A Chance You Only Get Once

"Does anyone else consider it suicide to be taking a group picture?" Gideon Prewett said in the gruff way that everyone had eventually become accustomed to hearing him speak. The only ones who talked as bluntly as he did, emotionlessly and brusquely, were Arabella and Argus Filch. For a while they had been the only ones comfortable around this very altered version of cheerful, happy Head Boy. Fabian was worse, but he had not joined the Order of the Phoenix.

"No more than sending Voldemort a list with all of our names and addresses," Argus Filch said with the biting sarcasm that those around him had long ago grown used to.

"It's not quite that bad," Arabella replied tartly for no better reason than to disagree with her brother. It had been Atlanta's idea of a joke to seat them so near to each other. "It's not like anyone outside of the Order can see the picture."

"Unless an Order member tells them what it is," Argus clarified snappishly. "So we're basically safe until we get infiltrated."

"If and when we're infiltrated, a Christmas picture will be the least of our worries. I'm beginning to think that Voldemort had one good idea," Gideon said. "Not even his most trusted Death Eaters know everyone in his ranks. Only he himself knows them all."

"Dumbledore's all about collaboration and unity, how can we be unified if we don't even know who we're working with?" Arabella asked glaring daggers at her brother, clearly not as firm a believer in unity as she was proclaiming, at least where it concerned Argus.

"People would trust Dumbledore whether or not they knew their fellows," Moody, the taciturn old Auror, growled as if that settled the argument. "And when are you planning on completing your training, Prewett? What have you been doin' all these years that's kept ya from it?" he demanded poking a jagged finger that had obviously been broken before at the younger man.

"I'm not going to be an Auror, Alastor," Gideon said calmly. "But I can assure you that I have been working most diligently against Voldemort."

The man sniffed. "I see. Can't say I don't envy you at times. No dratted administration to ask please and thank you before you go after the bastards where they live. You could've gotten in a lot of trouble under a different Minister for some of those stunts you've pulled though." He sniffed his disapproval of either Gideon or the Ministry or both.

"I thought you didn't know what I've been up to 'all these years,' Alastor," Gideon said in a grumpy way.

Moody humphed and turned to the side. "Ah, Albus. The man of the hour."

Though the man sat down in Albus Dumbledore's seat, it was clear upon second glance that it was not Albus though undoubtedly a Dumbledore. "Aberforth," Gideon nodded from Moody's other side.

The jolly Aberforth was decidedly out of place at this gruff end of the table. He left after only a few minutes chatter. Though they were less cheerful than those that swarmed around them, desperately grasping at this stolen happy moment, they were no more or less determined to make the world a place of beauty again. They who seemed to see so little left in it were by no means less grimly determined to die for the chance that it would be a little better for their efforts. Those lost in darkness were the most eager to preserve the light.

They who made the least effort to smile for the camera were as determined as the rest of the brave and brilliant members of the Order of the Phoenix to give the world a little more to smile about. Whether they were there because of what they had lost or what they stood to lose, they would fight for the cause with the same heart. It wasn't happiness that the Order was meant for; it was a purpose. For now, it would do. For now, it was enough.

For all of them in that room, this moment was one of many to come though few existed in their world now. That was a promise and a duty. Whether it was doomed or not, only time would tell.

* * *

"This is wrong," Marissa whispered as she stood with Lily and the Marauders, an uneasy truce called for the horrid event. It seemed that half of Gryffindor house and many other Hogwarts students, most from Lizzie's year, had shown up at the graveside service. All the prefects were represented, even the Slytherins. "Gideon should have been able to bury her in the Prewett cemetery."

"If you want wrong, Riss, think that Lizzie shouldn't be dead at all," Lily said morosely. She hadn't known Lizzie as well as Remus and Marissa, but the older girl's death had still had a profound impact on Lily Evans. In many ways, Lily saw herself in the commanding, admired, strong-willed and powerful Muggleborn witch. Lizzie had succeeded where many had expected her to fail and scored several points for Muggleborns in general. It was wrong for her to be cut down only a few weeks out of Hogwarts, so arbitrarily too. Like she was nothing.

The two lionesses huddled together in the misting rain that soaked you almost as well as a thunderstorm. "Somebody should go say something to Gideon," Marissa said after a moment. "I'm going to go talk to her grandparents."

Marissa moved swiftly away, glad to have something purposeful to do today of all days. Lily stood there looking as if she would fall over bereft of the mutual support she and Marissa had been giving each other during the ceremony. She wished that that dratted flute player would stop playing Taps like that.

Then Lily noticed that the player was Fabian and understood why he would want to have something to occupy him. Did he see Anna and Michael in the coffin that held his brother's love? Murdered just as his wife and child had been? Cruelly and carelessly. If Gideon had taken the blame for that night onto his shoulders, what would he do with this one?

"You look as if you're about to fall over," James said, taking her arm to steady her. There was a hint of disapproval in his voice.

Lily jerked her arm out of his grasp. "Don't try to put the moves on me today of all days, Potter," she hissed angrily at him.

James just stared at her for a moment with disgust on his face. He dropped her arm and moved towards Gideon who was standing a little apart from all the others, simply staring at the coffin. As a holdover from the days they had been friends, Lily realized that his wordlessness meant that he was furious at her comment. He was hurt too. Lily shook her head. She wasn't supposed to care how Potter felt. He certainly didn't deserve any of her thoughts today.

Peter touched her shoulder and she smiled at him absently. She looked around at the gloomy landscape over his head. It was a dismal place to be your final resting place, but then a graveyard was supposed to be cold. Hearts were broken here, hardened, and frozen.

"Did you go to school with Lizzie?" her grandmother asked Marissa politely.

"Yes, I was a prefect under her," Marissa said with all the warmth of their friendship in her voice. "I set her up with Gideon, actually. Helped her to get him to stop denying his feelings for her. Helped her pick out her wedding dress just a few days ago. Then Gideon walks in and sees her in it and ruins it."

The grandmother smiled, "Was he good for her?" she asked, looking over a the grim, speechless man who did not seem at all warm and good and worthy of Lizzie to her now.

Marissa sighed, also looking mournfully on what Gideon had become in the space of only a few days. "He loved her so dearly, and she loved him. He's carried a terrible guilt around for months, taking blame for something that wasn't his fault, your granddaughter was trying to make him see that," Marissa answered her.

"Yes, that was my Lizzie," she said, making a valiant attempt to smile.

"Prefect meetings will be terrible now with her," Marissa said. "We were the only two Muggleborns. We had so much fun teasing the purebloods with our Muggle phrases. They hadn't any idea what we were talking about." The mischievous glint in her eyes was considerably dulled today.

Lizzie's grandmother laughed briefly, but it helped. "I remember on Valentine's Day when she sang - "

"My Lizzie sing?"

"Well, not sing. You see, none of us could sing, so we lip-synced with real singers behind a curtain," Marissa said with a small smile for that memory.

The grandmother laughed again. "Yes, I can just imagine that. She was happy at Hogwarts?"

"I think so," Marissa replied. "She was a great witch and a great woman, we could all see that. We all admired her for what she was."

"And what was she?" the grandmother asked curiously.

"Noble," Marissa answered simply. Lizzie's grandmother nodded her head in agreement and thanks. She took Marissa's hand in both of hers when they said goodbye.

James had far less success with Gideon Prewett. He had no idea what to say so settled on saying nothing. He stood there beside Gideon companionably. The older boy, no man, did not say anything either. James was beginning to think that perhaps he was simply too polite or too indifferent to tell James he wanted him to leave.

Marissa's approach unfroze his tongue, "Hello, Gideon," she said in a quiet voice.

"Why did you do this, Marissa?" Gideon asked in a low, gruff voice. "Why did you have to keep throwing her at me? Why did you have to get us together?" his voice was angry and his face contorted briefly with it and his pain. "Why couldn't you let me protect her from this? This is exactly what I didn't want to happen to her! Why couldn't you have let me save her from this?" It was the first time that Gideon had looked anyone in the eyes since Lizzie had died, and it was anger that shone through them.

Marissa weathered it calmly, holding a small black umbrella over her head. "If you hadn't pushed us together, she wouldn't be dead," he said as he stared her down.

Marissa let a long moment go by before she spoke. It was in a calm, reasonable, almost unemotional tone that she told him slowly, "That's probably not true, actually, Gideon. Everyone knew how you felt about her. We could all see it. They still would have known that you would come to save her. They still knew how much killing her would hurt you. The only thing that it changed was the time before it happened."

James could see Marissa's words registering with Gideon. He could see in Gideon's face that he was warring with the idea but also seeing the truth in it. Then his features became closed again. "I still don't know if I can ever forgive you," he told her. "Because you could be wrong. I won't ever forgive myself either, for being the death of her."

"Lizzie was a powerful witch. She would never have joined him, and she was highly visible, a Muggleborn too. Voldemort would have tried to kill her eventually," Marissa told him in the same slow, reasonable tone of voice.

"But she's gone now," Gideon said bluntly. "And she's not coming back. We'll never know if I could have saved her, and that will always haunt me." He moved to walk away before Marissa could summon up any more keys out of his prison of self-blame.

When he was past her, Marissa closed her eyes and bowed her head in mourning for the happy, cheerful Gideon who had been so alive with passion and purpose. Now he seemed as dead in spirit as Lizzie was in body.

Suddenly, she drew in her breath sharply and almost fell. James caught her elbow and helped her stay upright. "Are you all right?" he asked worriedly. She nodded her head rapidly up and down, biting her lip slightly. "Are you sure?" he asked, unconvinced.

She shook her head just as rapidly, her eyes squeezed shut now. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just can't - I can't catch my breath," she was trying to take deep breaths now, the force of the air being pushed desperately in and out clearly audible. The umbrella fell out of her hands and her legs look ready to give out under her. "Oh not now," she moaned, shaking her head as if to clear it of whatever was troubling her.

"I need to go home," she whispered, opening her eyes to look at James whose eyes were clouded with concern.

He nodded and put her arm around his shoulder as he helped her walk out of the cemetery to where the portkeys had been set up for the younger wizard guests attending the service. It scared him how heavily she leaned on him and yet still seemed about to stumble. She smiled weakly at him when he turned to look at her in concern. He did not miss the way she was controlling her breathing. She squeezed his head in reassurance, but there was worryingly little strength in her hand.

Remus watched them go, seeing the tender way that James was walking with Marissa. She took his hand and held it for a moment in a loving gesture. She was looking at him with great emotion in her eyes. His entire attention was likewise focused on her. Remus felt something in his heart cave in. After the Ball, he had almost dared to entertain the hope that she... He had never thought that he would have to see her with James. James was far too in love with Lily, but he was looking at her now in such a way that must be what Marissa had always dreamed of. He turned away. He was almost ashamed of having such a sorrow on a day like this, but wasn't this day about lost love? Love denied?

"Thank you, James," she said in a whisper, her face twisting into a grim smile as she took the yellow rose from the pile. It had been Lizzie's favorite flower.

"Miss Fletcher, Mr Potter," Dumbledore said, coming up behind them. "Are you both well?"

James was about to answer for Marissa when she replied, "I just need to get home, Headmaster."

The crystal blue eyes watched her for a long moment behind the half-moon spectacles. Then he nodded. "I can send you, Miss Fletcher. Are you ready?" She nodded, standing up as straight as she could manage to steel herself for the trip. "All right. Ready...Portus."

There was a jerk at her navel and then she was flying by with the passing distance only flashes of color that were gone even before the eye could take them in. The next moment, she landed in her foyer. She did not have the strength to keep her feet under her. She fell to the ground, calling for help.

Back at the cemetery, James was regarding the Headmaster with all his worry for Marissa and the grief he felt about that night showing on his face. There was no point hiding it from Dumbledore. He saw it anyway. If only they had thought to take out that Death Eater with his wand trained on the shed. That might have made the difference. Lizzie might still be alive. Gideon might not be the wreck that he was now.

"You and Mr Black are both staying at your home, Mr Potter?" Dumbledore asked. James nodded. "I have discussed putting additional protections on the house with your parents after your and Mr Black's involvement in the events last week. I must ask that for the time being you do not leave the property."

Again, James nodded. "I am very proud of you, Mr Potter," he said. "Few have the opportunity to learn so young if they have the courage to do what they must in such situations."

"I didn't do enough, Professor," James said at last. "We were hiding in the bushes. We knew which one would kill Lizzie the instant the fighting broke out. We could have aimed at him instead of any random Death Eater."

"Hindsight is often perfect even for those of us with glasses, Mr Potter," Dumbledore said simply. "There are so many could have beens and should have beens in our world already, Mr Potter. You may do well to limit yours. They bring nothing but regret. It saves no one and certainly does not have the power to bring back the dead. That is the lesson that I wish Mr Prewett would learn."

"Which, Professor?"

"Both, Mr Potter. Both. This is a sad day. Let's not make it worse by taking that which does not belong to us on our shoulders," Dumbledore said. "There is already too much of that happening in this graveyard and in our world when we have much more to do with our energies. Things that would honor the dead among us more than any misplaced blame."

* * *

Dreadful nuisance, those dratted flies. Their buzzing was almost as ever-present as damn Marissa Fletcher's words. I just hope when that day comes, What right did she have to be worried about him? That you don't find you need help after all. Damn right he didn't need anyone else's help. He had been taking care of himself his entire life. Why would he suddenly start needing someone's help? And from that Mudblood Marissa Fletcher, that insufferable Golden Girl of Gryffindor, the insipid, mindless little flibbertigibbet of an airhead! What could he possibly need her help for? Founding a “celebration of the idiocy that is Potter” club? What did a Potter groupie think that she could offer him?

Against his will, his mind began to turn over all the things that he knew about Marissa Fletcher. He imagined that each fly was a memory or one of her words that he was erasing from his brain. Wasn't he supposed to be brilliant at Occlumency? Why couldn't he keep a no-account, brainless harpy out of his head?

It was no good. Over and over his mind played them in an endless stream.

Eleven years old and broomsticks had already apparently decided that they hated Severus Snape, just like everyone else. His broomstick had made the conscious decision to disobey him. It was zooming about no matter how he tried to direct it around and then back to the ground. The broomstick refused, rising and flipping, nearly dislodging him from his haphazard perch. Madam Hooch, thinking he was just showing off, blew her whistle repeatedly when he did not return to the ground, but he was powerless to obey her.

Casting a longing look at the ground, he noticed the little Gryffindor blonde trying to tackle Potter to the ground. Sirius was restraining her as she and the redhead argued forcefully with Potter. The blonde Mudblood was the only one trying to wrestle Potter's wand from him...

Potter wasn't sparing them a glance... His eyes were trained on

Snape shot down a fly that dropped to the floor. He tried to close his mind to the memories, but, while nearly impervious to outside intrusion, his Occlumency techniques could not help him keep his own memories locked away from himself.

There would be no saving Potter this time. This duel would end well for Snape. Potter was angry and even stupider than usual. He had adrenaline, but Snape had reason and a cool head on his side. Potter was also trying to deflect more curses than was wise. He probably felt obligated to protect the spectators surrounding them.

Well, they were stupid prats just like Potter and what prevented them from casting a Shield Charm for themselves? Then, just as he was beginning to warm to his task, he caught sight of a parting in the crowd and the next second that blonde flitterby was sliding to a stop in between them with her arms outstretched. She was facing toward Severus, her eyes flashing with anger at both of them.

He had felt himself yank his wand up short before he even realized it. You had to admire how brave -

Snape sputtered so much he sat up in bed. Brave? What happened to reckless, idiotic, stupid, arrogant, big-headed, presumptuous... He stopped. His heart wasn't in those insults anymore. Now all he could see was that it had been a very brave thing to do. He thought back to the second most recent memory to come into his head. Stupid, ignorant, and ridiculous had been replaced with kind. What the -

Then Snape realized. OH F***!!

* * *

"You mean you think I'd be willing to sleep with him, don't you?" Petunia said, her eyes flashing angrily. Lily's mouth was moving wordlessly up and down like a fish out of water. "First of all, I'm thir-fricking-teen, Lily Evans! Secondly, when the time does come I don't plan on using it as an excuse to break up with a perfectly wonderful guy!"

"First of all, you consider Vernon Dursley a perfectly wonderful guy?" Lily demanded. "And secondly, what the hell do you mean by that?"

"What do you think I mean? I mean Dennis Wemmick," Pertunia replied. Again, Lily was rendered absolutely speechless. "I've heard you go on and on to Mom about being unable to find a boyfriend who was willing to stand up to James Potter to date you. Now you find one, who's cute and smart and funny and practically perfect if you can get past all that," she added the last part with a great deal of sarcasm.

"He expected me to just put out like it - like we - " Lily protested.

"Were dating?" Petunia challenged. "He asked you, Lily! Asked you after two months of dating. And tell me, did you ever let his hands roam?" Petunia smiled nastily as she looked at Lily's face. "I can see that you did."

"I'm not that kind of girl! And all the horrible things that he said to me when we broke up," Lily said, suddenly unaccountably desperate for something to qualify her decision. Petunia's opinion surely couldn't be trusted on this matter. Surely her values were not so different from her sister's. Petunia was just saying these things to be hurtful, wasn't she?

"What did you expect?" Petunia spat back immediately. "You had just dumped him after he came to your parents' house to visit, after he'd endured two months of pranks from your jealous ex-friend, when he was asking you politely for something you had given him every indication that you would not refuse when the time came!"

Lily found herself sinking down to sit on the foot of her bed, her legs no longer strong enough to support her. "Will no one ever be good enough for you, Lily Evans? Look at James Potter." Lily's head snapped up, her eyes flashing dangerously. "You two were as thick as thieves two years ago. He's handsome for a ragamuffin, I'll admit. You tell me he's smart," Petunia sounded highly skeptical. "You two would make the perfect couple. He might even loosen you up a bit. You, however, just can't seem to get over his one flaw. Nobody's fricking perfect, Lily! Just who are you waiting for? Because let me tell you, you'll never find him!"

There was a long moment of ringing silence. Then Lily said very quietly, "I still won't cover for you and Vernon tonight, Pet."

"You will if I threaten to withhold your O.W.L. marks," Petunia said, holding up a thick parchment envelope.

Lily dove for it, but Petunia danced easily out of her way, prepared for Lily's lunge. "Give it to me or I'll tell Vernon that you accepted something from Owl Post," Lily spat back at her. Since returning from the summer, Lily had realized the Vernon hated any reminder of magic and abnormality with a passion and had convinced Petunia that she must somehow keep herself pure of such things. Lily didn't understand why he still stuck around. Maybe he really did love Petunia.

Well, he still doesn't deserve her! Lily thought fiercely.

Meanwhile, Lily and Petunia stared each other down like two jealous flowers in a garden trying to make the other wither. "Fine," Petunia snapped, throwing the letter on Lily's bed. She whirled so fast Lily was sure that she'd fall and walked briskly out of the room, calling behind her, "I hope you failed everything."

* * *

Slam. Bang. The thudding of steps running down the hall. Then both of them appeared sliding and running down the stairs and shoving each other to get there first. "Thanks, Mum," James said, snatching it out of her hand and running right by.

"Thanks Mrs Potter," Sirius said, snatching the other one out of her hand just as brusquely as he ran past. Mrs Potter laughed. Gone were the days, she supposed, when Sirius Black would trip over himself trying to be polite and helpful as if one slip-up and they would send him packing back to his parents.

The boys hit the back yard and both took a flying leap to reach the hole in the floor of the treehouse James and his dad had built when he was little. A judicious little bit of magic had enlarged the treehouse's inner proportions and made it quite a comfortable place to live indeed.

In almost perfect unison, they ripped open the envelopes and pulled out their scores. It was nothing short of a miracle that neither letter was destroyed. There was a moment of silence as they skimmed the letter for the general report. Then, "Well, Padfoot?"

"Failed everything, of course. Stupid pureblood that I am," Sirius said with a self-satisfied smirk on his face that belied his answer. "You, Prongs?"

"Outstanding on everything, naturally. What else did you expect from a genius such as myself?" James replied quickly, too quickly.

"All right, trade on three?" Sirius asked.

"One..."

"Two..."

They both snatched at each other's letters and ripped them out of the other boy's hands. They skimmed just as excitedly as the competitive spirit in both boys was fully awakened. Slowly, however, their smirks and gleeful expressions fell from their faces.

At the same instant, they turned and snatched back their own letters and studied them with the same dumbfounded expressions on their faces. They exchanged a grim look.

Sirius was the first to speak, "It doesn't mean..." He trailed off.

"They can't prove..." James too trailed off.

"We didn't..."

"No one can..."

"O.W.L.s are..."

"If they thought we'd..."

"We'd already be..."

James shook his head sharply. "McGonagall doesn't put anything past us, but she wouldn't what even the doubt in anyone's mind about this. She wouldn't be able to face Vindictus if he found out."

"The worst they could do is make us take the tests over," Sirius said. They both stared down at the parchment, glumly contemplating studying all over again.

There was a very long silence. Then James said abruptly, "So you failed everything, you said?"

"And you aced everything," Sirius nodded.

"That's our story."

"And we're sticking to it!"

"Great," James said. "Let's go tell Mum so I can go back to being the favorite around here."

* * *

Lily was bouncing off the walls after her twelve Owls, and, though her parents tried to be excited, they simply did not understand what that meant for a long while. When Lily took the time to give a rushed explanation, they were congratulatory but still highly confused.

The instant the owl who delivered them set down, Peter grabbed his letter and ran out of the house, right past his fighting parents who hardly noticed his retreat.

Marissa's delivery did not go so smoothly. The owl was circling the Muggle hospital trying to find a way inside and to Marissa for hours. It managed to fly in only to be mobbed by irate nurses and doctors. It even, once, made it as far as the loud and frightening look machine that the doctors were using to run tests on Marissa. It gave a sqeak and let itself be hurried out. It returned to Dumbledore at Hogwarts quite irate and only Fawkes could calm it again.

It was Marissa's only smile the whole day.

Dumbledore dispatched the scores through the Muggle post. It arrived, by some subtle magic, the same day, but they did not see it for several days.

After the tests were all done, there was absolutely nothing for Marissa and her father, who looked positively gray, to do but wait for the results. The only thing worse than just sitting there doing nothing, powerless, not knowing, was the fact that they may soon get news that would make their life worse than it felt now.

A little girl with curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes kept looking shyly over at Marissa. Marissa managed a smile for her. That enboldened her, and she made a beeline for where Marissa was sitting beside her statue of a father. "Hello," Marissa said warmly, folding herself down in her chair so that she was eye level with the tiny little girl.

"Hi," the girl said, blushing prettily.

"What's your name?" Marissa asked.

"Alicia," she said, looking down shyly.

Marissa smiled at her warmly. "Why hello, Alicia. I'm Marissa."

"Hi," she said again, nervous and shy.

"Why, what's that behind your ear?" Marissa cried in mock-dismay that fooled the little Alicia. She pulled a shilling out from behind her ear and showed it to Alicia who gaped up at her with a toothy smile at last. "Is this yours?" Alicia shook her head back and forth, her curls flipping about. "No? Why, there's another one," Marissa cried, pulling one out of her other ear. "Are you sure this isn't yours?" she asked. Again Alicia shook her head.

Marissa smiled at her. "Well, what am I going to do with these three shillings then?" she asked with a puzzled look on her face.

"That's two," Alicia said. "One, two," she counted.

"You forgot this one," Marissa said, pulling one from her nose. She showed it to Alicia whose pretty little eyes widened in awe. She smiled shyly at Marissa and took the shillings from her.

"Are you my sister?" she asked. Marissa's surprise was real now.

"Why would you say that?" she asked, leaning forward.

"You look like me and...you seem like me. You do magic," Alicia answered. Marissa smiled at the irony and the sweetness and naivete of the little girl.

"Well, Alicia, I do look like you, but I don't think that I'm your sister," she told her. "I always wanted a little sister, though."

"And I wanted a big sister," Alicia added almost plaintively.

"Why's that?" Marissa asked her.

"Because then Mummie wouldn't worry so much," she said with the childish goodwill that those who are grown cannot hope to match. "She'd have another girl to take care of when I have to stay here."

That tore at every heartstring Marissa had. "That's a very sweet thing to worry about, Alicia, but I have the feeling that you are just enough for your Mummie. I can't think of a sweeter little girl that I've met," Marissa told her, trying to maintain composure. "I bet she'd rather have you than anybody."

"You bet, Ali," a fairly young woman said, bending down and scooping up the little girl in her arms. "I love you, my dear little girl," she told her daughter. She smiled at Marissa in thanks, then turned back to the little girl in her arms. "Are you ready to go?"

"I wanna talk to Marissa right now, can we go later?" Alicia asked with a childish pout that could break hearts.

"I'm sorry sweetie. Say goodbye to Marissa, okay?"

"Byebye, Marissa," she said obediently.

Marissa smiled at her, "Byebye Alicia."

When they were out the door, Jerome Fletcher said to his daughter, "You were wonderful with her. Just like your mother was with little kids."

Marissa was startled but did not want to jepordize this fragile rapport with her father. "I guess that's why I still remember her," Marissa said. "She was so wonderful."

"For a long time I thought that you might be too young," he said in a flat voice.

"Not remember Livy Fletcher? I don't think that that's possible," Marissa said with a smile. She noticed that they were both facing out toward the waiting room rather than looking at each other.

"Sometimes you're more like her than I can handle," he told her frankly.

There was a very long silence. "That's why you need to not be - " but her father never finished as they were called in at that precise moment.

As they stood, they exchanged tense, nervous looks as they turned to each other with paling faces. When they reached the doctors office, they both sat down cautiously, breating deeply to calm their nerves. Marissa closed her eyes in a moment and visibly relaxed her tensed muscles.

Jerome Fletcher was regarding the doctor who was not looking at them as he took his seat at the desk and shuffled his papers around. "Okay, what's wrong?" he demanded.

"I'm afraid I have some discouraging news about Marissa's condition," he said calmly.

"Condition!" he exploded in protest. "Since when does she have a condition? What is her condition?"

"You mean...I thought this was a damage assessment. You really didn't know with this advanced a case?"

"A case of what?"

"I think you should sit down, Mr Fletcher," he said.

Jerome Fletcher hadn't even realized that he was standing.

* * *

He still hadn't decided what he wanted to do when he was walking up the porchsteps in front of his house. He had taken refuge in the park for a few hours, but he inexplicably wanted to head home. He couldn't understand it. He had never had that feeling before. Well, he supposed that was technically a lie. There had been good times, they were just very long ago before the differences between Muggle and wizarding worlds kept the Pettigrews from breaking all the odds against them. Jealousy, on both accounts, and being unable to share their lives had become a wall between them.

Miserable as they were, Merlin forbid that anyone ever suggest to them that they divorce or even separate. Mrs Pettigrew would go from calling her husband lazy, rude, chauvinistic, loud, angry and abusive to saying that he was lazy, rude, chauvinistic, loud, angry and abusive but she loved him with all her heart. Mr Pettigrew would stop saying that his wife was ignorant, inflexible, loud, angry, and lazy to saying that she was ignorant, inflexible, loud, angry, and lazy but his heart would break if he didn't see her every day.

The Pettigrews were the embodiment of the absolute extreminity of the phrase, "Can't live with them, can't live without them." They loved each other but couldn't live together. They couldn't bear to separate but they couldn't get along.

While it was simple to quote what they would say if he suggested yet again that they just end the misery they inflicted on each other, Peter had no idea what they would say about his mediocre O.W.L. results. He decided as he approached the door that he would tell them if they had called a ceasefire but hide the envelope if they were fighting.

He reached for the doorknob of the front door (he had left it open) but stopped. It was silent inside his house. It was all that he had wanted all summer, but now it terrified him. With trembling fingers, he turned the knob and stepped inside the house.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes. They widened instantly and every muscle in his face relaxed, leaving a dumb look on his face. His brain had forgotten all about his muscles, the ones that let him show expression and the ones that would have allowed him to run or at least grab for his wand. One had was still on the doorknob, but its grip relaxed. His O.W.L. results fell from his hand and fell forgotten onto the floor.

The door swung closed and locked at a command from one of the men standing in the shadows that Peter had hardly noticed. His eyes were fixed on the gruesome sight of his father lying dead. It was not the clean, cold death of Avada Kedavra. The knife that had been used to commit the murder lie a foot away. Blood was everywhere. He had been slashed and stabbed several times.

"Hello Peter," one of the men said. He wore no mask. None of them did. He couldn't recognize any of them. He wondered if that was a spell or if they had sent only people that he didn't know. "Thank you for joining us." Then he turned to one of the men beside him. "I was beginning to think that your spell hadn't worked, Avery. The boy certainly took his time getting here."

What had the mean called the other? Abey? Was that even a name? Was what even a name? What was going on? There was blood and his father looked dead and the men were holding his mother who was standing there with a blank expression on her face. Imperius? Or somethine else? If so, why hadn't he been hit yet? What was this? Why wasn't she already dead? Why hadn't they already killed Peter? Did Death Eaters like to play with their food?

"He's gaping like a fish," the first man said.

"Perhaps throwing water in his face would wipe the shock off it?" another suggested.

"All right, Malfoy, but I still think that your participation here isn't the greatest idea," the first man said. "He might remember you. Now, if not later, it could be an issue."

"You don't have to bother with the confusion spell. He'll either be one of us or a convict at the end of this. He can't betray us either way," the man Mafley said. Mafley? No, that wasn't his name. It wasn't. Peter knew his real name.

He didn't care enough to fight the confusion spell. His father was dead, and his mother was just standing there obviously in their control. Then there was that bloody knife just sitting there glaring at him. He felt like he would faint.

He swayed and immediately felt his legs and torso stiffen, and he was forced to remain upright and conscious. Then the coldest water that he had ever felt hit him full-force in the face. It was like a punch from a snowman. He was thrown back, but he couldn't move and was yanked back against the force of the water shooting at him. He couldn't breathe and he couldn't think of anything else either.

"Enough, Malfoy," the first man said.

Instantly the water stopped and Peter stood there sputtering and coughing, fighting for breath. Before he could regain any small part of his composure, the first man who appeared to be in charge of this raid said, "Now, now, this isn't the time to get all weepy on us, Petey boy."

"You-you killed my father?" Peter could have bitten his tongue for the question that tumbled out of his mouth. Why couldn't he be brave? He knew what James and Sirius and Remus would have done in this situation. They would have said something clever and stood there bravely and proudly. They wouldn't have let their fear show. That was all that Peter had. Everything else was numb and shock and grief that fear was pushing aside.

The man's lips curled nastily. "We haven't quite figured that out yet, Petey boy. So we're leaving it up to you," he said. His voice was thick and catlike. It sounded exactly like a cat playing with its food.

"What do you mean you don't know who killed him?" if he could have managed an angry or challenging tone, it would have been a great thing to say. It came out fearful and uncertain, however, which was unlikely to be successful with these monsters. What was he going to do? He was going to die. He wouldn't even die a man like his father undoubtedly had. He would die scared out of his mind and begging for mercy.

"Well, we just can't figure out what happened here. So we're letting you chime in," he said nastily. "You see, we've narrowed it down to two possibilities. Either, in the midst of the terrible fight that all the neighbors will bear witness to, your mother took a knife and killed him as they all wondered if she someday would...or you did it. After all, you hated them fighting. Your mother was your favorite. They were dreadfully stubborn about not breaking up and you just couldn't take it anymore. The neighbors have seen you yelling and stomping out of the house to get away from it. Terrible thing to do to a child, but what can you do with them once they're already warped?"

Peter had no words. "That's not what happened," he whispered. He could have punched himself. Nothing would have been better. He should have stuck with nothing.

"Really? No one else was here. What else could have happened?" the man said sounding highly amused in his mock curiousity. "Surely you're not expecting that old burglar defense to work?"

Peter just shook his head in disbelief. His mind felt permanently boggled. The confusion spell wouldn't even let him think about anything clearly. The only thing that was penetrating was that it was somehow going to be his choice who killed his father. "Now, I have a feeling that we can solve this pretty simply. It's just a matter of whose fingerprints are on that knife. It's either yours or your mother's. That will tell us."

Peter's eyes darted to the knife and remained fixed there. Slowly, the knife rose up into the air. It hovered between himself and his mother. He felt his arm whip up of its own accord as if tied with ropes on the ceiling that had just been pulled tight. His mother blissfully extended her hand as well.

"Who was it then, Petey boy? You or your mother?" he asked. "I'll explain it for you," he said in response to the confused and terrified look on Peter's face. "I enjoy breaking the proud, but your numb stupidity and fear makes things simpler. Usually it takes hours on these recruiting raids or, as I like to call them, corruption exercises.

"Oh well. Here we are, Petey boy. You make the call. Shall we move the knife into your mother's hands or your own? Both have consequences. Would you like to hear them?" the man asked with the air of a professor sharing a fun fact with the class. "If you choose your mother's hands, then you will join us. Only fair, as we have saved you from Azkaban. You will serve the Dark Lord as a spy within Hogwarts and tell us everything about James Potter and Sirius Black. Your mother will undoubtedly go to Azkaban though perhaps as a Muggle she will have a reduced sentence. Perhaps a greater one. Who can tell? One minute the world is happy and gay, and the next it is bleak and gray. Oh, well I guess you know that now, Petey boy, don't you?

"Or would you prefer to be called Wormtail? That is your nickname, isn't it? Tell me, would your friends want you to be noble? I suppose you could be thinking that now. But consider what that would entail to save your mother. You would go to Azkaban for killing your father. The rest of your life, you would be behind bars with Dementors to suck the few good memories you have away from you. You would relive this moment constantly with every other that pains you. You would never know if we let your mother live after all you went through to save her. You would live doubting and wondering and torturing yourself and in a prison of your memory of this moment and this choice. And do you know, Wormtail, what you will see even more often? The look on your friends faces. They will change, you know, throughout the trial. First it will be disbelief, horror that this could happen to you. Then the horror becomes not your delimma but you yourself and their disbelief is not that you would be accused of this but disbelief of your rather wild story of Death Eaters who use Muggle weapons to kill. Why would Death Eater want to recruit a talentless thing like you, after all? Why would wizards use a knife from your kitchen? Slowly, they will begin to invent things that will prove that they should have known all along. They will all turn on you. They will despise you, hate you, wish that they had never let you into their circle. All of them. They will stop fighting for you. Even your mother. She, as long or short she lives, will remember only this. She'll testify against you, of course, under Imperius. Then we'll modify her memory. Everyone will think you a killer. You will deserve your fate to them. Then they will forget you entirely."

Tears were rolling down Peter's cheeks as he stared at the knife floating in the air. It started toward him. "Is that to be the rest of your life, Wormtail? Dementors and lost friends and no one left to love or care for you? No one will ever know the noble thing you did. No one will ever believe it. You will be a monster to them. Or will you become the monster and let them think you the angel? Will you spy and serve the Dark Lord or let everyone think that you did anyway while you rot in Azkaban and relive this moment and the others to come until your life is worthless even to you?"

Peter closed his eyes, unable to see the knife come any closer. It wafted toward his mother, and he couldn't suppress the relief he felt at having it, and the future that it represented, further away.

"You see, Petey boy, no one ever joins the Dark Lord under coercion. It's always a choice. They always have a way out. Azkaban is yours, and that little knife.

"So, we're all waiting. What will it be, Wormtail? We're waiting with bated breath for your decision."