CHANCE REPRESENTS CHOICE

=January 1980, Hogsmeade Valley, Scotland=

The Hogshead Inn was dark at all times. Dirty, always. The floor was covered by the accumulated dirt of centuries, the bar was dingy, the tables and booths were covered in dust, and the very best word that could be said about the cleanliness of the glassware was "unreliable".

This was how the owner liked it – he was a misanthrope past his first century and deep into his second. The old man hated more or less everyone and spared no effort in making sure his customers knew they were unwelcome.

They came anyway. Some were stupid, others just couldn't afford to be seen in Hogsmeade's other tavern.

Peter Pettigrew, who knew the Hogshead barman's reputation and didn't care at all, was not either of that sort of customer. He was one of a third category of customer: the ones who found the normal conditions in the Hogshead to be useful.

But tonight, Peter was only here to drink. Even still, he'd brought his own glassware. He was working his way through an assortment of beers he'd bought at barely past five. It was now past ten.

He didn't feel exactly drunk, but he did feel very pleasantly warm.

This early winter night was a full moon. Moonrise had been hours ago. In the last two-plus years of his time at Hogwarts, that would have meant he'd spend the night running through the forest with a stag, a dog, and a werewolf. Great times, great times.

He wasn't doing that tonight. A shame, but there wasn't much point in running through the forest if the run didn't feature a werewolf.

A year and a half out of school, Peter spent most of his days painting houses and house trim in the Muggle world. The work was dead simple, but it paid reasonably well. Peter found that most of his days were almost, but not quite, enjoyable.

At least his nights were free.

If only Dark activity weren't on the rise in Britain: murders … assaults … rumors of kidnappings or conspiracies … violence and violent rhetoric …

None of it boded well.

Peter liked this corner of the inn particularly. The light was terribly poor, the dust was terribly thick. Peter could curl up in his seat here and be very hard to see. The dark colors he frequently wore helped that.

But this spot let him see everything happening on this floor of the inn.

That included the front door, which had just opened.

A witch wearing a violently violet traveling cloak and a sickening brown-green shawl entered the tavern. She sashayed towards the barman – showing all the sex appeal of a corpse – and they had a brief exchange Peter could not hear before she seemed to float up the filthy stairs to the upper floor.

Through the quite-pleasant warmth, Peter thought he recognized her. If he was right, she'd been four years older though not in his school-house. The oversize glasses and flyaway hair were familiar.

And then, just as he was certain he knew who she was even if her name wasn't cooperating, his old headmaster Albus Dumbledore entered the bar.

Dumbledore looked as wise yet slightly crazy as always, his long silvery hair and beard always a contrast with his wildly varying colors in robes. Tonight, those robes were a very loud magenta. Merlin only knew why.

Peter knew vaguely that Albus Dumbledore and the Hogshead barman were brothers. It was well-known, though, that the professor and the barman didn't get on all that well.

Peter had never really cared to know the reason. He liked to think it was because the professor hadn't paid his bar-bill in far too long. It made him laugh, anyway.

So it was just a little odd that Dumbledore would be coming in. Unless he was only just now remembering to pay his bill.

But no coin was changing hands as far as Peter could see. The headmaster only spoke briefly to his brother before ghosting up the same stairs the woman had climbed.

The only things on the second level of the Hogshead were private rooms.

Dumbledore was definitely too old to be on the pull in dodgy bars.

Through his buzz, Peter guessed that this had to be a job interview. But the witch didn't look competent for teaching Defense. Or anything else that might be open, which was nothing Peter could think of.

How very interesting. Odd business was afoot.

Throwing caution to the winds, Peter decided he was going to revisit his Hogwarts days after all. He was going to spy on a professor! On the headmaster, at that! James and Sirius would call it the greatest trick their gang had performed in ages! Yes, he had to do it, it had to be done!

Hoping that no one was observing him that very moment, Peter transformed himself into his Animagus.

A moment later a gray rat was scurrying away from an abandoned chair towards a crack only it could see in the wall.

The upstairs rooms of the Hogshead were hardly any better-lit than the main floor. Peter settled himself in the dust of the sole occupied room and listened.

It was soon clear that he'd been right: it was a job interview, and the witch he decided he'd forgotten the name of was applying for the Divination post.

Peter listened as the witch first performed a five-card Tarot reading. But the interpretation she gave sounded very bizarre.

The results of the succeeding tests were no more compelling.

Dumbledore certainly didn't seem impressed. He thanked her rather curtly, got out of his chair, and turned to leave.

Peter watched as the witch seemed to go into a sort of trance, as if she were transfixed by an awful, gruesome, horrible sight.

Then she began to speak in a harsh, chilling voice.

The words held Peter as still as he could possibly be.

"The two who could conquer the Dark Lord approach. Born to those who face him in defiance, born as the seventh month dies."

What in the world?

The witch continued. "And the Dark Lord shall choose his equal, but mark the one with what he knows not. So one shall die at the hand of another for none may live while that other survives."

The witch caught her breath. "The two who could conquer the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."

The witch slumped in her chair. Peter stood like a statue in the silence. He didn't dare move.

Dumbledore was staring at the insensate witch, his face oddly blank.

Peter could only wonder at what sort of thoughts had to be blazing away in the brilliant old wizard's mind.

The witch slowly came out of whatever state she'd been in. Dumbledore smiled at her, thanked her for coming to the interview, told her she was hired, and asked her when she wanted to meet to discuss her contract.

They left the room together, still talking business.

Alone in the dusty dark, Peter's heart and mind raced.

Had that been a prophecy? A real prophecy? Peter had never seen a real prophecy being given; he did not know what it looked like.

It seemed he had just found out.

[=]

=Late in October 1981, a hidden location=

The enormous manor – just the house itself – sprawled over two acres. Every detail of it whispered of tens of thousands of gold coins being spent over centuries. There were museums worth of art and culture in the manor. The manor held the largest private magical library that existed. There were indoor plant conservatories. There was an owlery with roosts for dozens of birds. The manor had two dining halls, an enormous kitchen, a vast parlor, two ballrooms, a games room, a smoking room. Every room of real importance had a vast fireplace.

The gardens were at least five times bigger than the manor, carefully sculpted, and every step treacherous.

Some unlucky fools had merely died in those gardens. Others had been murdered.

The entire estate was owned by one man, head of the family of but four people.

The estate was hidden entirely from Muggles, and inaccessible to almost all wizards or witches.

But the Dark Lord was no common wizard. And the family to whom the estate belonged, belonged to him.

He had called a meeting for his followers here on this night. He stood, tall and alone, at the head of the hall.

Nearly all of the Death Eaters had arrived already – some were not here for whatever reason. Everyone in attendance was hooded and masked, to keep their identities secret from each other as best they could.

It was as dictated by their lord.

Peter watched his lord – their lord – while trying not to fidget or otherwise call attention to himself. He was masked, he knew his identity, he knew he probably would not be called on.

But there was always a chance.

For it had come to this, that he was now one of them.

The doors opened and one more slipped into the room, just moments before that wizard would have been officially late.

Lord Voldemort began to speak.

All were now bowing, including Peter.

"Welcome, Death Eaters," Peter heard him say.

"I have an announcement for you tonight," the Dark Lord continued. "And orders for some among you. Afterwards, all are dismissed."

Peter did not move. No one moved.

"Tomorrow night, Halloween, I shall personally see to the end of the Longbottom family tree, trunk and branches. As it is said, so it shall be," the Dark Lord proclaimed.

Statements like these from the Dark Lord were as good as fact: he stated them, they happened. He said someone would die, they died.

Still Peter saw no one move. The Dark Lord continued to speak. "Tomorrow night, even more of our enemies shall meet their ends. Rise, Mister Archivist and Mister Metalworker."

The two men stood, their self-chosen pseudonyms hiding their identities just as their robes and hoods and masks hid their bodies. All as the Dark Lord intended.

"Tomorrow night," he continued, "you two shall travel to the village of Godric's Hollow. I have learned the exact address, I shall provide it to you."

And Peter knew this was his own fault. This was his doing, his choice. He had broken his promise, betrayed his friends, given away their secret. He had not kept faith. It would mean their deaths.

The Dark Lord continued to speak. "Mister Archivist, you shall kill James Potter. Mister Metalworker, you shall kill his Mudblood pet."

And so it would be, Peter was certain.

The Dark Lord continued to speak. "You ask nothing? Good. After the Potter adults are dead, you two shall wait. Mister Archivist, you are mission leader. Until I arrive, the Potter boy is your entire world."

Peter shook, and regretted it; he did at least avoid gasping.

But the Dark Lord spoke on. "No harm shall come to him. Should any do so, your punishment shall never end. Not in five years, not in fifty, not in ten thousand million. Never at all."

What in the world?

The Dark Lord's voice rang out, "All but the two named men are dismissed."

Peter got up and left quickly, his heart pounding, wondering what was going on and what it meant. James and Lily were dead and just didn't know it yet, but their son Harry …

Peter did not know how he should interpret that last order.

He did not know that none of the other Death Eaters had any more clue than he did.

He also did not know it would be more than twelve years before their master addressed them all again.

[=]

=Elsewhere, some days later=

It was nighttime. Nearly midnight. A chilly night, a cloudless night, like the three before and the twelve which would follow.

A cat perched itself on a low wall that made the border between two homes on one of the ordinary streets in a small town far from anywhere the cat might have wanted to be.

Yet the cat was there. It sat like a statue, just as it had the whole day.

The properties on either side of the wall looked exactly alike. This did not help the cat's mood.

Nor did the fact that every other property on the street also looked near enough identical. Identically boring.

The cat watched a man appear at the end of the street. It was so quick that the man might have just popped out of the air.

The cat knew that was exactly the case.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on this street. If the residents of the street had been aware of his presence, they would have been offended.

For this man wore long robes, and high-heeled, gold-buckled boots. He had a shining silvery beard falling to the trousers from his favorite plum velvet suit, and his hair went just as long down his back. His eyes were light and bright, but in this place they would have been regarded as strange and dangerous. Even his name was unwelcome.

For this man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore was the sort of man who always knew where he stood. He was also the sort of man who could tell when he was being watched, and he looked suddenly in the direction of the cat. Drawing a device out of his pocket, he captured every light on the street, then walked in the dark.

But once he had sat down beside the cat, there was no longer a cat there. Where there had been a cat now sat a woman. "Albus," she said, in a voice that demanded there be no small talk of any kind.

Not that she ever really engaged in any.

The man so named smiled, quite amused by her evident frustration. "Hello, Minerva," he replied. "It's a lovely night," he said, not meaning it but wanting to provoke her.

"It is nothing of the sort," Minerva snapped. "Have you been sitting on a brick wall all day?"

Now Albus wanted to laugh, but he didn't let himself. "All day? When you could have been celebrating?"

Minerva hissed. "Oh yes, it's all well and good that everyone in the land's been celebrating. So well and so good that the Muggles have noticed!" She glared at Number Four, glaring as though she knew she might as well have glared at any house on the street. "It was on their news. I heard it. Owls going every which way sun-up to sunset, sudden fires all over the country, shooting stars down in Kent." She stopped for a second. "Sad day for us if all the celebrating finally made them realize we exist."

Dumbledore almost smiled, but stopped himself at the last second. "Oh, I'm sure they will write it off." He drew a solid gold timepiece out of his pocket and looked at the face. After a moment he put it back in his pocket. "Hagrid's late," he uttered. "He told you I would be here now?"

Minerva nodded. "Yes, and I'd like you to tell me why. I've been watching these people all day; I can't decide whether the woman is more or less of a beast than her husband. And they've got this son," but then evidently her disgust peaked and she just turned away and made a strangled noise as if she were about to sick up.

"I've come to bring Harry Potter to his aunt and uncle," Albus said. "They're the only family he has left now."

Minerva's voice rose in alarm. "Here? What, here? To this house? Dumbledore, you can't … these people, I've watched them all day" she raced to catch her breath, "you couldn't find two people less like us. You're mad if you think he should live here!" Her voice became more and more shrill until it almost broke.

Then what she had just been told finally clicked in her mind, and she stared at Albus with a disbelieving expression.

Albus's visage had turned terribly sad. "It's the best place for him … it's the only place for him now."

The last took Minerva aback; she knew what he was telling her and fought to deny it. "Only place? James has plenty of cousins who could take him in; and Harry has a godfather … Sirius Black could take him in!"

Albus's expression turned skeptical. "None of James' cousins would be much closer than third-degree relations to the boy … do you really think that's better than living with his mother's sister?"

"It is when that aunt is the woman of this house," Minerva replied immediately, not wanting her other emotions to stop her making this point.

"You're not bigoted, Minerva" Dumbledore chided.

"No," she snapped. "But this woman is truly horrible. Her husband is just as bad. And their son … that boy will be awful one day, it's obvious. He's awful enough now. Harry wouldn't ever be welcome here … no magical child would … these people wouldn't ever understand him nor want to."

Dumbledore took a while to reply. "Perhaps they could take him just until he's eleven. Once he comes to Hogwarts … he'll make friends in his house, and perhaps he could stay the summers … it was done in the past in certain cases of substantial need."

Minerva now looked skeptical. "Nearly ten years."

"I've written them a letter," Albus said, pointing vaguely at the house.

"That had best be some letter," Minerva retorted. "How is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?"

"Hagrid's bringing him," Albus answered.

"Do you think that safe?" Minerva asked.

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," Dumbledore replied simply.

For a while the two waited in silence. It was Minerva who broke it.

"Albus … the rumors I've heard … is it true that You-Know-Who fell at the Longbottoms?"

Albus had drawn a box of sherbet lemons from his pocket and was choosing one, so did not immediately reply. "It certainly seems so. We have a great deal to be thankful for."

The witch's eyes widened behind her own glasses. "But what happened? They're saying … the rumors are saying … they're saying he killed Frank and Alice … then tried to kill their son, Neville. And that his power somehow broke when he tried to kill the boy."

Dumbledore nodded grimly.

"It's true?" Minerva asked in astonishment. "After all the people he's killed … it must be hundreds … he couldn't kill a child? What on earth happened?"

"We can only guess," Albus said. "We may never know."

There was a roaring sound as a huge motorcycle fell out of the air.

Soon enough there was a bundle of blue blankets on the front step of the house, a little baby sound asleep wrapped up in them. Little Harry Potter slept on, not knowing what had happened to his parents, not knowing he would be awakened in a few hours by the screams of his aunt as she put out the milk bottles, not knowing he would be taken in and spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin.

Not knowing there was a hidden world where soon enough his name would be said only in hushed or whispered conversations for years.

Not knowing he was the one child the Dark Lord intentionally ordered left alive.

=/\=

Headlines from the Daily Prophet …

You-Know-Who Falls

The Boy-Who-Lived

The One the Dark Lord Spared

The Dark Apprentice?

Blackest of Black

The Black Conspiracy

A Class Like None Before

Hydra Ascent