EDITED: August 4th, 2023.


23 - Cassiopeia Black's End


October 1981. Croydon.

Cassiopeia heard the clock's ticking from the living room. She tapped her fingers incessantly, glancing at the doorway often. She breathed through her mouth—jumping when the kettle whistled. She rushed to pour the tea into the teapot. Then, rubbing her hands to still the shaking, she took the tray.

Her legs trembled a little when she joined Peter, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Trying the Muggle way?" he teased.

It broke the ice. Cassiopeia laughed.

And yet, she couldn't ignore the fidgety fingers. The darting eyes. His clothes in disarray. Peter wasn't the best when it came to wardrobe, but he knew how to wear a tie and a pair of shined shoes. Today, the tie was knotted in such a way that the back end was longer than the front. And his shoes were muddy.

It had rained yesterday in London. But Peter wasn't supposed to be there.

"One of the Ministry's rules. I can't use magic unless it's an emergency over a period of six months."

Peter's mouth fell open. "What? But that would mean leaving you defenceless!"

"Not as long as I don't get out of this place," she said, trying to laugh it off.

She saw her reflection on the mirror above the mantlepiece. She looked half-mad with her curly hair loose and her wrinkled pyjamas.

Cassiopeia had lost herself in the two-month lockdown. She didn't dress like she used to before Anya's birth. She couldn't indulge in her hobbies without abandoning her child. Alec was so busy these days and the people they trusted could be counted with two hands—all of them busy, of course. Trying to save the world.

"I missed you," she admitted. "It's not been the same after..."

She gestured feebly at the hall that led to the main bedroom. Anya was there, sleeping in her bassinet. Cousin Andromeda had managed to put her down, a feat that had set off Cassiopeia's blubbering.

"May I?" said Peter, standing.

A shiver of alarm. Not because she didn't trust him. What if Anya woke up? How would she calm her if she started crying?

But Peter was already making his way, and she followed, halting him before he could enter.

"Take off your shoes," she hissed, and he watched as she threw her slippers aside. Peter waved his wand, the shoes vanishing with a faint pop.

The room was lit with low yellow hues. Anya preferred to be in the dark, but she loved the club lamp. Take it away and she started blubbering. Cassiopeia considered the bloody object a blessing and a curse—it had been a gift from the Potters. James, when it was his turn to take care of the children, had discovered Anya's dislike for brightness in the general. The lamp, whether Cassiopeia liked it or not, was a permanent fix.

Peter leaned carefully over the rocking bassinet. He even dared to touch Anya's back with a knuckle. She hadn't realized how tense he truly was until, before her eyes, he slacked. His eyes glistened when the baby sighed.

"She's so small still," he whispered. "Harry's twice her size."

"She's a Black. If she holds on, she will far surpass him one day."

That made him stiffen. She'd meant to boast, not to make him withdraw. But Anya rolled over, right into his open palm, and he was back to normal.

Cassiopeia felt ashamed that he seemed to find comfort in her daughter. She hadn't felt anything remotely like that in the last year. Like her mother, she couldn't stand the noise of a babe's cry. No matter how much she tried, how much effort she put in it, she couldn't find it in herself to want to be a mother.

It hadn't been part of the deal she and Alec had. Marrying him was a decision she took to save Regulus. Not that it did them any good. He'd even offered to divorce her, but when Cousin Bellatrix became known as You-Know-Who's second-hand, she'd balked. Fear had won.

And then James had married Lily.

No, she'd never wanted to be a mother. Or to have a child. But this was her life and she'd made her choices. All she could do was try to be of use. To her friends, to her family... and to Anya.

Peter had helped her see that. Next to Sirius, he was the one who tried his hardest to help her get out of this... this funk. But unlike Sirius, he didn't judge her. He didn't call her 'her mother's daughter'. Nor did he try to make her be more involved like Alec. Peter never argued when a comment like this slipped out, or when Cassiopeia's emotions got the best of her, and she escaped the room. Instead, he returned to Anya, as if his presence could shield her from Cassiopeia's barbs.

A little thought creeped into her head. She couldn't squash it this time. Not when he was so vulnerable and she so desperate.

"How is Grace?"

Grace was a young woman he'd been to a couple of dates with. Peter tried his damnedest to not speak of his personal life, but James had been so proud of him that soon the entire Order knew about it. Grace this, Grace that—Cassiopeia knew a lot about the Muggle, but not a single word had come from her best friend's mouth.

"We decided to part ways."

He didn't sound particularly happy. Or sad. He might as well be talking about the weather.

This couldn't be what was troubling him then.

"I'm sorry." She looked at the wall before them. Followed the outline of their shadows. So close, and so afar. Asymmetrical, but out of sync. It didn't use to be like this before the war. "Are you going to keep trying? On this dating business, I mean."

Peter rubbed Anya's hair, threading softly through the stands. She must be tired. Where Peter loved spending time with her, Anya always, always, cried when he was near. As if she could feel the toll the war was taking on him.

"No." He straightened.

Cassiopeia smiled in relief. "Good. That's... that's good. I mean, it certainly gives you more time to spend with your goddaughter—"

"I need to tell you something."

The solemn tone drew her to a stop. That shiver from before spread throughout her body. She could feel her magic tickling her fingers.

No. It can't be.

She'd felt like this before. Every wizard experienced it differently, but it meant one thing: danger.

This was Peter. Her Peter. Her best friend. The only person who'd ever been there at her side. When Walburga Black sent her a Howler for ending in Gryffindor, he'd comforted her. Become her friend, her genuine first acquaintance that had nothing of Sirius' influence. When her father suffered his first heart attack and her mother forbid her from seeing him, he'd done everything he could, from writing to his mother so she could take her to St. Mungo's to begging Professor McGonagall to speak to Professor Dumbledore on her behalf. When James and Lily finally got together, he wiped her tears. He was there, at her side, as her support. He was more than a friend, than a brother, he was—

"Okay," she whispered. "Let's talk it over a cuppa."

•••••◘◘◘◘•••••

June 1994. The Shrieking Shack.

I kept my eyes lowered.

It wasn't my fault. It hadn't been my choice. But my mother's decisions had shaped the Potters' end. From one end to the other, it was my bloody family that destroyed Harry's.

"What do you mean that she knew?"

Lupin stared at me intently. When I couldn't hold his gaze, he turned to Black.

"Sirius..."

My uncle sighed. He, too, didn't look at Lupin.

"Peter confessed the truth to Cassiopeia the night before Hallow's Eve. How it began with threats to his mother. Months of endless stalking. How that culminated with Dorcas Meadowes' death. How every week after he would receive an anonymous envelope with pictures of us, of the children. Remember that month he disappeared? Turns out he was kidnapped and taken to him. He'd endured those weeks of torture. And when that still didn't break him, they let him go. And the stalking continued.

"It took one picture. Just one picture, for him to surrender." Sirius lowered his finger. "And then, he became one of his. And he told her this, too: how, little by little, he started agreeing with Voldemort's ideals. How it felt to torture Fenwick, how he wanted to do it again. How, in the end, he regretted everything but felt it was too late. You know the rest."

Lupin was shaking his head. "How can you know all this?"

"Barton told me. Cass wrote it all down before... before. He was going to use the material for my trial. But he died. The evidence went missing.

"I as good as killed them all," he said suddenly. "I persuaded James to change to Peter at the last moment. Nobody would have suspected him as the Secret Keeper."

"But how did you know?"

"I checked on him. Wanted to ensure he was still safe. But he was gone. No sign of a struggle. It didn't feel right." He pounded on his chest, on the spot where his heart was. The expression on his face was heartbreaking. "I didn't know what it was, but I knew it right here—that I'd lost Cassiopeia. That my twin was gone. When she died, a part of me did too. And I knew... I knew if she was gone, so were they... I knew what Peter must've done... what I'd done..."

He looked lost.

"Merlin," said Lupin. "Merlin." He ran his hands through his hair. Then he closed his eyes. "There's one certain way to prove what really happened. Ron, give me that rat."

Ron was frowning. "What are you going to do with him if I give him to you?"

"Force him to show himself. If he really is a rat, it won't hurt him."

Ron hesitated. Then slowly held out Scabbers. Lupin hesitated before taking him.

Scabbers squeaked shrilly, twisting, its beady eyes bulging.

"What will you do if it isn't true?" said Harry suddenly. "What if he is really mad?"

"Twelve years," said Lupin. "For twelve years, I didn't know why I was alone. It must be the truth. Together, Sirius?"

Black leaned down to collect Snape's wand. He approached Lupin in short strides, his face as blank as a canvas.

"Why not?"

"On the count of three. One – two – THREE!"

I protected my eyes from the blue flash. Scabbers' squeaks stopped, but Ron yelled.

Something hit the floor.

A strange sound filled the room. I looked through my fingers.

Tumbling on the floor, the small grey mass sprouted a hand. Then another. They grew into arms, then a pair of legs followed. It grew, though the head took its time. Wispy hair grew out of the man's scalp; clothes took form slowly.

Crookshanks hissed when, at last, a man dropped to his knees. Head bowed, hands automatically joined as in prayer.

Time had not been kind to Peter Pettigrew. I was not sure if he'd looked like this all his life, but he bore a striking resemblance to the ugliest of rats one could imagine. His watery blue eyes darted to the door, at us, then back to the door again.

Lupin's arm fell. He looked like he wanted to vomit. And yet, his voice was pleasant, strong, as he addressed Peter.

"Well, hello, Peter. Long time, no see."

"Sirius... Re–Remus..." Pettigrew's voice was worse than Black's. Black had spoken every once in a while, in Azkaban; eleven years posing as a rat did not give Pettigrew such opportunity. "My friends... my old friends..."

Black raised his wand, but Professor Lupin seized his wrist with a warning look.

"We've been having a little chat, Peter—about what happened the night Lily and James died." Peter flinched. "You might have missed the finer points while you were squeaking around down there on the bed—"

Pettigrew gasped. "Remus—you don't believe him, do you? He—he tried to kill me, Remus—"

Remus raised his hand. "So we've heard. I'd like to clear up one or two little matters with you, Peter, if you'll be so—"

"He's come to try and kill me again!" Peter squeaked suddenly, pointing his middle finger at Black. "He killed Lily and James and now he's going to kill me too... You've got to help me, Remus..."

"You're saying I killed Cassiopeia, too?"

Black's face looked more skull-like than ever as he stared at Pettigrew with his fathomless eyes.

Peter swallowed. "I—"

"Let me take a guess: I have dark powers the rest can dream of. Tricks taught to me by Voldemort as his most loyal follower."

"Sirius—"

"But first, I sacrificed my sister. Gave her up before he set off to kill Lily and James." He rolled my eyes. "Like I haven't heard that before, but tell me, Peter—why did my sister run to the Potters instead of asking for help? I'll tell you why." His eyes glinted maliciously. "Because she thought she could help you. Because if the Potters didn't die, then you still could redeem yourself. But that didn't happen, Peter. They all died—and so will you."

He ran at him. Pettigrew scrambled to his feet and ran behind the piano, but the other end was blocked by Lupin. The man's eyes glinted gold.

"It was you." The voice was guttural. "You sold James and Lily to Voldemort. And blamed it on Sirius."

Pettigrew burst into tears.

"Remus, Sirius, what could I have done? The Dark Lord... you have no idea... he has weapons you can't imagine... I was scared, Sirius, I was never brave like you and Cass and Remus and James. I never meant it to happen... He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me—"

"DON'T LIE," Black yelled. "YOU'D BEEN PASSING INFORMATION TO HIM FOR A YEAR BEFORE LILY, JAMES, AND CASS DIED! YOU WERE HIS SPY!"

"He–he was taking over everything! Wh–what was there to be gained by refusing him?"

"What was there to be gained by fighting the most fucked-up wizard who has ever existed?" Sirius exclaimed.

"You don't understand! I didn't mean to," he whimpered. "I didn't mean to! The Dark Lord—you have no idea the weapons he possesses! Ask yourself what you would have done, Sirius. What would you have done?"

"Died, Peter," said Black flatly. "I would've died rather than betray my friends. Instead, my sister took my place. Because that was it, wasn't it? Cassiopeia wasn't meant to die alongside them. It was me. But I was too late. You failed. You failed on all accounts. Voldemort's lot isn't very happy with you, are they? I've heard them screaming all sorts of things in their sleep. Sounds like they think the double-crosser double-crossed them. Voldemort went to the Potters' on your information... and Voldemort met his downfall there. And not all Voldemort's supporters ended up in Azkaban, did they? There are still plenty out here, biding their time, pretending they've seen the error of their ways. If they ever got wind that you were still alive, Peter..." He chuckled. "Well, they won't."

A beat.

"I never meant for Cassiopeia to die," said Peter on a whisper.

"It doesn't excuse what you did."

He turned around. I continued.

"Black is right. You could've been redeemed. But you didn't try to stop it at all. You ran. You've been running for twelve years. That stops today."

"Anya," said Peter. "Look at you." Tears ran down his face freely. "Look how much you've grown."

He moved in my direction, but Harry intercepted him.

"Don't look at her," he snapped. "Look at me. People say I look like James Potter. And that I've got my mother's eyes. Is that right, Peter? Do I look like them? Can you see them in me? What about her? Does Anya look anything like Cassiopeia Black? Because you should. You should see them in us. You should be on your knees begging us for our forgiveness." I couldn't see Harry's face. I wanted to. I needed to see instead of guessing how he was feeling right now. "How I wish you could hear them in their last moments. Because I remember, Peter Pettigrew. The first one to die was Cassie Barton as she yelled at my dad to run. Then it was him, blocking the stairs as mom ran to my bedroom with me in her arms. And then Voldemort told her to move. To step aside. But she didn't, and they both died. I can still hear their screams."

"Shut up," Peter cried. He covered his ears. "I don't want to know! I don't want to know!"

Black growled. "You will." He hauled Pettigrew to a stand. "Listen, you coward. Because that's our penance. Our friends died because of us—their children are orphans because of us. Grow a spine and look them in the eye!" He shook him.

"Stop!" said Hermione. "Just... just stop. Please."

I followed her gaze. Lupin was crying heavily, in silence. I wiped the tears off my eyes.

"Harry, that's enough," I muttered.

Harry didn't move at first. Then he nodded.

"You should have realized," Lupin said quietly, "if Voldemort didn't kill you, we would." He rolled up his sleeves. "I assume you didn't tell me any of this at the time because you suspected I was the spy, Sirius."

"Forgive me, Remus," Black said.

"Not at all, Padfoot, old friend. And will you, in turn, forgive me for believing you were the spy?"

"Of course," Black said, and the ghost of a grin flitted across his gaunt face. He, too, rolled up his sleeves. "Shall we kill him together?"

"Yes, I think so," Lupin said grimly.

"You wouldn't... you won't..." Pettigrew gasped. And he scrambled around to Ron. "Ron... haven't I been a good friend... a good pet? You won't let them kill me, Ron, will you... you're on my side, aren't you?"

But Ron was staring at Pettigrew with the utmost revulsion.

"I let you sleep in my bed!" he said. "You slept in my Percy's bed, too!"

"Kind boy... kind master..." Pettigrew crawled toward Ron, "you won't let them do it... I was your rat... I was a good pet..."

"If you made a better rat than a human, it's not much to boast about, Peter," Black said harshly.

Ron, paling with pain, wrenched his broken leg out of Pettigrew's reach. Pettigrew turned on his knees, staggered forward, and seized the hem of Hermione's robes.

"Sweet girl... clever girl... you—you won't let them... help me..."

Hermione pulled her robes out of Pettigrew's clutching hands and backed away against the wall, looking horrified.

Pettigrew was running out of ideas. His eyes inevitably fell on me, and he began to crawl my way. Harry, still in front of me, pushed me back.

"Anya, please. I'm your godfather. I never intended for this to happen—I never-never wanted what happened to Cassiopeia!"

"She loved you," I said. He stopped short. I got so nervous I clutched Harry's shoulder. "Everyone has it wrong. She didn't go to the Potters because of her obsession with James Potter. She wanted to save you. I don't blame her if she didn't understand, but I do. She couldn't give love a proper name because she'd never been loved. But you were her best friend. And if you're right—if I'm anything like her—then it means she would've sold her soul to the devil." I sighed. "She loved you more than she ever loved me."

"That's not true." He was shaking his head. Denial, perhaps?

Harry looked down at him.

"You can't kill him," he said quietly. He turned to face Black and Lupin. "You can't."

"Harry, this piece of vermin is the reason you have no parents," said Black, pointing a finger at Peter. "This cringing bit of filth would have seen you die too, without turning a hair. You heard him. His own stinking skin meant more to him than your whole family."

"I know," Harry said. "We'll take him up to the castle. We'll hand him over to the dementors... He can go to Azkaban... but don't kill him."

"Harry!" Pettigrew squeaked, flinging his arms around Harry's knees. "You—thank you—it's more than I deserve—thank you—"

"Get off me," said Harry, looking disgusted. He threw Pettigrew's hands off him. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it because—I don't reckon my dad would've wanted them to become killers—just for you."

Black and Lupin slowly lowered their wands and looked at each other.

"I don't know if I should kiss you or slap you for this," I muttered in his ear.

"Refrain from doing either," he muttered back. "I still have half-a-mind of chucking him to the dementors myself."

"You're the only person who has the right to decide, Harry," said Black. "But think... think what he did..."

"He can go to Azkaban," Harry repeated firmly. "If anyone deserves that place, he does."

"Very well," Lupin said. "Stand aside, Harry."

Harry hesitated and Lupin had to clarify he was only going to tie him up.

"But if you transform, Peter, we will kill you," Sirius growled at Pettigrew. "You agree, Harry?"

Harry looked down at Pettigrew and nodded.

"Right," Lupin said. "Ron, I can't mend bones nearly as well as Madam Pomfrey, so I think it's best if we just strap your leg up until we can get you to the hospital wing."

He went over to Ron and tapped his leg with his wand, muttering, "Ferula." Bandages wrapped around Ron's leg around a splint.

"That's better," the redhead breathed. "Thanks."

"What about Professor Snape?" said Hermione in a small voice, looking down at Snape's prone figure.

I made a face. "Leave him. Let the wolves come and eat him alive—no offense," I said quickly to Lupin.

Black let out a bark-like laugh. Lupin was not amused. "None taken," he said dryly. He bent down and checked Snape's pulse. "There's nothing seriously wrong with him. You were just a little... overenthusiastic. Still out cold. Err—perhaps it will be best if we don't revive him until we're safely back in the castle. We can take him like this..."

He muttered "Mobilicorpus." As though invisible strings were tied to Snape's wrists, neck, and knees, he was pulled into a standing position, head still lolling unpleasantly, like a grotesque puppet. He hung a few inches above the ground, his limp feet dangling.

Lupin picked up the Invisibility Cloak and tucked it safely into his pocket.

"And two of us should be chained to this," said Black, nudging Pettigrew with his toe. "Just to make sure."

"I'll do it," said Lupin.

"And me," said Ron savagely, limping forward.

No one argued. Lupin and Ron each tied their hands on one of Pettigrew's, and once they were sure they were tight, we walked out of the room, Crookshanks in the lead.