The
Last Supper
By Gileonnen
____________________________________________________________________________________
Look at all my trials and tribulations
Sinking in a gentle pool of wine
Don't disturb me now I can see the answers
Till this evening is this morning life is fine
James smiled around at his friends as he poured the wine. "Let's
toast."
"To what?" Lily asked him, returning the
smile, and for an instant the current of love between them was nearly visible.
He was tempted to toast to her. It would be easy, a
salute to his precious wife, and everyone knew that he was hopelessly in love
with her, so they would accept it. But no. "I'd
like to toast our friendship. No matter what, we've stayed together, and even
in the face of this evil, we'll still be the fastest of friends."
Lily lifted her glass immediately. "To friendship – you're the best
friends I could ever have."
Sirius and Remus raised their own glasses as one.
"If this is the last dinner I ever eat with you, I want to say that I
couldn't imagine a life without all of you."
Remus gave him a chastising look for the
pessimistic statement, but did not comment. They all knew so well that Sirius
could be captured by Voldemort, tortured . . .
killed. Instead, he agreed, "I couldn't have made it through all those
years without everyone here. Thank you for being my friends through thick and
thin."
Peter simply brought his long, thin champagne flute up to clink against the
four glasses that were held poised above the table. "Friendship," he
whispered.
They brought the wine to their lips, sipping through good-humored grins.
Except for Pettigrew, who drained the slender glass in a swift gulp. He frowned, pouring himself another.
"Something wrong, Wormtail?" asked
Sirius.
"Well . . ." Peter began, but trailed off. His expression, worried
and furtive by nature, gave the impression that he teetered on the edge of some
horrible secret that begged to be revealed. "It's just that I'm so worried
for you!" he finally blurted out. "I'm not strong . . . not like you,
Sirius! What if I break?"
"It doesn't matter; they'll never come after you, Peter. You'll
be safe, and anyway, you're not the Secret-Keeper," Remus
reassured him, patting the other man's shoulder in what he hoped was a
comforting gesture. The truth was, he had never really
known how to treat 'Wormtail.' Especially
not in a state of distress.
Again, the perilous look crossed the ratlike face.
Peter toyed with the left sleeve of his robe. He said nothing, though.
"Let's not talk about that," Lily suggested. She hated concealing
things from Remus Lupin,
hated it especially because he was the only one at the table who did not know
their weighty secret. "This was supposed to be a night for
relaxation."
"Oh, for to tarry with me one night, and go home in the morning
early," laughed Sirius, quoting the Celtic folk-tune that he had heard
earlier and had not been able to get out of his head. "We'll make merry
tonight and scurry home before dawn so no one catches us."
"Drown our troubles in wine," agreed Peter, who was doing just
that. He probably wouldn't be able to make it home that night, if he drank much
more.
And that had been their last night together, really together.
Even with Peter. Remus shook his head, remembering
wistfully. Everything had seemed so simple and perfect . . . why had he
not seen what was really wrong?
Always hoped that I'd be an apostle
Knew that I would make it if I tried
Then when we retire we can write the gospels
So they'll still talk about us when we've died
Peter was the kind of boy who needed someone bigger to latch onto. There
were boys like that in every school, and as a general rule they were despised.
The lackeys and toadies of the world were seldom pitied, and never
respected. But Peter was one of the luckiest. He had attached himself to James
Potter and Sirius Black, who were good people to their core, and bestowed on
him a friendship that would have been denied in any other situation. Even
though he had never really been as close to them as the girl Lily, or Lupin, the werewolf, he had at least been treated as an equal,
and perhaps that should have meant something to him.
But the sad truth about all boys like him is that they don't know when
they're well off. True, Potter and Black were hailed as the most powerful boys
at Hogwarts, loved by most and even feared by a few. Voldemort,
however, represented power on a whole new level. Even being under the
Dark Lord was surely higher than being the equal of James and Sirius, wasn't
it?
The truth was, as Peter was coming to learn, it wasn't. He might have more
power, certainly, than they would have, but he lacked the one thing he had
craved in all his time with Voldemort, and in the
time he had spent as a pet rat, of all things! He would never be
respected, never be more than an underling. Peter felt a sick certainty that
there was nothing to be had as a servant of the Dark Lord but a life of
groveling and fear, a life as an apostle to some psycho's nightmare of Jesus.
Of course everything had blown up in his face. That was how things tended to
turn out when he tried to change the course of history. His new 'benefactor'
had died, or as good as, and after such a betrayal, his true friends would
never take him back. So he had muddled along, burying himself in lies that
everyone believed, honored with awards he had never deserved for a death he had
never died.
That was the worst part, in his mind: everyone thought he was a hero.
The end
Is just a little harder when brought about by friends
For all you care this wine could be my blood
For all you care this bread could be my body
The end!
This is my blood you drink
This is my body you eat
If you would remember me when you eat and drink
I must be mad thinking I'll be remembered – yes
I must be out of my head!
Look at your blank faces! My name will mean nothing
Ten minutes after I'm dead!
One of you denies me
One of you betrays me
Sirius ran under the light of the full moon in his canine form, remembering
in the sickened way that a survivor recalls a plane crash. Everything seemed so
chaotic when taken as a whole, a lot of screaming and suspicions and fear, all
wrapped up in the dead, dry sound of a Dementor's
breathing. But if he looked at the events individually, there was a kind of
shameful logic to the . . . crash of their happy lives.
Though there were many more important events that came before and
after it, his mind kept returning to the last meal they had shared. James and
Lily, side by side, holding hands under the table like teenagers all over
again, and then Pettigrew sitting alone at the foot of the table, with himself
and Remus across from the married couple. That was
how it had always been, with James and Lily together, Remus
together with him, and Peter all alone, relegated to the far end.
In retrospect, it should have been so obvious. The constant tugging on the
left sleeve – to keep the Dark Mark covered. His steady
drinking – guilt.
And, despite the hatred that ran through him like blood, like the wine had
on that last night, Sirius had to believe that Peter felt guilt or shame in
some forgotten part of his heart. Hadn't they befriended him when no one else
would, and at James' behest? Hadn't they protected him from the likes of Snape or that evil boy, Macnair?
Didn't that mean something, even to a Judas like Wormtail?
Or had he even cared? When he had told He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named exactly
where the Potters were hiding, had he been thinking solely of how his fellow
Death Eaters would praise him?
Had he simply betrayed the friends who had trusted him with their lives
and then gone on with his life? That was, somehow, the worst answer. To think
that it could mean so little to him, after everything, was more painful
than even imagining an eager Wormtail contemplating
the deaths as a way to advance.
Had the names 'James and Lily Potter' meant anything to him as the corpses
that bore those names slowly stiffened? "James and Lily Potter?
No, don't care a thing for them."
The thought of that denial seared in his very veins, boiling through
his taut muscles, and he gave in to a primal urge to howl. That sound, a
desperate cry to the world that I AM HERE, cold comfort to canines since
time out of mind, was returned almost immediately.
The reply, though, was a feral sound, unsoftened
by civilization, mournful and angry and so perfectly fitting what he felt. A wolf. A wolf . . . full moon . . ..
Not I! Who would? Impossible!
Peter felt the brand – like a cattle brand, to identify members of Voldemort's herd – on his arm burn. He toyed with the idea
of refusing the call, giving up this Death Eater business once and for all. But
he knew he wouldn't. There was no going back anymore, and he was. . . .
Loyalty was like an addiction. You thought you were free of it, but then you
found a new loyalty, a new drug. He had long since given up the thought of
running away. You could drop one addiction in favor of another, but you had to
keep at least one of them. For better or worse, he was stuck with a
loyalty to Voldemort.
Peter will deny me in just a few hours
Three times will deny me – and that's not all I see
One of you here dining, one of my twelve chosen
Will leave to betray me –
Memories came as Sirius ran toward the wolf. Memories . . . they were
streaming through him, a current, a river of the past.
Sirius looked around the staff meeting table at Hogwarts, where
Dumbledore had called a kind of eleventh-hour council. The wizened – an apt
word; Dumbledore was perhaps the wisest man alive – wizard sat at the head of
the table, with James and Lily to his right and Minerva McGonagall, recently
promoted to Deputy Headmistress, at his left. Nine other people, including
Sirius and Peter, and even Snape (but not Lupin, which the other members found quite odd), had taken
the remainder of the chairs. They gathered around a table that had been brought
into this world for the sole purpose of being dined upon. There was a coffee
stain on the light maple wood, directly under Sirius' elbow.
Sirius, James, Lily, and Peter had come here directly after the dinner. The
lateness of the hour – the meeting began at midnight – only served to convey
the urgency of the meeting, but the issues they had dealt with in the time
between midnight and three in the morning had all been the same old news: mass
murder of Muggles, entire wizarding
families either being wiped out or converted to Voldemort’s
side . . . it was such grim stuff. However, it seemed that Dumbledore was
building to the announcement he wished to make.
Finally, Dumbledore stated, "I don't mean to falsely alarm you, but
sources have indicated that one of you is an agent for Voldemort."
Severus Snape had to see
how all eyes turned toward him at the statement, but to his credit, he bore the
implied insult with a stoic face. His eyes roved around the table; he was the
only one without a target to fix his gaze on. This situation reminded Sirius
very much of a game he had played when he was young: Penny, Penny. A group of
people gathered together, and one left the room, while the others passed a
penny around. Then the person who had left returned, and tried to guess who had
the penny. Even though they tried to hide it, everyone looked at the person
they knew was the penny-holder.
"I do not have any evidence as to who this traitor is, or even if he or
she exists. But I chose you all because I trusted you, or because you were
indispensable to my cause. I trusted you."
A chill silence fell over the council. For a moment, all eyes left Snape, to rest on the Potters. It was an unspoken truth
that whoever the traitor was, the first target would be the young couple.
In the manner of unspoken truths, no outsiders knew why Voldemort's
interest focused so sharply on those two, or why he sought, not to use them for
his own ends, but to kill them. What was it that made them so important?
What power did the Dark Lord fear so much that he wanted it destroyed?
"One of you will betray me. And possibly very
soon." Dumbledore glared around the room, and if he could have
found the traitor by virtue of trying, it would have taken less than a second.
"Meeting adjourned. Remember to strengthen the wards around your homes; it
is not a suggestion, it is an order."
Cut out the dramatics! You know very well who –
Wolf and dog met in a field, and sniffed noses briefly. It took little time
to verify the scents that had become so familiar in their years together. A
shudder ran through the wolf, and then he was off, tail pluming behind, breath
steaming before him in the autumn air. The dog gave chase, and his companion
led them into the forest.
A personal encounter between cousins of the wild and the
home; natural, perhaps. But the dog gave no happy bark at the pursuit,
and the wolf seemed so congenial, for a territorial animal that had been
invaded.
Fallen, frosted leaves creaked and crunched minutely under their light
steps, and the frozen streams they crossed snapped as the thin ice over them
broke. Panting, they broke from the wilderness, leaping a fence into a barren
cow pasture. They cavorted nimbly across the slightly hilly terrain, distracted
every so often by the sudden flight of a hithero-concealed
bird.
Both sank into the animals they were, even though they both knew all too
well who the other was, and why they needed the solace of a brief interim as a
simpler being.
Why don't you go do it?
Why did he resist? Why not rush eagerly ahead to become a
minion again? Peter touched the brand that was so hateful to him, and felt the
pain of the summons flare. Why resist, and delay the inevitable?
You want me to do it!
Voldemort expected him, was waiting
for him, and he still held back? What was wrong with him? As the pain rose
to a new level, he bit back a scream. The only pain he had felt like this was
when he had cut his own hand off, and even that pain had ended!
He tried to whisper a prayer or plea, begging for strength to
withstand the evil call, but he could not unclench his lips enough for more
than a sickening hiss. Please, let me hold out long enough to be free. . . .
Which was, of course, merely a cruel joke. There
was no freedom under Voldemort, and no chance of
escape.
Why not give in, when he was wanted?
Hurry they are waiting
He had broken at last. Now, result of his defiance, Peter's left arm
throbbed, and no curing spells or Muggle ointments
and pills could dull the ache. His will had been set, even to the point where
he had rolled across the floor, shrieking that his arm would burn off, God,
Mother, help me, my ARM IS BURNING!!!!! But no merciless God or dead
mother would stop the pain; only one thing would even ease it. He gave in, and Apparated to the lonely, abandoned barn where the meeting
had been held.
Voldemort had punished him, but he had expected
that. Taken away the ghostly silver hand, which he had also
anticipated. What he had not predicted was the fact that there were no
jeering, masked, hooded Death Eaters to witness his humiliation – which was
perhaps the cruelest part. Always, before, it had been a show to them, for
them, like in school, when people had terrified and ridiculed him for the sake
of a crowd. That was, at least, familiar ground, and something he could bear.
But he had not expected Voldemort to take pleasure in
that sort of thing. Demons didn't laugh like schoolboys at a show, did they?
His orders that night were simple enough, but no more bearable for their
lack of complexity. First, avoid Severus Snape at all costs. Snape did not
know how intensely aware Voldemort was of his status
as a double agent, and it would be his ultimate downfall. In the meantime,
though, it could not get back to Dumbledore through any reliable sources that
Peter was still alive. That would leave Sirius Black in the clear, and that
would undermine the Ministry. If the Ministry fell into disrepute, more wizards
and witches would go over to Dumbledore's forces. And any numbskull, even those
hulking idiots Goyle and Crabbe,
knew what that meant.
Unlike many Death Eaters, Peter had not required an explanation of this
chain of events. While he was not magically capable, he had always possessed a
fantastic sequential intelligence, which had won him many chess games in his
youth. Ironic; the ability to foresee the moves of opponents had allowed him to
beat James at chess, but James had won the larger battle against him with an
unforeseeable move.
The second and last order had been as uncomplicated in theory as the first,
but was ultimately more difficult in the execution. Wait.
If you knew why I do it . . .
The sun began to rise over the farming community, over two forms that curled
together in a circle of grey and black. With the break of red light across the
gently rolling fields, the grey form began to shift, lengthening, the dense fur
retracting as bones rearranged. Eventually, a pallid human woke beside a great
black dog, and smiled ruefully at the memory of the night before.
It had been catharsis for him, as his wolf-nights had not been for so long
that the memory had almost been lost. Memories didn't disappear, though; they
just got filed away behind more recent or urgent memories, like books in a
library.
Almost as if he had subliminally sensed the change in his friend, the
sleeping form of Sirius became human. Suddenly subject to the discomfort humans
felt, he shifted restlessly, rolling over and cracking his head against a rock.
"Ouch!"
"Morning. Mind the stones."
Sirius glared. "A cow pasture, that's where I spent the night."
"You were the one who was too tired to go to my house," Remus reminded him. "Ready to go
now?"
"Sure."
Remus Lupin drained his
cup of tea in an instant. Chamomile and cinnamon seemed to help with the
headache he always got after a night in lupine form. He glanced at the clock
hanging over the door, which reminded him that it was seven in the morning.
"Moony?"
"Hmm?" The use of the nickname was so
unexpected that he almost didn't recognize that the remark was addressed to
him.
"Have you been remembering that last night? The dinner we ate as a
group, when we were still . . . all together, and happy?" Sirius had never
before been one to indulge in nostalgia – but that was before he had spent thirteen
years with nothing but the past for company, Remus
hastily reminded himself. How many times had his friend gone over those last
days in his mind, wondering what he could have done then to change things?
"Yes. It's a painful memory."
"That's why I bring it up. We need those painful memories to drive us
on, now."
"Why not fight for the sake of the good memories? If we fight out of a
desire for revenge, we'll only inflict an age of revenge-based justice. But if
our goal is to restore what we lost, maybe we will achieve it."
I don't care why you do it!
What was lost. Easy enough to
contemplate, but impossible to restore.
"Get home safely, Remus! And Sirius, remember
that . . . errand for Dumbledore!" Lily called, a
voice to warm the darkness and make it seem less of an enemy. Remus turned back to wave, but she was already closing the
door. His last glimpse of Lily was of her silhouette, dark and at the same time
curved and friendly, against the strong light of a blazing fire.
"And now we scurry back to our homes," Sirius stated, still full
of good humor – and more than a little wine. "I'll have to go into hiding.
Or get better wards, or some tiresome chore like
that."
"Don't treat it like a joke! This is deadly serious!" Remus exclaimed, shocked by his friend's flippant tone.
"Oh, it is, Moony. More serious than you know, and I'm having second
thoughts . . . but what can I do? It's all in his hands now." He strode
over to his beloved motorcycle, ready to depart for home, or some hiding-place
that would offer at least the illusion of asylum, or on that errand Lily had
mentioned, or wherever.
Remus rolled his eyes at the religious reference.
"Yes, it's in God's hands now," he replied, looking up at the waxing
moon. Three more nights, he reminded himself. Three nights
until the full moon.
Just before the explosive sound of the motor revving superceded all other
noises, he heard Sirius mutter, "That's not what I meant."
That was the last he saw of any of the others for a very long time.
Three days later, early in the morning, the phone rang. Dead tired after a
night of running through fields and forests as a wolf, Lupin
nevertheless roused himself enough to pick it up on the third ring. "Hello,
Remus Lupin speaking,"
he greeted the caller.
"Remus . . . James and Lily are dead, and now
Peter, too. Sirius Black is in Ministry custody for their deaths, as well as
for causing an explosion that killed twelve Muggles.
He will receive a life sentence in Azkaban without trial or possibility of
parole." The voice that came through the phone was so altered by grief
that it was barely recognizable as Dumbledore's.
'Lily and James are dead, and now Peter, too.'
But that hadn't been true, had it? Peter was alive. And he had
been the one who had taken the lives of two best friends and of twelve
strangers.
Which was worse, when you came down to it? Was it worse to kill someone who
had trusted you all his life, but whom you might have been motivated to kill,
or to destroy complete strangers who had done nothing to you, but had never
been fooled into trusting you?
It didn't matter, Remus realized. Regardless,
lives had been lost, and faith in a friend had been betrayed. Regardless, these
two lost things could not be restored.
To think I admired you
For now I despise you
"I will – I must – go to Dumbledore now and turn myself
in," Peter whispered. "It's the only way to get out of this rat
trap." Ironic choice of wording, but accurate. He
was trapped between a life that offered power and a death sentence that offered
freedom.
"I will go to him, I will, I will . . .."
Those words became a refrain, as he found his wand and the disguising potion
that he used often to go among the people of his small town. He only ceased his
muttered mantra to gulp the potion.
The burning taste of it seared down his throat and settled in his stomach,
where it smoldered resentfully. It was pain, yes, pain, but after the
pain of last night, it was almost intangible. This was, rather, a clean feeling
of change and reshaping – does the metal in the fire of the forge resent the
pain that scorches away the slag, and shapes it into something beautiful?
He experimentally held his remaining hand out before him, and was gratified
to see that it appeared as a woman’s hand. More tentatively – last time, the
potion had not repaired this – he held out the stump of his other hand. It was
whole, and feminine; he breathed a sigh of relief, and then left his house.
Everybody in town knew ‘Charity Adams,’ the somewhat eccentric but
kindhearted woman who seldom ventured out of her house. She was well-liked in
town, and occasionally submitted stories to the local paper. While she wasn’t
pretty, Charity was good-looking in a wholesome way that Peter had never been.
"Good morning, Miss Charity," called the newspaperman, seeing
'her' step out of the house. "Care to take your paper now?"
"Yes, thank you," Peter replied, in the falsetto voice he had
created for ‘Charity Adams.’ "And a good day to
you."
There was a kind of power in being able to walk the streets with impunity.
As far as he was aware, none of these friendly citizens knew that a murderer
and Death Eater lurked behind the guileless brown eyes. He was gloriously free
in this false body, free most of all from the loathing
that dogged him everywhere he had been Peter.
Everyone loved Charity; even Peter couldn’t help but admire what he had
created, which made him despise what he truly was all the more. How could he
feel anything but hatred toward an evil man who hid behind an angel?
You liar – you Judas
After a moment’s pause, Remus said quietly,
"I suppose . . . there are some things we can’t restore. Lost lives
. . . lost trust."
Sirius peered into his teacup, where only fragments of the chamomile plant
remained. If he could have divined a course of action through intense study of
the dregs, reading tea leaves like Sibyll Trelawney,
he’d have found something to tell his friend. Despite his efforts, the
chamomile remained mute.
Another silent moment passed between them; the relentless ticking of the
clock continued.
"You are right. Even if we can’t bring everything back, it won’t
make things better to destroy what we have."
Remus refilled their cups. "I suppose that
it’s really better this way, isn’t it? If James and Lily hadn’t died that
night, Voldemort – I’m not afraid of saying that name
anymore – would have stayed in power. And we had no choice but to face it; we
would have lost. Dumbledore’s elite team, the one you were on, wasn’t
enough by a long shot, and we were losing allies fast." He looked up
suddenly. "When it comes to sink or swim, most of us are like Pettigrew.
Rats who would jump ship if it starts burning around
them. Those who don’t . . . we wait for some happy accident. Last time, we had
one. This time, we have an opportunity to stop the blaze before it
starts."
"You’re really saying that most people would join Voldemort? How could they? He’s EVIL!"
Sirius slammed his teacup down on the table hard enough to shatter it. Shards of
porcelain danced onto the floor as warm, honey-colored liquid spread. Neither
made any move to clean it.
"I am merely saying that most people have a keen notion of
self-preservation. To save themselves, many men will do far worse than to join
the side of evil; some have no idea that it’s evil they serve. Far worse than
these are the people who betray the side of good – these are the people who are
so self-centered that they don’t care how many their deeds condemn." The
implication was readily apparent.
"So I suppose that the other extreme is true? People like that
loathsome Snape are the best people, because
they betray the side of evil?"
"No. Those are merely the people who have learned from their
mistakes." At last, signifying the end of the ethical dispute, he went
about the domestic task of cleaning up the remnants of the broken cup.
Sirius, however, was unwilling to let it rest. "Who are the best
people, then?"
"The ones who have never made any mistakes to learn from." As he
cast a melding spell on the cup fragments, Remus
continued, "Peter once gave me a copy of the Bible. He told me that, even
if I didn’t accept it all as the gospel truth, I would at least like the
stories. And I did, especially after the . . . incident. The part that stuck
most was the scene where Jesus was betrayed by Judas. Betrayed
with a kiss; that line kept coming back to me. Was Judas any less evil
for realizing his error?" It took Sirius a moment to realize that the
question was not merely rhetorical.
"Yes, I suppose."
"No. That’s the beauty of the Bible: good and evil are all a
matter of choice. Good is following the correct path. The heroes never stray,
or make mistakes and suffer. Evil men are not the ones who are inherently bad;
they are the ones who make bad choices. And the one thing that is consistent is
that, good choice or bad, the choice is irreversible, and so is the fact
of the good or evil. Lies told, deceptions and betrayals, have no chance at
recompense. There are some things you can’t bring back. That’s the simple
truth, and that’s why I’m a Christian. I don’t believe that the Bible is true, I don't believe that God exists. But the way the
writers had of looking at the world was accurate. Life is a choice, and there’s
no second-guessing."
"So it’s better that way? It’s better that
things took their course because of stupid choices on the part of everyone, including
me?"
"I won’t tell you that it’s better; it’s just how things ended up
being. They were stupid choices, true, but would you make them again?"
The conundrum settled. Surprised by his own answer and what it meant, Sirius
replied, "I . . . I guess I would." And then the rest of the
question, unasked but implied, was voiced. "Would Wormtail
take it all back, if he could?"
You wanted me to do it!
What if I just stayed here
And ruined your ambition?
Christ you deserve it!
Peter, still in the guise of Charity, boarded the Knight Bus. Stan Shunpike,
the conductor, grinned appreciatively.
"Luverly lady, you are," he commented. "Where you goin’, ma’am?"
"As close to Hogwarts as you can get me, sir."
"’Choo sirrin’
me ‘bout? I ain’t ‘sir.’ Call m’Stan. Wot’s your name?"
"Charity
Seeing that the ‘lady’ was not interested in him, he dropped the
conversational manner in favor of business. "Eleven sickles’ll
get you t’the moors, ma’am."
"Thank you; I’ll walk from there. Here." Peter handed over the
money, and moved to the passenger compartment.
He almost stopped dead still at the sight of Lucius
Malfoy, seated on one of the beds near the entrance.
Luckily, though, Peter had the presence of mind to act as though nothing had
disturbed him. He moved on to the accommodations at the back of the bus.
"Ma’am, you are going to Hogwarts?"
Peter did stop suddenly at the voice. "Y-yes, sir," he
replied shakily, needing little effort to make his voice higher. Fright was
doing it for him.
"Then we have a similar destination. Come, sit with me." The
compulsion in the voice was unmistakable, though it was hidden under
congeniality. Reluctantly, Peter moved to comply.
"What takes you to Hogwarts, sir?" ventured Peter as the bus
lurched into motion, attempting to conceal his terror under pointless bus-ride
small talk.
Lucius waved his hand irritably. "My son’s in
a bit of trouble, clearly not his fault, but the headmaster’s so incompetent
that he can’t see it . . . well, suffice to say that I found it necessary to
get involved."
"Ah. I, um, Dumbledore always seemed a good enough man, but then I
don’t know much of him. The media says he’s brave and loyal and all that. Um,
wasn’t he a Gryffindor?"
"Yes. While those of his house have their points" – this was said
reluctantly; Lucius was ever the devoted Slytherin – "I don’t believe that they are very
capable or intelligent. Look at the people that house has turned out!
Sirius Black the traitor, Harry Potter, who by all counts is said to be
disturbed, and, as a climax that surely illustrates my point, Albus Dumbledore!" Though Lucius
ranted more, Peter was no longer listening.
What if I didn’t go to Dumbledore? It’s surely dangerous, especially with
Lucius here; I can’t know if he recognizes me
already. What if I stayed put, kept living my
miserable life?
"’Ogwarts stop! Malfoy and Adams!"
Acting the part of a woman surprised, Peter asked, "Malfoy?!
You can’t be . . . Lucius Malfoy?
But you’re so friendly! I was expecting some . . . dunno, someone colder.
At least, someone who wouldn’t talk to the likes of me."
Lucius favored his conversational companion with a
paternal smile. "I’m more personable than I’m portrayed as being."
As the trek across the moors was somewhat arduous at best, they spoke no
more. Even when the castle was in sight, nothing passed between them. Only at
the entrance gate did they exchange one last pleasantry.
"Goodbye, Miss Adams. I hope to see you again."
"The same to you, sir."
They parted ways, to the great relief of Peter. While Lucius
was presumably headed to the Deputy Headmistress (McGonagall, as he recalled),
Pettigrew headed straight for the dungeons, and Snape.
This chain of ambitions and revenges ended here. He would be getting what he
deserved.
Hurry you fool, hurry and go,
Save me your speeches
I don't want to know – Go! Go!
Sirius examined the room before stepping out onto the stoop. He wanted to
remember how comfortable it had been, and the new ideas that had been put into
his head by Moony, of all people.
"This is goodbye, Moony. I’ll see you later, maybe."
Remus Lupin shook his
head indulgently. "Always the fatalist, aren’t you?"
"Fatalism or optimism – both kill."
"Spare me your theatrics. Dumbledore needs you, so you may as well go
now. In fact, you should have been at Hogwarts yesterday. Lucky for you it’s
only a few miles away."
Sirius changed form almost casually, shifting with ease into his canine
self. With a last flicker of his tail, like a wave goodbye, he ran into the
light of brilliant day.
"Goodbye, Padfoot. I’ll see you soon," Lupin whispered. Then he began the walk on foot – he would
not be left out again.
Look at all my trials and tribulations
Sinking in a gentle pool of wine
What's that in the bread it's gone to my head
Till this morning is this evening life is fine
Severus Snape gazed into
a wine-red potion, adding two portions of sweet yam. It sank beneath the
liquid, and the color subtly shifted to another hue of wine – this time, a deep
violet. It was beautiful. Nothing in the world could be as beautiful as the
innumerable, shifting colors of potions. Even this one, a draught of slumber,
which served the mundane purpose of sedation, was magnificent in its own right.
Other wizards preferred the simplicity of charms and curses, or the certain
ways of transfiguration, but the complex and infinitely varied world of potions
was what drew him. If the recipe was changed by the slightest increment, the
entire result would be changed, and the ramifications could continue to
manifest for a lifetime. Unlike all other forms of magic, potion-brewing was an
art.
Satisfied with his work, Snape leaned back against
the wall to watch his creation simmer. It went through various shades of purple
before settling into a shade that precisely matched the color of a crocus.
Perfect.
And then the woman entered the dungeon classroom.
He supposed she was pretty, but in a rather unkempt way. Her straight brown
hair was wind-tossed, and her eyes were desperate, both factors contributing to
the impression of a madwoman.
"Severus Snape?"
she asked breathlessly . . . and her voice was a man’s voice.
"Who are you?!" Snape demanded, backing
away.
"Peter Pettigrew. I’ve come to turn myself in to Dumbledore."
He had not expected that. A woman calling herself Peter Pettigrew
demanded to see Dumbledore? His first thought was that this must be some kind
of trick, or a figment of the imagination, brought on by tainted bread or meat.
"Please, brew me an antidote to the Feminus
potion. I’ll prove it to you," begged the woman . . . man . . . whatever
he or she was. "I need to see Dumbledore, and confess to him. Please."
Knowing of nothing better to do in this situation, Severus
followed the instructions he had been given. He began to mix the required
antidote, finding equilibrium in the familiarity of brewing a potion.
Always hoped that I'd be an apostle
Knew that I would make it if I tried
Then when we retire we can write the gospels
So they'll all talk about us when we've died
Peter didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. It didn’t feel as though his
burdens had been lifted, as he had always thought – hoped – it would, but it
felt better. At last, here was a step in the right direction! He
watched his old enemy set a cauldron full of water over a fire, and search
briefly through a book for the recipe, and it was all he could do to keep the
emotion from spilling out through every pore of him.
The ingredients were fetched from various places around the room, added with
a precision that was so like Snape. Everything had to
be perfect for the man to be satisfied; nothing could be out of place.
The water changed colors slowly, the blue of butterfly wings to the shade
called China-blue, then more swiftly, to the deep hue of the sky just after
sunrise, and the consistency thickened to that of mud. Suddenly, with the
addition of a drop of some clear liquid, the potion shifted to a shrieking red,
and began to sizzle and spit.
"It’s ready," Snape asserted, dipping a
cup in it and barely avoiding the flying droplets. He proffered the cup, and
Peter gulped it down.
He had never taken the antidote before; always, he had waited for the potion
to run its course and wear off. But now the stuff moved through him like a
venomous glacier, cracking against his bones and grinding through him as every
part froze into a separate agony. And, unlike the Feminus
potion (which remained warm in the body even after it had worked its
transformation), this icy pain ceased abruptly.
"My God! You are
Pettigrew!" gasped Snape, taken aback.
The smile he received was grim. "Dumbledore’s prodigal, returned from Voldemort for judgement. I didn’t
want to die the way I’ve been living. Will you take me to Dumbledore?"
"Yes. By all means."
You sad pathetic man – see where you've brought us to
Our ideals die around us and all because of you
But the saddest cut of all –
Someone has to turn you in
Like a common criminal, like a wounded animal
A jaded mandarin
A jaded mandarin
Like a jaded, faded, faded, jaded, jaded mandarin
When Pettigrew entered the office of Albus
Dumbledore, he had lost the desperate urgency that had driven him this far.
Now, he could die. Now he could rest assured that, if he wasn’t forgiven, he
had at least made one good choice in all this time.
Dumbledore was there, of course; he had to be. But so was the person Peter
had not wanted to face again. Sirius Black.
"YOU RAT!!!" Sirius stood and transformed and lunged in one
motion, toward the man who had caused him so much suffering.
"Stop! Sirius!" cried Dumbledore,
but his frantic words could not halt the man-turned-beast.
And then an unlikely savior came through the door: Remus
Lupin. Peter took his rat form in a heartbeat and
scurried into the pocket of the man’s robes, finding sanctuary there. Thwarted
and angry, Sirius growled at them both and reclaimed his humanity.
"Peter Pettigrew has come here to see you, Dumbledore," Snape announced, and all eyes focused on him. "Let him
speak his peace."
Trembling, Peter crawled from the pocket and onto the floor, where he
changed into a man again. "I’ve come to c-confess, Dumbledore. I’ve caused
too much harm to be forgiven; I’m only here to accept whatever judgement you give me."
"Judgement for what,
exactly?" Dumbledore asked, in as gentle a voice as he could muster
when faced with a situation as impossible as this.
So Peter told him. The story of his betrayal of Lily and James, his murders
of innocents and feigned suicide, the years spent as a rat living in this very
school . . . and though these were dark tales, they were nothing when held up
to the evil and despair in the ones that followed. Murder upon murder, death
upon death, aiding the Dark Lord when all else had given up . . . because he
had no other hope! Spiriting Harry away, using him to give Voldemort
the body he now inhabited . . . and worst of all, more horrible than any other
experience, the reason why he had turned away from evil. He had realized that,
despite every attempt he had made to disillusion himself, he had never had hope.
Sirius and Remus exchanged glances as the
monologue wound down. Their shared hatred of Peter was not quenched even to a
minor degree, but an understanding had overtaken them both. Finally, they
realized what it had been like to live all those years so wretchedly. Merely
half an hour ago, they would have given their once-friend the death sentence
without thinking anything of it. But how could they, now?
Snape, too, had found a new level of appreciation
for misery. He had been a double agent, hated in both circles alike, but he had
never hated himself. Pettigrew despised who he was with his entire being.
Dumbledore was perhaps the only one who was prepared for the entirety of the
narrative. Yes, he understood. In the blackest days of his life, times he would
not let another soul know that he had lived through, he had been in such a
state of suffering as the man before him was. And he was ready to pass a judgement.
"I know that I’ve done so much against you . . . you trusted me, and I
let your ideals and hopes die, I betrayed every one of you . . . but I
will not go on like that. I’m tired of this life. I thought I was happy, for a
little while – I was living in a Muggle town, as
‘Charity Adams,’ and I knew what it was like to have someone like me.
But Charity was just another lie. I don’t want to live a lie anymore."
Peter was sitting, hunched against the wall, hands pressed to his face. "I
don’t know if I want to live anymore."
Get out! They're waiting! Get out! They're waiting!
Oh! They're waiting for you!
The scene was interrupted by a shout that carried from the hall outside.
"Dumbledore?" inquired the voice of Lucius Malfoy.
"He can’t see me here," hissed Pettigrew, eyes darting around for
a place to hide. His eyes lit on the desk, with one open drawer; he became a
rat and ran into the drawer. Dumbledore slid it shut.
Sirius darted into the standing cabinet against the wall and closed the
door. Presumably, he had transformed, too.
At last, Snape went to answer the door. Not only Lucius but also Professor McGonagall, Harry, and Draco all came into the room, the former two indignantly,
the latter with recalcitrant faces and angry glares between them.
"Headmaster, this man has come to our school demanding that his son be
removed from all classes with Potter in them because Harry is ‘assaulting his
son with a wand.’ However, I can testify for myself that not only was
Potter wandless at the times of the altercations, but
that Draco initiated them. I have had all I
can take of Lucius’ interfering with how we run our
school!" McGonagall declared.
Snape looked over both of them. "I think it’s
a good idea. Never mind who started the fight; they will fight if they
are given the chance. Separation is the solution."
Lucius frowned. "I have lodged complaints
against Potter because of the matter of assault. My son clearly stated
who was at fault – are you calling him a liar?"
"You will have to drop your complaints, then. Your son is a
liar." McGonagall stood firm.
Both Malfoys muttered something that sounded
suspiciously like ‘Gryffindor favoritism.’
Dumbledore smiled pleasantly. "I don’t see any cause for formal
complaints. Both are students in good standing at Hogwarts, and will continue
to be so. If you find it necessary, we can enforce a policy of separation. Do you
think it will be necessary?" he asked Draco and
Harry.
They glared malevolently at each other, and mouthed words that might have
been ‘tonight, outside,’ before saying in unison, "No, Professor
Dumbledore."
"Good! Then I suppose we’re done with this issue." Inwardly, he
thought, schoolyard rivalries . . . is this the beginning of something
worse? Does it always start like this? If so, this is a beginning, but I have
an end to deal with now. "Why don’t you leave now? I’m sure your
teachers are waiting for you." With that, the four reluctantly left the
office, none of them satisfied.
Dumbledore took Peter from the drawer, and Lupin
opened the closet to let Sirius out. The scene began anew.
Every time I look at you I don't understand
Why you let the things you did get so out of hand
You'd have managed better if you'd had it planned –
Ah - - - ah
"Peter . . . I don’t think we can really understand what you did or why
you did it. None of us has the right to judge you. But you’ve passed a judgement on yourself, I see. Tell us what it is."
"I . . . I deserve to die. I deserve to die because I caused so
much death, even the deaths of my best friends. Shouldn’t I be killed
for it?" The look on his face, tension and terror and longing, was
almost physically painful to see.
"Do you really believe that?"
Peter had no answer.
Suddenly, Sirius asked, "If you could make all your choices again, would
you make the same ones?"
The question shocked Peter. Choices made, all revoked; James and Lily, alive,
giving up, allowing Sirius to go free instead of serving a prison sentence
in his stead, and not helping Voldemort come back to
power . . . would he have made those choices? "No, I wouldn’t. If I could,
I’d change it all . . . I hate this life, I hate
everything I did to get where I am! I would change the past . . . but I
can’t."
"You can’t. Life is a choice, and there’s no second-guessing." Remus didn’t allow himself to dwell in the world of
might-have-been. "For better or worse, you’ve created the life you live
now. And I think there’s no punishment you so justly deserve as the life you
now lead."
"Not even he deserves that punishment," Dumbledore disagreed.
"What are the alternatives? For crimes like his, death or the Dementor’s Kiss are the only
punishments the law would accept." Snape listed
these in a monotone, the lack of emotion in the words only emphasizing the
emotion he truly felt.
"I would take them."
Look at all my trials and tribulations
Sinking in a gentle pool of wine
What's that in the bread it's gone to my head
Till this evening is this morning life is fine
Over a glass of Chardonnay, Lucius Malfoy read the paper. The headline alone took up more than
half the page, reading ‘PETTIGREW’S CONFESSION: After Fourteen Years, a
Convict’s Name is Cleared.’
It had to happen sometime, Lucius supposed,
turning the page. Peter – Wormtail – had always been
a coward, volatile and unwilling to commit fully to the cause. But to go back
to the wizarding world at large and confess, knowing
the penalties . . . how could he truly be called a coward?
Thought dead for years and honored with the Order of Merlin, First Class,
Peter Pettigrew has passed into the history of the war against the Dark Lord as
a hero and casualty. However, after startling testimony from the man
himself and from the reemerged convict Sirius Black, we are led to conclude
that he was actually neither.
"Two of our notions about Peter were wrong, too," whispered Lucius. "We thought he was too weak to leave us. We
thought he cared about his life." Am I too weak to abandon my Lord, too
frightened of retribution? Is his cause worth more than my life, and the
lives of my wife and son? " . . . Perhaps he did care about his
life."
Lucius shook away these treasonous thoughts.
Better not to doubt for a moment; a moment’s doubt could become a lifetime’s
punishment. Voldemort was unforgiving of betrayal.
With the brand of ‘Death Eater’ on his family, what kind of life could they
lead? The thought of Draco penniless, forced to
wander Muggle streets begging – a Malfoy,
begging – for food, money, and shelter was enough to drive all thoughts
of defection out of his mind.
Perhaps, when the victor of this conflict was more obvious, he would choose
a permanent side and accept the consequences. But until then . . . he was
trapped between his loyalties and his conscience.
Always hoped that I'd be an apostle
Knew that I would make it if I tried (If I tried)
Then when we retire we can write the gospels
So they'll still talk about us when we've died
"Sirius, I want you to know that I never hated you. I never wanted you
to be hurt because of my mistakes, but . . . I think I had to. It was wrong, everything
I did. I’d like to make amends of some kind, to you and to everyone I’ve hurt.
Tell Harry that I . . . never mind, Dumbledore. I can’t put it into
words." The old man stopped writing Peter’s words, and looked up at him.
"It’s hard to make amends. Harder still when they’re
for something like this."
"I’m glad you’ve never had to. How can I just apologize? Words
are so weak! I’ve killed people! How can words do anything
but reopen the wounds?" demanded Peter from his position, chained to the
wall.
"Words are all you have. They’ll have to be enough."
"Then . . . tell Remus I hope he remembers me
when he reads the Bible. Tell Sirius that I want him to live for Lily and
James, for their memory and how wonderful those people were. I don’t want him
to live for me, because that would just be a hollow revenge. And Harry . . .
what can I tell him?"
Despite the impending sentence, loss of his soul by Dementor’s
Kiss and then death, the despair he felt was for his inability to articulate an
apology heartfelt enough.
"What do you think needs to be said?"
Peter took a deep breath. "He needs to know why I betrayed his father
and mother. Tell Harry that I did it because I didn’t care enough about
anything more than myself; I wanted a life of power more than I wanted
friendship. I’ve paid for my mistake. Tell him that I don’t want him to make
the same one."
"Is that everything you want me to tell them?"
"Yes. Except . . . when I’m dead, I want them to continue the fight
against Voldemort, but to take pity on the Death
Eaters. I want for them to try and draw as many as possible away from the Dark
Lord. Most of the others are like me – they’re too scared to do anything but
stay put, too afraid of reprisal."
Dumbledore looked over the man before him: no longer what he had been, and
now with no chance to become. Was it enough to pen his last words for
the others to understand?
It would never be enough.
Will no one stay awake with me?
Peter? John? James?
Will none of you wait with me?
Peter? John? James?
At a solitary dinner, at the head of the long table with a coffee-stain
halfway down its length, Dumbledore looked over the messages he had written
down almost a week ago.
Tell Remus to think of me when he reads the
Bible.
Tell Sirius to live for Lily and James, in their memory. I don’t want him
to live for me; that would just be a hollow revenge.
Tell Harry why I betrayed his parents.
What reason did anyone have to kill anyone else? That was the ultimate
question. Understanding that was finding the key to understanding why Voldemort’s power was so tempting to wizards and witches .
. . and to understanding himself.
There were secrets in Dumbledore’s past that he would never speak of, not
even to a condemned man who needed comfort. This truth would not bring comfort,
just despair that his intended savior, hero, idol was as base as he was. The
past was something Dumbledore tried not to dwell on, but the eerie parallels
drew him into the memories . . ..
Peter was now dead, and his secrets with him. James and Lily were long dead,
and the unstable powers they had shared were gone with them. What would Albus Dumbledore take to his grave, unspoken or too
terrifying to be used?
"I’m alone now," he murmured, not to himself but to the spirits of
his friends and enemies alike. "Will you wait for me, Peter? James? Lily?
Will you forgive me when your waiting is over, John?"