as he'd been a year ago.
They sat through dinner talking about inane, useless things. As if he cared about their herb garden, or Lily's studies, or James' foray into his uncle Fleamont's journals.
Peter felt the pressure building inside him like he was about to explode.
Finally, James went to put Harry to bed. Lily settled Peter on the couch, smiling gently at him. "Go on then, what's been bothering you?" she asked.
It all rose in him, bubbling up like an out-of-control cleaning spell. He sucked in a breath, and another. He could feel Lily's hand on his shoulder but it seemed very far away.
He wasn't getting enough air. "Have you—" his voice squeaked. Peter cleared his throat and tried again. "Have you heard from Sirius?"
He could still see it: the aurors leading Peter off. Sirius, the brightest star, just watching.
And Master Whittaker's voice still echoed, gurgling with blood. I thought you were a Gryffindor.
"No," Lily answered, "Not for a week. Why, is something the matter?"
"There was an attack," Peter heard himself say. "They killed Master Whittaker." Something wet dripped down his face. Surely it shouldn't be so difficult to breathe?
Lily's arms wrapped themselves around him. He felt stiff, uncomfortable, small and alone. "Oh Peter," she murmured. "I'm so sorry. I'm glad you're alright. You are alright?" She had drawn back to peer at him.
The words were choked up inside him, all trapped pressure with nowhere to go. Peter scrubbed at his face and forced a weak smile.
This was the moment James chose to storm in, waving a letter through the air. 'There was a raid, Sirius got hurt—"
He frowned at the two of them on his couch. "Peter, are you alright?"
No, no, I'm not alright, nothing's alright, it'll never be alright ever again—
He nodded, though the smile still felt distinctly watery. He didn't have the words, and James obviously didn't have the time.
"Right, well, I'm flooing to Hogwarts, Albus just called a meeting. Lils, you should come too. Peter, you'll watch Harry for us? We'll let you know what happened when we get back."
Time stuttered around him. When he caught up to it, Lily was stepping into the floo after her husband, bearing an apologetic smile.
Peter wanted to cry, to scream, to sob, to rage, to—
He let himself shrink. Wormtail clambered up the stairs and curled up in Harry's crib, feeling nothing at all.
xoxox
He slept uneasily and woke to the feeling of his breath being squeezed out of him.
But it was only Harry, his pudgy fingers gripping too tightly. Resisting the urge to bite, Wormtail held vigil over the sleeping child, listening to the creaking house and his own whirling thoughts.
Eventually the Floo flared, so late it might as well have been morning. Footsteps puttered up and down groaning steps, doors opened and closed gently. For a moment James smiling face was looking down at them, as the man cast fresh fairy lights to hover over Harry's crib.
Peter felt the sheer normalcy of it constricted around him. How could they carry on like his world hadn't just ended? Like they hadn't a care, with the Potter money and their Fideliused safehouse and stupid vigilantism. A happy family, a calm point midst the storming war, death, and suffering spinning the world around.
It made Peter feel sick.
When Harry woke, Peter dressed and fed the now one-year-old. He listened attentively to the portraits as they dispensed advice on how to do Harry-this and Harry-that. There was a note pinned to the cold-cupboard reading: Sirius is on the mend, it was an accident, just a flesh-wound.
An accident—the dishonesty almost dripped from the parchment. Peter knew about Dumbledore's group, that they ran around stunning Death Eaters and accomplishing nothing. What were aurors for, what did the Ministry do, if not keep the peace? How was a stunning spell going to fix anything?
He'd heard Master Whittaker muttering about it angrily over the morning paper. Without proof of the Death Eaters' wrongdoing, the aurors were helpless to uphold the law. Peter'd found himself agreeing quietly with his Master more often than not—
His Master Whittaker, who was gone.
The thought reverberated around Peter's mind, leaving no space for anything else.
He was alone.
Lily and James were stirring upstairs, he could hear the telltale groaning of floorboards. It was noon, they'd be setting up for the birthday soon. It'd be Harry-this and Harry-that.
There wasn't space for him here, Peter understood suddenly. Not even for someone to send a letter: Attack at trunk shop. Peter's being led off by aurors.
No, Sirius had thrown himself headfirst into whatever it was that had gotten him hurt.
They were always too far away. You can't see by starlight alone.
Already he could hear steps on the stairs. He was out of time.
He felt at once surrounded—and abandoned.
With a last glance to where Harry was staring out the window, Peter dashed out the door and disapparated.
xoxox
The madwoman found him on his knees, scrubbing the bloodstain on Master Whittaker's floor.
"I've been looking for you, itty bitty Petey," she crooned. Peter didn't understand how she'd even gotten through the wards, but it didn't matter.
His hands were covered in fresh suds and old blood.
Craning his head, Peter looked up at her. The hooded cloak was enchanted to cover her face, but it couldn't hide the malicious smile in her voice. "The Dark Lord does not like to be kept waiting."
The inevitability of it all should have filled him with dread, or fear.
Yet, all Peter felt was numbness.
xoxox
The room was opulent. The room was sombre.
The madwoman sent him towards the shadow-shrouded end of the hall. There was nobody else around, causing his footsteps to echo against the mosaic floor.
Black-and-white-and-black-and-white. Peter tried to step only on the white. The ceiling was too high; he hunched to make himself smaller.
The Dark Lord was monstrous, skin like something pulled off a cup of hot milk. The Dark Lord was magnificent, magic crackling around him like a cloak.
Peter fell to his knees, bowing even lower than the madwoman had before she'd left him here. He didn't want to die.
"Peter Pettigrew," He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named said, mouth curling around the syllables like an unwanted caress. "Rise. Let me tell you a story about three brothers…"
His father had read the Tales of Beedle the Bard to him every night for ten years, Peter knew the words like he knew his own name. He listened carefully nonetheless. He wasn't ready to die.
"And so he greeted Death as an old friend," the Dark Lord finished, fiddling with a ring on his finger. He pierced Peter with his stare. "Do you think of Death as a friend, Peter Pettigrew?"
Fear clawed at his throat, locking his knees. Peter fisted the fabric of his robes, his body taught like a violin string. "I d-do not—," he licked his lips, "I do not want to d-die, my Lord."
This seemed to please You-Know-Who. The laughter was bright, a stark contrast to the looming shadows. "Very well. Tell me, Peter Pettigrew, what you know about James Potter."
Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
"My Lord?" But stalling was pointless.
Everything was pointless.
He took a deep breath. "We were dormmates in school. His best friend is Sirius Black. He married a muggleborn, Lily Evans."
The Dark Lord's renewed laughter carried on too long, curling in the wrong places. It echoed, making it sound like there were seven of him. "You do not like the mudblood?"
It wasn't that he didn't like her. She was kind, helpful, always patient with him. In another life he might have considered her a friend too. But Peter wasn't dense, he could feel her condescension when she talked to him, he knew she only ever spoke to him because he was James' old dormmate. Not for Peter's sake. Nobody ever seemed to see him.
"She's studying law, my Lord," he said, the words tumbling from his mouth. "She orders James around sometimes and he just lets her. Listens to her." Where were these words coming from? Something deep inside him twisted with old hurts, scabbed over but never healed. It's true, a voice said, they're not really your friends. They wouldn't listen to you like they do to Lily.
Peter swallowed it down. James, Sirius, Remus, and later Lily had helped him through school and life, had been there for him when his mother died—
They abandoned you, the voice spat—
They trusted me, he retorted, and that was that.
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was smiling cruelly, Peter didn't need to meet his eyes to see that. "Did you know the Potters can trace their family back to Ignotus Peverell?"
Peter started. His mind flashed instantly to James' invisibility cloak. A gift from my father, he had said. Yet, the cloak hadn't lost its magic in over a decade. Could it be Death's hallowed cloak?
Yet it seemed unlikely. Legendary artefacts should be pulled from stone after surmounting great trials, not presented, father-to-son, on a boy's eleventh birthday.
"You will bring me that cloak," the Dark Lord ordered, "and your debt to Narcissa will be paid."
Was that all? Just a cloak? Peter felt boneless, or was it weightless? He floated back to the apparition point. He'd been given a month to get a cloak from his friend and then he'd be free. Free.
The relief carried him through the rest of the day as he took stock of the shop set aside Master Whittaker's personal things. Never had he expected the Dark Lord to be so reasonable.
While he cleaned, he fiddled with the words whirling around his head until he found the right ones for a letter.
Dear James, dear Lily,
I'm sorry I had to leave so abruptly this morning, something came up. Thank you for letting me know Sirius is on the mend. I hope Harry's birthday went well.
I have been sorting out the shop and figuring out what to do with it now that Master Whittaker's gone. I can make the trunks, but I'm far from a master craftsman. I miss him dearly but I'm coping. There's a trinket for Harry with this letter, just an enchanted puzzle-box. I hope he likes it.
It's unfortunate we didn't get the chance to talk during my visit. I'd love to stop by again next month, is the 30th August alright?
Yours,
Peter
xoxox
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