Potter's Field

Oct. 25, 1981

Pontius Pettigrew had always praised Peter when he knew what Saint's day it was. It had hardly been a common occurrence; Peter had never been good at remembering dates, to Professor Binns's constant chagrin, but today was one of the few he would never forget--the feast of St. Crispan, and the day of the battle of Agincourt, immortalized in verse. Reading Shakespeare was almost as good as listening to Sidhe's mythology, and it was the closest Peter had managed to get since Pontius had died a year before, and Peter had stopped going home.

Oh, but though tonight might have been St. Crispan's, tonight whenever he thought the words "Harry the King" he thought not of Henry V and Agincourt, but of baby Harry, Harry who smiled at him and clutched at his fingers. Harry, for whom James had betrayed the Marauders.

The scar on Peter's forearm burned faintly.

The Dark Lord was calling in his debts, Peter knew. He wanted James Potter, but Peter despaired of ever finding a way to deliver the information. He had heard them planning, knew that Dumbledore intended to cast a Fidelius charm and make Sirius the secret-keeper. Peter buried his doughy face in his hands. How could he ever explain that to the Dark Lord?

All it took, though, in the end, were two sharp pops to turn Peter Pettigrew's fortunes around. Two hollow sounds, making a noise like a bubble disappearing, and Padfoot and Prongs were standing in his sitting room.

"What--" Peter began, stupefied. It was hardly typical for anyone to apparate into another wizard's home. Common courtesy mandated at least appearing on the doorstep and knocking.

Prongs put a hand to his lips. "Wormtail," he said, keeping his voice just above a whisper, "we need your help."

"What--" Peter said again, but then trailed off. He didn't even know what he could possibly have asked.

"Peter, you know we're marked to die, Harry and Lily and me."

...If we are mark'd to die, we are enow / To do our country loss...

Sirius overran James in his haste. "Wormtail, you know we're doing the Fidelius charm. But I just realized, I'm the first person that Voldemort--" Peter flinched at the name "--would suspect. We need a decoy. Someone to take my place. And we think you're perfect."

Peter's mouth dropped open. It was odd, really; the first impression that crossed the mind of a loyal Death Eater should have been that he now had a chance to give James's location to the Dark Lord. Instead, the fleeting thought was, Sending me into danger to protect Lily and Harry. The same betrayal the Dark Lord warned of.

"Of course I will," Peter said quickly, then flinched inwardly, terrified that he had been careless, that James and Sirius would think he was too eager.

Indeed, Sirius seemed to hesitate for moment. "Are you sure you know what you're getting into, Peter? This will put you straight in the way of Voldemort."

"I know," Peter said steadily, trying to sound as though he were afraid, which wasn't difficult, because he was afraid, though not of what Sirius and James suspected. "I want the chance to prove I'm a Gryffindor for once in my life."

"Oh, you're a true Gryffindor, mate," James said with a sweet smile that made Peter's stomach crawl with the thought that this apparent paragon was the man who would put his own life before his dearest friends'.

Or was it guilt that twisted inside him?

"You're really sure?" Sirius asked again, and Peter nodded. "Good. Then let's go." He handed Peter a scrap of parchment with apparition coordinates scrawled across it in James's messy handwriting. Peter pulled out his wand, and the three of them were suddenly in Godric's Hollow.

The yard was empty.

"Where's Dumbledore?" Peter asked, surprised.

"Not here," Sirius said bluntly. "We figured the fewer people who know about the switch, the better.

Remus might not have been there, but the aura in the air and Jmes and Sirius and Peter stood together was unmistakable. Friendship and trust and appeals to a shared past seemed to float on the October mist.

...We few, we happy few, we band of brothers...

Peter nodded, then summoned his voice. He was surprised at how steady it sounded. "What do I have to do?"

The Fidelius Charm itself was remarkably simple. Lily performed the trickiest wand work, but then Charms always had been her best class. All Peter had to do was speak an incantation at one precise moment, and he managed without even a waver in his voice. Lily drifted back inside once it was done, and the three Marauders stood outside in the chilly October night for a few moments, not speaking.

"It's done," James finally said, and Sirius nodded.

"It's done," he agreed.

Peter could think of nothing to say. He closed his eyes and focused his mind on the dull ache in his forearm, marveling at how, if he concentrated, he could feel the shape of every tiny silver circle burning into his flesh.

He opened his eyes again quickly when he heard James's voice, as if from a distance. "--you all right? Wormtail?"

Peter nodded quickly. "I'm fine," he said. "Just a bit dizzy. I think I ought to go home now."

James nodded solemnly, and then, suddenly and unexpectedly moved to Peter's side and embraced him tightly. "Thank you," he said, and Peter felt another unidentifiable stab in his stomach. He pulled away, then met James's eyes, leaned in, kissed him softly on the cheek, and disapparated.

Why was it, he wondered as he reappeared in the foyer of his flat, that the quotation now echoing in his head wasn't from Shakespeare at all, but rather from a story--one of Pontius's--that he thought he'd forgotten long ago.

Judas, betrayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss?

And then, brushing his hand along the burning scar, he apparated again.

October 31, 1981

He said, "It is finished."

Peter ran.

He was a rat now, running, scurrying away from the sight, from what he had wrought, from the bodies of Lily, red hair dull and lifeless in the dust and rubble, and of his star, its light now out forever, and two words were an agonized mantra in his head: Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. But a rat, it seemed, knew more terror than even a guilty human, and Peter realized that first, first of all, he had to save himself, because this hadn't been what was meant to happen, not at all, and everything had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

What else could Peter do but save his own life?

And so he ran, ran from the rubble and the sight of the lighting bolt livid on Harry's forehead and the knowledge that the Dark Lord wasn't about to protect him now.

Ah, he could go to Dumbledore, he supposed, but Sirius would kill him first, and even Dumbledore would have no tolerance for a Judas, for a traitor.

Where could Peter go, now he had lost his star and had nothing to follow?

...And they took the thirty pieces of silver, the price of Him that was valued... and gave them for the Potter's Field...

The potter's field, the field of blood--the price of his thirty pieces of silver. That was where Peter must go. He didn't know where to look for it; he knew Sirius would be after him soon, and still he ran.

The potter's field. Wherever that might be, it held the price of his redemption.

And tonight was Samhain. The end of the summer and the day of the falling of the stars.