Potter's Field

April 30, 1980

The last time Peter could remember seeing James so angry had been the night before he'd married Lily. They'd all been a bit tipsy--well, James and Sirius had been staggering drunk, and Peter and Remus had been a bit tipsy--and Sirius had accused James of planning to abandon his best friends the next day for some red-haired bird. James was outraged. "How dare you, Pads," he had roared. "You know damn well I'd never abandon any of you, never betray you, never leave you without help. Not even for Lily, and you know damn well I'd do anything for her. I'd just do anything for you three, as well." James's face was crimson, and his eyes were flashing, and Peter had never before seen him looking as though his magic was crackling around him. Remus had put a hand on James's shoulder then, and Peter had come up with a joke to lighten the moment, and Sirius muttered a "Sorry, mate," but Peter had never forgotten the look of James's rage.

And now he was seeing it again, only this time it was icy instead of last year's passionate fury. James was sober this time--he'd hardly be at an Order meeting drunk--but just as angry as he'd been half a year ago. It was, Peter reflected, rather like watching a star about to explode.

"Mr. Potter, someone has to go," Minerva McGonagall was saying, "and you know the area the best of any of us."

James wasn't even looking at her. He only had eyes for Lily, Lily with her swelling belly and body turned all to curves with the baby inside her and shiny, fiery hair the color of her husband's rage. He shook his head.

"Minerva, Albus, I can't go. It'd put Lily and the baby at risk, you know that, and I won't do that. I can't."

This time, it was Professor Dumbledore who looked over his half-moon spectacles at James. "Mr. Potter--"

"No!" James interrupted. "If I go I'll have to take the wards down, and you know the Death Eaters are going after Muggleborns and I won't risk it, Albus, I won't. My family comes first."

"Comes before the fate of the world, James?" Dumbledore asked, and his voice was cheerful and twinkling, like it always was, only there was steel behind it.

"It's not the fate of the world that's at stake tonight, Albus," James said. "One of the boys can go instead; they won't mind--"

"I know the area too, Albus," said Remus softly. "I can go." Peter felt an odd twist in his stomach at that, at the image of quiet, gentle Remus putting himself in danger in James's place, even though Peter knew that James always said it was something that any one of them would do for any other. The feeling subsided a bit when Professor Dumbledore nodded, apparently satisfied.

The four Marauders and Lily left the Order meeting after that, and James put a hand on Remus's shoulder. "Thanks, Moony," he said briefly. And he and Lily went home, to their safe little cottage in Godric's Hollow, warded and secure, and Sirius left for his flat, and Remus went off on whatever mission Dumbledore had meant for James, and Peter was left alone to wander back to his own little room in the Hogsmeade boardinghouse, to watch the Beltane fires from his window and think back to his father's tales of Walpurgis Night, when Satan came to steal the souls of good Christians. That wasn't what his thoughts lingered on, though; rather, he couldn't shake the image of a scared-looking Remus, trapped, in pain, the way he used to look after the worst full moons when the scars were still livid on his face.

It was the first Beltane in seven years that Peter hadn't cut whitethorn with the Marauders, and this year, he didn't even think to lay a bough across his door before he collapsed into bed and fell asleep.

* * *

Peter awoke to the sound of his front door creaking open. That was odd; he could have sworn he'd locked the door. It was hardly going to blow open, even in the April wind. He sat up in bed, tossing off the covers, and reached slowly for his wand.

"Expelliarmus."

The voice came out of nowhere, and Peter's wand flew from his hand. He spun, trying to see around him, but the dim glow of the Beltane fires through the heavy curtain barely provided enough light for him to see the silhouettes of his own hands.

"Who--" he began, and was proud that his voice barely even quavered.

"Lumos." came the voice again, and then Peter could see who was speaking but wasn't entirely sure he had wanted to find out. He gaped at the robed figure, cloaked and hooded in black, and he knew who it was.

The name the man gave was not what Peter had been expecting, but it meant the same thing, really. "Who am I, Peter Pettigrew?" a silken voice asked. "I am a Knight of Walpurgis."

"You're a Death Eater," Peter said simply.

"I am," the silken voice agreed, "and I have come to ask a favor of you."

"What!" Peter exclaimed. "A favor? What could I possibly do for you? Not that I would anyway--I mean--you're supposed to be evil..."

On Beltane-Eve, good is almost evil.

"You may find, Mr. Pettigrew, that the Dark Lord has more to offer you than you might think. And more reasons for you to grant your loyalty to us than anything James Potter could offer."

"James Potter? It's hardly James Potter who runs the resistance--"

The hooded figure cut him off. "It would be foolish of the Dark Lord to believe you served Dumbledore out of any loyalty to the old fool. You serve him for your friends. And your friends are not worth your faith. Already they have begun to betray you, betray the ideals they once stood for."

"You lie," Peter snapped petulantly. "James would never betray me."

"Would he not?" the Death Eater replied. "He has already abandoned your little clique in favor of his new Mudblood wife, has he not? He sent Remus Lupin into danger in his place. What makes you think he will not do the same to you?"

"I--" Peter stopped. There didn't seem to be an easy retort to that.

On Beltane-Eve, lies are almost the truth.

"James Potter puts his family before his friends, as he promised never to do. He has betrayed you, betrayed you all."

"It was just once," Peter argued weakly, "he won't--he wouldn't--"

"He would. And he will, Peter Pettigrew. He has given up on the bonds of your friendship. Why should you not do the same? You'd be doing nothing less than he did. Just following the light of his star."

"I--I can't. I can't. This isn't right; it can't be--"

"You'd be doing nothing less than James Potter did," the Death Eater said, and his voice was honey laced with cyanide.

"What--I'm really not sure--what do you want of me?"

Suddenly it occurred to Peter that the Death Eaters might kill him. It was like an epiphany, like a candle coming alight in his head.

"What do you want of me?" he repeated again, softer, and this time his voice did quaver slightly.

"Just information. The Dark Lord asks nothing else of you. Just information. And in return, he will grant you the protection that James Potter will not."

"What--what information?" Peter asked. Something in his head was screaming this is wrong, but really, it made sense. It did make sense. James had broken his promises. He wasn't going to protect Peter, just as he hadn't protected Remus. All those promises, "I will die for you, battle for you, suffer for you," were nothing more than lies, really. Just lies and betrayal. It made sense.

"It is just one tiny piece of knowledge the Dark Lord desires, and he does not yet need it. It is information that will be of interest to him in the future. He will ask you for the location of James and Lily Potter."

"That's--that's all?" Peter asked.

"As simple as that," the Death Eater replied.

On Beltane-Eve, dark is almost light.

"Protect yourself, Peter Pettigrew" the Death Eater urged. "James Potter will not do it for you."

Peter nodded. "Very well." And this time, his voice was clear. Peter didn't know what to believe anymore--but then, he never had.

The Death Eater pulled out something that glinted silver in the eerie wandlight from his voluminous robes. "As a token of our arrangement," he said, and held it out to Peter.

He took it, held it up to the light. An armband; thirty interlocked silver discs. Peter's brow furrowed.

"Protect yourself," the Death Eater said softly, and Peter nodded, and, steeling his courage--he was a Gryffindor, after all, no matter what Snivellus and the others had said--he slid it onto his left arm. It glowed suddenly, red hot, and burnt into his forearm, and Peter screamed, and screamed, and then it was over, and the armband was gone, and in its place on his arm was the faint outline of a tattoo, a skull with a snake in its mouth, and, in a circle around it, thirty silver discs like tiny moons. A moment later, the tattoo faded as well.

On Beltane-Eve, good is almost evil.

With a pop, the Death Eater disapparated, and the room was left in darkness.