At the Doors of the Great Hall

Why do they do this to me? All I'm trying to do is get them to look good in front of people I look up to-even if I am afraid of them-and they do things like this to me. Act surly. Spill food on their clothes. Why? And why me?

Perhaps this is my comeuppance. Perhaps it is a reward for betraying my fellow Gryffindors. Or perhaps it is just the stubbornness of youth... but either way, the embarrassment!

As I lead them from this too-familiar hall, where I have eaten too many meals-all of them, before, on the far side of the room!-I find that I am lonely, missing the peace of the halls of Durmstrang. I know they think me horrible, turning off all the fires, making it cold and dismal-but it is quiet.

I have not had the strength for noise since the Dark Lord broke me.

I walk, my students in a line, to the doors. They are not aware of what I see-the familiar red and gold hangings that I carefully and not looking at, the dismal green and silver I was so ridiculed for defending-and yet, look at me now, all four of you! You smug hypocrites, hating for the hatred of others. Only Peter understood me. He understood many things, including that he was not-I will not think of that.

I walk to the door-interminable walk! When will it end? Must I make this same journey every day?-and reach it at the same time as a small group of students. It's just James, and I step towards the door, saying thank you in the absentminded way that I always was careful to maintain around that one.

Was. I whirl and stare at the young man in the doorway. What am I thinking? James is dead!

*******

Peter snubbed out his light. "I'm going in, Igor," he said. "I agree with what you have said, but my friends don't. And I don't particularly agree with You-Know-Who's methods, so... sorry, Igor. I won't tell, but I don't think I can take you up on that."

This is why I chose Peter to talk to. Of the four of them, he would keep an enemy's secret just as well as a friend's. He was clever, too, and he thought much the same way I did about the Muggle filth. He didn't stand up to his friends, though; he just let them know he didn't agree, and dropped it. And this subject never came up; I knew my opinions were, in essence, a secret.

He was adorable when he was younger. I remember now, clearly, that that was the other thing that skewed my judgement of him. He was small, and just pudgy enough to look adorably round. And the most classic blue eyes and blond hair... it was so thick back then. He looked like a Hufflepuff Malfoy, if that isn't an oxymoron. Cute beyond belief. And playing for the other team as I was, it was no surprise that he was my confidant.

He understood about James, too. His heart wasn't solely destined for the men, but he did understand where I was coming from. He even debated with me-James versus Sirius, which was more sexily out of our reach. I think we were both right: for me it was James; but for him... I think, sometimes, that that is the true reason he betrayed them both to such an extent.

He didn't have to turn into a monster.

I sometimes, in my fey moods, appreciate the irony of it. He was turning dark, just as I was turning light. And he was trusted; I the object of a dark hatred. He was a brilliant strategist, but largely inept at the mainly magical arts; I was horrid at strategy, but excelled in Transfiguration, Charms, and the Dark Arts.

Hogwarts used to teach that; I remember, because it was my best class. But then You-Know-Who came along, and it was deemed unwise to teach the children to cause pain, so they stopped. Just the Defense nonsense that nearly killed James so many times with its ignorance.

That was what really upset me about that decision. As soon as they changed the title and curriculum, they stopped being able to hold onto a teacher. Just as we came into the school. And when they stopped being able to hold teachers, they started repeating lessons, excluding others from the assumption that someone else was teaching it, and just plain teaching it wrong. I was furious, but unable to stop anything.

So we researched in the quiet of the midnight library. Oh, that was foolish... so convinced was I that what we were learning was not enough, I inveigled him into bringing his three friends down for a study session. I was right; what we were learning in class was not enough to defend against the Dark Arts. But what we learned in that library... oh, that was more than enough to haul us down into the inky depths.

I am convinced, argument though so many will make on this matter, that it was Peter's betrayal that saved James from serious harm to his soul, and the rest of us, as well. He was addicted, James, and Peter and Sirius and I, as well. I did not know then, and in fact did not know until this spring, when a letter from Lucius Malfoy informed me, why it was that Remus never became addicted in the same way. Ah, but a werewolf has defenses the rest of us can only yearn for...

Dark Magic is like a very fine scotch: it seems horrible to the first taste, nasty and sour... then you grow to know more of it, and it tastes rather nice... then, if you drink a large enough amount consistently, it seems to be necessary to your person... and then you cannot go on without it. And when you enjoy that addiction, that is when you are damned.

James was well on his way to being damned. He tried to stop it-they all did, another way that I was on the outside-but no, it never worked. He tried everything-this was the true reason he began to do rehabilitation research for the ministry-but never, never could he stop his addiction. He began to drag Lily down with him-that I was happy for, but Sirius, Sirius argued with him so much about it-and I am convinced that it was this presence to their household which made their son as powerful as he was.

And then Peter-little Peter, adorable Peter, the Peter I spilled my heart and my seed to so many times, just aching to be comforted-betrayed him. I was furious when I first found out. How could he? How could he hurt James? And more, how could he not tell me that he had finally agreed with me?

But oh, I do not think it was so great a wonder as everyone else does. He was canny, little Peter, and he knew that we were all addicted, even before the rest of us. He knew that eventually, we would all burn in hell if it never stopped. So he stopped it. He turned me in-gave the Aurors all the clues and all the proof they needed, and told me to go with them. "They will save you," he said. And he was right; three months in Azkaban, and no longer was I addicted to the point of painful withdrawals.

He made the Dark Lord kill James, darling James before it was too late. This was a kindness I did not appreciate for a very long time. I did not realize that James was too perfect to cut off from everybody, and cut off from his wand; I did not realize that he was too stubborn to admit that he was becoming addicted while he still had a chance; and I did not realize that the only way, the only way he would die before dooming himself was for someone to kill him. Peter did not betray him so much as people think; he saved him.

And he turned Sirius, his own secret beloved, in to the Dementors. I think, in part, it was bitterness. He was so hurt, in agony of unresolved emotion over his friend. And Sirius-Sirius would prattle on about this girl, or that, and how far he had gotten tonight. Very few realized it, outside of our dorm room, but the five of us knew: Peter was an artist. He would paint the most brilliant pictures, a very visual person. I am not surprised that he asked Sirius so often to be quiet; if I had as vivid an imagination as Peter, I believe I would, as well.

It was not a shock to me, what happened. I think it is no more than any of us deserved.

*******

It cannot be James, I suddenly realize, gazing at my past's object of adoration. It cannot be James, he never had eyes like that. Those were always Lily's eyes... and suddenly, I am filled, filled with a hate such as few have ever incited in me. Sirius, when he unknowingly tortured Peter; the Dark Lord, when first I realized what I had become under him; and Lily, on James' wedding day. And again, for Lily. Damn her; James was to be mine.

At that moment, my arm burned. The Dark Mark, coming back-or could it just have been brought from my own hatred? Oh, someone save me from this, at least!

Ah, but what was it that saved us the last time?

At that moment, I find my eyes travel slowly up Potter's-Harry Potter's-face. And they fix on a scar, a small white mark of triumph, of survival, that all the wizarding world is pinning its hopes on. I pray for their survival, suddenly, and with a ferocity that takes me aback a bit.

A gravelly voice speaks behind me, making me start. "Yeah, that's Harry Potter."

I swing around, and stare at a face I had prayed never to see again, if only from its sheer repulsiveness. But oh, he was my savior too... such a mix of emotions for this man, is it any wonder that the blood drained from my face. This one, this one was the one who put me in Azkaban. Why shouldn't I pale?

But oh, the voice in your head, the frivolous, arrogant, sarcastic little voice in your head that chooses the most inappropriate times to make you laugh at yourself... that voice was saying to me, "Thank you, Alastor Moody, but I had just figured that out."