"It's almost time," Voldemort murmured, his head resting against Peter's neck as he circled around the dark gravestones of Little Hangleton's cemetery. "Harry will reach the Cup any minute now, and then he will be mine."
"What if another champion gets there first?" Peter wondered. "Any of them could win—"
"Don't be ridiculous," Voldemort growled. "Crouch will ensure that Harry finds the Cup before any of them. Unlike yourself, he has yet to fail me."
Peter winced at that—he knew exactly what his master was referring to. The elder Barty Crouch, still under Voldemort's Imperius Curse, had managed to fight his way free and escape his home while Peter, his guard, had been asleep…his son had been forced to kill him before he could blow his cover. Peter had been punished with the Cruciatus Curse for it—if Crouch Senior had not been caught in time, Voldemort would have fed him to Nagini instead.
"I am sorry, my lord," Peter said quietly.
"It's irrelevant now. You're sure the potion is ready?"
"Certain, Master. Just need the…the final ingredients." Peter shivered despite the warmth of the night air, burrowing deeper into his cloak.
"The final ingredients…the bones of my cursed Muggle father, the blood of The Boy Who Lived…there is one more thing, Wormtail, something that I will need you yourself to provide for me."
Peter gulped, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. "Something from me, my lord?"
"The flesh of one of my servants, sacrificed into the cauldron along with the blood and bone. One hand should be enough." Voldemort glanced down at the trembling arms gripping his tiny form. "Use the one with the missing finger—you've mangled it enough on your own, after all."
"Master—"
"You will do it, won't you? Or will you prove to be as weak and cowardly as I always feared?"
Peter shut his eyes and let out a breath through pursed lips, trying to calm himself down. It was only a hand…only flesh…and it was in exchange for a lifetime of safety at Voldemort's side. He could do it; he had to.
"Of course, Master. I—I would be honored."
"As you should be. Now, when—"
There was a sudden crash! from up ahead of them, deeper within the graveyard. Two figures had materialized beside the gravestone of Voldemort's father, a large gleaming trophy clattering to the ground between them.
"Here he is," Voldemort breathed into Peter's ear.
"There are two of them," Peter murmured back. They were talking to each other now, their voices low and tense. "What are we supposed to do…?"
"Go to them," Voldemort ordered impatiently. Nodding, Peter began to creep slowly towards the figures, watching as they stumbled through the darkness with their wands raised in front of them. They were both boys; one was Harry, Peter realized as he neared them, and the other was tall and burly—Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts' second champion. Peter recognized him from the papers.
He came to a stop beside Tom Riddle's grave. He and Cedric and Harry all locked gazes—then Harry let out a gasp and fell to his knees, clutching at his scar.
Voldemort spoke again, holding his wand shakily out to Peter: "Kill the spare."
The spare. He meant Cedric…why couldn't he kill him himself? Peter had never used the Killing Curse before; he wasn't entirely sure he was capable of it. Likely Voldemort wasn't sure either—he was testing him, making sure Peter had what it took to be a Death Eater.
He did; of course he did.
Peter took Voldemort's wand and swished it, aiming at the handsome second boy. "Avada Kedavra!"
There was a blinding flash of poison-green light, momentarily turning the darkened graveyard brighter than day. Peter felt power surging through the wand, power that could kill with only a couple of screeched words….
When the light faded, Harry was retching, and Cedric Diggory was dead.
