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Peter Pettigrew is eleven-years-old and standing in a crowd of other children, vaguely aware that his shoelaces are pooling around his right foot, waiting for his name to called and his future to be decided. Already he knows he is unexceptional (years of attending a muggle primary school having firmly driven this truth home to him) and yet as “Lupin, Remus” approaches the tiny stool and jams the hat firmly over his head Peter realises that he is still hoping to be recognised as extraordinary. Perhaps the muggles have been wrong about him. It’s possible, though unlikely, that, though he has never managed to master the division of remainders and was never entirely sure which of the funny shaped countries was Norway, he has the potential to be a great wizard after all. There’s nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can’t see. If there is a sparkle of genius within him it will know. Peter hopes there is.
The hat shouts “GRYFFINDOR” and Lupin, Remus, smiling more broadly than his thin face can surely accommodate, removes the dusty hat from his head and takes his place, next to a girl with bunches and a slightly nervous smile, at the Gryffindor table.
As “Mainard, Patricia” is pushes her way warily through the crowd of students Peter allows himself to imagine lifting the hat off his head, hearing the word “GRYFFINDOR” still ringing in air as it did for Lupin and the cheers from the red and gold table. He would perhaps take the empty seat next to the scowling dark-haired boy, first to be sorted and with the look of displaced royalty about him, just to show how brave he was.
“Hello, I’m Peter Pettigrew.”
The boy smiles, properly, warmly, thank you for coming over to sit with me. “I’m-”
“RAVENCLAW!”
Not that Ravenclaw would be too bad, Peter thinks. He’s always liked languages. Perhaps that is his hidden gift that will extend to cover spell work and earn him a blue and bronze tie and a place among Hogwarts’ brightest. Perhaps… after all, all things are possible, but Peter knows he is not Ravenclaw material; not really.
Two more students are sorted: both of them take places at the Hufflepuff table and Peter tries to be excited at the thought of sitting next to that sea of smiling faces because he knows that’s where he belongs. In with the good hearted but not especially… anything.
“Pettigrew, Peter.”
Peter starts and then moves forward slightly. A boy to his left grins at him and mouths “good luck,” Peter nods, hoping this is a suitable answer and starts walking. Carefully, so as not to trip over the shoelaces that trail behind him still, he advances towards the hat, picks it up and sits down on the stool. The hat feels slightly warm in his hands and Peter spares a moment to wonder what it’s made of and whether it’s entirely wise to put a strange magical object onto one’s head even if instructed to do so by a teacher before disappearing into the blackness of its insides. It smells of leather (which answers one of his questions immediately) and thirty different first-day-at-school-look-your-best shampoo scents.
There is a moment of silence in which the noise of the watching houses dims to nothing and Peter wonders whether this is all an elaborate joke before the hat says “ah, another interesting one” in his ear.
Peter jumps and the voice that is the hat laughs softly and says “don’t worry; everybody jumps, some are just better at hiding it than you. It’s not a bad thing.”
“Thank you… er… sir,” Peter thinks back, hearing the word “interesting” repeating itself triumphantly in his ears and trying to squash it back down before the hat laughs at him again.
Another, slightly quieter chuckle comes from the hat and it says “I won’t laugh at you I promise.”
“You are now,” Peter points out, silently. “I thought you didn’t lie.”
“Then you were misinformed,” the hat replies and Peter can almost hear it smiling. “I merely make sure you can’t. But you’re right in a sense: I am being unfair; dangling the word interesting in front of you was especially cruel given the circumstances.”
Peter’s heart gives a painful leap and he tries to make his mental voice sound calm: “What do you mean?”
“That you are an interesting case.”
“Not an interesting person?” Peter thinks before he can stop himself.
“No. I did not mean that,” the hat informs him gently and Peter feels something die inside him. “But,” it continues, “you have the potential to be interesting in the future and, for now, you are, at least, an interesting case.”
“What do you mean?” Peter asks again, wishing he could think of something more interesting to say.
“Well, most people - take Mr Potter for example, he was the one who wished you good luck as you stepped up - most people clearly belong in one house. I’m sure Mr Potter won’t mind if I tell you now that, even without looking inside his thoughts properly, I know he’s headed for Gryffindor. Most people are like this but, strangely, this year he is the only male Gryffindor for which the choice is that easy. Mr Black and Mr Lupin were very difficult to place and it seems you will prove to be even more problematic which is very exciting. Do you see? A very interesting case.”
“Er… yer,” Peter says, not seeing at all. “Good. Glad to be interesting.”
The hat laughs. “You’re lying to me, but that’s only to be expected. I like difficult choices. Mr Potter is a very interesting person, I’m sure you will like him a lot, but the choice I have to make about him will take a few moments. Which house would you like to be in?”
Peter considers this, adjusting slowly to the rapid change of topic, and eventually offers: “Which is better?”
“They all have their merits,” the hat answers evasively. “Perhaps you mean ‘in which would I do better?’ and in that case I would have to ask you ‘what is important to you’? Academically you would do well in Slytherin, far better, in fact, than in any of the other houses, even Ravenclaw, for Slytherin would drive you to compete.”
“What about Gryffindor?” Peter ventures, having already dismissed Hufflepuff and, to a lesser extent, Ravenclaw.
“You will not do well academically in Gryffindor,” the hat replies thoughtfully. “You need to work to achieve your potential and Gryffindor will distract you, however, it is a good choice. GRYFFINDOR!”
The last word is shouted and Peter rises giddily, taking off the hat and handing it to “Potter, James” who winks at him as he passes. Peter has almost reached Gryffindor table before his traitorous laces trip him up and he stumbles, falling to the floor in front of a very expensive pair of dark leather shoes.
Sirius Black stares down malevolently at him, but does not help him up. Flushing furiously Peter pushes himself to his feet and takes a seat next to Black before any one else notices.
“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouts again and the table bursts into applause, Peter joining in a second too late. Black is applauding too but only half heartedly and Peter remembers his vision.
He smiles and turns in his seat.
He manages “Hello-” before Black snaps “piss off,” effectively making the rest of his sentence obsolete.
“Right…” Peter says (his courage deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a golf club) standing up at moving to sit next to Remus Lupin who is still smiling, though with slightly more restraint now, and doesn’t look like his going to snap obscenities at anyone in the near future.
“Hi,” Peter says, nervously just in case appearances are deceiving.
“Hi,” Lupin begins before he is interrupted by a flurry of movement and noise and the arrival of James Potter, who takes his place loudly next to Peter and claps him on the shoulders, smiling like a maniac. “Hello,” he says happily. “I’m James, who are you? You were under the hat a very long time. I thought maybe it had gone to sleep or something.” He looks at Lupin and beams again. “So were you. Lupin, right?” Lupin opens his mouth but James’ enthusiasm will not be stopped. “What did it say?” he continues. “I was under there long enough for it to say “hello James. Good luck” and then bam “Gryffindor!””
Peter smiles back: James’ good humour is infectious (Lupin is laughing too) and he has ended up in a house full of interesting people even if one of them seems to hate everyone.
He takes James’ offered hand, grinning slightly at the formality after the babble of conversation. “Peter Pettigrew.”
*
Peter Pettigrew is twelve years old and pretending not to listen as Sirius Black continues to rant about he hates liars more than everything else in the world. He is supposed to be doing his potions assignment (three feet about the various uses of dragon skin will not write itself and he will be in trouble if another essay fails to appear on Rowley’s desk) but Sirius has just entered his third hour of shouting and is really quite hard to ignore.
“Did he think we wouldn’t be able to handle it?” Sirius demands of James who, unlike Peter, has managed to write at least two feet in his crabby handwriting despite his friend’s best efforts to distract him.
“You aren’t handling it,” James points out, with a wisdom far beyond his twelve years and, Peter thinks, a slight death wish.
“I could handle the truth!” Sirius insists vehemently. “If he’d just come up to me one day and said ‘Oh by the way Sirius, I forgot to mention it, but I’m a werewolf. Do you mind?” then I wouldn’t care but it’s the lying that gets to me. And from Remus who, last week, couldn’t so much as tell McGonagall his homework had been accidentally ingested by a niffler. It’s ridiculous.”
He turns and paces angrily across their dormitory, launching back into a description of how he has been lied to all his life and how he thought at Hogwarts things would be different.
Peter feels something brush against his sleeve and looks down to see a delicate origami stag butting itself against his arm. Opening it he reads “I’ll hold him back: You go and find Remus. I’ll help you with potions when you get back. ~James.”
“I don’t even mind werewolves!” Sirius shouts, kicking something inanimate and probably largely inoffensive. “I’m sure they’re-”
Peter darts a grateful look at James and scurries out of the room before Sirius notices. The door slams shut and Peter leans against it and thinks, the sounds of Sirius’ tirade still penetrating the thick, old wood.
If I were a newly discovered werewolf where would I be? he thinks as Sirius shouts: “And now Peter’s gone! Well that’s just great.”
Dead, his mind supplies rather morbidly. Or in a silver cage somewhere.
He shakes himself and reconsiders. If I were Remus where would I be?
This question is far easier to answer and Peter trots down the stairs, through the common room and towards the library where Remus is undoubtedly hiding behind stacks of very large, very old, excessively boring books.
Removed from Sirius’ rather penetrating viewpoint Peter examines his own feelings about Remus, Remus being a werewolf and werewolves in general. As a wizard born he has, of course, heard the same stories Sirius and James have about werewolves, stories that used to terrify him as a child until his mother threatened to lock his older brother in his room for a month if he didn’t stop it at once. The most frightening thing about werewolves Peter knows is that they can be anyone and it’s impossible to tell unless by chance you are out walking with one beneath the moonlight when its suddenly, fairly obvious. Despite this knowledge however he has trouble accepting that quiet, pale Remus Lupin is a werewolf. He always hands his homework in on time; he laughs at Sirius’ jokes and cheers James on during Quidditch matches. It just doesn’t fit inside Peter’s view of the world. Except that, of course, it has to because Sirius has created a calendar that shows clearly how every time Remus leaves to visit his sick mother, goes on holiday or comes down with the flu or leprosy or whatever it is this month, it just happens to be full moon.
Peter hadn’t believed him at first, which was unexpected because Peter rarely disagrees with either Sirius or James. Not only because he wants them to like him but because they are usually right and it’s only sensible to agree. On this occasion, however, Peter knows that if Remus is openly accused of being a werewolf Remus’ life as he knows it will end - werewolves do not mix with normal people – so, for the first time ever, he challenged his friends. It wasn’t true, couldn’t be true; Remus was a normal person.
But, once again, he had been proved wrong. Sirius had demanded the truth from Remus who had grudgingly given it and the shouting had begun. Some time after the first hour Remus had escaped and now two hours after that Peter enters the library and finds Remus hiding behind a stack of very large, very old, probably extremely boring books.
“Hi,” he says, twisting his hands in his robes.
Remus looks up and favours him with a wane smile in this time of crisis. “Hi Peter.”
“I’ve,” been sent to find you, “Come to find to you.”
Remus laughs, slightly. “Well… you have.” He looks up at Peter. “Sit down, if you want.”
Peter sits and fiddles with his robes some more; Remus watches him with thoughtful eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Peter says suddenly, not realising he is going to speak until he does, vaguely registering that the words coming out of his mouth are Sirius’. Do he and Sirius feel the same way or has Sirius just shouted so much that Peter has no choice but to feel the same way? “I- we’re your friends. You could have told us and we would have understood.”
“Would you?” Remus asks.
Peter is too young and too inexperienced to register this as the hypothetical question it is so he merely blusters some more. “Yes! I mean… it’s a shock, obviously, but you’re still the same person even if you’re a… you know-”
“Yes… I was a werewolf before you found out as well,” Remus remarks and the odd, slightly cruel emphasis on the word ‘werewolf’, almost an accusation, makes Peter look up and directly at his friend. There is fear written large all over Remus’ face. Now Peter looks more closely he can see fear in each of Remus’ movements, the way his fingers slide repeatedly over ‘Magical Advancements in the Eighteenth Century’ as if stroking the book; the way the lines around his eyes seem even more pronounced than ever; the way he sits entirely still as if… waiting for a verdict.
Remus is afraid they are going to abandon him, Peter realises, or worse: afraid they’re going to have him killed or put in a silver cage, which is, after all, the rational course of action. Werewolves are dangerous creatures who should be restrained; the whole school is at danger, simply because Remus attends its classes and is a werewolf. He, Peter, is in danger, simply because Remus is a werewolf.
Peter thinks briefly and decides upon a course of action that is either very brave or very stupid.
“I am afraid of werewolves,” he states, shakily. “I have always been afraid of werewolves, the same way I am afraid of banshees and dragons… and Sirius sometimes and McGonagall when I haven’t done my homework and my mother and-” he stops realising they will be here all day if he lists everything he is afraid of. Some Gryffindor you are, a voice in the back of his mind points out maliciously. Afraid of your own shadow, are you?
“But I’m not afraid of you,” Peter decides firmly, ignoring the voice. “I don’t care that you’re a werewolf. I’m not saying it doesn’t matter but I won’t go out on the full moon and I still want you to be my friend and help me in transfiguration so McGonagall won’t be mad at me and James thinks so too, except about the transfiguration because he doesn’t need help and I think that Sirius doesn’t really care either he’s just really confused and likes shouting at people.”
Remus is silent and Peter finishes lamely. “At least that’s what I think. I could be wrong… I usually am.”
There is more ominous silence and then Remus says: “Is he still shouting?”
This is not how he expected it to go but Peter nods anyway and offers: “He’d started kicking things as I left.”
Remus grins slightly. “Well, we’d better get up there before he breaks something.”
“Like his foot,” Peter offers, smiling back.
Remus laughs. “Come on.”
*
Peter Pettigrew is fifteen and new baptised. After three years of research, experimental potions that turned his ears green and being thrown out of the library more times than he cares to remember they have finally done it: He, James and Sirius can now each turn into an animal at will and whilst the initial elation still hung in the air Sirius bouncing with doggy joy had declared they all needed new names and that he was the man to provide them. Peter had been rather fond of the name “Ratty” for himself (‘The Wind in the Willows’ resurfacing unexpectedly from his childhood) but Sirius pooh-poohed it as too freaking obvious and has christened him Wormtail, which, Peter reflects, is at least better than the name he has saddled Remus with. He wonders briefly whether Sirius intended the absurd connotations attached to ‘Moony’ and decides with a grin and a memory of Sirius’ own, widely wicked, that he did. James is Prongs (and occasionally ‘fork-head’ because, as long as people are still laughing with him, Sirius will continue to mock everyone even his best friend) and Sirius is Padfoot after James rejected ‘Claw’ as just plain ridiculous.
Tonight is full moon and the first they will share with Remus in their animagus forms. James is pretending to practice transfiguring his quill in a muggle biro but has so far only succeeded in turning it blue whilst Sirius twitches in the window seat, anxious to be going. Peter is trying not to think about the fully grown werewolf they will find down in the Shrieking Shack (which he still can’t quite believe isn’t haunted despite Remus’ assurances to the contrary) and playing exploding snap with himself.
The clock on his bedside begins to chime and Sirius darts to his feet. “Time to go,” he whispers, as if afraid of being over heard.
It’s instinct, Peter thinks, as the three of them stumble quietly down the corridors hidden beneath James’ invisibility cloak, the smell of the stuff James uses in a desperate and largely futile effort to control his hair and Sirius’ expensive family aftershave strong in his nose. For the first time ever they are going to be attempting something not only extremely dangerous (which happens on a regular basis) but also something highly illegal. The Ministry of Magic has reasons for decreeing that werewolves be locked up on the night of the full moon; it also has reasons for ordering that all animagi register before even considering the transformation. No wonder Sirius feels he has to whisper even in their dormitory. The idea of being caught doing what they are going to try to do is almost as terrifying as the thought of the werewolf that awaits them.
At last they reach the grounds, then, from there, the Whomping Willow, which swishes disapprovingly as if it knows why they have come.
“Wormtail” Sirius says: an invitation that implies “you first.”
Peter nods, surprised at this honour, and changes: the black and grey world of the rat coming sharply into focus revealing with it an enormous object that, on closer inspection, proves to be James’ foot.
He squeaks at it and James laughs a brief thunder storm before changing himself: delicate hooves pawing the ground where his crumbling school shoes had stood previously. Another moment later and Sirius too has shifted forms, and skips around with excitement. Wormtail presses himself as close to the ground as possible in order to be spared the horror of crushing beneath pad feet but Sirius bounds towards his hiding place relentlessly and nudges him towards the tunnel entrance, leaving a giant lick of encouragement clinging to his fur in a huge smear of doggy saliva. Peter makes a mental note to ask Sirius never to do that again once he’s regained his own vocal cords and makes his way, damply, towards the knot that will freeze the tree and let them enter the tunnel where Moony paces.
*
Wormtail is seventeen and beginning to feel very lonely. After six years of shouting matches, thrown hair brushes and disapproving glares Lily Evans has finally realised that she likes James Potter after all. Prongs, who has known he and Lily are going to be together for the rest of their lives since he first laid eyes on her, eleven-years-old and scowling because she’d just found chewing-gum in her hair, has spent the last year being blissfully and somewhat dazedly happy in Lily’s, now welcoming, arms. Padfoot pouted for a while, the loss of one’s best friend even to the woman he loves is never easy to bear, but fortunately for him Lily’s conversion happened only weeks before Moony’s.
Wormtail thinks, sometimes, that sending Snape down to the willow was the best idea Padfoot has ever had. Not only because the notion of Snivellus consumed by an extremely angry dark beast grows more attractive by the day – Peter found himself falling down the stairs this morning, Slytherin laughter following him to the bottom – but mainly because the months Remus refused to speak to Sirius because he was a worthless stupid thoughtless stupid –you said stupid already – thoughtless arrogant twat were some of the best of his life. And he knows that it’s wrong, and that he should have wanted to help them to reconcile rather than simply helping out because James asked him too, but Wormtail has learnt by now that you can’t change what you want. Surely if you could Prongs would have stopped wanting not to be drenched in coffee and just accepted it and Moony would stop wanting not to be a werewolf any more and for Padfoot never to have sent Severus Snape through the tunnel without thinking it through at least a little.
Wormtail, for his own part, has never stopped wanting to be extraordinary, to be marked out. He knows that, in a way, he is marked out in that his friends are who they are: each one more extraordinary than the last but this is not enough, could never be enough. Will never be enough. Remus pointed out to him once, in the blissful two month gap that they were best friends, that he was good at lots of things (chess in particular, astronomy, history of magic) and then when this failed to make any impression (Sirius, for example, was better at all three) added that, assuming the records were correct and that they were the only three unregistered animagi out there (unlikely but possible) he was the youngest animagus ever (three months younger than Sirius; six younger than James) which was extremely impressive for anyone. Or at least it would be, Peter had thought, if Sirius and James, in their friendly vying for supremacy, hadn’t done almost all the research, almost all the transfiguration and almost all the charm work between them, leaving him to follow as best he could.
That he succeeded at all was more an effort of will than of talent. He wouldn’t allow the three of them to go on moonlit adventures without him, it just wasn’t fair and he wasn’t going to be left behind. Then, finally, he’d done it and Sirius, who he thought would tease him mercilessly for most resembling a rat, had engulfed him in a giant hug and almost danced around the room.
Not that it matters now. They have one more full moon before the NEWTs and then school will be over: Sirius and James will go off to be aurors, Remus will go with Sirius and Peter will go wherever his average grades allow him to go.
He frowns again at his History of Magic textbook until the words no longer make any kind of sense and casts it aside. They have finally progressed to wizarding wars (all three thousand and fifty two goblin wars well and truly covered by sixth year) but the text is still as dry as ever and it is a relief to emerge from the stuffy archaic world of history and into the stuffy June air of their dormitory.
On the bed next to him Remus is losing magnificently at chess to a triumphant Sirius. Peter inspects the board and finds that once again Remus has left the right side of the board wide open; with a fond sigh he abandons his revision completely and trots over to rescue Moony’s King from certain disaster.
*
Wormtail is twenty-years-old and about to die. He wonders bitterly why he even signed up for the stupid Order of the Phoenix (he signed up because he wanted to be a hero and because James and Sirius and Remus were all going to join too, but faced with a wand a foot from his face Peter finds it hard to remember these simple facts). He hopes it was worth it: signing up and life in general, because it’s all about to end - in a bright green flash if he’s lucky or after hours of torment, the flesh slowly removed from his body if he isn’t. As he is escorted into the presence of Voldemort himself, Peter has the strong feeling that luck is not with him today. He prepares himself for the months of excruciating pain that are about to come and steps forward towards the tasteful throne-like chair in the centre of the room, on which Lord Voldemort reclines gracefully.
The Dark Lord is a deceptively handsome man of about fifty years of age. His hair is still dark and his skin is still smooth and pale except around his eyes where not even magic or natural good looks can conceal the deep lines left there by anxiety or laughter, Peter cannot decide which. There is an almost welcoming smile on his face, though after years of practice Wormtail can see the mockery behind it and he twirls his wand in the fingers of his hand with casual arrogance. He looks, Peter thinks, like Sirius will look in thirty years. They could even be related, he realises. After all, Sirius is as pure-blooded as they come.
“Peter Pettigrew,” Voldemort declares in a dark, rich voice like Remus’ favourite chocolate, rising from his chair and crossing the short expanse of stone between the two of them. He takes Wormtail’s hand in his and shakes it amiably, reminding Peter now, of a younger Dumbledore, composed of shadows rather than fire. His green eyes twinkle in the same way the headmaster’s blue ones do whenever somebody lives up to his expectations or makes him a cup of tea without being asked. “It is an honour to meet you.”
Whatever Wormtail had been expecting it wasn’t this. Though, he supposes, as Voldemort withdraws his hand and awaits his answer, he should have done. Voldemort has a gift for deceit, he reminds himself. He kills people for fun. This is not a nice man. And he is a liar.
Wormtail smiles rather wanly and decides to stick to the truth rather than lie in a pathetic attempt to convince the Dark Lord that he too has been anxiously awaiting this visit. “I doubt that.”
Voldemort laughs, as if they are old friends and Peter has just told a mildly amusing joke. “Ah, but that is where you are mistaken for you see I have been expecting you for the last two years. You’re very late but I am willing to forgive your rudeness in these special circumstances.”
Peter has no idea what is going on but decides he probably wouldn’t like it if he did. “Are you going to kill me or not?” he says, feeling ridiculously brave and reasonably foolish.
“That depends,” Voldemort answers, returning to his throne and fingering the antique wood lovingly. There are snakes carved into the wood and as Peter watches one of them starts moving, rubbing itself against the Dark Lord’s hand like a pet cat, and he realises the snakes are not carvings but real snakes, curving around the arm rests. “The choice is really up to you. Do you want to die?”
But Peter is no longer twelve and by now has learnt the meaning of hypothetical questions. “I will never betray my friends,” he declares with more certainty than he feels. “I would rather die.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Voldemort counters languidly, stroking the nearest snake which winds round his arm. “Please don’t lie to me Peter: it only wastes time and mine at least is extremely valuable.” He pauses as though lost in contemplation though his eyes watch his captive keenly and betray no hint of the thought process at all. “Those are not your sentiments,” he declares eventually. Peter splutters. “You would like them to be,” Voldemort continues, “which is more admirable perhaps than if you were bred to them, but there is no escaping the truth: that they are James Potter’s statements of foolish bravery, shared, of course by Mr Black, Mr Lupin and dear old Dumbledore.” He smiles. “But not by you. You fear death and when the time comes, as it has done so today, you will try to escape it, which is very sensible. I too fear death. Even Albus Dumbledore fears death, which is not to say that he would not sacrifice himself like the heroic Mr Potter, for you must be sure that he would, but he understands what you and I understand: there is not coming back from death. It is the end of everything.” He smiles again: sharing another private joke with himself and quotes: “The undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns.”
“Hamlet,” Peter says, surprising himself and the Dark Lord equally, who laughs and rises again: restless like a caged animal.
“Well, well Mr Pettigrew: it appears you have hidden depths after all… how extraordinary.”
Peter knows that Voldemort is a proficient legilimens, possibly the most proficient there has ever been, and that he must know now that Peter only recognises Shakespeare because Remus kept presenting him with books at Christmas despite Peter never stating a particular preference for reading, one of which was the complete works of Shakespeare: a book that took him an entire year to finish but which he had finished (the same can not be said for Sirius who’s copy of The Hobbit remains stubbornly un-read) and discussed at length with Moony, who was delighted to find someone who appreciated Hamlet and Othello, with the obvious exception of Dumbledore who was so rarely available for talks on books any more.
Peter knows that now Voldemort will know that he knows that his mind is being read and decides in a moment of brilliance to concentrate on Shakespeare so he will not reveal anything that shouldn’t be revealed.
He is not surprised when Voldemort laughs and murmurs “touché,” and pride at his outwitting the dark lord wells within him as he watches the man resume his place on the throne and tap his fingers agitatedly against the arm rest.
“I have enjoyed our meeting today,” he says at length. “I hope that this occasion will be repeated and that you will come to see me again in more pleasant circumstances.”
Something very strange is going on and Peter frowns and says: “You’re going to let me go?”
Voldemort looks shocked. “Of course,” he says, as if they are not on opposing sides of a war; as if people are not being slaughtered every day; as if Peter has been invited round for tea and scones and has suddenly asked whether he will be allowed to leave. “I have no reason to keep you here, besides your excellent literary taste which I fear is not shared widely within my congregation. You are an extraordinary man, Mr Pettigrew, capable of more than you are at the moment, to be sure, but extraordinary none the less.” He smiles, rises again (the entire meeting seems to be punctuated by him sitting and pacing and smiling) and shakes Peter’s hand as warmly as before. “I look forward to our next meeting.”
And with that Peter is ushered out of the Dark Lord’s presence: the word ‘extraordinary’ ringing disconcertingly in his ears.
*
Peter Pettigrew is twenty-one and has stopped thinking of himself as Wormtail now that an angry snake curls round a skull on his forearm, which burns darkly every time the Dark Lord summons him to talk about Richard II or Dumbledore’s new and increasingly desperate strategies. It continually amazes Peter that nobody has realised he has been ‘going to visit his mother’ almost once a week for almost eleven months, when just last year he only returned home for Christmas and his own birthday, but, he thinks, it took brilliant Sirius Black over a year to realise Moony was a werewolf and Peter’s treachery (for that is what it is) is, if possible, even more unlikely.
Last week Sirius arrived unexpectedly at Peter’s door at midnight, bleary-eyed and reeking of something unpleasant, under the pretence of being unable to apparate back to the home he shares with Moony (could he stay at Peter’s? Jus’ for the night, ov’course) and drunkenly confided over the black coffee Peter had poured him, that he is being to suspect that Remus is a Death Eater. Peter actually laughed at the absurdity of it all and Sirius had scowled and insisted it made sense: Remus hadn’t been home for the last week, was always tired when he was home and had actually shouted at Sirius on no fewer than five occasions in the last month. He didn’t want to believe it, almost couldn’t believe it, but information had to be getting through somehow and if the spy wasn’t him and it obviously wasn’t James whose family is still being hunted by Voldemort and it wasn’t Peter, of course it wasn’t Peter, who else could it be?
Peter had allowed his face to contort with horror, had allowed his mouth to squeak “Sirius… it can’t be… Remus? It just… can’t,” and Sirius, who Peter would have sworn knew practically everything there was to know, had banged his fist against the table dramatically, spilling coffee over the rug Remus had bought Peter two birthdays ago, and said “it can be, Wormtail! …‘s’only thing that makes sense” before falling unconscious onto Peter’s sofa.
Peter knows he should be insulted that Sirius refuses to think of him as anything more threatening than a year-old dog biscuit, but he cannot help exulting in the knowledge that he has finally outwitted not just Sirius Black, who despite promising he wouldn’t stay more than one night has slept in drunken misery in Peter’s sitting room for six, afraid or unwilling to go home, but all of his apparently extraordinary friends. Remus stopped him whilst out shopping just two days ago, wanting to know whether he’d seen Sirius and Peter, briefed by Sirius and his own sense of mischief, said he hadn’t seen Sirius for a month. Why? Peter asked. Hadn’t he been home? ‘No’, Remus frowns. ‘No, he hasn’t’ and Peter realises that, incredibly, Remus is wondering where Sirius can have been – whether it’s possible that Sirius Black who has apparently always hated his family and the darkness they represent, could be the spy they’re all searching for.
James has been over, too, undoubtedly summoned by Sirius’ pain and bringing tales of how he and Lily have moved again, but he does not turn to Peter and snarl “it’s because of you, isn’t it? You’ve told Him where we’re going” he just smiles wearily and tells his friends about the new curtains Mundungus Fletcher found for them on Tuesday and how Harry said “ball” yesterday whilst pointing at a spade.
*
Peter Pettigrew is terrified and about to betray the only people who have ever meant anything to him. The secret that would have kept James and his family out of Voldemort’s sight forever if only they had entrusted it to somebody who would protect it, glows warmly inside Peter like the feeling of a job well done as he contemplates his next move.
Sirius will be here in approximately three hours to check the Death Eaters have not seen through his ruse (nobody, he had explained patiently to Peter, will suspect you’re the secret keeper: they’ll all come after me. You just stay safe and everything will be OK) so there is very little time to decide. He knows that if he discloses the secret James will almost certainly die, along with Lily and Harry and then probably Dumbledore, Sirius, Remus and the rest of the Order. In fact everybody Peter has ever known will either be killed or tortured or sent into hiding and Peter does not need to examine his feelings closely to know that he does not want this.
But, pipes up the voice of self preservation that Peter has noticed becoming more forceful since he left school, consider the alternative: if Peter does what Sirius wants and stays where he is, Voldemort will find out eventually that Peter has betrayed him and then-
There can be no hiding. Dumbledore might conceal him, it’s true, but first Peter would have to admit who it was who has been listening and reporting back to the other side for over a year. Dumbledore might well have been willing to hide Lily and James, heroes of the resistance, but would he hide Peter Pettigrew, the traitor turned traitor again to his new cause?
No, Peter concludes, wretchedly. He’ll just insist on a new Secret Keeper so that the danger Peter poses will be eliminated. Even his friends, if they can still be called that, would leave him to the Death Eaters if they knew what he had already done assuming Remus manages to hold Sirius back long enough for Peter to escape that far.
So, there’s the alternative: death and the loathing of those you’ve died to protect. He thinks hopefully that perhaps James will successfully fight off the Dark Lord, after all hasn’t he escaped from him –what is it? – three times already? But he knows this is merely a feeble attempt to relieve himself of the inevitable guilt of betrayal. He tries to imagine a world without James – it is grim and dark – and then another without himself.
Peter checks his watch - it’s now only two hours until Sirius’ motorbike pulls up outside his house: he’ll have to hurry - and apparates.