The Weakest Link

THE WEAKEST LINK


Peter started at the clunking sound. Two steaming mugs of mulled cider had suddenly appeared on the table. His friend Remus was standing beside it, performing a hasty finger-cooling charm.

"Don't worry - I can handle with this potent stuff much better now that back in our fifth year," Remus smiled, settling on the stool opposite. Leaning back, he glanced around the familiar main room of the Three Broomsticks. Giving way to nostalgia, perhaps. Or was he making sure they couldn't be overheard?

"I came as soon as I got your owl," Peter spoke, at last. "Your letter sounded... unlike you. Almost urgent."

"Thank you, Peter. It is." Remus said. "Somewhat urgent, and quite simple, really. It's about Voldemort."

Peter shivered briefly at the name, but did not interrupt.

"Through his agents, he has made me an... interesting proposition," Remus continued softly, looking down into his mug. "Now, before you jump to the conclusion that Sirius' theories about him were right all along," he looked up with another nostalgic smile, "I'll just go ahead and shock you by telling you he's asked me to join his happy little club."

"You?" Peter was shocked. "A Hogwarts professor?"

"Yes, me," Remus nodded sadly. "Apparently, he feels it's an offer I cannot refuse. He is partly right... it is certainly an offer I cannot ignore."

Here, he paused for a brief swig of cider. Passing a hand over his eyes, he continued.

"I am told that, if choose not to accept the proposal, he will make my tragic little secret known to all Hogwarts parents."

"Your... How could he know?" Peter's eyes were as round as his face.

"Severus, I presume."

"Why, that... oily... " Peter's pointed nose quivered with outrage, "Moony, how I wish I could squash that snake!"

"Maybe one day you will get your chance... For now, though..." Remus shrugged.

"Yes, you have a real problem," Peter's agitation softened to concern. "What do James and Sirius say?"

"I don't know... That is, I haven't asked them. I think I do know what they'll say. James, well, you know," he glanced over at his friend, "James will tell me to ignore such cowards and blackmailers. And Sirius," he couldn't help grinning, "will tell me exactly how to dismiss them. Have you read his pamphlet, '101 Things You-Know-Who Should Do With His Wand'?"

"Of course," Peter returned the grin, "Fifty-three's my favourite."

"Ouch. Let's drink to that!"

They did, enjoying their brief moment of levity. Soon, though, Remus' tone grew somber again.

"Besides, you know how Sirius has been talking about becoming a double agent... He'd see this as a perfect opportunity. He wouldn't understand why I do not agree... he'd think it was just cowardice... and perhaps he'd be right. I just do not think any creature of Voldemort's could remain entirely unchanged. And, for someone like me..."

"What will you do, then?" intent on his friend, Peter had forgotten to shiver at the name.

"Well, what would you do?"

"I don't know... I honestly don't know..." Peter grew obviously distressed. "I am so afraid of him... I worry about it, sometimes. I dream about it. I don't know if I have the strength to resist... betraying my friends..."

"Don't worry, Wormtail," Remus leaned over and touched his shoulder. "Remember how some people used to say you should be in Hufflepuff? Maybe you should take that to heart. And not as an insult, this time, mind you."

Peter could only smile in reply. "I hope you are right, Moony. I only wish I could be more help. Although," he continued, "I find it hard to believe you really want my advice. You've always known your mind."

"You're right, there, actually," Remus signed, "I made my decision very soon after they contacted me."

"So, what will you do? Call their bluff?"

"You think they'd hesitate to ruin me?" There was a bitter edge to Remus' voice. "What can I do? I'll... resign." His shoulders slumped slightly at the final word. "My secret will be far less relevant then. Perhaps they'll even keep quiet about it."

"But they'll come after you again!" Peter's voice was shrill. "They'll find something else..."

"What else IS there? This job is what I've always wanted," Remus explained dully. "Ever since I swatted my first pixie. And Dumbledore's help... his trust..." He shook his head sadly.

"They could threaten to kill you!"

"Kill me?" Remus sighed again, "I almost wish they'd try..."

"Remus," His friend's voice grew suddenly stern, "Promise me you won't go... snacking on foxglove or belladonna or anything."

"And give them the satisfaction?" Remus looked up again. "Don't you worry, Peter my friend, I want to live to fight another day."

Somewhere in the room, a clock struck ten. Remus sat up.

"I'd better leave now," he said, pushing aside the now-cold cider. "I'll go speak to Albus... And pack my suitcase. The one you guys gave me: it'll cheer me to have it, even though I have had to tape my name over Sirius' little motto."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know. Somewhere remote, at least for a while."

"If there's anything you need..." Peter's voice was almost pleading.

"I'll know where to ask for help, Peter. Thank you. Thank you, again," Remus said, rising to his feet.

With a strangled sob, Peter stood up and moved over to hug his friend.
"Goodbye, Moony. I know Hogwarts will never find a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who can replace you."

"Wouldn't be so sure. There's quite a few people around who have had plenty of recent personal experience," Remus said lightly, stepping back. He looked at Peter, holding him at an arm's length. "Don't look so down, Wormtail. I'll send you an owl with some exotic cheese."

He turned around and walked away, quite quickly.



Peter sank back into his chair. Remus. The first of them to be approached. At least, he supposed Remus was the first - and it made sense. A man with a secret. A loner. Perhaps even seemingly an outsider, to those who did not know better. They were clearly looking for the weakest link. Who would they turn to next? Wasn't it obvious? Remembering his nightmares, he trembled slightly and sank down onto the table. And into his fearful thoughts.



He started again. He was no longer alone. Across the table, over Remus' abandoned mug, two currant-like eyes scowled out of a pudding-like face. Confronted with this view, Peter did not feel hungry: he felt more like he was about to become the main course. He gazed at the Death Eater, mute with terror.

Goyle spoke. "Well, hello there, little Peter Pettigoo. Would you like to know why I am here, little Peter?"

Peter tried to get up, pushing himself off his stool, but his hands failed him. He sank back onto the stool.

"I'm here because I know a story you might like," Goyle explained. "It's about one of your Gryffindor friends. At least, I think she was one of your Gryffindor friends. She certainly didn't seem to like my friends much."
He looked across at Peter, obviously enjoying his fearful expression. Peter waited. There was nothing else he could do.

"Yes, a Gryffindor," Goyle continued, "Livia Loki: her parents must be very happy this week. I hear they've found one of her eyeballs, and they can have a funeral at last."

He grinned horribly, revealing enormous, uneven teeth.

"Just think about it, Peter," he leaned forward, his cabbage-like scent seeping into Peter's nostrils. "With friends like that, are you sure you're on the right team?"

Before he knew what was happening, Peter had grabbed the mug standing before him and thrown its cold contents in his tormentor's face. He gaped, motionless, shocked at his own nerve, as golden liquid dripped down its vast surface, leaving behind a wash of cinnamon dust.

It took a while, but, suddenly struck by realization, Goyle roared and lunged.

A restraining hand on his shoulder checked him immediately. "There, there. Has he been upsetting you, Peter?" a cold, aristocratic voice queried.

"Mr... Mr Malfoy!" Peter gasped, pulling back into his seat.

"Oh dear. I see Goyle must have been telling you one of his scary stories," Malfoy shook his head as if in dismay. "Perhaps it would help if I told you a happy story instead, hmm?"

Somehow, Peter managed to make it to his feet, this time. But it was no help: one of Goyle's enormous paws grabbed his hand and pulled him back down with ease. He gulped, clutching at the table for support.

"Well, now that we're all cozy here, perhaps I can begin," Malfoy smiled. "My happy story concerns Goyle here," he continued, squeezing the beefy shoulder. "Now, as you may or may not know, our Goyle has never been the... sharpest tooth on the tiger. Some have called him a squib."

Goyle grunted in protest, looking up.

"Not that many of them are still alive of course," said Malfoy, now patting Goyle's arm reassuringly. "and, at any rate, their comments are no longer relevant. Goyle has made new friends, and these new friends have helped him quite a lot. He has learnt so much. You wouldn't believe it. At least," he smirked nastily, "not without proof. Show him, Goyle."

Peter stared on in horror as Goyle raised his thick wand and pointed it at one of his own pudgy hands. He felt his voice cords seize up with terror.

His hand grew cold. His hand was moving!

No, in fact, it was only the skin... His body started to shake as he realized that something was crawling under the skin... Fat, white maggots, now erupting from his hand, carrying with them the scent of decaying flesh... His bones glistened, covered in greenish slime... There was little pain, mostly just cold, and he couldn't scream anyway... The room started to fade...

Then suddenly his voice was back: he could hear his own sobs. he was still looking at his pudgy hand. His hand! Peter snatched it up and looked at its plump, pinkish surface. He cradled it to his chest, now weeping loudly.

"The Living Decay curse," Malfoy's even explanation reached him from miles away. "He's not quite perfected it yet, as you can see: the curse, most unfortunately, faded. However, we do have faith that one day, he will be able to make it stick. Goodbye, Peter"

Peter was vaguely aware of the two of them leaving. He was also aware of the usual pub bustle: it seemed as if no-one had seen anything. Feeling quite, quite alone, he kept cradling his hand. Cradling his hand, and thinking of maggots, bones, and decaying flesh.

He was not thinking of Hufflepuff.



This story continues in "Oh Come All Ye Faithful", which, being my best piece, may be well worth reading.