After weeks of inertia in the face of ministry interference and an absence of Death Eater attacks, the flurry of activity, research, and espionage had breathed new life into the headquarters. The raid on the textile factory had been approved by Moody, planned, and meticulously inspected for any holes or unnecessary risk. They had pored over blueprints, lists of suspected Death Eaters and their crimes, and photographs of potential recruits. But now, the day of the mission had come, and with it a lull; the calm before the storm as they awaited the signal to pounce.
The parlor was stuffed with dark-robed people, jangled nerves, and the usual blaze in the fireplace, which made the usually airy room feel sticky and close.
The natural groups that had formed within the Order over the months were clumped together, whispering anxiously: Marlene, Caradoc, and the Prewetts were circled around a card table, their heads bowed over a notebook and several schematics and maps. At the other end of the room, Emmeline Vance and Benjy Fenwick were practicing defensive charms with Alice Longbottom.
Moody and Frank Longbottom had gone ahead to scout the location and report back on any unforeseen obstacles. They had only been gone a half hour, but each second dragged.
The newlywed Potters were looking apprehensive and muttering in each other's ears. Lark had a hand on Sirius' bouncing knee; Sirius kept trying to catch James' eye.
In an attempt to pass the time and settle their nerves, Remus and Peter had a game of wizard's chess going. Peter liked chess—it was one of the few things he did better than his friends. Peter could be patient, anticipate his opponent. James never cared enough to try (if it wasn't Quidditch—that is to say, something he already knew he was good at—why bother?), and Sirius was far too impatient. Remus was the only one who did not complain about Peter's pace, although his strategy was lacking. Remus always played too defensively.
Peter's queen smashed one of Remus' knights as Dumbledore, Moody, and Doge filed in. The electric hum of activity shrank to silence in an instant, and every face turned to meet Dumbledore's.
He gestured to their notes and last-minute strategy diagrams laid out on the tables.
"I see you're all well-prepared," he began, lacing his fingers together. "I'm sure you're anxiously awaiting news that our opening has come. I assure you, our signal will arrive very shortly, and all of our minds will be put at ease."
A ripple of doubt flickered across the young faces.
As Dumbledore predicted, a silvery polecat scurried into the room only seconds later. The voice that issued from it—Frank's—was warm and pleased.
All clear—better than we could have hoped. We were able to dismantle their wards without detection. However, the initiation is underway. We've only got about an hour or so to get everything in place. Time to move.
Peter put a hand to the back of his neck; it came away hot and wet. He swallowed and stood with the others, wand brandished.
"All right!" Alice broke in, looking fiercer than her slight, round-faced presence would suggest. Her brown eyes—normally warm and bright—were aflame now. "You know the drill. Caradoc and Emmeline, you ward the area and make sure not one of them can Apparate away. James, Lily, you join Frank and wait for my signal.
"Sirius, do a disillusionment charm and get as close as you can to the ritual itself; observe any defining features of the participants, if you can. Remus, Benjy, and Peter: you stand back and hold the line. Stun and bind anyone who tries to leave. Don't forget—we're counting on you to close the gaps." She nodded at Peter, lips tightening briefly in a smile. Alice had a way of making everyone seem important.
"Everyone else is coming with me." Without sparing another moment, Alice wrapped her arms around Marlene and the Prewetts and Disapparated.
Peter locked eyes with Remus, who looked clammy, then glanced at Dumbledore, who radiated confidence, even pleasure. This was a perfectly-crafted plan; clearly Dumbledore was ready to see it successfully borne out.
James pulled Sirius aside; a tight wad of fabric changed hands between them—the cloak, far better than a disillusionment charm. They exchanged manic smiles and a hug, then turned to nod at Remus and Peter. James clasped Lily's hand and Disapparated.
Sirius offered a final, brief kiss to Dorcas, who was staying behind to man the radios. "I'll be back soon."
"You will," she agreed, squeezing his hand .
Peter held out his own hand to Remus; it was shaking. "You ready?"
Remus paled and didn't reply, letting his hand find Peter's on one side and Benjy's on the other.
They materialized with a crack on the corner of a cramped, stony street caked with the dregs of gray, late-winter snow. It was freezing; the sun had passed completely out of sight behind the looming mill. The few buildings around it were boarded up—the whole block of homes across the street was plastered with 'CONDEMNED' signs. But despite the appearance of being abandoned, Peter had the unpleasant feeling that eyes were studying him through the gaps in each boarded window.
The mill itself took up an entire block, edging over the sidewalk and giving the impression of slow swelling. Its bricks bulged in places, crumbled in others, and a few unintelligible names were scrawled in graffiti every few feet. Its tower was in decent shape, although its roof was missing entirely, the raw edge of the stone lip was like a row of broken teeth against the darkening sky.
The mill boasted only two exits: a large set of double doors at the mill's east-facing entrance which were shielded by a rusted accordion gate and a padlock that was dangling open, hooked on like an afterthought. The west exit was a tiny wooden side door with several inches between the bottom and the concrete step below. There were ten large windows—four on each broad side and two on the south face—but all were positioned high on the building; too high for any human to jump from without the aid of magic.
It was not a welcoming place and, with the exception of some daring teenagers, it was unlikely that anyone had been inside the mill in decades.
The three wizards circled the building, leaving Remus at the side door and spotting Caradoc and Emmeline in the dim streetlamp light, laying the wards.
The others must be inside already, Peter thought, swallowing a spiky knot of fear. It's under control.
Peter imagined Sirius swathed in the cloak. He imagined Sirius listening for his brother's voice, watching for the flash of a gold tooth or a telltale scar: people the Blacks used to have over for dinner. Peter pictured James and Lily backing Frank up; James would be prepared for the practicalities of battle, but still wanting to impress Frank. What was Alice doing? And Marlene and the twins? Were they leading the charge?
Peter and Benjy crossed the street in front of the double doors. The opposite side was narrow and shaded with a dense cover of trees that drooped over a shoulder-high retaining wall. They could take a corner each and still be close enough to signal to each other and to Remus.
Peter could just see Remus in the half-light, waiting twenty yards from the side door, barely shielded by the small woods that abutted the mill. Remus hardly looked like he was feeling any better about the situation at hand. Peter glanced vaguely upward; the moon was three-quarters full. He was both grateful and disappointed—having a werewolf on their side could have been useful, but he supposed, on second thought, that the risks may have outweighed the benefits. Remus did not make such fine distinctions as 'friend' or 'foe' when he was hairy and clawed. Peter shook his head, feeling foolish. The quiet was filling his head with idle, stupid thoughts.
Peter glanced over the retaining wall. A small graveyard was on the other side, its patchy lawn frosted with ice. Probably full of the bodies of mill workers that fell into machines or succumbed to mercury poisoning. There's a happy thought.
For nearly an hour there was no sound from within; just a low, flickering golden light in the high windows.
Peter started to nod off, lulled by the croak and hum of crickets, when the windows shattered, raining glass into the street and unleashing a torrent of shouts into the muggy air. Peter, alert and gasping now, barely managed to hold onto his wand. His head snapped to Benjy, whose face reflected Peter's fear even across the several feet of sidewalk between them. They held eyes for an eternal moment, then Benjy stepped forward and held out his wand, looking unprepared and terrified but at least willing to fight. Peter suddenly, horribly, remembered that Benjy had taken the longest to learn the necessary defense spells and still struggled with his Patronus. This was his only helper, the only person standing between Peter and potential harm or death.
He took several reflexive steps back and smacked into the retaining wall. Seeking sanctuary in a graveyard was not a comforting thought, but it offered more substantial cover than a few larch trees. He scrambled over the wall and stooped behind it as the double doors blew open.
Back pressed to the wall, Peter tilted his head back and saw the colored light of a dozen spells dancing overhead.
He edged over a few feet to the wrought-iron gate that marked the graveyard's entrance and peered around the wall and through the bars. The courtyard was littered with bricks and glass. People poured out of the ruined doors, most of them in masks. The masked figures were beating back the Order members. Peter couldn't help but notice how pathetic their numbers looked in contrast with the sure, uniformed Death Eaters. He spotted Alice and the Prewetts, tossing curses off with balletic precision. Nearby, James was struggling next to Emmeline, whose collar was soaked with blood. Peter couldn't see Benjy at all.
Then, Death Eaters, running right at him, right at the graveyard gate, wands raised, and he was frozen, mind blank and useless. All the spells he had learned, toiled over: gone. Everything reduced to his pounding heart and slippery fingers; the growing certainty of his death and the shrinking hope of survival. All he could do was close his eyes and wait for the shouting to cease.
When it didn't, he opened one eye, then the other. The charging Death Eaters were gone. The shouting hadn't stopped entirely, but there were far fewer voices now. He dared to peer out of the gate; a couple more black-clad figures disappeared with a crack.
Then came the last hooded person tearing out from the side door, followed closely by the Prewetts, who were casting spells like mad. The hood fell, revealing a fall of thick, dark hair—a woman. She dodged their curses with ease, wild laughter filtering through her mask. This wasn't life or death; this was sport. The Dark Mark erupted from the tip of her wand, hovering over the destroyed doors. With a flourish, she aimed one last jet of brilliant green light at Fabian, who dodged and rolled in the nick of time. He sent his own curse back, but she was already gone. Fabian's spell cracked the graveyard wall; Peter felt the shudder of rending stone.
The stillness that followed seemed to echo. Peter watched his friends pick each other up, embrace, and scan the area for anything important. A few cradled bleeding limbs. The first human sound that broke the shocked silence was Sirius' half-sob, half-whoop when he spotted James—he tore off the cloak and left it on the smoking stones of the courtyard, then scooped James into his arms and buried his face into his friend's neck. There was Lily, looking taut and horrified, but otherwise unharmed. And Remus, still white-faced, but now businesslike, waving his wand at Moody's bleeding face—the auror's right eye was a dark red hole. Peter's stomach clenched and he retched into the moss.
His hands and knees were damp with frost and getting colder by the second. He wanted to go to his friends, desperately. But what would they say? He considered rubbing graveyard dirt onto his cheeks, maybe ripping a sleeve, but they would see him coming over the wall. They would know he had hid, like a coward.
How had Voldemort known about the raid? Had someone tipped him off? Now it seemed foolishly simple; the Death Eaters had let them disarm the wards, had let the Order close in. They had known their numbers would overwhelm the Order's. It must have been child's play for them. Where would he be if he hadn't ducked behind this wall?
So he waited, and, through the bars of the fence, watched his friends shimmer out of the courtyard in ones and twos. Sirius left last, regarding the Dark Mark for a long moment. He gathered the fallen cloak and disappeared.
Peter reached down and smeared some dirt across his cheek, through his hair. He scratched the scab above his eyebrow and sucked the fresh blood from under his fingernail. It would have to do. He stood, finally, and without looking back at the mill, Disapparated.
The headquarters were in disarray, but there was no way for Peter to enter unnoticed.
Sturgis Podmore, who had stayed behind with Dorcas, seized Peter's shoulder as he entered the parlor. "Where's Benjy?"
Benjy never got back? His mind flashed to Sturgis and Benjy, kissing at Christmas.
"I'm sorry, mate. I don't know. We got separated."
Sturgis's eyes bulged with horror and worry, but Peter was saved from further questioning by a barrage of bodies closing in around him.
"Pete! Merlin's fucking knickers, you scared the bloody daylights out of us."
Over Sirius' shoulder, Peter could see Emmeline laid out on the sofa, Alice leaning over her and knitting a wound on Emmeline's chest together with her wand. Moody was swearing loudly, holding a blood-soaked cloth over his eye socket and pushing Dorcas's concerned hand away.
"Where were you mate?" James asked, pressing his cheek into Peter's hair.
"We were so worried," Lily added. Next to her, Remus was silent; he leaned into Sirius' side and took deep, shuddering breaths.
Peter swallowed. "I—I went into the woods. One of them tried to escape, so I followed them. He must have knocked me out…but then I woke up, and everyone had gone." The lie came alarmingly easy to him. "I can't believe I'm alive."
His friends, the ones who knew him best, nodded gratefully and slapped him on the back. It should have felt wrong, but their expressions of obvious relief warmed him. They pulled him in tightly. He closed his eyes and felt nothing but the press of them.
