"Hey, Remus?" Peter knocked lightly on the door to his bedroom before slowly teasing it open. "You awake?"
"I'm awake," Remus said quietly from within his bed. It was nearly noon, but there were some days that Remus had slept in far later.
"I made you some coffee," Peter told him, bringing the cup over and setting it down on the bedside table. Peter always checked in on Remus when Sirius was out on Order business, as he was right now—he liked to bring him coffee in the hopes that it would revitalize his friend a bit, but Remus hardly ever drank it.
"Thank you," Remus murmured. His eyes were still half-closed. For the thousandth time, Peter wondered what was wrong with him, but he knew that asking Remus wouldn't get him anywhere. Remus didn't entirely seem to know himself.
"Lily's having visitors over today to see the baby," Peter said as he drew back the curtains with a flick of his wand, covering Remus in strong midsummer sunlight. "Do you want to come down, maybe, and help—"
Peter trailed off as a sudden, sharp burning sensation bloomed across his left forearm, strong enough to make him gasp with pain. He'd never felt it before, but he knew instantly what it meant. "I—I have to go," he stammered to Remus. Oh God oh God oh God.
"Okay," Remus murmured absentmindedly; Peter nodded briefly to him before ducking out and heading to the nearest bathroom. Yanking up his sleeve and gritting his teeth against the pain, he gripped at his Dark Mark and fixed it in his mind as he Apparated away the way Bellatrix Lestrange had once instructed him to do. Everything within him was squeezed and flattened, and the burning grew worse and worse until finally it faded away, and Peter felt his feet once again hitting solid ground.
Wincing, he blinked open his eyes to find himself in a darkened, hauntingly quiet old manor, standing in a dust-coated hallway across from Lord Voldemort. No other Death Eaters were present; Voldemort had summoned only him.
"M—my lord," he whispered, lowering himself into a bow.
"Stand, Pettigrew," Voldemort said coolly. "I don't have any time to waste."
"Yes, my lord." Peter pulled himself up shakily. "What is it you wish to ask of me?"
Voldemort stepped forward, fixing Peter with his icy gaze. "When I added you to the ranks of my Death Eaters," he said, "I told you that there would come a time when I would ask you to provide me with a crucial piece of information. Do you remember?"
"I—I do, my lord."
Voldemort lifted his chin. "Your friends, James and Lily Potter, have just given birth to a son. The information I need from you is how to get to him."
Peter blinked, taking a step back. He couldn't have heard that right. "You're talking about…the baby?"
"Yes, the baby, Pettigrew," Voldemort snapped. "Albus Dumbledore will try to hide them away—you will soon learn why, I presume, but the reason is irrelevant. I need you to tell me where to find them."
"Find them?" Peter gulped; his head was spinning at a million miles per hour. He had no idea what the Dark Lord was talking about, why he would care about James and Lily and Harry or why Dumbledore would want them hidden away, but he did know one thing: once Voldemort found them, none of them would be surviving the encounter.
He was asking Peter to turn over his friends to die.
Horror and shock burrowed deep into his chest, hollowing out his breaths and quickening his heart. "I can't," he found himself saying, calling upon some noble scrap of courage still left inside of him. "Those are my friends—my best friends. I'll do anything you want, my lord, but I can't do that."
"You can't?" Voldemort raised his eyebrows.
Peter clenched his jaw. "No. I can't."
"Very well." Voldemort pulled out his wand; Peter went tense, his heartbeat leaping up his throat. "Crucio."
Everything within Peter burst apart with pain, hot and freezing and sharp and dull all at the same time, every kind of pain that ever could exist. It consumed him, pulling him from his surroundings and his senses until it was all that was left, all that he could do or think or feel. And then there was a new sensation, a tightening around his throat; but it wasn't the curse, it was Voldemort's hand, throwing him back against a wall…it was crushing his windpipe, leaving him struggling to breathe, or maybe that was the pain, he wasn't quite sure anymore…all he knew was that he had to get it to stop, he'd do anything to get it to stop….
"All right," he choked out around Voldemort's grip. "All right. I'll do it."
"Good." The pain ebbed away to nothingness; Voldemort released him, and he collapsed onto the floor, coughing and shivering and grasping at his throat. "I'm sure Dumbledore won't make it easy, but I know you'll find a way. I'm going to be watching you, Wormtail. I hope you're not still entertaining any notions of nobility, because the outcome is unavoidable—either I take their lives, or I take yours. It's up to you."
Peter loved his friends—he loved them like family, as much as he could ever love anyone. But when all their lives were on the line and it came down to them or himself, he knew exactly who he was going to choose.
"I understand," he told the Dark Lord, still clutching his throat. "I understand."
