A Chance You Only Get Once

Chapter Sixteen
The First Betrayal of Peter Pettigrew

Peter had never been more miserable in his entire life. Or more trapped. He was beginning to think that the Dementors might not be the less desirable alternative after all. They had to be better than You-Know-Who. He should have that realized from the first time that he had made that particular choice. Why had he never seen that this would be so much worse? But no, he had chosen He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and gotten himself into the same mess all over again.

And this time it was not even a You-Know-Who who could protect him but a grotesque and helpless creature that he had to care for constantly. He had to care for it while it barked orders at him impatiently and punished him severely for the slightest offense and insulted him constantly. Whenever he was bored (which was alarmingly often) and Peter hadn't made a mistake recently (which was alarmingly seldom), he would punish Peter for what he was beginning to call the Great Offense. It was the one that all of his Death Eaters had committed. They had left him alone for thirteen years.

Bathtime was undeniably the worst part of the day. The creature may plot and scheme during the rest of its waking hours, but bathtime was devoted exclusively to torturing Peter. Luckily, this was also the only time of day that it was parted from its wand. That did not stop him from reducing Peter to whimpers. The Dark Lord still had his tongue. It was still formiddable. It had grown even more visciously vindictive in the years that he had had to wait with bitter diatribes and punishments he longed to throw at his Death Eaters running around and around in his head. And at bathtime, it was unleashed on Peter Pettigrew with a vengeance. He was diabolically clever, and he knew just how to take Peter apart. Just when Peter thought that he knew what he would do, he would find some new way to shock Peter and remove him of any consolation he could have mustered.

Today he was particularly inventive. Dredging up the worst part of his past was nothing new, but it usually centered around Lily and James and the betrayal. The thing about that was, by that point he was already too far gone. His tactic today stripped him of one of his last defenses. Back to the day that it had all vanished, when everything that was good about him and his life had begun to slip away.

"Did you ever wonder why I went to so much trouble to recruit you? A weak, talentless thing that needs more management than the rest of my Death Eaters combined? Whom I had to lean on constantly and heavily in the beginning to keep in line?" the high, cold screech sent a shiver down Peter's spine. That gratified the Dark Lord, but the shivers of revulsion when he had to bathe the repulsive, deformed body infuriated him. The Dark Lord's anger, however, was cool and calm and vindictive. Eternally vindicitive.

"It was the second of the three Prewett traps. The first was ill-planned and only managed to kill the older brother's wife and baby. It was almost a waste of effort. They thought it was my way of getting to them first. Emotional torture. It gave me ideas for the future, but at the time all I wanted was them out of the way. They almost fell for the Mudblood girl, the younger's fiancee. Thought they had to rescue her and went right into the trap almost willingly. I used the one Black brother to get the other there to tell the Prewetts. I thought that it was perfect. No one else at the Ministry would believe him when he went there. I didn't figure on Potter and Black defeating my Death Eaters.

"That was when I knew that they would be trouble later," he continued. "Not like you; you were inconsequential, Wormtail, until you came to me." The Dark Lord had begun calling him Wormtail long before, but it still undid Peter inside. The Dark Lord called him with his beloved friends had. The Dark Lord had taken something that meant that the world was good and he was was loved and made it mean that Peter had betrayed everyone who had once cared about him. Peter had to fight not to cry and it was a terrible game. The Dark Lord knew that he wanted to cry and would not stop until Peter did cry, but Peter did not give in easily. He always gave in, but he fought first. It only made it worse, but he did. It was all that he had left.

"So I decided to take them out early. However, they were at Hogwarts under Dumbledore's nose, and they would be closely watched after this. They were also brave and had already managed to foil one plot. I needed something complex and specific to them. I needed a spy for that. I thought of the other first. Hated his parents and their world, moody, depressed. He seemed ripe for the picking, especially when you informed me that he was a Dark creature," the Dark Lord was enjoying this as much as Peter was hating the peeling that inevitably occured at bathtime.

Peter said nothing, but he felt like he was choking on his repressed sobs. "Then I realized that he was the one that they were always watching. I didn't know why yet, but he was the one they would see immediately. Mysterious disappearances would draw instant suspicion, as, if you'll recall, they eventually did with your prodding. He also turned out to be even more attached to that Mudblood nuisance who almost ruined you for my service. She was not a problem for long, however. Not even death was my problem for long."

Peter died a little. Marissa. "But you, on the other hand, you were the one always watching them. You were the perfect bait, and you took it too." The dreaded moment was apporaching. It happened every bathtime. It was the moment he realized that the Dark Lord was unarmed and weak and helpless and all it would take to end his dominion over him was one little squeeze in the right place...

"Do you remember the first time that you betrayed them?" he taunted. Peter shivered again. The Dark Lord knew that the moment was almost upon them. He knew that he would survive it as he always did, because Peter didn't have a spine. Peter never had. That was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

"You were still in school. They all wondered about you. They all suspected you. Your second job was better. At the very least you were able to make it look like the werewolf betrayed them. His current mental state helped with that deception," he hissed at him. "But you were never very good. You were very nearly useless."

Kill him, he pleaded with himself. Just do it. Now. Do it, please. Kill him. You know you can. "But in the end you gave me what I wanted. You always did. Now you are paying for what came of that gift."

Please kill him. He'll kill you if you don't. He sees these thoughts. He'll never forgive them. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him!

"Tell me, did the Mudblood's death convince you? She seemed so close to finding out. She seemed so deteremined to see good in all, even another one of my servants. I have long suspected that she did have some lingering influence on him," the Dark Lord hissed.

He's talking about Marissa. That should put you in the right mood if anything could. He's talking about her death. He's talking like it was nothing. Like she was nothing. Kill him. Kill him for her. You've betrayed everyone who ever loved you. Betray the man who took them all from you now! Is that your only loyalty, Wormtail? To the man who took everything from you? Kill him for all of the ones he made you betray!

"How does it feel to think of her death? Tell me, slave. After what happened to her, was betraying the rest of them easier? After all, you knew that you were already damned. Already doomed."

KILL HIM NOW! his mind screamed. It will make your whole life worth it. It will give you back any scrap of nobility you ever had. It will make everything that's happened mean something. But Peter didn't. He knew that he wouldn't. This was the moment every day that he feared above all, when he knew that he couldn't kill Voldemort.

"Remove me."

"Yes, my Lord," he whimpered. Another opportunity was gone. Another chance to end it forever was gone, and Peter didn't have any more courage to do what he should than he had had when this whole mess had first begun.

* * *

Marissa and her father arrived at the hospital to find Remus Lupin arguing heatedly with the receptionist. "I'm sorry, young man, but we are not permitted to release the information to anyone but family," she said sounding very put out. "And I'd still need to see some form of verifiable identification for you to sign into the hospital unescorted."

"You don't understand, my friend's mother - "

"Excuse me, we're here to see Morgan Vine Evans, can you tell me where she is?" Marissa interrupted.

Remus turned to her with a look of relief on his face and the receptionist turned to her skeptically. "And you are?"

"Marissa and Jerome Fletcher," she answered. "Mrs Evans is my aunt."

"Yes, I see your names here as contacts. She's in surgery right now. The rest of the family is in the Waiting Room on the first floor. Follow the signs at the top of the stairs," she said politely.

"Thank you," Marissa said. "Oh, and Bob here must have left his apartment without his wallet, but I'll vouch for him."

"All right," the receptionist sighed. "Go on."

Once they were safely out of earshot, Remus raised his eyebrows at her. "Bob, am I?"

"In this hospital," Marissa said with a smile.

Remus was relieved to see it. Marissa's smile faultered. A few weeks ago she would have been over the moon to see Remus looking at her like that, but now ... now how could she get involved with him?

"So you and Lily are cousins?" he asked with a smirk.

"In this hospital," she returned.

"But you're not really - "

"Don't say anything in this hospital!" she cried, casting a nervous glance back at the receptionist.

Remus smiled slightly. Then the three of them made their way grimly to the Waiting Room. When they entered, the Lily that greeted them was the one who had given Marissa a run for her money for prefect. She had three trays of food in her arms that she carried and deftly laid before Petunia and her father. Without even touching her own food, she went to talk to the nurse for a moment before spotting them. She hurried over.

"Hi," she said in a slightly breathless way. "I've finally convinced my dad to eat. He's a little tipsy, I think. I still haven't found the bottle. Lucky I have a Marauder here, eh? I just don't want him to be too drunk when she comes out."

"I'm on it, Lily," Remus nodded, starting over toward her father. Lily nodded gratefully at him before he left.

"Petunia's been calling Vernon from the payphone outside every ten minutes. I wish she would sit still, or better yet just give off calling that oaf in. I don't need another thing to deal with today," Lily sighed in a frustrated way. "I've gotten her to sit down and settle though, without Vernon, so that's a mercy. Mum's been in surgery for about an hour, it's going to be a long time the doctors say."

"Are you all right?" Marissa asked.

"There are a lot of forms that I still have to fill out and - " she tried to continue.

Marissa hugged her, and she stopped talking. "Can you tell me what happened?" Marissa asked gently.

"She collapsed. We brought her here," Lily replied with a shrug. "I have no idea what any of them are talking about. I think Petunia understands more than I do but she doesn't seem to want to say it. Dad thinks it's the end every time that we do this. They're both acting like they can see the Grim Reaper coming for her."

Marissa started to release her, but Lily held fast for a moment longer. "Are you all right?" she tried again.

"No," Lily answered. "And I don't know if I will be."

Neither do I, Marissa thought. "Don't you start seeing the Grim Reaper too," she said instead, "Not just yet."

"Deal," Lily said, pulling away and visibly collecting herself again.

"Young man! Young man, where do you think you are going?" a nurse was calling shrilly down the passageway. They both turned to look at the door in surprise.

"Young man!"

"Then tell me where they are!" the unmistakable voice of James Potter bellowed.

Marissa's mouth fell open in shock, and Lily blanched. "I'm on it," Marissa promised. Lily nodded nervously. "Just a quick check, do you want him brought in out of the corridor or evicted from the hospital entirely?" Marissa asked with an attempt at lightening the mood.

"Just go, Riss," Lily said, offering a small smile in appreciation.

Marissa returned it with a warm smile. Then she quickly slid out into the hall. The scene that greeted her eyes would have pushed a less experienced person into peals of laughter or groans of horror. For a Marauder-survivor of five years, however, this was nothing particularly extraordinary.

It was something to see nonetheless. Security guards were now following the nurse's confused directions attempting to find James. He appeared to be banishing himself up and down the corridor to escape them. The guards were tripping over themselves ( and most likely very important medical supplies ) in their attempt to determine where he was. Marissa gave a shrill whistle and he turned to her. He gave a wink and, as the guards' attention was momentarily diverted, banished himself to the other end of the wing.

"Can we have a little peace?" she demanded of them loudly in a deathly serious voice. Deathly. No. I will not do that now, she told herself sternly. "This is a hospital for goodness's sakes! Can you try not to bother us with this display?"

"Sorry, miss," one of them said, tipping his hat to her. "We're just looking for an intruder."

"Well can you find him without disrupting the order of the hospital?" she demanded, casting an eye over the destruction they (not James) had left in their wake. They bowed their heads and apologized again, for all the world as if she had some sort of authority over them. When they turned back to the chase, James was long gone. Marissa turned back inside, preparing to go in.

"I have seldom seen irony so elegantly performed, Miss Fletcher," Dumbledore said from behind her. She jumped and whirled to see him standing there flanked by a very worried Sirius and Peter. Marissa smiled at him, the twinkle back in her eyes momentarily after its long absense.

"I have decided to take that as a compliment," Marissa declared, opening the door to admit them. "As you said 'irony' rather than 'hypocrisy,' I don't think that that's taking too big of a leap."

"Indeed, I meant only to commend you on the excellent job you did of salvaging the situation that Mr Potter's overzealous nature prompted him to become entangled in," he said as he and the other two boys came into the Waiting Room. Marissa left the door open for James to come in once he had given the guards the slip and made his way back.

Sirius walked straight over to Lily. "Are you all right?"

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Petunia asked tartly, in a tone which under the circumstances she can be forgiven for, "She's not the one in surgery after all. In fact, she hardly sees mother at all most of the time."

Professor Dumbledore turned his gaze on Petunia in a highly disapproving though also understanding way that rather undid her. She shifted in her seat and looked away but still felt highly uncomfortable until Dumbledore did the same.

"Is there anything that I can do?" Sirius asked, turning to Lily again, his concern for her and the seemingly undomitable Morgan Evans shining through his face. If Lily hadn't had to go through the long and painful process of separating Sirius Black from her heart, she would have fallen for him all over again right then.

Luckily, Petunia spoke, "Well, some tea would be welcome."

"I can do that," Sirius said so seriously it took them all slightly aback. Even in this situation, they hadn't quite expected him to lose all the giddiness and comic irreverance that made him Sirius Black.

"Why don't you let me?" Remus interrupted hastily. "I have carte blanche to pass through the hospital, and you can help the maniac find his way back here."

They both left and, a few minutes later, all three of the other Marauders returned together, each holding several cups of tea. The moment that James came in, Lily lept to her feet and, not even waiting until he had deposited the tea, ordered him out into the hall. They heard a muffled, somewhat shrill, voice rising and falling over the next few minutes but nothing distinct. Marissa and the other Marauders would have shamelessly pressed their ears to the doors, but Petunia and Mr Evans were looking considerably disapproving of their obvious curiousity as it was. Strangely, Dumbledore didn't look particularly disapproving of their nosiness.

The yelling was occassionally punctuated by a deeper voice which was quickly cut off. After a surprisingly long time, they both walked back in, James to sit between Sirius and Marissa and Lily to join her father. Lily looked calm again and James was doing his best to look sheepish.

"So, she let you apologize eventually or just keep cutting you off?" Sirius asked under his breath.

"Oh no, I was making pricky comments those times," James whispered back immediately.

"What?" Marissa exclaimed, so surprised that she spoke in a normal voice as she turned to face him. When everyone had stared surprisedly at the trio for a moment, they went back to their conference.

"Well, I wanted her to be able to blow off steam, I thought that it would help. She's got a lot of crappy emotions going around in her right now. I thought that letting off some anger at me would make her feel better," James replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world instead of something that only a Marauder, and even perhaps only James, would think of to do. "I actually had to make a few inappropriate comments to keep her going long enough to get all of it out. She's really taking this hard."

Marissa and Sirius didn't know quite what to say to all this. That was all right though; James didn't need anybody to congratulate him. He was pleased enough with himself.

* * *

After the excitement of the chaotic arrivals had settled down, the hours that stretched ahead of the unlikely supporters of Mrs Morgan Evans were quiet and largely undisturbed. Nobody spoke and people only occassionally moved. Everyone was either lost in their thoughts or in a daze without any particular ones.

Mere moments to some and many years to others, the doctor entered and began to brief them. The doctor was a wise one, they knew, for he opened with a reassurance just specific enough to let them have real hope rather than disbelieve it automatically. None of the wizards and few of those in between the two worlds understood the jargon and specifics of his explanation, but Petunia and Mr Evans did. Their faces said that it had gone as well as they could have hoped for, though that may not seem like much in the coming days.

The Evanses and their wizarding world companions, who put Petunia's friends in a light that she didn't like to contemplate, waited through the night for Mrs Evans to wake. When she still didn't, there was a brief flurry of everyone telling them not to worry about that, then the silence descended again.

The time flew by until it was time for Peter and Dumbledore to leave for the Wizengamot and Mrs Pettigrew's trial. There was a brief war of loyalties as to whether or not they should leave Lily. Luckily, Petunia took charge. "Boys, go with your friend. The crisis is over here, and he needs you now. So you troublemakers can get out of our hair. Marissa, you just seem to make that little boy more nervous the closer he is to you, so you can stay here with us."

However abrasive her tone, Petunia did settle the issue. Dumbledore even looked at her in approval for her reasoning. Peter blushed bright red, and Marissa looked uncomfortably over at him, but Lily looked rather as if this was exactly what she would have asked for if she had had the guts. Perhaps, despite appearances, the sisters were more alike than they thought.

"Of all the people in this room, Mrs Evans like me best anyway," Marissa said with a smirk and a wink at Mr Evans. There was a brief pause before everyone smiled slightly in appreciation, more out of nerves than because it was a good joke. It wasn't. Especially for Marissa, it was actually rather weak.

Lily rose to her feet and opened the doors for the boys to show her consent to this plan. She caught the arm of the last one out, who happened to be James, and asked in a whisper, glancing to make sure that Peter couldn't hear, "What is Azkaban, James? Is it just a prison? Everyone talks like it's something much more fearful."

James looked her in the eyes steadily, "Fearful is the right word." She creased her forehead in confusion. "There are creatures, Lily, that can suck all the good thoughts out of your mind, that can take every good memory and force you to relive your worst ones. Creatures who can take all the light in your life and suck your soul dry." Lily had turned very white and was taking shuddering breaths. "These creatures guard Azkaban prison. They are called Dementors."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Lily said, her grip on his arm loosening and her hand falling to her side. James put his hand on her shoulder for a moment, then turned and followed the rest of the boys. He wondered as he went if Lily's words had been a mere exclamation or a prayer.

* * *

Remus had vague memories of Courtroom Ten. They were from the last time that his Sponsor had looked at him in a kindly way. Ever since then, the old man seemed to have forgotten the pity he had exhibited for the poor bitten child and remember only that Remus was a werewolf. The trial Remus vaguelly remembered of the werewolf that had bitten him all those years ago had been a perfunctionary, streamlined affair. He had been found guilty of negligence and the ensuing assault even before any evidence had been presented.

The trial of Mrs Emily Pettigrew was similiar in only one respect. It was a highly public, emotionally charged case with circumstantial evidence that was therefore presented passionately. The mind of everyone involved, however, was already made-up. They were decided to the degree that Remus muttered bitterly that they need not have put Peter through this wrenching experience if they were already so sure.

Emily Pettigrew might have been better off in a Muggle court, but as the victim did not exist in the Muggle world, her request was denied. As it was, neither she nor any of her witnesses could even be present for the case presented against her. Thus when the small mousy boy who had taken the place of Peter Pettigrew arrived at the Ministry, he had been whisked off immediately to a Witness Holding Area which Remus could only assume was where they brainwashed people before they entered the Wizengamot.

It was a considerable compliment to Mrs Pettigrew that the full Wizengamot had assembled for her trial, though it was certainly not to her advantage. Dumbledore had done everything he could in the selection of the jury, but nothing could have moved the Ministry to put a wife less than deliriously happy with her husband or a Muggleborn on the jury. A great deal of husbands, however, sat in the jurybox glowering. The only thing that the Wizengamot now lacked to sentence Mrs Pettigrew to life in Azkaban, the first Muggle to ever be imprisoned there, was solid evidence, and they weren't going to let that stop them.

The argument that fingerprints on a kitchen knife Mrs Pettigrew probably used every day of her life meant nothing fell on deaf ears. Muggle neighbors came in with glazed looks on their faces by the handful to tell of the shockingly loud and violent constant fights between Emily and Harold Pettigrew. A few busybodies even came in to say that they had always thought that it would come to this someday.

"Eventually, one of them was bound to snap. I would have guessed Harold, personally, but you never - "

"Thank you, Mrs Polkiss," Bartemius Crouch interrupted briskly, gesturing to an Auror to show her out to have her memory wiped. "Bring in Mrs Pettigrew," he said with extreme distaste in his voice. "And ask her if she has anyone here to speak on her behalf." Crouch said this skeptically, as if he sincerely doubted that she could find anyone who thought that she was anything less than monstrous.

The case against Mrs Emily Pettigrew was flimsy, Peter's three friends watching with clenched fists could see that. However, Mrs Pettigrew's defense quite made up for this lacking. It would be said in the papers and for years to come when the case was discussed that the testimony of these two witnesses convicted Emily Pettigrew: her own and her son's.

Mrs Pettigrew's was given in a daze, was nearly impossible to follow and contained no discernible defense or even a new version of the events. She seemed even more glazed over than the heavily though delicately obliviated Muggles who had come in to testify against her. James, Sirius and Remus exchanged nervous looks with Emily Pettigrew's surprising advocate Gideon Prewett whose conspiracy theory had been laughed out of court.

Last of all, a small, plain, gawky boy came forward looking considerably harrassed. He shuffled in the door and over to the chair beside the one in chains that had held Emily Pettigrew who was not there to witness her son's damning testimony. He, for his part, did not look up until Bartemius Crouch barked down at him, "State your name."

"Peter Pettigrew," he mumbled.

"Speak up," Crouch snapped.

Peter looked up at him obligingly, "Peter Pettigrew," he said more loudly. He alone of all the witness looked fully aware of his surroundings, and he looked like what he wanted most was to be blissfully unaware of them.

"You have come forward to speak for your mother, Emily Pettigrew?" Crouch demanded.

Peter nodded nervously. "Speak then. You will be questioned afterward."

With this ominous proposition, Peter stood to speak. This was the moment when he should have escaped from the trap that the Dark Lord had devised for him. This was the moment that he could have freed himself from slavery to the darkness. This was the moment that he should have told all. The Death Eaters would not have been able to silence him in the Wizengamot deep in the heart of the Ministry. They had not yet penetrated that far, and never would before the first fall. Crouch would not have dismissed it lightly, and the jury certainly would not. Even if they had, Dumbledore would have believed and protected him and his mother. He never would have had to betray her or his friends. It was his chance, his one and only chance to escape and save them all.

But he did not have the courage to take it.

"Mum and Dad fought all the time, but they were never violent with each other," Peter said in a weak and trembling voice instead. "I told them they should just get divorced a thousand times, but they always said that they loved each other too much. They couldn't bear to be parted even for a day. Mum was always furious with Dad, but she - she never would have killed him. No matter what."

Then he sat back down, defeated and feeling utterly spent. Crouch would not let it be over then, however. "You said that they were never violent, Mr Pettigrew?" he said in a highly skeptical tone. "Do you recall the events on the night of July 4th of this year?"

"He was drunk, that doesn't count," Peter shouted back too quickly to be believable.

"Your father often drank, did he not?" Crouch inquired with a sneer on his face.

"Well sure, but - "

"And the afternoon of June 27th?" Crouch questioned.

"That doesn't count, it was - "

"And June 26th?"

"That was one time," Peter tried. He had to crane his head up very far to look Crouch in the face. He felt like an ant looking up at a kid with a magnifying glass. Peter suddenly felt very sorry for all the ants that he had burned in his childhood.

"There are records of others, Mr Pettigrew," Crouch said, looking over him coldly. Peter hung his head in defeat. "Now the truth is that your parents were often violent with each other, isn't that true, Mr Pettigrew?"

"It wasn't like that. They fought but - "

"Mr Pettigrew, if your mother did not kill your father, who did?" Crouch said in a voice of calm reasonableness that caught Peter so off guard after Crouch's open hostility that he almost answered truthfully. He caught himself just in time and said nothing. The entire Wizengamot and gallery was staring at him and it was all that Peter could do to say nothing. "The neighbors have testified that they saw you returning home some time after the fight stopped abruptly. A few minutes later we at the Ministry heard your call. It wasn't you, Peter. Who else was in the house?" Peter was ashamed of himself for being relieved that his name was cleared. He felt himself beginning to shake and wanted to cry from the embarassment of it.

"Mr Pettigrew, do you remember what you told the Ministry when you first called in your father's death?" Crouch asked in a harsher tone when he received no answer to his civility. Peter nodded. "Tell the Wizengamot," he commanded imperiously. He had been leaning over the side of his desk slightly before hand. When he spoke this time, however, he sat back straight in his chair dramatically.

"I was panicky - I didn't know what happened!" Peter shouted suddenly, finding his voice at last.

"Mr Pettigrew, tell the Wizengamot what you said," Crouch said in the most commanding tone that he had yet heard, and also the laziest. Peter mumbled something indistinctly. "Aloud, Mr Pettigrew."

"I said that my mother had killed my father and I didn't know what to do," Peter said in a voice just audible to carry through the courtroom. If he had mumbled any other defense after this damning testimony, it would have been easily heard, for there was utter silence in the Wizengamot.

But Peter could not bring himself to break that silence.

* * *

"Miss Fletcher?" a young doctor Marissa would not admit that she recognize asked, sticking his head into the family room where she waited with the Evanses and Vernon who had finally shown his face and was now acting quite devoted to Petunia in the time of trouble. At least, he was very ostentatiously asking if he could bring them lunch, get coffee, fill out forms, too dense to realize that by stripping Lily of these duties he was robbing her of one of her most vital defense mechanisms. He had been looking at Marissa with no small amount of contempt because she had not taken over these duties from her friend, but Marissa had understood that it was cruel to keep Lily from doing them. Vernon hadn't seen that.

"Yes, doctor?" she said, trying and succeeding to sound as if she had no idea why a doctor would want to speak to her. In reality, she knew that her father had probably told her the part of her decision that he would understand before he had had to leave for work. This was going to be an awkward interview.

"May I see you in the corridor for a moment?" he asked politely, obviously catching her detached air and realizing that she hadn't told the people that she was with yet. If everything could be arranged as Dumbledore had described, she may never have to tell them.

Marissa froze halfway through rising to her feet. She recovered a split second later, but the thought lingered. She still meant to tell them, didn't she? Had she just considered keeping this from them? That would be ... monstrous. Wouldn't it?

Then the little voice that had slipped the thought into her unsuspecting head went on, Or would it be saving them a lot of grief? Marissa shook her head ever so slightly to dislodge the thought as she made her way to the door and out into the corridor to face the doctor. They'll all change, you know, it whispered. Marissa shook harder, it obviously hadn't worked last time. You're doing this, taking this risk, to have more life, real life. They won't treat you like they did if they know. They'll all change. Shut up. Shut up. You don't know anything.

Don't I? Then why are you listening to me? Why does this idea hold so much appeal?

Shut up. Shut up. That would be a terrible thing to keep from my friends. They'd never forgive me.

Of course they would. You'd be saving them months of pain and worry and you'd get to be their friend just as you have been that much longer.

How would they ever trust me again?

Do you want to be treated like you're dying every day for the rest of your life?

Marissa felt tears welling in her eyes and blinked them back furiously when she saw that the young doctor had turned his face, embarrassed by them. He thought that he had caused them. Marissa smiled slightly and took firm control of herself. "I've made up my mind, Dr Perkins," she said simply.

"To die, Miss Fletcher?" Marissa gasped. She hadn't expected such bluntness from the kind-hearted doctor that she had met what felt like years ago but was really merely a matter of days. He looked pleased with her reaction, but not morbidly. He was glad that it provoked a reaction from her, that she hadn't given up entirely. "For that's what you will surely do without treatment."

"From what you told us in that meeting, that's what I will surely do with treatment," Marissa replied. "Why go through the hassle? It'll cost a bundle too."

"Your family is hardly destitute, and you could be robbing them of months and even years of your company," he said firmly and dispassionately. Marissa hated deceiving this calm, cool man of science who obviously thought that he had her best interests at heart. His words also stung her because they were true, just not in the way that he thought. She was risking months and years for her best chance to survive, and for her chance to live in the meantime.

"Living is a chance that you only get once," Marissa told him. "I don't want to lose a moment of life, but on my terms. Not in a hospital bed. Not strapped to machines. Not losing my hair and my freedom."

"Is your freedom worth your life? Saints preserve us, you don't even want painkillers?" he demanded more passionately than she had expected. She tried not to let guilt in at her cruel betrayal of his trust and caring for her.

"What is life without freedom?" she asked. "And ultimately, Dr Perkins, you are not the judge of whether or not I may throw away my life, as you seem to think that I am doing. I have made my choice. My father has used more eloquent words. My brother can appeal to more emotions. They both have more care to influence me. How would you succeed where they have failed?"

"That's it? You judge one kind of life worthy and the other unworthy? So easily?"

"Who else but me, doctor?" Marissa asked. "I hope that I can be the judge of my own life."

* * *

"Is the Wizengamot prepared to pass judgment on the guilt of Emily Pettigrew?" Crouch asked in his booming, self-righteous voice that promised imprisonment to all that opposed him. It struck fear in the hearts of even some of the watchers who knew that the Death Eater witchunt which sometimes seemed too timid to charge the real criminals may turn on them someday, and they would have no more justice and no more rights that Mrs Pettigrew had today. Witchunt was an even dirtier word in the wizarding world for obvious reasons. Its prejudicial meaning ran far deeper for it was their people that were being targeted even if they were not the ones who died, and the aura of ridiculousness and pointlessness was also greater, for they knew that precious few real witches and wizards had been identified in the hunts and that none had been killed. However more powerful this word was to wizards, several in the crowd that day thought over the trials and wondered if that word were indeed fair to use to describe the Wizengamot in these darkening days.

The assembly did not have much time to contemplate this, even the ones who cared to do so. For the Wizengamot jury stood and raised their hands, one by one. Slowly, systematically, but all of them raised their hands to the guilt of Mrs Emily Pettigrew. Crouch smiled evilly down at the still chronically confused Mrs Pettigrew who seemed to have no idea that her fate had just been sealed.

In the gallery, the other Marauders all put a hand on Peter's shoulders. He tried not to shudder at their comforting touch. He would have to grow used to this. He would have to become accustomed to wanting to shy away from their overtures of friendship. He would get used to feeling dirty and unworthy in their presence. He would learn to live with the shame of what he had done. He would learn to be around them knowing that he could never again be one of them and never leave them. He would have to fool them, deceive them, trick them forever. He was a rat now, and he could not escape his fate. So he would adapt. He would change. He would become what he had to become to live in his new role.

"And will the jury raise their hands if they believe that this crime of murder is worthy of a life sentence in Azkaban?" Crouch railed, obviously sure that he would be supported.

He was surprised when not one jury member raised his hand. He waited a very long moment, staring at each of them as if he could glare them into voting for a life sentence. Then he recovered himself, his composure never visibly lost for a second. "Will the jury raise their hands if they agree to twenty years in Azkaban?"

After that, Crouch had to inch down a few years at a time until he hit the magic number that bought him a majority of the twelve seated in the box. Seven years was apparently that number. It was far kinder than it might have been, but it was still a monstrously cruel thing to do to someone who was innocent. Emily Pettigrew had made no move throughout the sentencing.

Peter looked down at his mother, who still seemed to have no idea what was happening. Peter wondered if Death Eaters had mercy after all. They didn't make her face the fact that her son had betrayed her. Did the Death Eaters have that much mercy? To not make her remember that horrible day in July?

* * *

Marissa and Dr Perkins were thankfully interrupted when the Evanses moved out into the corridor, following a nurse who would lead them to Mrs Evans's room. They all looked an odd mix of excited and terrified at what her state of mind would be now that she had woken up. Marissa was afraid for a moment that Dr Perkins would decide to tell them without her consent to force her to reconsider her decision, but he was a good doctor who was bound to honor his patients' wishes.

Marissa excused herself and followed the Evanses until they entered the clean, white and cold room that held the Mrs Evans who looked all the paler because she had been so vibrant. Marissa felt like an intruder in this deeply intimate scene. She felt like a thief who had gotten trapped in a room while robbing a house and accidentally witnessed a beloved family member's dying testament. Not that Mrs Evanses was dying just yet. Or rather, she was dying, just not quickly.

Marissa shuddered inwardly. She had always thought that she was strong, that she would be able to stand the test, but what she found when she was faced with a situation that required the same quiet fortitude that Mrs Evanses was so valiantly showing, she wanted to flee. This life wasn't something that you chose - ever. This was something that happened because no one could find a way to avoid it.

Except me. Dumbledore had offered her a way to escape this destiny, and she knew more than ever that she had to take it. Marissa stood by the wall with Vernon and let the family take the seats near Mrs Evans' bed where her whispered words of encouragement that meant more than a thousand proclamations of love under normal circumstances could be better heard. Mr Evans showed none of the loose consciousness, the flawed grip on reality that he had shown in the waiting room. Instead, he seemed alert and full of tender but strong attention for his weak but smiling wife. Petunia had dropped the sullen air that hung about her and become all sweet disposition and peaceful words. Lily had stopped fidgeting wildly and become still and calm. Every few minutes, she would say a mild comment that made them laugh at some almost-forgotten memory. The mood had gone from tense and frightened to bright and light.

At least, that was how it seemed at first. The more that Marissa watched, the more she realized that it was all false. The fleeting attention span of Bean Evans was always threatening to return, the bitterness and anger were seething just under the surface of Petunia's sudden sweetness, and Lily's stillness was no better than her fidgeting, in truth. Lily's quiet, amusing comments were absolutely necessary to keep the panic and anger and fear from returning to this place that they wanted to keep as holy ground.

This is breaking them, Marissa thought. This is tearing them to pieces, but they'll never let her see it so that she can never help heal them. Marissa realized something else, also. Lily wouldn't be able to take any more, especially if she kept herself from reaching out to Marissa for help. Marissa knew what her role was in her circle of friends. She was the healer of harms, the smoother of offences, the giver of hope, but if they hid their wounds from her at a time when they'd need her more than ever, what good could she do them?

And what about project DJE and Matchmaker and Familia? Project RLMF was off now, but what about PPEB? She couldn't leave Deflating James's Ego to anyone else, and she wanted to be part of finding Sirius a decent family member. Peter Pettigrew's Ego Boost wasn't something that she would be willing to leave in the hands of the boys either. As for Remus, that was one thing that would have to change. That was only fair.

But abandoning Lily now, that wasn't fair. Marissa's illness wasn't any fairer than Mrs Evans' was. So Marissa wasn't going to roll over and let it hurt her friends before they were ready to handle it. She didn't want them to suffer that.

And she didn't want them to change toward her. She didn't want to be protected from the gaping wounds in their hearts or the petty squabbles. Did the Evanses image that Morgan Evans didn't see it? Didn't they know that she could have settled some of their problems if only they let her? Marissa wouldn't let them do this to her, keep her at arms length from their hurts - in other words, their real lives.

By not telling them, at least not right away, Marissa would steal time. This wasn't life, this wasn't what she wanted. She would steal time from sickness. She would steal time from death. That's what Dr Perkins wanted from her, wasn't it? Well, she would. She would steal real time. This was the only way that she could go on being Marissa for the rest of her life.

No matter how long that might be.

* * *

Peter was allowed to see his mother before she was taken to Azkaban. She looked like she was still heavily under the influence of whatever spell they had put on her to confuse her so thoroughly. "Peter," she said softly with a smile on her face. Peter was alone, he could afford weakness. Her loving tone could break his heart, and now, alone, he could afford to let his heartache show.

"Mum, oh Mum I'm so sorry," he whispered, staying by the door. "I'm so sorry, Mum," he cried, but his eyes were dry and no sobs shook him. His remorse was cold now. He would carry it his whole life, but he had contained it. He would live with it by holding his heart cold. And maybe, someday, it would freeze over entirely and all the pain of his betrayal would disappear, never to torment him again. So what if it came at the expense of his humanity?

"No, I'm sorry, Peter," she said softly, gently, sweetly. Peter had almost forgotten that his mother could sound like that. She reached out her hand tentatively. "I'm sorry that I killed your father and left you like this," she said in a heartbroken, regretful tone that echoed the cry of his soul.

Peter recoiled. "No, no, Mum, you didn't!" he shouted, suddenly vehement. "You didn't kill him!" He stared at her uncomprehendingly. "Don't you remember, Mum?"

"I'm so sorry, Peter," she said in the same voice. "I sorry, but I did. I remember."

"No!" So much for Death Eater compassion. "No!"

"I'm sorry, Peter," she said. "I shouldn't have told you." She was like a child, a little child who thought that because they said they hated their father before he was in a car accident that they had killed him, fragile and grief-stricken and remorseful and so terribly wrong about their part in the horrible death. "I should have let you believe in me. That would have been better, but I had to apologize. I'm sorry that I did this, Peter. But I did. I did."

Peter just stared at her in horror that he refused to show on his face. "I'm sending you to hell, Mum," he said in a terrible moment of clarity about just what he had done. "But I'm the one who will be damned for it."

"Oh no, dear, oh no. It was all my fault my darling," she whispered, taking her son in her arms. "I deserve it. And I'm sorry."

Peter shuddered as he weakly returned her embrace.

"Remember this, Mum," Peter said, pulling away. "It's not a happy thought, so the Dementors can't take it from you, even if the Death Eaters have tried. Remember this and no matter what else happens, believe it. You did not do it. I saw who did. And it was not you. Remember. Remember. You are innocent."

Her eyebrows creased, her eyes slid briefly in and out of focus, then all of a sudden she clutched at Peter's arms and her mouth fell open in shock. "I remember! Oh Mary, gentle Virgin, what has happened to me?"

"Mum, do you remember? Do you believe me?" Peter asked her, shaking her desperately.

She looked at him. "Peter?" she looked confused again. "Peter, I'm scared. What are these Dementors?" Peter shuddered again. "I heard your father speak of them once. Are they as terrible as he said? The man did have a tendency to exaggerate frightfully." Her eyes pleaded with him to tell her that it was so.

"Mum, whatever happens, you must believe me, you did not kill my father," Peter said, hearing a guard start to clunk down the stairs. "They can't take that thought from you. Cling to it. It'll keep you sane. You didn't do it."

Mrs Pettigrew put her hand on her son's head and closed her eyes in prayer, "Mary Mother of God, watch over my boy. Take care of him while I cannot. Be with him always. Have an angel stand at his side and keep him from falling into darkness. Protect my son, Mother of Christ, Queen of Saints, Queen of Heaven, watch over him. You know what it is to have your son ripped from you and thrown to the world that will crucify him. Save my son from that fate, Madonna. Ask your Son to be merciful to mine."

Peter imagined that he could see the heavens recoiling from this prayer even as he himself did. He had never in his life felt more surely that he was bound to seventh circle of hell. His mother had damned him with her prayer for his salvation. By her wish for his goodness she had made him all the more evil.

And this was not the worst, but only the first of Peter Pettigrew's betrayals.

---

©KatyMulvaney1/22/2005