Chapter Twenty Two
Dressed in his muggle finest, Peter apparated to Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey. The village itself did not look so very different from his own home town - as he himself happened to live in a wizard house in a muggle street in one of the most boring places on earth.
Both Little Whinging and Rickmansworth were in the commuter belt for London, Home County towns built for respectable people who chose suburbia over the Big Smoke. Nice enough, if lacking in excitement, but offering more fresh air and cleaner living spaces than anything the city itself had to offer. Quiet places with quaint, characterful houses that offered a cheaper, safer place to raise a family than anywhere in central London.
But Privet Drive was set a little outside the village proper, away from the quirky cottages and cricket green, on a seemingly endless housing estate of identical four bedroom boxes, with neat front lawns and picket fences and very clean cars parked on perfectly paved driveways.
This place was the least magical place Peter had ever seen. A place so devoid of imagination and individuality that there was almost something sinister about it. Flower beds framed the driveways in neat regiments, blades of grass grew to the exact same height with almost military precision, shrubs stood in little plastic pots either side of front doors - like sentinels standing guard - carefully pruned and trimmed into symmetrical shapes. This was a place of neatness, a place of tidiness, a well kept place where well to do people kept up with the Joneses. Above all else, this was a place of order and conformity.
And yet this was the place Lily Potter's sister had chosen to live. This was the place little Harry now called home.
It seemed incredible that - of all of the streets in all of the land - this could be the one that was home to the tiny wizard who had defeated the Dark Lord. The whole road looked like it would just not tolerate such nonsense - like it simply would not brook the existence of the wild and wonderful magical world. Nothing untoward would ever happen here - anything of the like would be jumped on hard from a great height and squashed beneath the respectable weight of lower middle class aspirational propriety. This was surely a place where magic came to die.
This seemed like the last place Prongs would want to see his son growing up.
...
But Prongs was dead - and got no say in the matter. And for all Peter felt uncomfortable being here, in a place that would so clearly frown on him and his kind, his need to make contact with Harry was more pressing. He was here to get his name back in the paper - and anything else came second to that. Whether or not this was a place for him - whether or not this was a good place for Harry - did not matter compared to Peter's need to be famous again.
After all - if things had gone the way Peter had originally planned, Harry would be dead by now anyway. Really, as dreary and joyless as this wisteria clad edifice to all things ordinary was, Harry was very lucky to be here at all.
But still - Peter was glad that he had thought to leave his wizarding robes at home, and had instead worn the suit he had bought to attend James and Lily's wedding just a few short years ago.
...
Half of Lily's muggle family did not know the truth about her, you see - her aunts and uncles and cousins had no idea she was a witch - and so all of the marauders and everyone else from Hogwarts, who had been invited to the wedding, had had to dress up as muggles for the day and not use their wands or talk about quidditch.
The wedding had taken place just a few days after a full moon, and Remus had had to tell anyone who asked why he had such dark circles under his eyes that he was recovering from flu. (Though that was a lie he had told all throughout Hogwarts as well - not everyone questioning Moony's ill health had been a muggle.)
They had had to make small talk about muggle politics (they had had to swot up with the muggle papers the week before) and name which football team they supported and pretend to have muggle jobs and had even had to dance to muggle songs they had never heard before and pretend like they knew them.
Some of the muggle songs had actually been quite catchy. They seemed to have more variety than wizards. But Peter had forgotten the tunes by now - only remembering that he had quite liked them. He had quite liked most of Lily's family as well … He suddenly wondered what they had been told about Lily, how they thought she had come to die.
...
But - whatever they knew - no one would ever know the role he had played in it. It was all becoming a blur even to himself. The idea that he had been a spy for Voldemort seemed unreal, the memories of standing in the presence of the Dark Lord were fuzzy - like something out of a dream. He couldn't quite believe it had ever happened, that he would ever have dared do that … none of it seemed real any more. Even Lily and James seemed distant and … they seemed more like historical figures, or characters from a story, rather than real flesh and blood people he had really known.
What was real now was Sirius and Remus in prison for crimes they had been found guilty of - and therefore they must always have been guilty. They must deserve to be where they were or else the wizengamot would not have found against them.
And Peter was free because he deserved to be free. He was clever enough to keep himself free - where the two of them had allowed themselves to be caught … and really, Peter had done nothing so terribly wrong anyway. They had lived in dark and desperate times and he had done what he had to to survive.
There were people who had committed far worse crimes than himself still walking free - Lucius Malfoy for one, and old Snivellus was another.
Why shouldn't Peter be able to move on without having to pay for or think about his betrayal? As Lily and James became more distant and less real, why should he feel any guilt over what had happened to them? It all already felt so long ago - it already seemed like the two of them had always been dead, as if the world without them was how things were meant to be and the memories he had of them as living, breathing people were false. How could he have been friends with people who were already dead?
...
And it wasn't truly his fault they had died, anyway - now he came to think of it. He had only been able to betray Prongs because Padfoot had insisted on making him, Peter, the secret keeper in the first place. That one was entirely on Sirius. So it was entirely right Sirius be the one in jail for it.
It's not like Peter had ever asked to be put in danger. Or had ever pretended to be brave. No - if his former friends were so foolish as to think he could stand against the wrath of the Dark Lord, would lay down his life for theirs … then they deserved to be in jail - for crimes of stupidity, if nothing else; for asking too much of him, for expecting too much of him. And it's not like they would have done any better if the circumstances had been reversed.
Padfoot and Prongs and poor, sweet, soon to be dead Moony would not have died for him.
...
And so this was how things had shaken out in the end. James was dead. Lily was dead. Soon Remus would be dead, currently he was in prison and Sirius would be in prison for years to come. And Peter was the only one left standing. Peter and little Harry. And to that end - Peter was here in Privet Drive. Because Harry was his ticket to eternal fame and glory.
Nervously, Peter flattened his hair, straightened his tie and made his way up the driveway of number four Privet Drive. He took a deep breath … and rang the doorbell.
The moon had not peered in at him from between the bars all night and all day now. The silver sliver in the sky had vanished completely - the crescent becoming nothing, and Remus understood that the new moon was upon him.
This one would be the moon he would die under. Tomorrow it would appear again, thin and curved and cruel and, day by day, night by night, it would get fatter until the night it was full. The night he would die. He had maybe 15 days left. The thought made him shudder.
...
He braced himself against the rough stone wall, feeling it digging into his back, and balled his hands into his fists so tightly his nails cut into his palms. He closed his eyes - and tried not to give into his fear. Tried to stop himself from crying out again, tried to control the anguished, animal howl that threatened to break free from his chest at any moment.
He tried to think about Peter - tried to calm himself by making himself angry - as much as that didn't make sense.
But it didn't work. It had been bad before - it had always been bad in here, he had always been afraid, watching the moon grow smaller, watching his hours left to live dwindle away. But now the old moon, the moon under which he had transformed with Padfoot by his side and woken up safe in his arms, was gone and the new moon was here - now the countdown had really begun, and bad had very definitely become worse.
Soon he would die.
And he found he couldn't think of anything else, couldn't shake off the fear which gripped him in an iron hold and left him breathless and trembling.
...
He was ashamed to discover how afraid he was to die, ashamed of the way he shook and cried and prayed desperately for some way out. He hadn't realised he feared death. He had joined up with The Order straight out of school, after all, had been on countless dangerous missions and had been completely willing to lay down his life if that had proved necessary. He hadn't trembled before a duel, or cried at the thought of having to fight. He had worked among the werewolves - and faced danger everyday from them, his monstrous brothers.
And not once had he been this afraid. Not once had he thought of death as anything other than something that he would rather avoid but that might happen anyway. But he had believed in the cause, believed his death - should it prove necessary - would be worthwhile - and he had believed that, fighting every day as he was, when his time came it would be quick - and unexpected.
But this cold blooded waiting for an appointed date - with nothing to do but count off the minutes … this left him shaking with fear.
...
And his death would not be a heroic one. He would not die on his feet, his wand in his hand, as a man - fighting for a better world. He would be executed as an animal and reviled as a traitor.
And it was that, he realised, that left him feeling sick with terror. It was how they would look at him, how they would treat him, how he would be remembered.
And no matter how he tried - right now - he could not make himself think of anything else.
He wondered how they would do it.
...
Oh - he had a vague feeling they were going to behead him … he had a vague feeling that was how the Department for the Disposal of Dangerous Beasts always put animals down. He very much suspected that one day soon his neck was going to get very friendly with the sharp end of an axe.
But that wasn't what he was wondering about, exactly. He knew how he just didn't know … how . How they were going to get close enough to do it.
Because he was reasonably sure they were planning on waiting until he had transformed. The Department for the Disposal of Dangerous Beasts had no jurisdiction over him while he was still a man - even if they never really recognised him as a true one. While he was in human form, the Ministry could not execute him. They would have to wait until he was the wolf … why else would they have set the date for the next full moon?
But then how - once he had transformed and was the wolf again; savage and dangerous and completely out of control - how were they planning on getting a Ministry executioner into the cell with him and how was that executioner going to get close enough to kill him?
Once he was transformed, Remus would pose far more of a threat to a man with an axe than the man with an axe would pose to him.
...
He wrapped his arms tightly around himself to try and stop himself from shaking - and wished desperately that he could think of something else … even for a few minutes. But it was not to be … The sky remained empty, as the new moon remained hidden and the whole while he could feel his hackles rising, the fur beneath his skin wanting to burst out …
After the full, the new was always the worst part of the cycle, the part where the wolf was closest. And - as he fought to control himself - he couldn't stop himself from wondering how on earth the Ministry were planning on dealing with a creature as dangerous as him.
The truth was: he didn't want to know. If he had known, his fear and his shame would have been unbearable. If he had known, he might have tried to take his own life while he still had the chance, rather than suffer the cruelty and humiliation they had in store for him.
Plenty of prisoners in Azkaban attempted to end their own lives, tried to smother themselves with their blankets, or strangle themselves with their bare hands. It never worked. The guards always stopped them - and in the end they had nothing else to try and nothing to hope for other than to die in their sleep.
But if he knew what was in store for him, Remus would no doubt have been tempted to end things on his own terms, rather than let them treat him that way… and maybe he would have met with more success than most. Perhaps it was fortunate for him that he could not see what was happening at the Ministry, as he sat and shook with fear and misery in his prison cell.
...
Kingsley was exhausted. The aurors had been working non stop rounding up the Death Eaters, bringing them in and preparing their cases for trial. And very few of them came quietly. Every arrest was a near battle to the death - and with that came injuries, and aurors out recuperating at St. Mungo's … which meant less aurors on the next raid, which meant more injuries … and so on and so on in a vicious cycle.
Once upon a time, he had naively thought that things would be easier once Voldemort was gone. It was only now he was beginning to understand the true extent of how deep the Dark Lord's evil had been, how vast his army truly was. How massively outnumbered and overwhelmed they had been in The Order without even realising just how bad things really were.
And that was before they took into account that two of their number were really playing for the other team. The spies, the traitors … Black and Lupin … He still sometimes had trouble believing it.
...
He rubbed his eyes and blinked them a few times, trying to force himself to see straight, as he finished filing the report on Rosier. Evan Rosier had been killed in a duel with Moody - though Moody had been injured in the process and so the paperwork had fallen to Kingsley.
He yawned widely and searched through the pile of papers, looking for the testimony that had sent them after Rosier in the first place … it would not look good for them if a wizard was killed and they had no parchment trail to prove he had been on the dark side in the first place.
There it was. Locating it, he pulled it out and shook it free of the rest of the pile and began to read through it, cross referencing it with Moody's statement, which he himself had taken from Moody's bedside at St. Mungo's.
He frowned as something caught his eye … a name. Greyback. According to the witness statement, Rosier had been seen in the company of one Fenrir Greyback - had been seen plotting with him.
...
Greyback was a wolf … the wolf that had bitten Lupin, though Kingsley tried his hardest not to think of his former friends. They were not the men he had believed them to be. But - as a wolf - Greyback did not come solely under the jurisdiction of the auror's office.
He sighed deeply. He would need to talk with the Department for the Disposal of Dangerous Beasts, give them what information he had. They would have to have a say in how any case against Greyback progressed. He sighed again - he hated most of the wizards down there, they were so … bloodthirsty .
Kingsley took his duties as an auror seriously, he understood the work was important, but he didn't relish the kill. That crowd though … they loved their work. The grislier the better.
...
He pointed his wand at the parchment, flicked it and said 'gemino', creating a second copy to take down to the other department. And then, when he was done with his own case report, headed for the elevators - the duplicate testimony clutched in his hand.
...
When he arrived in the offices of the Dangerous Beast Department, he found Madam Umbridge, the squat toad like witch from Black and Lupin's trial, standing with Ormerod Bloom; watching eagerly as MacGinty and Enderby worked on crafting a strange looking harness.
...
'And it won't be able to break free?' she was asking in her high pitched, breathless voice.
Bloom shook his head, grimly. 'No, Madam. We've enchanted the restraints with every spell we have in our arsenal. I don't care how strong it is - in either form - this thing will hold it.'
'Will you be finished soon?'
'Yes, Madam Umbridge - and then we'll take it to Azkaban and get it set up.'
...
'What's going on?' Kingsley asked - looking at the harness and frowning, 'what is that thing?'
'That is how we are going to dispose of our current Dangerous Beast problem,' Bloom told him. 'It's for the wolf - Lupin.'
Kingsley frowned deeper. 'I don't understand.'
'Well we've got to restrain it, haven't we?' Bloom said, sounding like he thought Kingsley was being slow. 'You can't just walk into an enclosed space with a transformed werewolf and lop its head off. You've got to tie it up first. Otherwise it'll kill every man in your outfit without breaking a sweat.'
'But how will tying him up be any easier than chopping his head off?'
Around the room the other wizards began to snigger nastily. Umbridge looked positively delighted. Kingsley looked around at them. 'I'm missing something, aren't I?'
'You don't tie up the wolf.' Bloom said. 'You tie up the man - or what passes for a man - before it can transform.'
...
Kingsley stared down at the harness in horror. 'You mean - you're going to put Re… Lupin in that - that thing when he's still human?'
'Hem hem' Umbridge coughed. 'The halfbreed is never human - it just sometimes looks like one.'
Kingsley ignored her and instead stared at Bloom. 'But you - you can't do that!'
'We can and will. Before the full moon rises, we'll take him from his cell and chain him into place - he'll have to be on fours, you see - so he's the right shape for the transformation … but then I suppose he's used to that.'
Down on the ground, MacGinty gave the tethers of the harness a stretch, 'been enchanted specially,' he told Kingsley, 'so they'll expand as the change takes place. This will keep the beast locked securely in place, both as a man and as … well, as what it really is.'
'That's horrible,' Kingsley said, faintly.
Bloom only chuckled. 'Then I guess now isn't the time to tell you about the muzzle?'
'Muzzle?'
...
The older wizard nodded across at where McNair was working on something metal and cruel looking. 'Well we can't have it biting the executioner can we? Same shapeshifting enchantments to see us through the transformation. Muzzle him when he's human - keeps us safe when he's a wolf, see?'
'And then we chop its head off,' McNair grinned.
'It'll turn back human once it's dead,' Bloom finished up, 'but the dementors can get the corpse out of the harness and pick its head up. Its up to them what they do with the body after that.'
'It won't have any clothes on, will it?' Umbridge asked.
'Not once it's transformed, ma'am - no.'
She actually squirmed in delight.
...
Kingsley thought he was going to be sick. The thought of them muzzling Lupin's human face and then forcing him onto all fours and restraining him until the change made him feel faint, just imagining it.
'Well - I uh - well …' He backed out of the department, unable to stay and look at that horrible harness - to imagine Remus human and locked into it and waiting to die like an animal - any longer. He slammed the door shut and then leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying desperately to forget what he had just seen.
...
It was only when he opened his eyes again that he realised he had forgotten to hand the report on Greyback over to Bloom.
Peter heard the chimes of the doorbell ring through the house and then - after a few moments - the door was opened by a large, beefy man with no neck and an enormous moustache. 'Yes?' the man barked.
Peter gulped, 'my name is Peter Pettigrew and -'
'If you're selling something we're not interested.'
'No - no you don't understand.'
'We're not interested in Mormons or Jehovah's Witnesses either. We don't go in for that kind of carry on.'
'No, no, Mr. Dursley - if you'll just let me finish. My name is Peter Pettigrew and I am - was - a friend of James and Lily Potter…'
...
On hearing Peter's words, Vernon Dursley's large, angry face changed colour more rapidly than a set of traffic lights. First it drained from it's usual red to the yellowish grey of sour milk - and then just as quickly it was red again and headed into purple. Just as his skin turned a bright magenta and he looked as if steam was about to billow from his ears - he began to yell.
'You're one of …? How dare you turn up here? You don't belong here! Get out! You and your … your … unnaturalness . We'll not have freaks like you in the street. What will the neighbours say? You don't come here again - you hear me? You don't come here -'
...
Normally, cowardly, pitiful, little Peter would quail in the face of such rage, especially coming from so large and intimidating a man. But he needed this too badly. He wanted this too badly.
So instead of turning tail and fleeing - he gripped his wand, pointed it squarely between Mr. Dursley's eyes and yelled 'confundus!' cutting Mr. Dursley off mid bellow.
Mr Dursley swayed on the spot, his expression became vacant and his eyes went out of focus - and Peter took this opportunity to push his way past him and into the house. He would confund the whole lot of them, if that was what it would take.
