Be All My Secrets Remembered

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Silver Linings and Clouds

January 1979

The new year began on an unsurprisingly sombre note, namely the resignation of Minister Martindale in favour of Millicent Bagnold. Almost instantly--and there was no doubt that this was not a coincidence--all of Bartemius Crouch's suggestions regarding the treatment of Death Eaters were made official, overriding Alastor Moody's protests. Not unexpectedly, Moody did not fight quite as hard as he had prior to Christmas. He did, however, refuse to abide by the new rules that allowed Aurors to use Unforgivable Curses where Death Eaters were concerned.

This meant that one of James's first training sessions that year involved both resisting and casting the Imperius Curse. He returned home pale and exhausted, and fell into bed without a second thought.

When he opened his eyes the next morning, it was to the unexpected sight of his mother, seated on the edge of the bed. "I switched off your alarm," she said softly. "You looked like you needed the rest."

James sat up gingerly, wincing as his muscles protested. "Thanks, Mum. Lily's at St. Mungo's?"

"Her shift started at seven." After a second's pause, she added, "You might want to tell Sirius. They released his cousin yesterday evening. Thankfully she and her husband managed to Apparate before the reporters got wind of it." The bitterness in her voice was palpable.

"Mum--" James's hand hovered above hers, unwilling to quite touch her yet. The hollows in her cheeks and beneath her eyes had deepened, and her hair hung lank about her shoulders. "You've not eaten today, have you?"

"I'm not hungry," she replied, averting her eyes. "And I need to be at St. Mungo's in half an hour. I just wanted to look in on you."

"Half an hour?" echoed James, frowning. "What's happened?"

"Nothing, dear, I promise. Just the usual." She looked so much older now, James realised with a sudden onslaught of sadness, even as she managed to dredge up a smile. "You've grown up, Jamie."

For once, James didn't bristle at the nickname. "What do you mean, Mum?"

"These past few weeks, everything..."

"Padfoot was in charge of the funeral, not me," he interjected, lowering his eyes with some shame. "I couldn't do it myself."

"I don't mean that. You've been strong enough for us all, and you shouldn't have needed to be. Your father would have been so proud of you." He could feel his face growing redder as the words sank in, and his mother waited a moment or so before continuing. "And of Lily too."

"It's just awful, Mum. I don't understand why they went after her parents. And her sister!" James's mouth twisted into a frown. "How can you treat someone like that? It wasn't Lily's fault!"

His mother just shook her head. "She's hurting, Jamie. That's all. Blaming Lily is the easiest choice. I'm not saying it's the right thing to do," she pre-empted James's immediate argument, "just that it probably explains her reasoning. She'll come to her senses sooner or later."

"Are you so sure?"

"Who knows?" She shrugged. "There are so many people I would love to blame for your father's...for your father. But it doesn't help, Jamie, it really doesn't. I still wake up, and he's still gone." At odds with the words, her tone was flat, unemotional. But her fingers were locked tightly around his. Then, without any warning, "Do you love her, Jamie?"

Caught completely off-guard, all James could do was stare for several seconds. Then, taking a deep breath, he managed to answer. "I do, Mum."

"I thought so," she murmured, with the faintest smile. "You'll protect each other, then. That's what I was told, at least. I've had my happy ending. It's your turn, now."

***

The afternoon was unexpectedly sunny, prompting James to suggest a trip into the city upon Lily's return from St. Mungo's. They spent a good three hours wandering through streets miraculously free of Muggle tourists--Lily's explanation being that it was quite the wrong time of year for them--before making their way to the Embankment Gardens. Leaning back against the wrought-iron fence, James followed her gaze upward to the spires of the building rising up into the twilit sky.

"What are you thinking?" he finally asked.

Lily smiled faintly. "I hope Sirius' cousin recovers. I wonder if Petunia will ever speak to me again. I wish..." She trailed off, the smile fading.

James leant closer and slipped his arm around her shoulders. "It'll be alright, Lil." Then, as much for his own benefit as hers, he added, "It has to be. Because if not, then your parents and Dad'll have died in vain, and that...I can't believe that. I won't."

Lights twinkled from the windows of unsuspecting Muggles high above their heads. Lily shifted closer. "I've not been here in years. We used to come here when I was little, with Mum and Dad--" She swallowed. "Petunia always wanted to go inside and have tea with all the posh people in the hotel, but we never did."

"You should have told me. We'd have gone someplace else."

Lily shook her head. "No, I've always liked the Embankment Gardens. Thank you." Then, suddenly, she tilted her chin upward and kissed him. "I mean it, James. It's the first time since Christmas that I've been able to think of anything else."

"I've wanted to do this for ages, you know," he admitted rather sheepishly. "To distract you, I suppose. Well, there were other things, but...I'm not making any sense, am I?"

"You're not," she told him with a smile. "Care to explain?"

"I...well..." James stared at the ground, willing his cheeks not to turn red. "It was meant to be New Year's Eve, with roses and champagne and a string quartet." He had come up with the roses on his own, with Sirius suggesting champagne, and Remus remarking that girls thought proposals involving live music were hopelessly romantic. Peter had added that since James had made a spectacle of himself asking Lily out in the first place, he might as well do so again when he proposed to her.

"Oh James." It was that sad smile again, the one that invariably made him want to wrap his arms around her and hide from the rest of the world. "That's wonderful of you, truly." Then, with a brave attempt at laughter, "Curse that Lord Voldemort and his awful sense of timing!"

"Well, I'm not about to let a stupid Dark wizard ruin my proposal to my girlfriend." He realised too late what he had said, and could feel the colour flood his cheeks.

Lily was staring at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. "Proposal?"

"Yeah," James muttered. "I'll ruin it on my own, I think. Better that way."

"You know," she suggested softly, "you could always start over."

James jerked his head upward so quickly that his neck screamed protest. "Really?"

She nodded, the first real smile he had seen since the party creeping over her face. "Second chances seem to be a theme in our relationship, after all."

He needed no more encouragement than that. Dropping to one knee, James fished out the ring from his pocket. "Lily Evans, you're the only woman I have ever loved, and the only woman I ever want to love. Will you marry me?"

There were tears in her eyes. He hadn't expected that, and was halfway to his feet before she smiled again, the expression so radiant that it stilled him completely. "Yes, I will."

***

Peter hadn't known what to expect when he returned to his tiny flat to find a very familiar dark-grey owl knocking imperiously at the window.

"Hotspur, what on earth are you doing here?" he asked aloud, as the bird shook out its dusty feathers and pecked grumpily at his fingers before holding out its leg. Managing something of a smile, Peter scanned the equally familiar scrawl--Prongs has requested that I buy a fair amount of alcohol. Not sure what he's about. Come over.--before penning a quick assent and sending Hotspur on his way.

At least that gave him definitive plans for the evening, which was more than he could say for the past few weeks. Every few evenings, he and Remus would meet up at Gregory Vance's pub in Swansea, ironically named The Dancing Rat, but outside of that, he'd spent most evenings shut in his rather dank flat, watching extremely unremarkable television, and nursing a bottle of cheap whisky.

But that would not be tonight.

He showed up on the front steps of the well-lit brick building at five past ten. Sirius' voice on the intercom was rife with laughter. "Wormtail, about bloody time! Get up here!"

Unsure of precisely what to expect, Peter made his way up the stairs. In spite of the intercom message, he knocked, conscious of voices raised in laughter within the flat. Several moments later, the door opened to reveal Dorcas Meadowes. "Peter!"

He managed a smile. "Looks like I'm late."

"No," she shook her head as she closed the door behind him, "everyone else was early. But James and Lily--"

"She said yes!" James's voice piped up from somewhere to his left, and Peter felt an exuberant tug on his arm, so hard that he lost his balance and nearly toppled a hatstand. "I asked her...and she said yes!"

"And you'll get him stabbed with an umbrella if you aren't careful," scolded Dorcas. "There's wine, butterbeer and firewhisky in the kitchen, so help yourself."

For a second, Peter hesitated. Sirius was nearly falling out of an overstuffed armchair in his attempt to reach what was presumably his wineglass. Beside him, Remus was discussing something with Lily and Emmeline Vance too softly for Peter to hear. And James had returned to the circle, dragging Dorcas behind him to renewed laughter.

Peter fled to the kitchen. This, he had not expected. And, given the circumstances, he would much rather have begged off. Curse Padfoot and his bloody vague messages. Not that he wasn't happy for Prongs. He was. Truly.

The Firewhisky hadn't even been opened. Peter did the honours, pouring himself what might have been construed as perhaps too much. He doubted anyone would notice, least of all Sirius, who was the most likely of them all to point it out.

"...we're thinking September," Lily was saying. "James's mum insisted that we have it at Godric's Hollow, and the weather will be just beautiful that time of year."

Nobody mentioned that there was a rather nasty Dark Wizard wandering the country, and that there was some chance, given their presence among those opposed to You-Know-Who, that not all of them might be alive in September. Peter, gazing at the entire group, saw no sign of even the slightest apprehension. He resisted the urge to berate them for tempting fate like this, taking another gulp of Firewhisky instead.

"Wormtail?" It was Remus, leaning against the door to the kitchen. "Bad day at the office?"

Peter looked down. His glass was empty, and the bottle was only a little more than half-full. "Oh, it was open when I got here," he lied with surprising ease.

Remus shrugged. "I don't care. There's very little to argue with Ogden's Finest."

"Yeah," agreed Peter, pouring himself another glass. "Not a bad day, so to speak. Just...the usual. And in my line of work, the usual means very little at all."

"Sometimes it's nice to have a bit of monotony," Remus offered, and Peter felt a twinge of guilt. In the past six months, Remus had been forced to take a new job every few weeks, with the exception of his bartending at the Rat. "But I imagine it's boring. Have you looked at anything else?"

Peter sighed. "I can't think of anything else to look at, Moony. It's the Ministry. Theoretically, I ought to be able to work my way up." He knew Remus could only dream of a job like his. It paid reasonably well, and, most importantly, it was secure. "I'm sorry, Moony."

"What about?" Remus frowned, openly confused. "You didn't say anything."

"I shouldn't be complaining. Not to you..."

"Oh, don't be daft. If you can't complain to your friends, who can you complain to?" He placed one hand on Peter's shoulder. "Don't worry." Turning, he made his way toward the door, before glancing back. "Just don't spend your evening moping about in here. It's a happy occasion."

Peter managed a smile, though he was convinced it looked more like a grimace.

How long he remained in the kitchen after that was actually a mystery to him, as was precisely how many times he had refilled his glass, but even as he half-stumbled back into the parlour, they were still talking about the wedding. It also occurred to him that his movements were causing his vision to jolt rather alarmingly.

"Well, of course I'm best man," Sirius pronounced. Then, after a second's hesitation, he asked, "I am, aren't I?"

"Of course you are," James assured him. "I just liked seeing you squirm. It's rare enough."

"Right," Sirius said with a wicked grin, "you've just earned yourself at least one extra embarrassing joke in the best man's toast."

"So long as you leave me out of the embarrassing bits," Lily put in as a disclaimer, muffling her laughter against her glass. "This is between you two. And," she added quickly, as Dorcas opened her mouth, "There isn't such a thing as a bridesmaid's toast, so don't even think about it."

"I thought nothing of the sort," Dorcas replied. "And if Emmeline's already planning something horribly embarrassing, I know nothing about it."

"Me?" Emmeline offered an expression of purest innocence. "'Why would I do something like that?"

"Because it's fun, dear," Dorcas assured her. "Just like Remus will almost certainly make as many bad jokes as possible, even though Sirius is best man."

They looked so happy, even Remus. So unthinking. Peter took another drink, and realised belatedly that he could not longer feel or taste the Firewhisky. That was probably not a good sign.

"Oh, Peter!" At the sound of his name, Peter flinched. All the eyes in the room had turned to him, as Lily lowered her glass of butterbeer to the table. "Do you think Laura might want to be a third bridesmaid? I'd have asked Petunia, but..." She lowered he eyes for a second before offering him a rather shy smile. "I don't know her very well, but I thought it might be nice."

For several seconds, Peter had no idea what to say. Then, before he could gather his drink-scattered thoughts, he heard his own voice saying with unaccustomed sharpness, "No."

Lily frowned. "Are you sure? I mean, surely she'd at least consider it."

"No, she won't."

"Wormtail, aren't you being a bit negative?" That was Sirius, half-lounging in the armchair by the hearth and regarding him with a very Sirius-like expression of vague disdain. "That's not very polite."

"Sirius," warned Remus from his own perch on the couch, just close enough to hit Sirius should the need have arisen, "don't. I'm sure there's a perfectly good--"

"She's alright, isn't she?" interjected Lily, eyes wide with sudden worry. "She's not...?"

The unsaid word hung in the air for a few moments. As lighthearted as the evening might have seemed, nobody had quite forgotten Christmas. Peter took another swallow of Firewhisky before finally murmuring, barely loud enough to hear himself, "She...we've split."

The revelation was met with silence. Peter took one step forward, but had to cling to the wall with one hand to keep steady. Finally, Sirius spoke up. "Bad luck, mate."

"Yeah," James agreed. "Like as not she didn't deserve you in the first place."

No, you bloody idiot. Don't give me platitudes. But Peter, biting down on his tongue, did not say it aloud. None of the girls had said anything either, too busy exchanging what appeared to be a complicated network of glances. Then, still saying nothing, Dorcas rose to her feet and slipped past Peter into the kitchen.

"Can't argue the appropriateness of Firewhisky for this," Sirius observed under his breath. "In fact, I'm half-tempted to run to that shop down the street and buy Muggle whisky when he finishes that bottle."

Bottle? Peter looked down at his hand. He hadn't even realised when he'd given up on the glass and picked up the bottle. Which was very nearly empty.

"You'll do no such thing. I'm taking him home." It was Dorcas' voice from behind him, soft but authoritative. Despite his somewhat blurred vision as he turned, Peter could make her out, standing, hands on hips, and staring Sirius down. "He can't Apparate in this condition; he'll splinch himself in no time. I'll take him on the Underground and Apparate back. It won't be more than an hour." He felt her take his arm and draw him, presumably toward the door. "Don't worry. We'll be fine."

"Are you sure, Dorcas?" Emmeline asked, and Peter could see her rising to her feet. "I can go with you as well, give you some company on the way back."

"No, it's quite alright," Dorcas said lightly. "Come along, Peter."

The stairwell was freezing, and Peter reached for his gloves, only to drop them from drink-clumsy fingers. Dorcas slid them firmly onto his hands. "Thanks," he managed, holding the last few letters perhaps longer than necessary.

"It's not a problem," she told him. "Now, hold my arm with one hand, and the banister with the other. It's not that far, but I don't want you falling."

"Who cares if I fall?" he groaned, as they started down the stairs. "They won't notice. They never notice. You-Know-Who could kill me right in front of them and they wouldn't notice."

"If you insist, but I'm sure the headache you have tomorrow will counter that point. You, Peter Pettigrew, are unequivocally and impressively pissed. How many bottles of Firewhisky did you drink tonight?"

He held up one finger.

"Oh, right," Dorcas laughed. "I'm not about to believe that. Sirius had at least three sitting out, and when I checked, there were two and a half empty bottles."

"She wouldn't notice, and you can't argue that!" Satisfied enough with himself for that argument, he let go of the banister, only to lose his balance and fall against her. Thankfully, it appeared that they were no longer on the stairs. "Can you?" he challenged.

Dorcas merely shrugged. "Some girls are bints. It comes down to that. But you'd set store by her, hadn't you?"

Peter nodded mournfully. "I love her. Still. Even now. Even though she's broken my heart into a hundred thousand pieces!" To illustrate the point, he let go of Dorcas too, throwing his arms wide as they stepped onto the street.

"Poor dear." There was an oddly wistful smile on Dorcas' face as she moved toward him again. "Did she give you a reason at all?"

"I wasn't good enough. That's what she said." Peter let her lead him forward, his eyes fixed on the ground. You've got no ambition, Peter. You'd be content to work in that dingy little office for the rest of your life, wouldn't you? "She was all I wanted. I'd have been happy doing anything if I'd had her. But apparently it wasn't enough."

"That's utter nonsense," scoffed Dorcas.

"But it isn't!" Peter spun to face her, grabbing hold of one of her arms. "You know what she wanted, Dorcas? She wanted Prongs. Or Padfoot. Someone brilliant and charming and successful. She only saw me when I was with them. In the spotlight. I'll never be that--"

"Peter..."

"--why the hell do they need to, anyway? It isn't as though they work for it. Success just...drops into their laps." Peter nearly tripped on the steps, downward into the Underground station, catching himself just in time. "Why can't that happen to me, Dorcas? I don't understand. What did they do to deserve having the world at their feet..."

"Peter, listen to me." Dorcas' voice was firm, her eyes intent upon Peter's face. "You don't know what you're saying. It may seem that way to you, but I want you to stop. This won't help."

"It's not fair." He knew he was whinging, but he had no desire to control himself. "When I was with her, it was the first time I've ever not needed to be just like them. She didn't care that I wasn't them. I thought she loved me."

"I'm sure she did, Peter. And if she didn't, she's a fool. Now wait here," she advised. "I'll get us tickets."

***

She had managed to get him to drink two glasses of water before he collapsed onto the bed, still fully clothed. Carefully locking the door behind her, she made her way down the dingy staircase and Disapparated.

"He's fine," she said, pre-empting any questions. "He's had some water, and he'll sleep it off."

"That's just awful. How could someone do that to Peter, of all people?" Emmeline shook her head. "She always seemed such a nice girl, too."

"Just goes to show," Remus put in darkly.

"You might want to see him tomorrow, Sirius. All three of you, actually," Dorcas advised, seating herself on the arm of Sirius' chair. "He's in a bad place."

"That bad?" This was James, looking perplexed. "I thought you said he was fine."

"I meant in the sense that he's had something to drink that wasn't Firewhisky," she retorted, sharper than she might have liked. "He's hurt, and badly."

"I didn't realise things were that serious between them."

"He'd bought a ring." Everyone turned to Remus at those words. "He told me, just after Christmas. He'd wanted to wait until he'd asked her officially before he told everyone, what with everything that's happened. Wonder what he'll do with it now."

"Bloody awful," Sirius murmured. "We'll distract him. It'll be fine. Did he tell you anything, Dorcas? About why everything went pear-shaped?"

Dorcas hesitated for a second or two, but went with her first instinct. "He seems to think it had something to do with how he wasn't you or James."

"That's nonsense, if I ever heard it," James laughed, albeit harshly. "We're arrogant bloody prats. Ask anyone."

"Speak for yourself, Prongs," Sirius shot back. "That being said, I can't say I understand it much better."

"He's always been in your shadow," Remus supplied. "I imagine Laura was the first thing he had that you two didn't."

"And now he's lost her," concluded Dorcas. "I'm not saying it's the right conclusion. Merely that you might do well to talk to him after a few days or so. Make sure he's alright."

"Of course," said James, still looking puzzled. "Rather a damper on the festivities, though. I've got half a mind to send Hennessey a Howler. Not only did she have the nerve to break up with our mate, her timing's bloody awful."

***

True to Dorcas' word, Peter awakened the next morning entirely convinced that his head had exploded in his sleep. The very thought of crawling out of bed to go to the Ministry was enough to make him feel more than slightly sick.

But work was work. Racking his memory, he recalled the occasionally effective sobriety spell Sirius and James had invented sometime during fifth year, after they finished the Marauder's Map, and thereby gained themselves freer access to Hogsmeade. It worked. Somewhat.

"I will never drink again," he informed his reflection, who stared unconvincingly back at him through red-rimmed, bleary eyes.

For the first time, he was thankful for his corner cubicle in the constantly overlooked Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Even the usually ebullient Arthur Weasley had chosen that day to discuss his nine-month old twins with one of their other colleagues. Normally, the antics of Fred and George Weasley would have been a cause of amusement, but Peter's headache persisted in spite of numerous attempts on his part to get rid of it.

At precisely five, Peter practically ran out of the office and down the corridor, intending to catch the lift before the general exodus began. He did not count on the ebony cane hanging from its owner's hand at precisely the right angle to trip him up and send him sprawling onto the floor.

"Oh dear, how very careless of me." A gloved hand gripped Peter's upper arm and helped him to his feet. "Do accept my apologies, Mr..." a pause as the gentleman smiled coldly, "Pettigrew, isn't it?"

Peter blinked several times, pinioned by grey eyes. Recognition flared, and just as quickly, he felt an embarrassed flush rise in his cheeks. "Mr Malfoy."

"Long time, no see," the former Slytherin Prefect observed, leaning with deliberate grace against the wall. "You don't work...there," he gestured toward the office Peter had just exited, "do you?"

"I do, sir," replied Peter, his gaze falling to the silver snake's head baring its fangs at the top of the cane, glittering against the black of gloves and robes. He'd heard the rumours, of course. Everybody had. But after Christmas, there hadn't been the slightest whisper. And now, as Peter looked at him, he wondered if he was imagining the fidgeting of the gloved hands with the cane, or the pinched look to the man's face.

His voice, however, was unchanged. "That is unfortunate. It strikes me as a waste of your particular talents."

Again, Peter was struck speechless. Whether or not he had any particular talents was arguable, especially in the wake of the past few months, and even if he did, why on earth was Lucius Malfoy, of all the people, remarking upon them?

"Nobody in that office ever goes anywhere, you know. At least nowhere worthwhile." He shrugged, jostling pale blond hair from where it draped across his shoulders. "Surely your friends have some influence. One would think they might take it upon themselves to help you."

"Well..." It had never occurred to him before. He could have asked James. After all, James's father had been at least well known within the Ministry echelons--if not particularly well-liked or approved of--and nobody would deny that the name of Black, regardless of the relations between Sirius and the rest of his family, would have opened at least a door or two. But they had never offered. "I'd never thought to ask."

"Perhaps you ought to."

"Peter, what are you still doing here? I thought you'd be long gone by no--- Malfoy." The change in Arthur Weasley's tone was more than perceptible. The normally steady smile vanished. "What brings you here?"

"Business as usual, Weasley." In contrast, Malfoy's smile could be called nothing short of predatory. "Pettigrew here, and I, have some acquaintances in common. Do we not?"

"Of course," Peter answered, a little too quickly. "Just a chat. Nothing more. I do need to go...meeting someone for dinner...very nice talking to you, Mr Malfoy."

Malfoy inclined his head. "A pleasure. Do think on what I said."

Peter nodded, and hurried toward the lift before either of them could say anything to tangle his thoughts further.

***

The snow whirled and spun outside of Professor Dumbledore's office windows. In contrast, Fawkes snored peacefully on his perch and various and sundry instruments were settled calmly on the Headmaster's giant desk.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, was somewhat more alert, his eyes fixed on the door. When it opened, he smiled pleasantly, an expression that did not reach his eyes.

"Good evening, Tom."

NB: Yes, this last scene corresponds with the one from Book Six. It's very late, timeline-wise, but I wanted to work it into this story's canon, and I don't think it's too far out of the way.

And yes, another insertion of random movie canon, but I find Lucius' pimp cane far too amusing not to include.

Next chapter: Sirius/Dorcas fluffiness, Snape gets a visitor, and Remus looks in a mirror.