Chapter 23: Everything I Ever Thought I Knew
The mousy, meek little man concaved into himself all the more as he attempted to use his body to buffer against the autumnal chill now sweeping the plains of Wallingford. The Portkey had been conveyed to him by an unknown sender, with only a note attached describing where it would take him and further, cryptic instructions for where to walk the rest of the way.
Peter Pettigrew dearly hoped it wasn't far. All of these farmhouses were starting to look the same. He had gleaned from certain sources of intelligence that the Dark Lord had many safe houses and headquarters throughout the English countryside, spanning hundreds of miles and nearly one end of the Isles to the other. Furthermore, He never stayed in the same place for very long, and very rarely did He stay in the same place twice. Or if He did, it was a considerable amount of time between layovers. A pattern created, even unintentionally, could be a pattern learned. Pettigrew thought the caution wise.
Per the instructions given to him on the Portkey, Pettigrew measured off his paces carefully. The only really helpful directive had been to proceed due east, and that had been determined with a simple Compass Charm.
Peter glanced up, pressing a hand to his brow and scanning the near horizon. It was deep nightfall, and only the glow of cottages in the short distance could be discerned. Turning the Portkey – a woman's high heel shoe – over in his hands, he studied the spare bit of parchment affixed to the heel. There were the instructions on the front, sparse though they were, and turning the paper over, he could see by the glow of his wand a crudely drawn map. He cynically wondered if his pureblood benefactor had thought to include the map on the assumption that written directions and paces due east would not be enough. Especially for a man who had already gained a reputation of being a simple-minded dolt. Even then, the map was barely helpful.
Peter quickened his pace, anxious. If he was correct, then he hoped he wouldn't be viewed as a simple-minded dolt, a waste of space, any longer. His friends didn't think of him as that, but there were plenty of others – particularly in the Order – who, even if they didn't exactly say it, would send him looks askance and wonder why he was even there. Peter had only ever found in few corners – not enough of them, really – validation as a person of value.
Well, he was. He hoped these pureblood supremacists types would find him valuable, and especially valuable the information he had to share.
Peter had other reasons for feeling out these entreaties from the other side, of course. The longer this protracted civil war in the wizarding world continued, the more the Ministry pushed back, the greater the Dark Lord's influence grew. More supporters were flocking to him every day, believing how He – they – were being persecuted, victimized, simply for being purebloods who wanted what would best protect all of magicalkind. With every new recruit, Voldemort had become more emboldened; there was talk he would amass enough strength to march upon the Ministry before long.
Peter didn't want to be on the losing side when He did, and he wished that his friends didn't want to be either. There was starting to be very little left to gain by opposing this wizard of awesome power. Maybe…. maybe by doing this, he, Peter might even find a way to protect his closest friends, those he still cared about, from being rounded up or Disappeared or whatever befell captured enemies of the Dark Lord. Sirius was a pureblood. So was James. Both men could easily be assimilated into Voldemort's vision for society. His best mate's young bride and their newborn little boy, Mudblood and half-blood by birth, respectively, would be harder to keep from disposal, but surely by virtue of Lily's marriage to someone of pure status, Voldemort would prevent the breaking up of a family?
Only Remus gave Peter pause. Remus was half-blood, the product of a marriage between a pureblood and a Muggle-born. Worse still, he was a werewolf, and though his kind were mostly siding with Voldemort, there was no telling what further use the beasts would have to the Dark Lord once hostilities had ceased. Even further calamitous was Remus's romantic relationship with Mary MacDonald, the woman of suspected (though not confirmed) Muggle-born origins whom he wished to marry. What place would they have in Voldemort's Aryan utopia?
Sirius, James, even Lily and baby Harry, Peter could rationalize their uncertain safety away on the assumption that pureblood connections by virtue of either birth or marriage might safe them. Remus and Mary had no pureblood savior whom they could hide behind. Plus, Remus was currently acting undercover amidst the werewolves in Voldemort's forces. Very few people knew about it, not even their friend group, and Peter had come about this information largely on his own.
If he were to do this, Remus could risk falling into great danger on suspicions of espionage, never mind his blood heritage or his choice of bride.
"Halt, stranger."
Peter froze, but not before nearly jumping a foot in the air and letting out a squeak more akin to his Animagus form. He was nearly at a dilapidated farmhouse out of which candlelight was nonetheless burning in the windows; Peter was close enough to nearly be out of the shadows himself.
The figure in a dark cloak stood in the spillage of light coming from the building, his form casting a long shadow. The cloak's hood was pulled impossibly low over his face, so even with the illumination from the farmhouse, Peter didn't have a hope of discerning who it was.
"My…. my name is Peter Pettigrew, member of the Order of the Phoenix. I come with urgent intelligence meant for the Dark Lord himself!"
The mouse of a man spoke with a confidence – indeed, a presumptiveness – he did not feel. Whether or not it bled out into his body and voice, much less if the stranger detected it, the turncoat could not say.
The hooded figure did not move for several, agonizing moments. At last, he turned with a sweep of his robes, beckoning with a gloved hand. "Come, Master Pettigrew. The Dark Lord is expecting you."
Peter felt a swell of appreciation puffing him up. Master….? …. He has been expecting me? …. His head was swimming. If this was what it was like to truly be valued, he was enjoying it so far.
The hooded figure led him into the farmhouse, through rooms that were mostly empty, or seemed to be. However, if Peter looked closely, he noticed several other amorphous figures in dark robes huddling in the darkened corners and shadowed awnings of the house.
The hooded figure led Peter nearly all the way to the rear of the homestead, where a large and looming figure, his face also concealed, sat regally upon an elevated seat as if it were a throne. As though he were a king. Peter felt the most compulsive urge to genuflect. Bow or something. As it was, his body held in limbo, unsure what to do but waiting to see what the hooded figure did. At the very least, he would follow others in where and how to practice to decorum, if any. If such deportment was necessary, he figured he would muddle through. He hadn't met Her Majesty the Queen, or any royalty. And pompous cow though she may be, it wasn't as though Minister Millicent Bagnold would expect anyone to bow before her, even if only custom and optics prevented it.
The hooded figure swept forward low. Bowing. They were bowing. Peter followed, meekly bending at the waist.
"My most gracious Lord. An esteemed member of the Order of the Phoenix has graced us with his presence. He claims to have information that would prove useful to us."
The Dark Lord silently raised a white and bony hand, as if to say, Give me a moment. Then he stood and threw back the hood of his own cloak.
Peter stared. This Voldemort fellow cut a young and impressive figure. Very little of His background was widely known to those outside of the man's known generation. All Peter could figure was that He had certainly predated his own Hogwarts career. He wondered how old the Lord was.
All at once, Peter felt the presence of…. something, something foreign, brush up against his mind. It caused Voldemort to chuckle.
"I am 54, if you care to know. Welcome, young Master Pettigrew."
Tom Riddle then strode forward and actually wrapped Peter in a warm hug as though he were embracing a brother. The hug lasted for several beats, seeming surprisingly warm and tender, and it thrilled Peter. What were his friends going on about? This man wasn't dangerous! On the contrary, he seemed perfectly reasonable.
"My Lord…" Peter drew back and gulped, awestruck. "How shall I submit to you?"
"No, no," Voldemort smiled welcomingly. "Let it be so for the present. We shall do well to be in tune to all that I require… and at the moment, I require nothing!" He chuckled briefly. "Except for the valuable information you claim to have for me. My asking for your loyalty will come later…. provided your entreaty is sincere." If there was a sinister undertone to this qualifier, Peter didn't pick up on it. He seemed close to swooning with amazement, in fact. Admiration. Perhaps a little fear, but that was healthy. Wasn't it? His friends would do well to fear this man's power, or at least respect it grudgingly.
"My Lord…." Peter began. He stopped. Started again. "I have information regarding the whereabouts of James and Lillian Potter, and their baby son."
All the air seemed to get sucked out of the room. Voldemort seemed to have frozen, statue-still. A grin crept over his face, though his red eyes maintained a prudent dose of skepticism. "Indeed, Master Pettigrew… Pray tell, give me it."
Peter gulped, took a breath. Once he spoke, there was no going back.
He leapt.
"I have come about this information by having it placed with me in sacred trust. For I am the Secret Keeper to this young couple and their child."
Voldemort lifted an eyebrow of piqued interest. "Secret Keeper…." He mused. "That explains ever so much. Although…." And here he chuckled again. "The practice of obtaining a Secret Keeper is rather arcane and seldom no longer in use. Otherwise, why would there be any need for an Unbreakable Vow?" He stroked his chin with a bony finger. "I must say, Pettig – Peter. May I call you Peter?"
Peter bobbed his head like a toy, enraptured. "You may call me Wormtail, as well, my Lord, should you see it fit, for it is a….. nickname of mine, and indeed compared to you, I am a meek little rat!"
Voldemort full on chortled. "How perfectly amusing!" he drolled. "I think you will prove to me most useful, Wormtail." He strode forward, the hem of his robes swishing in such a manner that it looked as though his feet weren't touching the ground. "Now tell me:" he leaned in close. "If you are the Potters' Secret Keeper, as you claim, then you will surely know where they have tried to hide themselves from me."
Peter felt his Adam's apple wobble. "My Lord, I have only come upon this information very recently. You see, I was transferred the powers of Secret Keeper from another…."
"Yes, yes," Voldemort dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Arcane a practice as it may be, I am well aware of the laws involved in appointing a Secret Keeper. Though I am curious as to who was in the post before you…"
"Sirius Black!" Peter blurted, the confession torn from his lips with unsettling ease. "It was Sirius Black who transferred the powers of the Secret Keeper over to me."
"I see…." Voldemort's eyes sparkled. "An intriguing thread; we'll have to follow up on that…" The tiny part left of Pettigrew that was moral, had a conscience, turned to ice. "The most important question right now, however, is where James and his young bride and the newborn whelp are."
Peter took a deep breath. For one last time, he told himself he was doing the right thing. He had seen where the path to opposing the Dark Lord led, and it could only be disaster.
I am frightened by the crowd, for we are getting much too loud… and they'll crush us if we go too far….
"You'll find them where you want them….. far from the city…. In the Village of Godric's Hollow."
Voldemort's crimson eyes widened. He breathed out something unintelligible, pale lips forming the words, but no sound coming out.
"If…. if you doubt my sincerity, my Lord, I am willing to submit to the Dark Mark…"
"That won't be necessary," Voldemort cut across him, almost coldly.
"Then perhaps Veritaserum…..?"
"Shocking as it may sound, Wormtail, your sincerity and honesty are not in dispute here. I have other ways to confirm what you say is true. Leglimens, for instance, is a powerful ability. Perhaps one day I will teach it to you."
Peter's jaw dropped. "How generous of you, My Lord!"
"It is, isn't it?" Voldemort demurred.
"My…. My Lord, in return for my valuable information, might I ask for a boon?"
Trickles of laughter suddenly percolated from the darkened sides of this room, and Peter flinched. He hadn't realized he had such an audience. For his part, Voldemort was still.
"Go on," he drawled.
"Am I under…. Can I….. be under assurances that James, Lily and the boy will not be harmed? We may disagree on your benevolence, but they are still my friends, good people. I come to you with this intelligence in the hopes that they may be protected from whatever…. necessary violence is sure to come."
Voldemort chuckled. "My dear Wormtail, I am a man of my word. By that I mean, I am a man of my word when I say I will consider placing the Potters under my protection if they will submit themselves to me. You can be assured that I only want what's best for them." He dismissed Peter with a wave of his hand. "You may go now."
Peter dipped his head meekly and toddled from the room. The doors to the farmhouse were held open to him and he scurried off into the Wallingford night.
He had done the right thing by his friends, he told himself. This was for their own good.
…. So why did he still feel so ill-at-ease?
He barely got over the crest of the next hill before Disapparating back to home. The streets of London were all hustle-and-bustle, even at this time of night, the sidewalks crowded, but Peter didn't stop as he forged onward in the direction of Kensington Gardens, head bowed. His mind should have been at peace, and yet it wasn't, as he thought over all he had seen and learned this night.
I thought I was an outcast, I thought I stood alone. A rogue, a thief, a joker – no place to call my own. I thought no one could love me and how could I have known, I was wrong? Oh so wrong…. Then I thought I found it, a dream that I could share. I thought I was so lucky; it almost wasn't fair. I thought I knew my purpose. I thought that I knew where I belong…. But I was wrong! Everything I ever thought I knew – where I've been…. Where I'm going…. Everything I counted on turned out to be untrue! Could have guessed…. Should have known….. Now, I do.
Everything I've yearned for, everything I planned, all my sweetest memories were castles full of sand. Now that it's all crumbling, help me understand: if none of it was really me, then who am I supposed to be? And everything I ever thought I knew – every hope. Every feeling. Love and trust and happiness, they're done, they're gone, they're through. And what's left? Me alone. Once again. Should have known… now I do….
Once inside Kensington Gardens, Peter huddled down by himself on a park bench, keeping his trench-coat tight about himself. He kept his head bowed, not looking at anybody, resolute and yet adrift all at once.
Had he been able to admit it to himself, he might have also been, deep down…. ashamed.
I guess my life meant nothing. I guess it was a sham. I guess I'm someone else now…. I wonder who I am?