Note: We've gone back in time a little bit to the middle of chapter sixteen, when Harry disappeared. This chapter is also shorter than the others, but it would just be wrong to try and extend it. Hopefully you'll see what I mean at the end.

Chapter Eighteen

The Rat's Reckoning

The crack that the others had heard and no doubt assumed was his disapparation did not belong to Harry. He was acutely aware that someone had apparated very closely into the vicinity just after he had redonned the invisibility cloak, and that the someone was most definitely unfriendly. He knew this because whoever it was had petrified him, leaving him unable to apparate away to safety and unable to yell for help from the Order, who were getting further and further away from him, assuming that he was safe.

Harry cursed the double-edged sword of life. He would not be in this position had he not been so reckless as to go behind everyone's backs and come out to the Manor to give his assistance, but at the same time, without his assistance Mr Weasley might have been stuck in the cellar and subject to various tortures for who-knew-how-long. This was no time to be falling into contemplation. His life was on the line; he needed to be fully and completely aware of what was going on; aware of his surroundings. It was hard to be aware of one's surroundings when one was completely unable to move, but Harry had the horrible sensation of being approached from behind, of someone breathing down his neck in hard, wheezing pants. He recognised the pattern, and he felt the anger curling within his stomach as he realised who his ambusher was.

Presently there was the rush of fabric and the cloak was pulled off. Wormtail finally came around to face Harry, his face a picture of murine glee.

"And they always said that I would never amount to anything," he squeaked, his voice grating on Harry's nerves. "And they would always see me as little more than a dogsbody to order around as they please, a poor relation. Who was it who found the Dark Lord once more? Who was it who nursed him back to health? Who was it who gave their own flesh to restore him to life? And, who is it who has finally found Harry Potter?" Wormtail smiled wistfully, his thoughts miles away, no doubt thinking of the rich reward that he would reap for his success after so long being under the thumb of the other Death Eaters. Harry wondered, since he could do little else, at Wormtail's status within the organisation. He was evidently not as trusted as some of the lieutenants who did their master's bidding, as left out of things as he tended to be, and Harry supposed that his heritage was against him in this respect. As the only wizard from a house other than Slytherin to 'go dark', it seemed natural that his presence within the ranks would be viewed with suspicion. One could never tell when his Gryffindor conscience might return and endanger them all. Personally, Harry was of the opinion that all that was Gryffindor about Peter Pettigrew had died the night that he had betrayed his parents, but not everyone would hold the same view, especially not a bunch of slimy, suspicious snakes.

At the same time, however, one could not deny the very obvious and intimate connection between Voldemort and the rat. The silver of his replacement hand glinted in the moonlight, casting light in strange, eerie patterns around the vicinity. Wormtail was, in a way, a part of Voldemort himself, and Harry had never quite been able to work out if the connection had been severed when Pettigrew had severed his hand, if the lump of dead flesh was just that, or if there was something more mysterious at work which connected the two magicians; like the link he himself shared with Voldemort in his dreams through his scar.

Wormtail was still staring at him like one stares at a great prize that one cannot believe one has won, a mingled expression of pride, awe and disbelief on his face.

"And it was so easy," he was murmuring to himself. "So deceptively, stupidly easy." He shook his head. "The others will be green with envy… I can't wait to see Bellatrix's face…"

Anger had slowly been building up in Harry's heart like someone was pumping a small fire with bellows, allowing it to grow and grow until it was on the verge of setting the chimney on fire. At first it had been anger with himself, anger at his own foolishness and sheer bad luck. Now, however, the old anger had returned, the anger and disgust that he had felt towards Pettigrew ever since the truth had been revealed that fateful night in the Shrieking Shack. The man had killed his parents, betrayed his best friends and now seemed to be revelling in the prospective destruction of their son. He was not a victim of the regime, he was an active and willing participant. Why had Harry shown him mercy? Why hadn't he let Sirius and Remus do what they'd set out to do? Why had he wanted to be so humanitarian? But the decisions of his thirteen-year-old self could not be changed now, and Harry was reminded of something that had never before seemed relevant, something that he had almost forgotten.

Dumbledore's voice resounded in his head, drowning out Wormtail's mutterings as if he was standing right next to Harry and speaking in his ear.

The time may come when you will be very glad that you saved Pettigrew's life.

He had saved Pettigrew's life, and the snivelling excuse for a man was in his debt. Not just any debt, a life debt. He could not forget that, but petrified as he was, Harry could not forcibly remind him of the fact. Maybe, just maybe… Wormtail's silver hand twitched, and he shot a nervous glance at the shining fingers. It had not been a voluntary action. Maybe, just maybe, Pettigrew's magic would remember the debt when the man did not. And maybe, just maybe, the link between him and his master would remember the debt as well. After all, Voldemort would not want a servant who was in Harry Potter's debt, and who knew what would happen if such a debt was not repaid.

Still staring at his twitching fingers, which were jerking ever more violently now, Wormtail raised his right hand, pulling up his left sleeve with some difficulty to expose the Dark Mark.

"No," he whispered through gritted teeth as he fought to bring the glistening hand down onto it to call Voldemort and the rest of the Death Eaters. "No. This… must… be… done…"

He finally managed it, the lines of the skull and snake burning glossy black under his touch for a split second. He smiled triumphantly, but the expression was not destined to last for long.

After that, everything seemed to happen very quickly. Within a flash, the long metallic digits were grasping Wormtail's neck in a vice-hold; he was only just able to slide his real fingers under them to try and lever himself some breathing room. His face was fast becoming redder and redder as a terrible serpentine voice began to hiss from the hand itself, and Harry was confirmed in his thought that the connection between Pettigrew and Voldemort ran deeper than a simple blood sacrifice.

"You have betrayed the debt, Wormtail… And a debt must always be honoured, even with our enemies… It was a foolish thing you did, Wormtail, allowing yourself into the debt of Harry Potter, of all people. And such foolishness always comes at a price."

Voldemort's voice died away and the silver hand's grip relaxed enough to allow Wormtail to breathe, but it did not let go completely. It was as if it had previously been made from molten metal that had since cooled and hardened into an unbreakable form. Harry wondered what was yet to come, for despite Wormtail's evident relief at no longer being choked, literally at his own hand, he was certain that the price was yet to be paid.

Presently Wormtail screamed, a horrible scream of pure, petrifying fear, and Harry realised what had caused the reaction.

The Dark Mark had come to life, the inky lines of the snake undulating round and round his arm until the tail was completely free of the skull's mouth. The tattoo moved across his skin, the thin snake weaving its way up his arm where he still held the silver hand away from his neck. It slithered across his fingers and disappeared from view, and Harry realised with a sickening feeling in his stomach that, petrified as he was, he could not close his eyes against what was coming next, whatever it might be. He would be witness to the entire bloody spectacle whether he wanted to be or not.

The snake reappeared, gliding quickly over Wormtail's chin and vanishing into his still-screaming mouth, a scream that choked off suddenly with a nauseating gurgle. Blood began to pour from his mouth in a thick, ruby river, and as his eyes rolled back and he collapsed onto the ground, it was obvious to Harry that Peter Pettigrew, the Rat amongst rats, was dead. He had betrayed a debt, and he had paid the price, in doing so saving Harry's life. With the demise of the curser, the curse's effects were broken and Harry was once more able to move. He stumbled forward slightly, slipping on the grass that was now sodden with the scarlet flowing from the little man, and he grabbed the cloak from where Wormtail had dropped it earlier. He disapparated before the Death Eaters arrived, landing outside the Manor to find that all that remained of the one who had summoned them was a silver right hand lying innocently in a puddle of rapidly congealing blood…

Note2: My first death! Is it weird that I feel rather proud at this point?

Note3: Since this is the last C&I update before Christmas, I'd like to take the opportunity to wish my dear readers a very happy holiday. Thanks for the comments so far and I hope you all continue to enjoy it. A peaceful and prosperous New Year to you all.

Kimmeth

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