Before The Cock Crow

And Peter remembered the word of Jesus, which said unto him, Before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. And he went out, and wept bitterly. [Matthew 26:75]

"Why, it's Peter."

Peter Pettigrew stopped, halfway between one step and the next. He knew that voice, although he had heard it on only one occasion, almost exactly one year before. The smoky, half-amused tones of the man who had accosted him in the pub -- no, he had gone over and sat down next to him, hadn't he -- of the man who -- the man who --

Feeling a bit like a rat in a trap -- and never mind the irony, he told himself -- he plastered a smile on his face and turned around. "Hullo, Evan."

Evan Rosier extended his hand as he approached, and Peter shook it. "Haven't seen you in a while, old man. What brings you to Diagon Alley?"

Peter turned a bit pink as he held up the bag from Sprogg's. "Shopping. Not for me, for friends who just had a baby," he added quickly, as Evan raised an eyebrow at the distinctive stork logo.

"How nice," said Evan. "So you made up with them after your contretemps at the wedding?"

Peter shrugged, wondering how Evan knew that he meant James and Lily. Wondering why the other man even remembered about it, the wedding and all that. It had been a year.

"Look, I'm glad to have run into you. I'm having a party next Saturday night, just a small get-together -- would you come?" He must have seen Peter's look of hesitation, because he went on, "You'll know some people, I'm sure. And it's just social. Nothing political." He spread his hands wide and smiled.

"I don't know."

"If you find yourself with nothing to do on Saturday, then. Any time after eight." He took a card from a pocket and scribbled something on the back, then folded it into Peter's hand. Peter took it automatically and glanced at it: Evan Rosier, it said, Import-Export.

"It would be great to see you there, Peter. We can catch up on things." And with a very light brush of his hand against Peter's arm, a light brush that Peter wasn't sure he didn't imagine, Evan Rosier was striding up the street away from him, his deep blue robes swinging as he walked.

Evan Rosier. Import-Export. He almost tossed the card in the rubbish bin on the corner. Almost.

---

It had not been a very good week at the Ministry; as a junior clerk in the Broom Regulatory Control Directorate, he had very little to do other than paperwork, but that paperwork tended to be of the most unpleasant sort. Things had looked as though they might improve when Virgil, James's owl, had come swooping in with the Ministry mail-owls on Wednesday. Peter had sent the present for young Harry -- a plush dragon-toy, which was bewitched to breathe a red cloud when its tail was pulled -- and suggested, in the accompanying letter, that he'd love to come see James and Lily and their new son. Perhaps on the weekend? But James's letter was apologetic: things were hectic, Lily's parents had just left and his were about to visit, the baby was still very small. Maybe when Harry was a few months old and could more appreciate a visit.

He thought about Evan's card, which he'd stuck to the cold-box in his kitchen, then scribbled a note to Sirius, who was out in the country somewhere. Peter hadn't seen him for months. The last time had been at James and Lily's house; they and Remus were all invited for dinner, and Lily had announced her pregnancy -- that must have been six months ago, he realized with a slight shock. Where had all the time gone?

Sirius's reply didn't reach Peter until mid-afternoon Saturday.

Been running around like a madman -- sorry I didn't get back to you earlier. I just bought a cottage by Salcombe, and it's a complete wreck. Remus is helping me fix it up, but it's taking more time than we ever thought. But once we get settled we'd love to have you over.

Peter crumpled the parchment in his hand and let it fall to the floor. Some friends, he thought, his heart feeling as crumpled as the letter. Some friends.

Another dull Saturday night, then. He went to the kitchen to fix himself a drink; a splash of cheap whisky in the bottom of a tumbler, a slightly bigger splash of water. It was when he went to the box to get some ice that he saw Evan's card. It would be great to see you there, Peter, he'd said. At least somebody wanted to see him.

---

When he exited the fireplace at Evan's the party was clearly well underway. He was glad he'd worn some decent robes; as he'd expected, the tone was on the high side, old money and all that. He added the bottle of wine he'd brought to the table of far better vintages, poured himself a glass of something French and old, and moved to a corner by the stairs to assess the crowd.

Mostly older than he was, Peter thought, and of the ones he recognized, most of them had been in Slytherin house at Hogwarts -- no surprise there. Avery and Wilkes from his year, and that fellow who had been at the Skull and Serpent with Evan and Snape, that night he'd met Evan. Sirius's brother Regulus, who had been a year behind. Another man whom he was sure had been a few years ahead, talking with Sirius's cousin Narcissa -- whose hands rested smugly on her pregnant belly -- and a blond man he didn't know, who had his arm protectively around Narcissa.

Evan was nowhere in sight, and for a moment Peter thought that perhaps he'd just better finish his wine and leave. He didn't belong in this crowd of old money and older bloodlines. He lifted his glass to his lips and drained it, and when he lowered it again he saw Regulus Black standing in front of him with a vaguely amused expression on his face.

"You're Sirius's friend. Pettigrew, right?"

"Peter," he said, and stuck out his hand automatically. After a moment Regulus shook it.

"Sirius wouldn't be in the same house with any of my friends, let alone the same room. What are you doing here?" Despite the words, Regulus didn't sound mocking, or even particularly rude; his blue eyes were wide with what looked like honest surprise.

Peter shrugged. "I know Evan, a little. And I've nothing else to do tonight."

"Evan knows everybody, doesn't he." Regulus took a sip from his glass, then noticed that Peter's was empty. He drained his own with a flourish that suggested it was not his first, or even his second. "Come on, let's get some more."

They walked over to the drinks table and Peter refilled his glass, glad for something to do. He wasn't quite sure what to say to Regulus; it wasn't as though they'd been friends. They stood there for a moment, drinking wine, neither quite looking at one another.

"Peter!" It was Evan, a grin on his handsome face as he shouldered his way through the room. "Good of you to come!" He clapped Peter on the shoulder, then bent forward to kiss him on the cheek. Peter felt his cheek flame where Evan's lips touched. At least he didn't kiss me on the lips, he thought, and turned even redder.

Evan seemed not to notice his discomfort. "You know Regulus, here?"

"Know his brother," mumbled Peter.

"Oh, yes," said Evan. "Sirius, right?" Regulus nodded. "Wasn't that who you thought I was, that night we met?"

He made it sound so innocuous. That night we met. That night when James and Lily got married, and I got drunk, thought Peter. And you got me in the alleyway, up against the wall.

"No, I'm wrong. You thought I was the one who had got married," continued Evan, and Regulus giggled. "James Potter." There was something unpleasant about the way he pronounced those syllables, as though they tasted bad in his mouth, and his smile looked oddly triumphant. "It was Severus you took for Sirius, wasn't it?"

"Severus? He didn't!" crowed Regulus. His voice was just a little too loud, his face flushed, and when he leaned close, Peter could smell the wine on his breath.

Uncomfortable, Peter set down his drink and edged away from Regulus. "Look, Evan, it was nice to see you, but I think I'd --"

Evan's smile suddenly changed, became more intimate, and his eyebrows crinkled in apology. "No, no, don't leave. I didn't mean to embarrass you. We've all been there, haven't we? A falling-out with friends, a little too much to drink," he said, looking meaningfully at Regulus, who blushed and looked at his feet. "But I'm very glad you came. I'm busy with all this --" he waved his arm, encompassing the room, "but perhaps we'll chat later."

"Perhaps." It was all he could say, as he stared into his drink and wondered, again, why he had come.

A sudden commotion at the door and a quick intake of breath from Regulus caused him to look up. Those who weren't clustered around the man who'd just entered were talking urgently and quietly in small groups, all oriented toward the new arrival like flowers to the sun. Next to him, Evan strode forward, as though he'd forgotten Peter's presence entirely.

"My Lord!"

Oh shit, thought Peter. Shit. And Evan had said it wouldn't be political.

The man -- Lord Voldemort, they called him in the press, and in the hushed rumors which flew around the Ministry, although he wasn't actually any sort of nobleman or even of the wizarding peerage -- was working the room like a seasoned campaigner, shaking a hand here, kissing a cheek there. He didn't look like the dangerous lunatic that Madam Bagnold had railed against, the madman whose followers called themselves by the morbid name of Death Eaters; he could have been just another Ministry functionary, in his neat dark robes and wizard's hat. As he moved through the crowd, it split and then reformed in his wake, whispering men and women gathering around him as though he exerted a gravitational pull. And then, almost before Peter had realized it, he was standing before him.

"And you must be Peter Pettigrew. Evan has told me so much about you," said the man, and the warm tones of his voice flowed around Peter like honey. His clear gaze held Peter transfixed, and although Peter could not remember later whether Lord Voldemort's eyes were brown, or blue, or green, at that moment all he could do was look into those eyes, eyes which were looking at him as though he were the only person in the world, in the entire universe, and nod his head dumbly. He found that his hand was being shaken, and he had a sudden impulse to bow, to say, "my Lord," as Evan had, but he only let out his breath in a small whoosh as Voldemort moved on to murmur something to Regulus, then continued his orbit around the room.

"He's amazing, isn't he," said Regulus in a hushed voice.

Peter didn't trust himself to speak. Over the rim of his wineglass he watched Evan lead Voldemort and six others into another room, and he wondered what they were talking about back there, behind that door. Perhaps he could excuse himself to the lavatory, then transform into a rat; maybe there'd be ductwork he could crawl through, in the walls, to where he could spy on their meeting. That would earn him some respect at the Ministry, wouldn't it. Get him in with the opposition group he'd heard rumors about, rumors that James and Sirius and Remus had laughed off, telling him he was imagining things -- but he wasn't, he'd overheard Frank Longbottom talking with one of the other Aurors in the Men's at the Ministry building. And he wouldn't put it past his friends, now that he thought about it, to have been part of it all along. Especially the way James and Sirius had been acting lately, all secretive, as though they were playing a grand game. Well, he'd show them, when he went over their heads, straight to the Ministry, with news of -- of whatever it was they were talking about in that back room.

A hand on his shoulder startled him from his thoughts. "Empty again? Evan does have a fine cellar, doesn't he," said Regulus, pouring more wine into his own glass. He extended the bottle and Peter automatically held out his glass for more. "Let's go sit down."

Peter let Regulus guide him over to some vacant chairs. Evan's house was too fine, anyway, for a rat to scurry about undetected. He'd win no accolades if he got caught. But maybe he could still get some information.

With a casual jerk of his chin he indicated the closed door. "What do you suppose they're talking about?"

Regulus pouted; that was the only word for it. He looked fourteen, and very much like Sirius had looked at fourteen, although he must have been only a year younger than Peter. "I wish I knew. Severus usually tells me what goes on in the Privy Council, but he's in France for the summer. On his business."

"Voldemort's?"

"Evan's. I think he sent Severus out of the country to annoy me."

Peter laughed. "Drastic measures, that."

Regulus leaned in closer, his breath hot on Peter's cheek. "He's just jealous because Severus came back to me after I finished school."

"Back to you?" Peter shook his head, certain he was missing something.

"Because we were lovers."

Peter nearly choked in mid-swallow, and put down his glass. "You and Severus?" Regulus nodded. "Jesus, are all of you Slytherins bent?"

"Well, of course. We're purebloods, after all."

He was definitely missing something. "I have no idea what you're talking about, you know."

"Aren't you a pureblood? Wait, you were a Gryffindor, like Sirius, so maybe --" Regulus squinted at him, frowning. "I don't remember the name Pettigrew on the genealogy charts --"

"My father emigrated from Canada," said Peter, a bit defensively. Although there was no reason, really, for him to be justifying himself, his bloodlines, to this -- this drunken poof of a Death Eater, he told himself.

"But he was a wizard?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, you're all right then," said Regulus decisively.

"A relief to know that," said Peter. Regulus just smiled and sipped his wine; after a few moments, curiosity won out. "So what's this about purebloods being bent?"

A shrug. "It's just the way we are, mostly. Me, Evan, Lucius, Elpheria, Narcissa..." Regulus looked at him slyly from under long lashes. "And Sirius, of course. But I guess he wasn't bonking you?"

"No!"

"Maybe Lupin, then -- he's pureblood, isn't he?"

"That's ridiculous." Actually, he couldn't remember whether Remus was pureblood or not; they'd had more interesting things to talk about up in the Gryffindor common room. But he couldn't keep from thinking about it, now that Regulus had made the suggestion. They'd spent more time together, it seemed, once James and Lily had started dating; that had been the beginning of the end, the first little exclusions that just seemed to pile on one after another. Sirius and Remus sneaking down to the kitchens. Sirius and Remus dancing together at the wedding. I just bought a cottage. Remus is helping me fix it up.

But something Regulus had said -- "Wait a minute. Narcissa can't be -- look at her!" Peter waved an arm toward where Narcissa sat animatedly talking with another woman.

"Lucius had to get an heir, didn't he?" said Regulus. "Besides, that's part of his plan. That's why there are so few pureblood witches and wizards these days. We're all queer -- well, most of us, anyway -- and nobody's having babies." He leaned forward and lowered his voice so Peter had to strain to hear him.

"He's got us all paired off with proper purebloods, see. I'm to marry Annabelle Everett -- face like the back end of a Hippogriff -- because we've both got good bloodlines. Not that I plan on sleeping with her any more than I have to. But until they figure out how to make men pregnant..." He snickered. "Not that I'd want that either. Better Annabelle than me. But once Narcissa pops, she'll go back to Elpheria, and Lucius -- well, I don't know who he's seeing."

Peter shook his head in disbelief. "Are none of you Slytherins normal?"

"Oh, there are a few. My other cousins -- Narcissa's older sisters. And Marcus over there, and Orestes." He waved his hand toward a knot of people near the kitchen. "But most of us are right perverts," he added, grinning.

It was too much to digest at once, and a sudden lurch in the region of his stomach made Peter worry that he might be sick all over Evan's elegant furniture. What was it about Slytherins, he thought dismally. I always drink too much and get sick around them, don't I. Looking at Regulus slouched comfortably against the back of his chair, his long dark hair framing his handsome face, he was struck again by how much like Sirius he looked. Any girl would fall for him in a heartbeat, yet he chose...he chose...

It burst out of him before he could stop the words. "Why Snape?"

"Hmm?"

Peter felt himself blushing, but continued. "You're, well, decent looking." He ignored Regulus's amused nod; don't think of it, don't think of it. "And Snape. He's, er..."

"Not so decent looking?"

"Well. I suppose, yes," said Peter, looking carefully at the floor. When you thought about it, it was a rather insulting thing for him to have said, but fortunately it didn't appear that Regulus was offended.

Regulus put his glass down and leaned again toward Peter. "The thing about Severus," he said slowly, "is that he's so intense. When you're with him, it's like the rest of the world disappears, and you're the only thing that matters. The only thing he cares about."

Involuntarily Peter looked toward the room where Voldemort had gone.

Regulus followed his gaze. "Yeah," he said. "Exactly."

---

He'd stumbled out of his fireplace not too much later; Evan had never rejoined the party, and he didn't know anybody else other than Regulus. After an attempt to introduce himself to Narcissa, who frostily claimed not to remember him at all, he'd decided that perhaps coming to the party had been a mistake.

Peter had to admit, though, that it had been -- interesting -- talking with Regulus. Not just the revelations about pureblood sexuality, which he preferred not to think about; that only led to thoughts about Remus and Sirius, and that only made his heart clench and his face redden. But Regulus had been friendly, and open -- more open than any Slytherin he'd known -- and had subtly been pressing, it had seemed to him, for information about Sirius. Not so surprising, thought Peter, really, considering that the brothers hadn't so much as exchanged notes by owl in the past five years. Regulus had told him that their mother didn't even allow Sirius's name to be spoken in their house.

But Regulus had asked for his address and Floo direction, and slipped his card into Peter's hand before he had left. "I've nothing to do this summer," he'd breathed into Peter's ear. "We should get together. I want to ask you some things." To ask you some things about Sirius, he hadn't said, but Peter was sure that was what he had meant. What else could it be?

And if Regulus cared enough about his brother to defy his parents, just a little -- perhaps he could be saved. He'd fallen in with a bad crowd, that was clear enough; considering the general leanings of the Black family, it had probably been child's play for Snape to lure Regulus in. To put him under his spell and guide him toward the Dark. Into Voldemort's orbit.

Wouldn't Sirius be impressed, thought Peter, if I could guide Regulus back toward the Light?

---

The knock on the door surprised him; he was even more surprised when he swung it open to reveal Regulus, slouching in the foyer, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black T-shirt and holding a paper bag.

"Well? Could I pass?" said Regulus, grinning as he shouldered his way into the flat past Peter.

"Not bad," admitted Peter. He felt absurd in his house-robe, like a small boy playing dress-up with his mum's things; which was foolish, because wasn't he a wizard? He wore plain blue or black robes at the Ministry, and his loose grey and red ones at home, but seeing Regulus in jeans made him feel out of place.

Regulus sank into the threadbare sofa and made an appreciative noise. "Feels good to sit down. I didn't think I'd be sober enough to Apparate home, so I figured I'd best check out the route here so I wouldn't get turned around and lost." He stretched out and lifted his feet onto the arm of the sofa; there was mud on his shoes but Peter forbore to mention it. "Merlin's beard, it was a long way. I think I walked for two hours."

"I thought you'd Floo."

Regulus made a face. "I hate Flooing. All that smoke and dust. The house-elves make rude noises about it every time we use the fireplace for anything other than talking."

Peter looked around his untidy flat, thinking that even a rude house-elf would be better than none at all. There was a smear of ash on the hearthrug that had been there for days.

"I swiped some plonk from the cellar," Regulus was saying, as he pulled a bottle from the sack he'd brought. "You don't know how pleased I was to get your owl and have an excuse to spend a Saturday away from our horrid town-house."

"Can't be that bad," said Peter, as he rummaged around for a corkscrew.

"Oh, yes, it can," replied Regulus, with a shudder. "Mother went round the twist when the old man died, and she spends all her time talking to other old bats just as barmy as she is. The house-elves won't clean the drapes but spend hours polishing the silver. They won't cook anything but curry. I hate curry," he added, gloomily.

Peter handed him the corkscrew and a couple of tumblers. "I think I'd eat anything if it was made by someone other than me."

"Not that curry. Trust me." He poured a measure of wine for each of them and handed Peter a glass. "Cheers, mate."

Peter drank some wine, which of course was as far from plonk as you could get, coming from the Blacks' cellar, and pondered at how strange it was that Sirius's brother was on his old sofa, calling him "mate." Saying "trust me" -- and wasn't that rich; the last person he'd trust would be a Slytherin. Well. Start casually, he thought, and took another sip.

"Heard from Sirius last week."

"Did you?" Regulus straightened just a little bit, and Peter thought he looked interested.

"You don't keep in touch, do you."

"If he sent an owl, Mother would hex it." He shook his head. "What did he have to say?"

"Not much. Bought some old shack, fixing it up with -- with a friend," he finished.

"A friend?"

Peter shrugged. "One of our friends from school." He was not going to think about this, he was not. But Regulus smiled in a sort of knowing way, and he looked down.

"Lupin, no doubt. And Potter's got married. Poor Peter, left to entertain me."

"We're all still friends," Peter said, defensively. "It's just that right now Sirius and Remus are too busy with their fix-it project, and James and Lily just had a baby."

"Right," said Regulus, nodding. "So where is this palatial shack of my brother's?"

"Don't know exactly. Near Salcombe, he said."

"You've not been there, then?"

"When he gets it fixed up, he said, I'm invited." He sent a sidelong glance toward Regulus. "Maybe you'd want to come along."

Regulus snorted into his drink. "I don't imagine he'd want me along."

"You're brothers." Peter had no siblings; James, Sirius, and Remus were the closest he'd ever had to brothers. He couldn't imagine turning his back on a brother, no matter what. He'd certainly never turn his back on Prongs and Padfoot and Moony. Even if they turned their backs on him.

"He's a bullying git."

"Well, Snape was --" Peter stopped abruptly. "He probably couldn't stand to see -- I mean, you said he was -- he was probably just being protective --"

"Bollocks," said Regulus. "He was a bullying git to me when we were younger. And you can't tell me he's not just as bent, shagging that rags-and-tatters Lupin."

"He's not --" No, thought Peter, this was not the way to go about turning him away from that madman Voldemort. Calm down, Peter, he told himself. "Tell you what," he finally said. "I won't slag off Snape, and you can keep stories about Sirius to yourself."

"Tell you what," said Regulus. "Why don't we have another drink?"

---

It had been a surprisingly pleasant afternoon, and they'd both got rather smashed. Despite a heated row over the chances of the Arrows versus the Harpies in the next match, they'd managed to stay on insignificant topics for the rest of the afternoon, skirting around any further mention of politics, or sex, or family. Peter had almost offered his couch -- Regulus looked as though he'd never make the walk home -- but decided that it might be construed as a different sort of offer altogether, and stayed mum.

After a month of weekly get-togethers, during which they talked about sport, and whether Ogden's Ten was better than Ogden's Special, and sometimes, very hesitantly, about current events, Peter decided that having another friend in London was actually quite nice. What with Sirius and Remus off in the wilds of Devonshire, James and Lily occupied with their baby, and most of the people he worked with in the Office of Broom Regulatory Control either older or duller than he cared for, Peter was finding himself bored much of the time. While at work in the Ministry he made excuses to run errands on other floors, hoping to pick up chatter about Voldemort, or the mysterious opposition group, or anything at all of interest.

It was too bad, he thought, that Lily had had to put off her Auror training when she'd got pregnant. It would have been nice to have had an ear in Magical Law Enforcement, someone who could tell him what was going on. He was scrambling for plausible reasons to be on Level Two as it was, but that was where the interesting talk seemed to be -- when he could overhear a bit, before the wizards or witches talking caught sight of him and turned their discussions to more innocuous subjects.

He had just delivered some documents to the owlroom off the Atrium and was trying to think of a way to return via the MLE, when the lift opened and a crowd of Aurors and Obliviators poured out. Snatches of conversation came to him: "...the mark over Bristol, and the McElwaines all dead..."; "...more than a dozen Muggle witnesses, they say..."; "...doesn't think it's got to do with the prophecy but who can tell?" As he watched them stream for the exits he wished he worked in some more exciting Ministry division; he'd only applied to Magical Transportation on a lark, when Sirius had groused about the paperwork he'd need to go through if he wanted to license his flying motorbike. Hoping he'd at least read about what had happened in the Prophet the next day, he headed back down to Level Six.

An article was in the Prophet, and it was disturbing enough that he folded up the paper and brought it with him the following Friday. He had arranged to meet Regulus at the Leaky Cauldron; Regulus had said, vaguely, he had some work to do in Diagon Alley, and it was likely to be dead boring, and certainly he could slip away from the Ministry for lunch, couldn't he?

As it turned out, Regulus had been flogging a petition, which he slid across the table to Peter. "We'll be presenting it to Bagnold if we get enough signatures. If she goes for it, there's another bit of our agenda come true; if not, there's something else to get her on."

"A two-pronged attack, hmm?" He was not surprised to see that the text of the petition called for restrictions on marriages to Muggles, Muggleborns and Squibs. "Or perhaps three," he said, passing the folded-up newspaper to Regulus, who glanced at the headline and made a quick, nervous motion with his hand.

"I wasn't part of it, I swear. But I'd heard McElwaine was getting involved in things he shouldn't -- getting too close to some of our operatives."

"If that's a problem, things have gone far beyond the political."

"Things have been that way for a long time, haven't they? So if we get our motion through it will slow down the bloodshed on both sides. Don't you think?"

Peter grimaced. "I'm not too keen on anyone's blood being shed, least of all mine."

"Well, marry a good pureblood girl and you won't have any worries there." Regulus's face lit up, as though he'd suddenly had an idea, but it was far too obvious a motion to be anything other than planned. "Here, I've got a quill. Will you sign?"

The list of names was not long, but he recognized several. He took the quill and stroked his chin with the feathered end, temporizing. "What's the point? I mean, what's the argument against these marriages?"

"Don't be silly, Peter." Regulus's voice was airy, and he leaned back in his chair. A Kneazle that had been prowling around the table leapt into his suddenly-accessible lap, and he idly stroked its fur with one hand. "A Squib or Muggle's child is far less likely to inherit the ability to do magic, can't you see that?"

"But what about the Muggleborn? They've got as much power as any pureblood." And sometimes more, he thought wryly, remembering Lily out-hexing him without even breathing hard.

"The question is, will they pass it on? Without power on both sides, their children are as like to be Squibs as witches and wizards. And they've got Muggle families. How are we supposed to keep our world a secret -- which is the Ministry's entire purpose, you know," he added, jabbing at Peter's chest with the rolled-up newspaper, "when Mr. and Mrs. Muggle meet the in-laws?"

Peter shook his head. "They'd have to know, anyway, when they get the Hogwarts letter."

"But that's just one contact point. And they take their little witch to King's Cross, and that's that. But when my cousin Andromeda married a Mudblood --" Peter frowned, and Regulus rolled his eyes -- "all right, a Muggleborn wizard, what were they expecting? That Aunt Amalthea and Uncle Rigel would have his parents to dinner? 'Don't trip over the house elves, there's a good chap, and sorry, but we'll have to Obliviate you after?'" He tilted his chair back forward again with a thump, and the Kneazle yowled and jumped to the floor, running for the hearth.

Something about the Kneazle...Peter thought a moment. Last month Violet, who worked down the hall from him, had brought in a litter of Kneazle kittens to give away. He couldn't take one -- his flat block rules prohibited pets and familiars -- but he'd stooped to their box to admire them. Which was when he noticed they all had six or seven toes on each tiny paw.

"Are they meant to have this many?" he had asked Violet, uneasily.

She'd shrugged. "Most full Kneazles do. It's because the bloodstock's so thin -- there aren't many, you know, so they're terribly in-bred. Doesn't keep them from catching mice."

He remembered James and Sirius making rude jokes about each other's ancestry, and the pieces of the puzzle neatly slotted themselves into his head. "Regulus," he began slowly, "it's the other way 'round. We need the Muggles and the Muggleborn -- the pureblood families are half cousins as it is, there aren't enough. And that's probably why..." He trailed off, blushing slightly.

"Hmm?"

"Well, perhaps it's the magic cutting things off. The, um, perversions. So you don't in-breed more. Your Voldemort is going about it exactly the wrong way --"

"Don't say that," hissed Regulus, looking around them anxiously. "Not in a public place. And I daresay he knows a bit more about magic than you do."

"Maybe." Peter was the first to admit that he didn't really know a lot about magic -- wave the wand and say the words, and if you were lucky it would all go properly -- but it all fit together so well, now that he was thinking about it, and all the little things he remembered hearing from James and Sirius about the Squibs that dotted their family trees just made it more obvious. "Does your cousin who married the Muggleborn, what was her name -- Andromeda? Do they have children?"

"A girl. She's six, I think. Maybe seven."

"Is she a Squib, or a witch?"

Regulus sighed and a sort of bleak expression crossed his features, as though he were confronting something he didn't want to think about. "I don't know." He looked down. "I've never met her."

They made small talk until they'd finished eating. When he got up to leave, Peter noticed that Regulus hadn't pressed him to sign the petition. And he'd taken the Prophet with him.

---

A few weeks later, Peter had just got back from the Ministry and was putting together a sandwich for dinner when he heard a noise from the fireplace.

"Wormtail! Are you at home?"

He left the bread and cheese on the counter, and ran to the sitting-room. Sirius's head was in the fireplace, grinning like a banshee. When he caught sight of Peter, his smile grew wider.

"Ho, Peter," he said, then turned his head slightly. "Told you it only needed for us to clean the ash-box."

"What did?" said Peter.

"Oh, Floo Regs said we'd been connected last week, but we hadn't got through to anybody. You're our test case."

"Well, from where I stand you're coming through all right. How's the place coming along?" He tried to keep the eager tone out of his voice. Sirius had called him first, he thought, a bubble of happiness rising in his heart.

"Getting there. Got the rats out, finally, and the roof almost doesn't leak any more."

"I suppose it's been a lot of work?"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "You would not believe. Anyway, now that the house is no longer in imminent danger of collapse, we want you to come over. Can you make it Saturday?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Peter said fervently. "What's your Floo direction?" Sirius hesitated, and Peter thought he had a bit of a cagy look to him. "Well, come on. I don't Apparate, and I'll be buggered if I'm going to fly that distance."

"Look, this is a bit of a secret at the moment." Peter frowned, and Sirius hurriedly continued, "Not that we don't trust you, or anything like that -- good God, man, don't act so put out. But don't tell anyone you're coming to see us. We'll explain on Saturday."

"And just how am I expected to get there?"

"We'll owl you a Portkey.We'll set it for -- how's noon sound?"

Peter nodded and began to say that it sounded perfectly all right, and that he'd been terribly curious as to what he and Remus were up to, and had he heard from James and Lily; but before he could get a single word out, Sirius called out a farewell and vanished from the fireplace.

So there was some sort of dodgy business going on with Sirius's cottage. He wasn't sure whether he should be annoyed that Sirius hadn't confided in him, or pleased that he was about to -- and that he'd called him first. First, that is, if one didn't count Remus, who had apparently been there from the beginning. But even so, he'd been their "test case," Sirius had said, and the thought of it sent a warm feeling throughout his body. He was still a part of their crowd; they hadn't forgotten him, after all.

But why, wondered Peter, would the location of his cottage be a secret? Perhaps it had something to do with that mysterious group of people against Voldemort, the one that they had told him he was just imagining. And as he thought of Voldemort, with a guilty pang he remembered Regulus, and that he'd planned to ask Sirius if he could bring him along.

Better not, he decided, not with all this cloak-and-dagger business. But he'd ask Sirius on Saturday if they could come together another time. When they'd talked about the cousin he'd never met, Regulus had looked wistful, there was no doubt about it. That was the wedge he'd been looking for, the way to get Regulus away from that conniving band of Slytherins and Muggle-haters. The family that he missed, the people that he was kept from by his misguided politics and his poor choice in friends. Of course Sirius had been a "bullying git" to him in school -- Regulus had been parroting the party line, saying all the horrible things that Snape and the rest had been whispering in his ear -- but if it was just the two of them, Peter was sure, just Sirius and Regulus, they'd remember what it was to be brothers.

---

On Friday when Peter arrived at the Ministry he noticed that the Atrium was more crowded than usual down by the Visitors' Entrance. "What's the fuss?" he asked the guard on duty -- Darius, it was today.

The guard scowled. "Bloody werewolves."

"What, has there been an attack? No, wait a moment," he said, catching himself. "The full moon's not for another week."

"And a good thing that's so, my lad," muttered Darius, "or we'd all be in the soup." He glared darkly in the direction of the Visitors' Entrance. "That lot are a pack of werewolves. They're demanding to see Werewolf Support, but we can't let them in without proper security precautions, now, can we?"

Peter turned his head sharply to scan the crowd. Remus wasn't there, and he wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. As much as he'd have liked to see him, it wouldn't do for a friend to be causing trouble. And there was trouble coming, no doubt about it; he could hear it in the angry undertones that flickered in the voices of the assembled werewolves, and if he were in his rat form he knew he'd be able to smell it, that acrid tang of tension and indignation. He could almost talk himself into believing he could smell it now.

Finally he turned back to the guard. "Don't see why you need special precautions. Most of the time, they're no different than any other witch or wizard."

Darius snorted and indicated the Fountain of Magical Brethren. "You see a werewolf there?"

"No, of course not. But you couldn't tell if there was one. " He thought a moment, then grinned. "Maybe the wizard in that fountain is actually a werewolf."

"That'll be the day, my lad, that I turn in my badge and lay me down to die." He fixed Peter with a beady eye. "Werewolves are beasts, lad, nothing but beasts. No matter what that Lord Whatsits says."

Peter shook his head and headed for the lifts. He couldn't really fault Darius for his prejudices; if he hadn't gone to school with a werewolf, he'd probably be just as fearful and ignorant. Most people were, after all.

The day's Daily Prophet had already arrived on his desk, and as soon as he saw it he realized why there were werewolves crowded into the Atrium, why Darius was nervous and demanding extra security, why he'd thought he could smell the anger and fear. It was obvious from the headline: Lord Voldemort Calls For Werewolves' Rights. As he slid into his chair he unfolded the paper and began to read.

Voldemort had given a rousing speech somewhere in Sussex-- it had been live on the WWN, apparently -- exhorting werewolves to demand reclassification as full beings, with all corresponding rights and privileges. He had assured them that he supported a complete repeal of all laws restricting werewolves' movements and usage of magic, and then had hinted delicately that if the current Minister wouldn't listen to their representatives, perhaps a regime change would be in order.

The accompanying photo under the banner headline showed him on a platform in front of an audience, and from the way they were nodding and applauding it was clear they appreciated his message. Which meant that they must have been werewolves, then, or had werewolves in their families. Again he searched the assembled faces for Remus's; a flash of white caught his eye, and then another, and he realized that sprinkled throughout the crowd were wizards in black robes and white masks. The Death Eaters, then -- Lord Voldemort's supporters always wore those masks at public events. He wondered if any of the people he'd met at Rosier's that night were there.

He wondered if Regulus had been among them.

---

He was sitting in his kitchen that evening and idly playing with the small metal bottle-opener Sirius had sent, when Regulus's head appeared in the fireplace.

"Peter." His voice was hoarse, and when Peter turned his head he saw that Regulus had a black eye and a barely-healed-over bloody scrape down the side of his face. He put the Portkey down on the table and hurried over.

"Are you all right? What happened? Do you want to come through?"

"Can't." The face grimaced as if in pain. "I've got chores to do around the house. Mother insists we rehang all the portraits, and she won't trust the house-elves to do it."

Peter crouched close on the hearthrug. "Were you in a fight?"

"You could say. A discussion that got out of hand." Regulus looked self-conscious as he twisted a lock of his hair. "It's not as bad as it looks, really."

"Maybe you should choose your pubs more carefully."

"Wasn't a pub. A demonstration in Sussex."

He drew a deep breath. So Regulus had been one of those masked figures. He chose his words carefully. "Look, maybe you shouldn't get involved in that. It's clear things are just going --"

"You're right." Regulus's voice, quieter than usual, cut into his words, and Peter stopped abruptly.

"What?"

"You're right. I'm leaving the...the organization. But I might need -- there are problems." Regulus looked more somber than Peter had ever seen him. "You're in touch with Sirius, right?"

He thought of the Portkey on his table. Don't tell anyone, Sirius had said. "Right."

"Can you tell him -- ask him -- look, Peter, I'm going to need a place to stay, I think. Mother will pitch a fit, and some of my friends might not be too sympathetic." He laughed, a thin, reedy laugh. "To put it mildly."

A surge of sympathy and warmth flowed through him. He'd been right; all Regulus had needed was a little encouragement and a little friendship. Sirius would be so chuffed. "You can stay here."

Regulus shook his head. "No offense, Peter, but your flat would be the first place Evan would think of. I don't want to get you in trouble." His eyes darted around the room. "But if Sirius -- you said he has a place now? In Sandown, was it?"

"Salcombe," Peter said, reluctantly. "I don't know. He's acting a bit odd about it, actually." And I'm going there in another hour, he thought but didn't say.

"Well, if you talk to him -- or owl him, whatever -- please? Could you ask?" His voice rose slightly, still hoarse. Desperate-sounding. Pleading. As though he was trying not to panic.

"You could owl him."

For one brief moment, the panic that had been at the edges of Regulus's voice flashed across his face, before he visibly got himself under control again. When he spoke again, his voice was steady and composed. "I'm his brother, Peter. He wouldn't trust me. But he's your friend."

---

"Whoa, there, mate." Sirius laughed as Peter nearly fell into him, stumbling from the disorientation that a Portkey always caused.

"Sorry," mumbled Peter, shaking his head to clear it. He looked around. The room was small but tidy; the curtains on the windows looked as though they'd been made from sheets, but they were tied back neatly with yellow ribbons that matched the rag rug. The kitchen was visible through an open door on one side, and a stairway led to an upper floor, but other than that he could see that the house was not much bigger than the room he stood in. "Remus here?"

Sirius's smile abruptly disappeared. "We had an argument. Bloody fool. He's gone to town."

He craned his head to peer out the window. "To Salcombe?"

"Uh, not exactly." Sirius ran a hand back through his hair in a nervous gesture. "Sit down. I'll get us something to drink." He went to the kitchen, returning with two bottles; not butterbeer, Peter noted, but ordinary Muggle lager.

They clinked their bottles and drank for a moment in silence. Peter savored the feeling, sitting on the sofa with Sirius and nobody else. Not James, from whom he had been inseparable in school. Not Remus. Peter glanced around the room looking for signs of its inhabitants; no clothes thrown casually over a chair-back, no piles of books. It could have been a hotel room but for its homeliness.

He took a drink, then studied the bottle's label with elaborate casualness. "So, is Remus living here with you, then?"

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly." Peter mimicked Sirius's tone of voice as best he could, expecting Sirius to break into his grin again, to laugh and throw an arm around him, to tell him what the hell was going on. When none of these things happened -- Sirius was staring intently into his bottle, as though trying to decipher the mysteries written in the foam and bubbles -- he let out an exasperated sigh. "Then what, exactly?"

Sirius rose and walked to the window, pulling the curtain aside with one hand so he could peer through. He did not look at Peter. "He was living here. But I expect he'll be leaving shortly. We had a row."

"About what?" He was beginning to get tired of asking questions. But if Sirius was going to make him pull things out, bit by bit, instead of telling him like he ought to, like he used to, then he would play along.

"Did you see the Prophet yesterday? Voldemort telling the werewolves to 'stand up for their rights'?"

He nodded. "They practically stormed the Ministry."

"Well, it seems to have struck a chord. Remus thinks that lunatic is right." Sirius laughed, a harsh bark with no humor in it. "Lunatic. Except he's mad the month round, not just at the full moon, isn't he."

"It's not mad to call for rights for werewolves. Why, you always used to say --"

Sirius whirled, pulling the curtain closed with an angry motion and nearly ripping it from the rod. "He's mad to call for killing Muggles. For restricting half-bloods and dictating who can marry whom. He's bloody clever to call for werewolves' rights, though," he added, stalking back across the room to slump into the sofa by Peter's side. "But Remus is mad to listen."

"You can't mean he's gone over to him."

"He hasn't. Not yet." Sirius took a long pull on his beer. "Hell, I don't know."

Sirius looked more than unhappy, Peter thought; he looked as though he had lost something dear to him, and Peter wondered again if there was more to his relationship with Remus than he knew.

Relationships. "Sirius," he began cautiously, "I've been in touch with your brother."

The effect was instantaneous. Sirius swiveled his head to stare at Peter, an unfathomable emotion in his eyes. "Regulus." His voice was flat.

"Yes, Regulus. We met at -- at a party," he went on, speaking quickly so he wouldn't have to think about it too much, "and since we both live in London, we've done a few --"

Sirius put down the bottle and grabbed him by the shoulders; shocked, Peter stopped mid-sentence.

"Peter. Tell me you're not on social terms with my brother the Death Eater!" It was nearly a scream.

"It's not like that --"

"Don't tell me it's not that way!"

"Sirius, stop! You're hurting me!" And he was, his fingers gripping Peter so tightly that his knuckles were nearly white. When he finally released him, Peter let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and rubbed his shoulders. There would be finger-shaped bruises the next day.

"He was a -- a Death Eater, sure," said Peter, "but he doesn't want to be any more. He said he's 'leaving the organization', that's how he put it to me. And he asked for sanctuary, Sirius." He searched Sirius's face, looking for charity. "He needs you to shelter him."

Sirius was silent for a moment. Then, closing his eyes, he leaned back into the worn cushions of the sofa. "You fool." He sounded weary. "This party where you met. Was it perhaps at the home of someone in the 'organization' you claim he now wants to leave?" Opening his eyes, he looked straight at Peter. "Do you really believe it was a chance meeting?"

A slow burn began somewhere in his gut. "I'm not a spy."

Sirius looked stricken for a moment, then smiled and moved closer, putting his hand on Peter's shoulder. Gently, this time.

"I didn't mean to suggest that you were. Not willingly, anyway." He lifted a hand to still Peter's automatic protest. "They're trying to use you, Peter, to make a tool of you. I know you'd never betray us on purpose. But they want to use you to get to me, to get to us, don't you see that?"

He did. He saw it in color, in shining diagrams before his eyes, the dots connected and the arrows all pointing in the same direction. Sirius was right, he was a fool. "We argued about politics," he whispered, not trusting his voice not to break. "About your family, and the cousin he never met, and about you."

"He was pumping you for information."

"I don't know." He spread his hands helplessly, in a gesture of surrender. "I thought I could convince him to switch sides. I thought -- I don't know what I thought." I thought I could trust a Slytherin. I thought you and Remus and James had all abandoned me. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

"It's all right, Peter. Nothing bad came from it. Just stay away from him, and there'll be no harm done."

"I'm so sorry," he said, and then his voice did break, and Sirius's hand was warm on his shoulder, and he snatched up his bottle of beer from the floor and drank to cover his discomfort. When he looked up again, he could see that Sirius was deliberately looking in the other direction, and he wiped the nascent tears from the corner of his eyes before clearing his throat.

"Don't know about you, but I'm starved. Got any food in this place?"

Sirius jumped to his feet, mumbling apologies for being a terrible host, and rushed into the kitchen. After a few moments, Peter followed. When Remus came in an hour later, they had finished their lunch and were sitting with their feet up, drinking beer and smoking Sirius's French cigarettes.

"Remus." Sirius nodded in his direction, his face blank.

"Hullo, Remus," said Peter. "Did you have a good time in Salcombe?"

Remus frowned and looked confused; Sirius cleared his throat. "Actually, Peter, I wasn't exactly telling the truth earlier, about this house."

"Not exactly." He couldn't help but let the bitterness he felt spill out into his voice. "So you still don't trust me."

"Of course we trust you," said Remus. "Don't be ridiculous." But he was looking at Sirius, not at him.

"Things have been complicated," said Sirius. He looked into Peter's eyes as if pleading with him to be patient, understanding. "But you deserve to know. You deserve to be part of what's going on." He looked at Remus, who nodded. "We need to -- look, Peter, I'll tell you what. Are you free Thursday night?"

He nodded, not sure where this was leading.

"Good." Sirius sounded decisive. "Come back here on Thursday, half past eight. I promise you that all your questions will be answered then."

"Will I finally get to find out where 'here' is?" asked Peter, his tone deliberately light.

"Oh, we'll tell you that now," said Sirius. "It's Fens Cottage, Godric's Hollow."

---

Peter reached for the scroll attached to the owl's leg and absently gave the owl a treat while he untied it. It had already flown by the time he realized it was a message from Regulus. Oh, bloody hell, he thought.

Taking the scroll into the sitting-room, he turned it gingerly in his hands. No doubt Regulus wanted to know if he'd seen Sirius. Wanted to know what they'd said, so he could report it to Voldemort...no. Don't think about that. Maybe it was an apology for involving him in this ridiculous spy-game, for pretending to be his friend.

He thought about throwing it into the fire, unopened, unread. Maybe it was -- the hell with it, he thought, and pulled it open.

Help me, Peter. I'm in trouble. Tell Sirius I need him.

Oh, bloody hell, he thought, as the parchment crumbled to dust in his hands.

He thought about Regulus all night, and in the morning had still come to no conclusion. He could call Sirius on the Floo system, but then he'd have to explain about the note, and Sirius would be furious that he hadn't taken the warning about Regulus to heart. Maybe he should just send an owl -- although then he'd have to trust his explanation to paper, and he couldn't show Regulus's note because it had disintegrated. And Sirius would still be angry.

Maybe it was best just not to do anything at all.

But while sitting at his desk on Monday he couldn't help but feel a vague sort of unease about the whole situation. Surely he owed it to Regulus to get in touch with him, at least to explain that Sirius refused to trust him. The white and blinding hatred he'd felt while sitting in Sirius's cottage had evaporated; surely Regulus hadn't faked that easy friendship, that comfortable and pleasant manner. The idea of losing his only friend in the city seemed unbearable.

He moved like a ghost through his workday routine, signing papers and filing forms by rote while in his head he composed a letter to Regulus. As soon as he got home, he grabbed a piece of parchment.

S does not believe that you are sincere. But I consider myself your friend and will do anything I can to help you that will not compromise my other friends.

There, he thought, that should be sufficiently elliptical. He didn't want to incriminate anyone -- not Regulus, not himself, and certainly not Sirius -- and as he didn't know the charm that Regulus had used to make his earlier note crumble upon reading, he reckoned that it was best to just be as obscure as possible.

The owl he shared with the other wizards in the apartment-block was in its usual perch on the roof, and he sent it off to Regulus and then headed back downstairs. He was in the middle of making supper when he heard the tap-tap-tap of an owl's beak on his window.

Opening the sash he retrieved the parchment the owl carried; it was his own note, still sealed. "Did you take this to him?" he said, frowning. The owl shifted from one leg to the other and hooted, and finally Peter sighed and reached for an owl treat. "Go on," he told the owl, waving it back through the window.

He ate his supper mechanically, an odd hollow feeling in his chest. The game was over, now that Regulus had realized that he couldn't use Peter to get to Sirius. It had been a false friendship, after all.

It wasn't until he lay in bed, unable to sleep, that he remembered that his letter had been returned unopened. Which led him to wonder how, exactly, Regulus had known.

He puzzled over it all the next day. Just after lunch he decided to risk a Ministry owl, which he was technically not supposed to do for private correspondence, and sent another note. This one was shorter, nothing more than a suggestion they see each other that evening, and although he signed his own name he didn't mention Sirius at all. It didn't surprise him when the note reappeared in his inbox a few hours later, seal intact, but nevertheless his heart started thumping so loudly that he was sure the woman in the next office cubicle over could hear it.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of unmemorable paperwork and jumbled thoughts of Regulus; after Flooing home he remained on the hearthrug for a long moment, gathering his courage. Finally he stuck his head back into the fireplace, tossing in a pinch of Floo powder. "Number twelve, Grimmauld Place."

When the whirling stopped, he saw a large room, filled with people all talking among themselves. A few glanced his way but nobody paid him much attention until he cleared his throat loudly.

A dark-haired woman in a plain black robe detached herself from the crowd and crouched down in front of the fireplace. She looked at him through narrowed eyes, as though resenting his intrusion. "Yes?"

"I'm, er, trying to reach Regulus Black?"

"And you are?"

"Peter Pettigrew. A friend of his."

"A friend of his," she repeated thoughtfully. She looked off to the side, at someone he couldn't see, and when she turned back to him her expression had softened slightly. "Then you'd best come through."

Awkwardly he got to his feet and took her hand, and he felt the odd sort of dislocation that came from Flooing through a bit at a time instead of all at once. It looked as though the Blacks were holding a cocktail party, except that everybody was dressed in sober robes -- he'd blend in well enough in his Ministry clothes -- and talking quietly among themselves. The woman he'd spoken with waited until he'd dusted himself off, then said, "You didn't know, I take it."

And then it all came together in his head, the black robes, the hushed conversations, and the ball of unease that had gathered in his chest imploded and he swallowed heavily and shook his head. "I'm sorry."

She gave him a brief, thin smile and motioned with her head toward the rest of the room. "Go on then. We're keeping the fireplace clear for guests."

Peter walked slowly toward the center of the room, where there was a long table covered with trays of hors d'oeuvres and vases of flowers. In the middle of the table there was a sort of display; a wand leaned against a neatly-folded Hogwarts robe with the Slytherin crest visible on the top, and above them stood a small painting of a young boy of eleven or twelve that must have been Regulus. The boy in the picture looked uncomfortable and somewhat awed by the goings-on in the room, and he did not meet Peter's eyes.

It's my fault, he thought dully as he looked at the portrait of Regulus. He's dead, and it's my fault. Without looking, he reached a hand toward one of the trays of food, took something unidentifiable, and popped it into his mouth; he wasn't hungry, but chewing it gave him something to do, and he concentrated on the tangy taste of ginger and citrus. He ate a second, but as he reached for a third, a glass of wine was pressed into his palm instead. Startled, he looked up into the face of Evan Rosier.

"It's good of you to come," Evan murmured in his ear. "Now come with me. You should pay your respects to his mother."

Peter allowed Evan to steer him through the room, to a stout armchair where a large woman held court. She was dressed in black velvet robes, too heavy for the season, and a thin black lace veil hung from the brim of her hat, obscuring her eyes.

"Madam Black, may I present Peter Pettigrew. He was a close friend of your son's."

Peter shot him a look -- which son, exactly, did he mean? -- but Evan's face was perfectly bland. He took the woman's hand, which was cool and dry in his. "I'm terribly sorry for your loss," he said, thinking that for once this platitude was true. He was sorry, because he was responsible. It was his fault.

"Thank you for being here, young man," she said, and it was a strident voice, not the whispery tones he'd expected from a woman who'd just lost a son. He wasn't sure what to say at that; he mumbled something and dropped her hand, and at a gesture from Evan followed him into a quiet corner of the room.

"Good of me to come, indeed," muttered Peter. "I didn't know. Were you going to tell me?"

"You should have been able to guess." Evan raised an eyebrow. "Did you really think Lord Voldemort would tolerate a turncoat?"

So Regulus had not been dissembling. A frisson of pride went through him; he had done it, had convinced Regulus to switch sides. And if Sirius hadn't been so bloody sure that it had been an act, maybe things would have played out differently. He lifted his chin and gave Evan the cockiest smile he could muster.

"He finally understood. That Voldemort's mad, and the rest of you are worse. You'll never take over the wizarding world, as much as you want it."

"Maybe." Evan's voice was a low purr, his expression sly. "Maybe you'll help us."

Over my dead body, thought Peter, with grim humor. Not that he wanted to give anybody ideas, though, so he just shook his head and said, "Sorry," not meaning it at all.

Evan leaned closer to him and ran one finger across his cheek in a caress that left a hot trail across his skin. "You told him you were his friend and that you'd do anything you could to help him," he whispered. "But you're my friend, too." And he moved just a fraction closer, bending his head to Peter's, sliding his hand around Peter's neck, and very gently he brought his lips against Peter's in the lightest of kisses.

His letter. His letter had been intercepted, even though it had still looked sealed, and they knew, of course they knew, and as Peter realized it his heart started to beat faster, wildly, loudly against his chest, in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the soft lips on his and the hand firm against the back of his neck, but it seemed to him that Evan noticed, because he felt his mouth curve into a smile.

Finally Evan moved back, the slight smile still on his face. "You see, you can't leave me. My friends never leave me."

"Was Regulus your friend?" His voice sounded harsh in his own ears.

"Oh, yes. And your friend as well. In fact, he wanted me to give you something of his." Evan rummaged in a pocket of his robe and drew out something white, pressed it into Peter's hand.

The silken white mask of a Death Eater.

Horrified, he let the crumpled silk fall from his fingers, but Evan scooped it up before it hit the floor and tucked it into Peter's pocket. "Oh, don't lose it. You'll be needing it soon."

---

The evening had ended in a blur. He had rushed across the room, the mask still in his pocket, and had hurriedly tossed some Floo powder into the fireplace just as someone stepped out, knocking him over. "Watch where you're going," the wizard had said in a grouchy voice, not looking at him as he dusted himself off and moved into the room; Peter had recognized the greasy hair and the hawk's-beak nose visible behind it, and as he stepped into the flames he gave silent thanks that Snape had not bothered to castigate him any further.

As soon as he stepped back into his flat he tried to contact Sirius, but the Floo to Fens Cottage had apparently been turned off, and all he saw was green flames. An owl, then; but as he dipped his quill into the ink he remembered how Evan had thrown the words of his letter to Regulus back at him. Maybe it wouldn't be a good idea to put it in writing. He'd see Sirius on Thursday, anyway.

Nightmares kept him awake, and in the morning he thought about calling in sick. It wasn't as though he'd be able to concentrate on his work, he thought, but in the end he decided that having something to do would keep his mind off the images that returned to his thoughts, over and over. Regulus. Sirius. Evan Rosier, running a finger across his cheek and pressing a white silk mask into his hand. The way everybody else in the room disappeared when he looked into Lord Voldemort's eyes.

Once at work he tried to focus on his in-box, but Voldemort had made another speech in Manchester -- this one an appeal to vampires, apparently -- and everybody was chattering in the halls about the prospect of an army of Dark creatures taking the Ministry. The werewolf situation had worsened, and the coming week-end's full moon had most people nervous, if not outright panicked. Not that a werewolf frightens me half so much as does Evan Rosier, thought Peter. He closed his eyes, remembering the touch of his lips and fingers, the bland menace in those eyes. Had he been the one to murder Regulus? He imagined a quiet meeting, a kiss, a flick of the wand and a flash of green. No doubt Rosier would kill him the same way.

It was with mingled fear and anticipation that he Flooed to Fens Cottage on Thursday night. The small room was crowded with people, and for an instant he had the horrifying thought that it was another wake. But as soon as he stepped from the fireplace Sirius hurried over to him.

"Good. I was worried you'd got caught up in the mess with Regulus."

Not worried enough, apparently, to call or owl him. But no doubt it was hard on him, thought Peter. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Sirius shook his head. "What the hell did that fool expect? He brought it on himself."

Peter stared. It was his own brother, for god's sake. And he had contributed to his death. Not only Peter's fault but Sirius's fault as well, and he didn't even have the decency to be contrite about it. He reached a hand to touch Sirius's arm, to chide him for it, but Sirius had already turned away and was motioning for him to follow.

"I think everybody's here, Albus," he was saying, and Peter looked and saw that Headmaster Dumbledore was there, and James, and Remus, and Frank Longbottom, and Edgar Bones, and a witch who worked in the Improper Use of Magic office whose name he didn't know, and several witches and wizards he didn't recognize at all.

"Then shall we begin?" Dumbledore gestured with his wand, sending colored sparks above the crowd, and the room fell silent. "Our first business is to welcome a new member, Peter Pettigrew." James clapped him on the back, and he felt the tips of his ears redden as Dumbledore gave him an approving smile. "Welcome, Peter, to the Order of the Phoenix."