Potter's Field

April 30, 1967

"On Beltane-Eve, the veils of all the worlds are thin. Dark is almost light on Beltane-Eve, as the great fires send their glow into the sky like a second sun. Muggle is almost magic, for when the faeries walk, even the Muggles can feel their grace in the air. Winter is almost summer; it is the time of the turning of the seasons. Good is almost evil. Who knows what is real, on Beltane-Eve?" Sidhe Pettigrew's voice lilted in a graceful cadence that reminded the pudgy blonde boy curled up in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder, of magic itself.

He shifted for a moment, turning his head so as best to see her face. Peter's mother was the most beautiful woman in the entire world, and she told the greatest stories, too. Whenever he told her that, though, she would just smile and shake her head and say "Not stories, Peter. Just what is true, just what is real," in that voice that sounded, whenever she talked, like she were casting a spell. Every word she spoke had the same weight and power as hearing Father say those words that Peter wasn't supposed to say, no matter what, not ever, that sounded like "Abracadabra" in those stupid "Martin Miggs, Mad Muggle" comics only with a heavy depth to them like the lowest notes of the organ in the church that vibrated his very bones. Mummy's voice wasn't like the organ, exactly; more like the choir, slow and sweet and solemn. But Mummy didn't go to the church, even though Father would shout sometimes and say more bad words that Peter wasn't supposed to say, only not as bad as the rumbling organ ones that had made that man fall over with lots of green light. Only Peter wasn't supposed to have seen that.

But Mummy didn't ever go to church, no matter how much Father shouted, and she told Peter stories, stories that couldn't be real because at church they said that there was only one god, and you had to spell his name like God, with a capital G, because he was the only one, but in Mummy's stories there were lots of gods, with names like Llew Llaw Gyffes and Mabon and Ceridwen, and Mummy said they were real, too. She said it every time Peter asked for a new story: "Just what is real, just what is true." And Mummy's name was Sidhe, like one of the gods, and Peter thought that maybe she secretly actually was a Sidhe, only she never did any magic like that, only normal magic like everyone else's mummies did, to cook and clean up the house and take all the wrinkles out of Peter's clothing when he tripped and fell down and mussed them. Peter did that a lot.

"On Beltane-Eve," Sidhe whispered suddenly in Peter's ear, ruffling his hair and giving him goosebumps, "lies are almost the truth." Peter shivered.

Mummy stiffened at that, and picked Peter up off her lap to turn him around. She looked into his eyes, and asked "What's wrong, my love?" Her voice and her eyes were so serious and grave that they almost made Peter shiver again, but instead he frowned and tried to answer her question, only it came out like another question.

"If lies are almost the truth, then how do I ever know what is real?" Peter scrunched up his forehead.

"You can't on Beltane-Eve, my love," Sidhe replied, "but the rest of the time, you follow a star."

"A star?" Peter asked.

Sidhe brushed a wisp of Peter's fine hair off of his forehead. "You find a star--someone you love and trust and who loves and trusts you back--and you follow it. And you'll know the difference between truth and lies. But you be careful, because on Beltane-Eve, truth is veiled no matter what and good and evil are almost the same things. And every Beltane-Eve, you must put a twig of whitethorn across your door, or under your pillow, to keep evil far away."

"Mummy," Peter couldn't help but ask, "who is your star?"

Sidhe sighed. "My star is my own mummy, my love, who taught me everything I mean to teach you."

"But Mummy," Peter asked hesitantly, "isn't your mummy--gone?" Peter knew that Grandmum was dead, but he didn't really know what "dead" meant except that it was something that made grownups very upset and maybe had something to do with Father's green-light spell, only he didn't think that being dead meant that Grandmum had fallen down on the floor.

Mummy looked very serious again. "Yes, darling, but my memory of her is my star."

"You're my star, Mummy," Peter declared, and Mummy smiled, but shook her head.

"I may be your star now, but someday you'll be grown, and you'll have another star--a real one, who'll be your best friend. And you can put your whitethorn out together."

"Maybe," said Peter, unconvinced, and Sidhe picked him up again and turned him around once more, so that his back rested against her soft chest. He put his head on her shoulder.

"Let me tell you more about Beltane, darling, for there is a tale in it, as there is in everything. On Beltane-Eve, the Wild Huntsman, the servant of the Annwn, of death and winter, does battle with Gwythur ap Greidawl, who fights in the name of summer and fire and light, for the hand of the maiden Creudylad, the daughter of the earth. You see, my love--"

A door slammed from below the bedroom where Peter and Sidhe sat, and Peter jumped. Sidhe's lips tightened as angry footsteps made their way up the staircase, making muffled booms on the hollow wood. The door pushed open with a creak, and Father stepped inside the room.

Pontius Pettigrew was a large man and a dark one, his hair coal-black and his face perpetually ruddy-toned. He talked in a loud voice that often made Peter's head spin, about lots of things Peter didn't understand at all--people called Mudbloods, but Peter didn't understand how people could get mud inside their blood. He got mud on his clothes sometimes, but never inside his skin. Pontius also talked about God a lot. Father was the one who made Peter go to church every Sunday, and pray for the future of the Wizarding World. Peter didn't really know what that meant, but he went anyway, because Father would shout if he didn't, and besides, the music in the church was pretty and it smelled sort of smoky-sweet inside and there were magic lamps that floated along the ceiling and shone beams of light in pretty colors down on the pews where everybody sat. Only the stories didn't match up with Mummy's.

Father looked angry tonight, but then, Father always looked angry, even sometimes when he wasn't. His face was always stern, and Peter imagined that was how God would look when he cast sinners into Hell.

"What nonsense are you polluting my son's soul with tonight, Sidhe?" Father asked. No, he was definitely angry. Peter shivered again and pulled closer to Mummy.

Mummy's voice was icy cold. "I'm teaching my son the legends of Beltane," she replied evenly.

"Beltane?" Father spat. "Filling his head with pagan rubbish--"

"The history of his people!" Mummy retorted.

"History is the story of God, and the story of Wizardkind," Father snapped, "not your ridiculous mythology. I won't have you muddying his mind with it." He grabbed Peter's arm and yanked, jerking Peter's round form away from his mother with a sharp twist that made Peter's shoulder suddenly start to throb. His lip quivered, but Father hadn't meant to hurt him, and he'd only be mad if Peter started crying.

"Pontius," said Mummy, her voice dangerous, "you're going to hurt the child."

Father cut her off with a sharp movement of his arm. "Enough. My son is coming with me tonight." And he picked up Peter around his waist, so that it hurt his stomach, and carried him off to the dark study, which always smelled of cigar smoke. Father sat Peter down in the big leather chair at his desk and whispered a "Lumos" so that the small lamps in the corners of the room began to glow.

"Peter, your mother told you that tonight was Beltane, I suppose?"

"Beltane-Eve," Peter agreed tremulously.

Father sighed. "It isn't, really. The name that the people of God have for tonight is the feast of Saint Walpurga. Beltane is a pagan name, the name the devil calls it because he can't speak the name of a Saint. You may call tonight the feast of St. Walpurga, or Walpurgis Night if you will, but not Beltane."

Peter nodded quickly.

"Peter, I have a gift for you, to celebrate Walpurgis Night." He pulled from an inside pocket of his vast greatcoat a small book with golden-edged pages. Peter took it in one pudgy hand.

"A Bible?" Peter asked, and Father nodded.

"The stories in here, I believe you'll find, are even prettier than the one your mother tells you. Some of them may be hard for you to read yet, but I'll tell you which ones are simple, and you can grow into the rest. And don't forget, my son, that God would be proud of you if you tested your limits."

Peter nodded again, even quicker than before. He hurriedly opened the book to a random page and read a line aloud. "And it came to pass at midnight that the--the Lord struck all the first--firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Phar--Phar--Phar-ra-oh who sat on his throne to the firstborn of the captive who was in the dungeon, and all the firstborn of live--livestock. So Phar-ra-oh rose in the night, he, all his servants, and all the Egyptians; and there was a great cry in Egypt, for there was--was not a house where there was not one dead."

"That's excellent, my son. I'm proud of you," said Pontius approvingly, and Peter smiled hesitatingly at him.

"What does it mean, though, Father?" Peter asked, not really certain if he should ask or not.

But Father didn't seem to mind. "It is a story of God striking down the sinners, those who are not worthy to be in His sight," he replied, which didn't explain anything to Peter, but he stayed silent.

"Here's another bit I think you'll like," Father said, taking the book from Peter and flipping to a page a bit further ahead. "And I say also unto thee, that thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build My church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. That's where your name came from, Peter. From the Bible, and it means 'rock.' You'll have to be strong and live up to it now."

Peter just nodded again.

"Now, off to bed, son. Happy Walpurgis Night."

"Happy Walpurgis Night," Peter echoed, and then scurried off to his cozy bedroom. He was pulling the covers over himself when he noticed something sharp under his pillow. He lifted his head and pulled it loose. It was a twig of whitethorn. Father would want him to throw it away--

But no. Peter tucked it back under his pillow and thought of his mother and her church-choir voice as he fell asleep. He dreamed that night that God had come to strike him down, with all the other firstborn sons, but that he turned to rock like his name, and God couldn't touch him.

When Peter awoke the next morning, he slipped the whitethorn twig into the secret drawer under his bed, and hesitating a moment, put the Bible in beside it. For the next four years, until he left for Hogwarts like Mummy and Father told him all Wizard boys would, he brushed the whitethorn every time he took out the Bible.

When the Hogwarts Express pulled away, though, they both stayed there.

* * *

It was on the Hogwarts Express that Peter met his star. Three of them, really. James Potter first, of course; always first in all of their hearts. But Sirius Black and Remus Lupin too, and it was with all three of them that on the next Beltane-Eve Peter snuck towards the Forbidden Forest and cut four twigs of whitethorn to lay in the doorway of the Gryffindor boys' dorm. And for that year, at least, they were protected from evil.