Unspeakable

1.

Go East, that's all he knows. But three-thousand odd kilometers are far too many for a rat. Peter shed his form not soon after he ditched the cargo ship hold- filthy hole!- that carried petrol to Spain. His robes, over a decade old, are fraying to threads, he smells like a Citroen, worst yet he is alone, more alone than he ever believed, and now only his Master will welcome him. Go East, that's the way, yes says his arm, burning, writhing, tugging.

He wonders if he will ever see England again. No, likely not, unless it was at the business end of a pair of wands. He knows just who would hold them. Remus and Sirius. ("We're mates, best mates aren't we, Petie?" said Sirius at a bar long ago with his arm around a svelte witch with a friend for him back on the thatched mattress oh! and the robeless sneaking away in the morning) Look at you now. Remus and Sirius, when were they ever so full of cares?

You didn't see how it happened these long small years, says the sibilant voice at his elbow, you were never there. Only those five minutes with Sirius on that abnormally hot October day. Sweating just thinking about it. JamesandLilySiriushowcouldyou? Magnificent line read, that. The Muggles bought his performance, bad for Sirius. So old.

Ill-used to pain or loss. Sorry, mate. Am I?

Forget! He boards a train to Germany, three days, pay the fare in Muggle cash. Forget! Forget it all, think about your Lord, white scaled, grubby and friendless in the wilderness somewhere...East. The past is unspeakable. He imagines the little stunted arms reaching for his neck and shivers in fear and awe. Is this what it's like to be in thrall?

Peter never thought of himself capable of anything interesting like the Dark Arts. Dark Arts are for Slytherins, Remus always said with that rueful smile that meant he was fully aware of each facet of truth and lie in the statement. It's true though, Remus, James would say blinking with mock solemnity behind his glasses, they are served snakesblood in their pumpkin juice. Look, it's redder than ours. They all turned then, a unit as always, stared across to the Slytherins.

Cor, they ARE drinking blood!- that was Sirius.

At once, Severus reddened instinctively and there was laughter and a

thrown biscuit or two. When was that? Third year. Second. When it was just biscuits. Peter stares out at the fog- why should there be fog on the Continent- it had to have been early, because why should the Dark Arts have any hold on Hogwarts?

A laugh explodes out of Peter's mouth. Pettigrews in the Dark Arts! Lawson Pettrigrew, father, now dead, a second tier cleric in the Ministry of Herbology Science. Preposterous! HA! (Remember that wee baby hand reaching for your nose? No, no Harry, that's mine.) Don't you laugh, or the conductor- He covers his mouth with a long finger nailed hand. Four fingers. Deformity. Can you see the ragged scars at the knuckle? The knife was dull. No- it was dulled. The Dark Lord wanted it that way. Wanted it to show. Wanted it to hurt.

2.

The mainland is amazing, mum. The fish and chips back at the Wanton Cabbage look a little dry compared to this spread, I can tell you! I won't talk about the men. Remember Ida Georges's trouble with the Yugoslavian man that broke her and Tim Riley- big muckety muck at Ministry of Reclamation- up? I see why, mum, I really do. But I have a tour so I should wrap up. This is probably the last owl post I'll find this far East but I'm attaching some wonderful yak fur boots with this so I hope they get there. I sent Gina your love. She's got a lovely wind-blown look now. Love,-

I fold the letter with a stamp, seal it with a kiss for luck and tie it

firmly to the tawny owl. It hoots automatically, a tune like the

Carmina Burana. Good owl. Tie these boots- only 90 pence can you

goddamn believe it- on as well, and off you go.

"Jemmie Jorkins. Herdfordshire, England. Got that? Have a treatsie."

Bird takes off like a real pro. Beautiful, but nothing on my Maisie at >home.

God it's good to be out of that bloody office! Everyone's slept with each other twice, once up the arse, I heard about it blah blah it's time for some new stomping grounds. Two months paid vacation, God that's why I love Ludo. Not as much as his secretary did, but who's counting, correct? Can't stand sports anymore. Quidditch mad, every single island man. Can't sit down for tea without a chap turning on the WWN to catch the Puddlemere score. Enough!

These dusky Continental chaps have better things on their plates than the new Beater for the Blades. Everyone succumbs to adventure in Eurasia eventually. Just like Julia Rightly at her bacholerette party in Croatia. What was his name, it was something queer like Ghlad.

Lucky Gina. If little sister wasn't living on a blasted moor, I'd join >her in a mo'.

Feel young again on holiday. Less of those foul headaches and blank spots. Have the right to enjoy myself now that I've turned the forty corner. My hair hasn't gone gray at all though. Sure there's the weight, granted, but I've had that weight since Hogwarts. Big Bertha, oh the creativity of adolescent taunts! Accepted it now. What did that foul American boyfriend say once? Oh yes- more cushion for the pushin'.

Will never consider a Yank ever again. Oops. Tour. Blast!

*

Left five minutes early without me, just sitting on the pickup bench!

Not a word! The nerve sometimes, I wish I had my wand here, I'd curse them a new disposition. Mum will send it in due time. Ollivander's an artist at replication. Double blast, did I mention it in my letter? Need a bloody Remembrall for these things. Poor old wand, 10 inches, badger fur and yew core, lost somewhere on the French metro riding back and forth. Stolen and pawned, probably. You know what? Bugger the tour. Maybe I'll just take a lorry to an inn.