Stag Night

Stag Night

~ VI ~

Dark Passage

Peter had not meant to wander so far, of course, but he’d got scared--that’s how he always seemed to get into trouble. He had only wanted to get away for a moment, just to clear his head and get his bearings.

In Peter’s world, there were scary things and then there were scary things. That is, there were some things you could run away from and others that… He tried not to think about the latter category, but when those two tall women had accosted them, he’d felt a strong desire to put as much distance between them and himself as he could. The tarts had focused on Sirius, naturally, as Peter had seen from his vantage point behind James. Sirius could handle it; once he’d even bragged that two girls at once would be a ripping good time. Remus had scowled darkly at that suggestion, but Peter had said nothing because his stomach had been doing flip-flops as if, in the blink of an eye, a stranger had replaced the Sirius he knew. Why hadn’t James been there to make him stop? Why couldn’t James have been there more often?

Hiding behind James had given him a shred of security while those women were leering at Sirius. He felt better as soon as they’d left. But, when the squat, sallow-faced wizard appeared out of nowhere, Peter recoiled and stepped away from James and the others so as not to get too close to the ugly creature, whose demeanor put him sharply in mind of those sorry cases who begged in Diagon Alley, who pawed at him every day when he went to work, who asked -- no, demanded - that he give them money. And he always did, feeling vaguely unclean about flinging the coins down on the pavement as he bolted for the security of his desk.

But these days there wasn’t any place to hide.

“…the worst in years, the worst that I can remember. Don’t leave the door open, Peter! The draft is killing us.”

Eurydice Featherfoil looked down her nose at him through her batwing-shaped spectacles. She was huddled next to the small fireplace in the clerks’ room with Persephone Toadflax, engaged in the morning ritual of gossip.

“Sorry,” muttered Peter. He wished that he could think up a snappy comeback as he wrestled with the heavy door. A combination of too much drink and too little sleep had robbed him of both strength and wit this morning.

“Worst, eh?” Persephone sniffed. She was plump and round where Eurydice was angular and gaunt, but they shared a passion for gossip. No rumor was too far-fetched for them to hash and rehash. “Only seven, that’s what I heard. Last year’s count was ten.”

Peter shuffled over to the table in the corner that held the tea things. Tea wasn’t going to fix his pounding head, but it wouldn’t make it worse either, and it meant a delay in beginning the day’s work of staring at pointless black squiggles marching across pointless pieces of parchment.

“Ooooh, Peter. We’d love a cuppa, wouldn’t we?” Persephone called out. “There’s a love.”

“Seven?” Eurydice shook her head. “Eleven. The Daily Prophet only reported seven, it’s true, but my sister told me…”

Peter stopped listening and concentrated on opening the tin of tea. His hand shook as he ladled leaves into the teapot. He’d had too much to drink last night at James’s Hallowe’en party, but that wasn’t the only thing making his stomach churn this morning.

Dumbledore’s words and the memory of those sharp, blue eyes troubled him as much as the hangover. The old wizard, his face more grave than Peter could remember, had told the assembled crowd of witches and wizards how the Ministry struggled to gain the upper hand against the Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort. Had he meant that the Ministry was losing the war? Peter had never considered the possibility before and the thought of it drove sharp quills of panic deep into his gut. Dumbledore had gone on to tell them that their help was needed, not in an official capacity but as a sort of irregular corps. Peter wasn’t clear on the details. The others had listened intently, but he hadn’t been able to focus on the words after a while, the roaring in his ears so loud that he found it nearly impossible to make sense of what Dumbledore was saying.

Most of the dozen or so wizards and witches seated in James’s parlor had remained silent, although Mundungus Fletcher had been as daft as ever, interrupting ten or twenty times with shouts of, “Hear, hear!” and, “Smack ‘em, I say!” Sirius had jumped up and begun pacing the room as if he were ready to battle You-Know-Who single-handedly then and there. James had kept to his seat, holding Lily’s hand and occasionally whispering to her intently.

All the talk had been confusing to Peter. In the end, he hadn’t been able to figure out what was being asked of them, though the others seemed to understand. All Peter knew was that he wanted to get good and drunk in hopes of quieting the feelings that gnawed at him like wild dogs chewing away at the carcass of a dead cow.

And he had gotten drunk, very drunk (surprising even Sirius), which was why he felt so rotten this morning. He managed to boil water and steep tea, major accomplishments both. Shakily, he poured the tea into three of the department’s mismatched cups. Persephone and Eurydice paid no attention to him as they continued their morning tête-à-tête. No item was too trivial for the two of them to pick apart.

“...and that couple over in Little Horsted makes eleven,” pronounced Eurydice triumphantly. “Oh and such a tragedy, too. Star-crossed lovers, snuffed out-- “ She lowered her voice dramatically. “--by You-Know-Who.”

“Are you sure?” said Persephone as Eurydice dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

“The Dark Mark was seen,” she whispered, “plain as anything.”

Peter strained to hear the details as he conjured a bit of milk. He picked up two of the full teacups and, mustering all the concentration that his pounding head would allow, teetered across the room.

“Well,” said Eurydice huffily, “my sister’s husband works in Magical Law Enforcement, as you know, and he said that those two were found in a very compromising position...”

“But I heard from Mrs. Witherspoon, my neighbor, whose daughter works for the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad,” replied Persephone archly, playing a hidden trump card, “that the girl was actually a Muggle.”

“I don’t see wha--“ began Eurydice, but she was interrupted by a loud crash as one of the cups that Peter had been holding fell to the floor and shattered. She looked at him disapprovingly and said, “Peter, do be more careful! There’s only so many times that a mending charm can be applied to our poor cups.”

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled. He thrust the surviving teacup at the clerks and scurried back across the room to retrieve the third cup. As he handed it to Eurydice, he said, “Here...I didn’t want any. Erm, by any chance do you know the name of this wizard that got…that was, you know, at Little Horsted?”

“Braddock, wasn’t it?” said Eurydice sipping her tea. She made a face. “Sugar?”

Peter, unable to say or do anything coherent, pointed vaguely at the table behind him. Eurydice raised her wand and used a summoning charm to make three sugar cubes shoot through the air and plop themselves into her cup.

“No, no,” said Persephone. “It was Baddock. Mrs. Witherspoon’s daughter told me herself.”

On hearing the name--the name he’d suspected, the name he’d dreaded--Peter stumbled backward. His feet crunched on fragments of the broken cup and he slipped on the puddle of tea.

“So,” said Persephone with a satisfied smirk, “that girl was a Muggle and that means only ten wizards killed at Hallowe’en and not eleven.”

He managed to grasp a chair and steady himself to avoid meeting the same fate as the teacup. The women shook their heads and tut-tutted him, but immediately resumed their gossip. Peter, however, had to get out. He dragged himself to the door and pulled it open.

“Oh, honestly--” Eurydice broke off, annoyed. “Peter? Where are you going?”

“Got some filing to do down in the basement,” Peter stammered, standing in the doorway and clutching the door for support. “Been meaning to get to it for weeks and there’s no time…like the present.”

“And I suppose you expect us to clean up your mess for you! Come back--”

Peter crept down to the basement, where he managed to stay holed up for the next week. There were several decades’ worth of deeds and wills that needed filing and Mr. Bartelby did get most upset when a record couldn’t be found.

He couldn’t hide forever, though. He knew that. He met up with the dreaded aftermath of Hallowe’en one evening as he emerged furtively from the law firm’s basement and crept up the stairs. The little-used back door led directly up into a narrow passageway between two buildings. A single ever-burning candle shone from a wall bracket above the stairwell, casting a small circle of light at his feet. He raised his wand and mentally prepared to Apparate.

“Peter! Where’ve you been hiding?”

A dark form melted out of the shadows, coalescing into Jack Travers. He sauntered casually towards Peter, a smile on his face and hands stuck into his pockets. In the dim light of the little alley his eyes appeared empty and his face grimmer than usual.

“Hiding? Me?” said Peter and dropped his wand in surprise.

Jack reached the wand in two long strides, picked it up and put it in his pocket. “I haven’t seen you in a week,” he said in a calm voice that Peter did not find reassuring. “Every time I stopped by the office, the girls told me you were off somewhere and couldn’t be found.”

“Been really, really busy,” said Peter, backing away until he could feel himself teetering on the edge of the top stair. “We’re so behind on all our filing that I…”

“Oh?” said Jack, stepping closer. “Too busy for your friends? You haven’t stopped by the pub since Hallowe’en. I was afraid you were ill.”

“Ill, yes. Actually, er, my mum’s been sick,” stammered Peter, “and I’ve been looking after her, y’know.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Jack knowingly, a glint in his ice-blue eyes. “She getting better?”

“I suppose you could say…I mean…” Peter replied, too caught up in his lie to know how to answer.

“Good. Then I’m sure she can do without you for a bit,” said Jack and wrapped his fingers tightly around Peter’s upper arm.

Peter gave a strangled squeak. Jack ignored his obvious distress and pulled him toward Diagon Alley, not relaxing his grip as they squeezed through the narrow passageway.

I’m dead, Peter thought, because Jack Travers is a Death Eater and he’s going to kill me next.

The inescapable conclusion had settled on him painfully the morning after Hallowe’en like a dragon landing on a spindly-legged chair, which is to say that the certainty of how and why Harley Baddock had been killed was crushing him, making it hard for him to breathe every hour of the day and keeping him awake at night with visions of black-cloaked demons looming over his bed. In the mornings he’d wake up drenched in sweat, unrefreshed and fearful.

As they emerged into the brighter lights of Diagon Alley, Jack relaxed his grip for an instant and then linked arms with Peter casually in the way that schoolboys might do, though his grip was firm and anything but casual. Around them witches and wizards strolled, some alone and some in little knots heading home or to the pub. Late shoppers bustled about finishing errands before the close of business. Peter, his face slick with sweat, his limbs going numb, was sure that no one else on the street felt the same gut-wrenching panic that he felt.

“I expect you’ve heard about Harley,” said Jack nonchalantly. His eyes roamed over the street and he occasionally smiled or said a word to an acquaintance as they slipped through the crowds.

“Too bad,” Jack went on. “A senseless waste, wouldn’t you say?”

Peter got as far as a choked gurgle, but terror had rendered his tongue as stiff as a board. Jack turned to him, smiling, and said, “I’m sure you tried to warn him. Didn’t you? You tried to tell him what a mistake he was making…of course.”

“Wh--well,” said Peter thickly, “I might have, y’know, said something like that, yes.”

“Obviously, he didn’t listen,” Jack said with a shrug, turning his attention back to the street. “Not your fault, though.”

“I s’pose when you--when you put it like that--“ Peter broke off because they were just outside the Golden Apple. His heart pounded as if it were trying to punch through his ribs and he laughed shrilly. “You might have said that you wanted me to come for a drink without being so mysterious about it.“

“No time for that now,” said Jack curtly, not smiling anymore. “Perhaps later...”

By this time, he’d steered Peter around the corner from the pub, away from the lights of Diagon Alley and down a short set of worn stone steps that were poorly lit by a pair of sputtering torches. They turned another corner and entered Knockturn Alley. Peter’s heart hammered as the emotional roller coaster crawled to the top of one final high that was certain to be followed by a dizzying descent into death.

“Where?” was all Peter managed to croak. He had no thought of struggling or of trying to escape. If Jack Travers was a Death Eater and Peter was marked for death, what would be the point of running away? Could his old friends--even Dumbledore, if it came to that--save him?

“Three…four…”

Jack had taken out his wand and was counting the doorways on their left, oblivious to the glares and mutterings of some of the wizards on the street. Others simply ignored them, brushing by with faces averted or hoods pulled down.

“Seven…eight…”

The street was irregular and dirty, as were the buildings that housed shops selling potion ingredients, books, and other things that Peter couldn’t or didn’t want to identify. They passed Hengis’s Herparium where Peter couldn’t seem to take his eyes away from the large display window that was filled top to bottom with snakes. Peter faltered. He was hypnotized by the seething mass of reptiles that looked like an alien monster composed of hundreds of tails and heads and forked tongues all bound together in a mysterious and repellant way. The eyes were the most horribly fascinating part; the black slits opened and closed, like doors to--

“Ten…Looking for a pet?” Jack said, giving Peter a sharp tug to get him moving again. “I don’t think those are right for you. Come on. We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” whispered Peter.

“Eleven…twelve…”

Jack slowed down and then stopped, pulling Peter close so that they both stood a handsbreadth away from a piece of wall adorned only with peeling paint and torn handbills.

“This should be it.” Jack tapped his wand on the wall in three different places while murmuring an incantation. In the blink of an eye, a door appeared before them, a door no less faded and scarred than the wall had been. Swiftly, Jack opened the door and gave Peter a shove. He landed on a flight of wooden stairs opposite the door, clawing at the steps in an attempt to scramble to his feet. He looked up to see Jack close the door and then his world went dark.

“Lumos,” whispered Jack hoarsely.

In the light from the wand, Peter first saw the tense line of Jack’s jaw, and then he saw that the door had vanished, replaced by a blank wall. They stood in an alcove barely two meters on a side, a landing at the bottom of an unlit stairway, a dark passage to…where? Peter’s brain had frozen and refused to churn out any more thoughts.

“Up,” Jack said and pointed his wand toward the shadowy staircase.

Slowly, Peter’s feet found the stairs, his steps oddly light; soon he’d be dead, he reckoned, and free from the terrible, gut-wrenching anxiety of the past week.

At the top of the stairs, he expected to find a crowd of Death Eaters, like the ones that haunted his nightmares, but there was only a large, empty room with a high ceiling, bricked-up windows and peeling wallpaper. He stumbled into the center and stared up at a formerly elegant embossed tin ceiling and the huge chandelier that hung from its center. In wandlight, the many arms were like those of a frozen squid casting tangled shadows on the ceiling.

“Nox,” said Jack, and the world went dark again.

Before Peter had time to blink, Jack spoke again in a harsh voice that echoed off the walls.

“Morsmordre!”

The words were unfamiliar, but there could be no doubt that this was a powerful spell. A sickening green light exploded into the room. Peter looked up and gasped; his frantically beating heart almost stopped right then as he beheld the image of a giant skull nearly two meters across that floated overhead, swallowing up the chandelier and obscuring the ceiling. A skull with a snake emerging from its mouth. The Dark Mark.

Peter fell to his knees and closed his eyes, more certain than before that the end was near. He never knew how long he knelt there on the dusty floor as the green light washed over him, head down and clutching his knees, gasping each breath as if it were his last and waiting for death, or worse.

Suddenly the light was gone. He knew it without opening his eyes, just as he knew that he and Jack were no longer alone.

A presence. He felt the arrival of someone or something else, though he didn’t hear a sound other than his own labored breathing.

“Leave us, Travers,” said a cold, high-pitched voice, a voice that might have been childlike and comical in another time and place.

“Master,” was all Jack said in a peculiar tone that Peter barely recognized. He knew that the word wasn’t meant for him, but for the newcomer.

“Return when we are finished,” the voice continued, this time coming from a different spot than before.

Peter turned his head slowly, straining to hear some hint as to the location of the voice. But all he heard were heavy footfalls as Jack slowly descended the stairs. He sniffed, but smelled nothing except the faint sweetness of mold and ancient dust. He scanned the surrounding darkness in hopes of seeing something. Once or twice he thought he saw glimmers of light. But were they eyes in the dark or just tricks of the mind?

“Peter Pettigrew.”

The words came from everywhere and nowhere, bypassing Peter’s senses and planting themselves directly into his head. Each syllable was drawn out, as if the presence were dissecting him, peeling back layers of skin and muscle, worming into every organ and bone.

“Incendio!”

Light flared from the chandelier above and Peter stifled a cry of surprise. He opened his eyes cautiously, but dared not look up. He concentrated on the dusty wooden floor before him. There were bloodstains on it.

“Good of you to come…” said Lord Voldemort as if Peter has just dropped by for tea and cucumber sandwiches.

“Please--please--“ said Peter breathlessly, raising his eyes enough to see the hem of a black robe a mere arm’s length in front of him. “If it’s about Jack and--and what happened on Hallowe’en, I haven’t told anyone--I won’t tell…I swear it.”

Peter caught movement at the edge of his vision and couldn’t help but look up to see long ghostly white fingers moving fluidly, pointing a wand in his direction. Something dragged his gaze further upward until he was trapped by a pair of red, slitted eyes like a rat about to be swallowed by a snake, knowing it will be eaten but not able to do a damned thing to free itself as long as the unblinking eyes hold it fast. The Dark Lord lowered his wand. Peter dared to breathe and felt himself lose control; his trousers and robe suddenly hot and wet as a result of his bladder giving up in fright.

“You think you were summoned for punishment?” said Lord Voldemort, the cold voice tinged with amusement, as he moved behind Peter. The heavy black cloak swished softly across the floor, but otherwise the Dark Lord was a silent as an anaconda gliding up a tree.

Peter didn’t want to end then and there in a soggy heap of tears, sweat and piss. Perhaps it was being out of the terrible gaze of You-Know-Who or perhaps there was wildness inside Peter that had lain hidden, but something prompted him to whisper fiercely, “I don’t want to--deserve to… die.”

A cold, shrill laugh erupted from behind him and echoed off the ceiling and walls. Peter ducked his head and clapped his hands over his ears. It did no good, though; the sound had wormed its way inside him so that he would hear that laughter forever after.

“Oh, do get up. Had you been marked for death,” said the Dark Lord casually, completing his circle and standing once more before the trembling heap of Pettigrew, “your life would have been over by now. No, Lord Voldemort merely wanted to meet you after all that Travers has said.”

Pop! The Dark wizard conjured a chair that winked into existence so suddenly that Peter gave a start.

“Sit.”

“Said? About me?” stammered Peter squeakily as he scrambled to his feet, grasping the chair for support. He sat down gingerly; his pants were still wet, adding to the bubbling cauldron of new sensations that were overwhelming his brain. “Erm, whatever it was, well…I…”

“--deserve to be commended, naturally,” the Dark Lord said smoothly.

“Ple--excuse me?” said Peter incredulously.

“Yes,” hissed the other, the eyes leaving Peter’s face for a moment and traveling upward to stare at something beyond the chandelier above, beyond the room itself.

Without those fiery red eyes fixed on him, Peter had the chance to appraise the pale face. The white skin and slit-like nostrils were more reminiscent of a china-white snake than anything human. The flat planes of the face seemed sculpted, not the product of some sordid coupling of human parents but of the deliberate hand of an alien craftsman. At that moment, it seemed to Peter a majestic face. Later, he would come to see it as a monstrosity, a cruel joke, but that first time it held him in awe.

The eyes blinked and were upon him again, the black slits enlarging suddenly and then contracting, drawing Peter into the inky blackness inside.

“So few wizards have the wisdom to see the immediate danger to our kind…as you do, Peter Pettigrew.”

The sound of his name uttered by the Dark Lord once again sent a jolt up Peter’s spine.

“Well, I…” whispered Peter hesitantly, trying to discount what he’d heard, indeed the evidence from all his senses. “Me?” He swallowed painfully. “You can’t think that I’ve done…anything, can you?”

“Do you think it strange that Lord Voldemort should want to reward those who are useful?” Another shrill laugh reverberated in the cavernous room. “No doubt you have heard all the usual lies from that Muggle-loving Albus Dumbledore and his misguided followers.” After a snort of contempt, he continued, “Do not believe what you hear. Lord Voldemort is trying to save the wizarding world.”

Peter gasped, having realized all of a sudden that he’d been holding his breath. The sound of that name, the name that was never spoken, the rightful name of the terrible and awesome presence that loomed over him, still rang in his ears.

“Does that surprise you? Wizards are in great danger, more than in centuries past. Can you guess what threatens us?”

The pregnant silence had struck Peter dumb. Curiously, he found himself longing for the voice to continue.

“Muggles,” came a venomous hiss from above his left ear, so close that he flinched and ducked his head as if dodging a blow. From behind him, the Dark Lord continued.

“They are killing us…slowly, so slowly that many foolish people cannot see. The idiots at the Ministry make rules to ‘protect’ Muggles. Hah! Mere folly that weakens us all. Why, you would think that wizards were pitiful, helpless creatures hiding in places like this, afraid to venture out into the world, afraid to take their rightful places.”

The Dark Lord stopped abruptly and then reappeared in front of Peter, who did not have the ability to look away from the scarlet eyes as the black slits opened and closed, like doors to--

“I, Lord Voldemort, am trying to save wizards from slow and shameful extinction at the hands of Muggles,” raged the Dark wizard. Abruptly, he looked up toward the chandelier and pointed his wand at some unseen enemy. “Those misguided, Muggle-loving wizards must be stopped. But Lord Voldemort cannot do this alone. No. I have gathered together those who will listen, my loyal friends. Of course, those who do not join us will eventually be crushed.” He waved a hand dismissively and then fixed his gaze on Peter once more, saying more softly, “Ah, someone with your talents and… connections could be very…valuable.”

“M-me?” Peter whispered, “You must be mistaken. I’m not anything--that is, I’d prefer a rather quiet life, you know, away from the--out of the--”

“There can be no hiding, Pettigrew. You will find that Lord Voldemort offers protection and rewards to his loyal servants.”

“Rewards?” Peter blurted out. “But, what can I--Wh-what do you want?”

“Information, merely information that will help our cause. And in return…”

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