Dark Coil

Dark Coil

Prologue: "I Remember, I Remember"

Peter whimpered pitifully as he scrubbed at the magical hand with a cleansing charm. It was becoming harder and harder each time to rub away the stains. The lovely silver skin was now pitted by a rust-hued tarnish that no amount of magic could erase. So many deaths. So many murders.

The body of the young girl had slid awkwardly down the ash slope into the landfill. She had been pretty once, before Peter had brought her before his lord. Now, now she resembled nothing more than a mummified husk in a tacky Muggle mini-skirt. One more unexplained death the for Muggle police to file away. With her passing, another cancerous scab had appeared on the silver hand, the hand bestowed upon Peter three years ago by Lord Voldemort. When Peter had displayed the blemishes to the evil, dark wizard who owned Peter’s soul, Voldemort had chuckled, a sound that withered the very bones of Peter’s body. "Why Wormtail," Voldemort had hissed gleefully, "do you not see that each of these marks is a tribute to your devotion to me? Wear them as a general would his medals!"

Peter had cried at the use of his old nickname, a name he had once borne proudly, now spoken with such derision.

At one time, he had been proud to be Wormtail. Wormtail had been the great friend of James Potter, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black. How wonderful were those times when the four of them had taken off on some wild scheme about Hogwarts or into Hogsmeade, grabbing Lady Luck by her trailing robes and giving them a yank! For so long in his life, Peter had been the outcast, ridiculed, tormented, but then, THEN, he had found these glorious, dashing friends and they had actually counted him one of their number, a trusted companion.

Oh, oh, how far he had fallen from that trust. And now, to hear the name he had once loved dearly spoken by the living embodiment of evil caused what remained of Peter’s soul to cringe in pain.

He pulled the ratty Muggle coat closer about his wasted body and headed out of the dump area located near the waterfront, the precious silver hand cradled to his chest. He wept for himself, for what he had become, for the wonderful, prank-filled days he had cast aside for the illusion of power. If he had had possession of his soul, Peter would have killed himself long ago. His greater fear and dark love for Voldemort eclipsed his hatred of what he had become. For Voldemort , Peter would slave. For Voldemort, Peter would kill. Again and again and again.

The tattered figure continued to slink and slither from shade to shadow as it made its way through the grimy streets of London’s forgotten underbelly. The denizens of this seamier side of the great city provided fodder in the way of ready Muggle cash, terror filled tidbits for the simmering horror that was Voldemort, and necessary ingredients. For the darkest of all wizards was now brewing a vile, deadly potion in the bowels of a ruined mansion located on the wasted edge of London’s borders. Peter had been witness to the blasting away of life from each of the screaming, terror-filled victims. He had run, run, covering his ears as the voices of Hell rose all about him.

Peter finally reached his destination, a rotting mansion occupying a small plot of land covered with decades of refuse and overgrown with vines and weeds. Skittering around to the rear of the building, Peter looked about him fearfully and then lifted the shuddering cellar doors. A pit of vile blackness yawned before him, and he whimpered deep in his throat. He scrubbed at the tears with a rough coat sleeve. He choked and crumpled to his knees as an oily, crawling voice whispered from the blackness. "Wormtail, Wormtail. Why do you linger at the door?" Lovely dark coils of evil wrapped themselves around Peter’s mind. "Come down, Wormtail. I have been playing with our new little friend. I have told her all about you. She is dying to make your acquaintance." The voice drifted off into hissing laughter and from where he cowered, Peter could hear faint sobbing from the next resident of London’s garbage heap.

"Coming, Master," he moaned. "Coming." Peter stepped into the thick black of the cellar and all sounds of weeping were cut off as he closed the door behind him.

From the street corner where he hid himself in shadow, the paid spy shuddered violently. He wiped the vomit from his lips, but could do nothing about the state of his pants. God! Whatever was in that hole, he wanted nothing to do with it! He had followed the rat-like man fitting the description provided by his employer for several days before finally being able to track him to this place. He would go no further. Not for all the bloody gold in Gringotts! Let the ruddy wizard come and fetch this one himself. The spy felt he had done his part. He would do no more. Tonight, he would write the information he had obtained on a small bit of parchment and tie it to the leg of the first owl he could get his hands on. After that, he would disappear for a while. Life was suddenly too dangerous here in London. The owl would carry the information to another courier who would, in turn, relay it on by another means. It might take days, even weeks for the parchment to arrive at its final destination, but that wasn’t his problem. He was finished. He promised himself he would never come back. Never.