Be All My Secrets Remembered

Chapter Thirty-Three: Danse Macabre

September - October 1980

Anne-Marie Bones let out an exhausted sigh as she sank into a chair beside her husband. Edgar shook his head with a grin. "Finally asleep?"

"He takes after you," muttered Anne-Marie, reaching for the plate of potatoes at the centre of the table. "You didn't have to wait for me," she told the group at large.

Victor Bones, Edgar's father, shrugged. "Food'll wait. Besides, you need it more than we do, with that one keeping you busy. And what's the use of magic if you can't use it to keep said food warm?"

He did have a point, Anne-Marie acknowledged with a smile. Victor had been living with them for over a year now, since his wife's death in the Death Eaters' first raid on Diagon Alley. There had been at least five now or maybe six. Everyone had lost count. And while their devastating attack on the Ministry of Magic two Christmases before had not been repeated, there were enough other attacks, enough rampant violence that even the more cheerful members of the Order of the Phoenix were growing pessimistic.

Albus Dumbledore, himself, had a pale and drawn look these days. 'Mad-Eye' Moody was on leave from the Aurors, having landed himself in hospital. Rumours abounded that he had lost a leg, but nothing had been confirmed as yet.

The knock on the door a few moments later came as something of a surprise. Frowning, Edgar stood up and made his way to the front hall to answer it. Anne-Marie rose as well, motioning for Victor to stay where he was.

"Stupefy!"

The jet of light came from somewhere in the shadows, and knocked Anne-Marie to the ground. Victor jumped to his feet, only to find himself face-to-face with his son. Edgar's eyes were glazed over, staring directly at him and yet seeing nothing. From behind him, Victor could hear another voice murmuring something he could not catch. Edgar raised his wand again. "Avada Kedavra!"

At the sound of the body hitting the floor, Anne-Marie stirred, blinked up at her husband. "Edgar?" she whispered. "God, Edgar, what are you doing? What have you...?"

Muttering yet more words under his breath, Edgar grabbed her arm and jerked her quickly and painfully to her feet. Halfway up the staircase, he stopped, lurching forward as if against an invisible shield. "What---who---?"

"Imperio!" came the answering order from the corridor below, and the bolt of light striking the back of Edgar's head. Shrieking, Anne-Marie struggled to free herself from the death-grip her spelled husband had on her arm. "Take her upstairs, damn you!"

Edgar was fighting the spell, she could see it, fighting as hard as he could. But he continued to drag her up the stairs, slowly, inexorably. When he finally shoved her into the children's room and slammed the door behind her, Anne-Marie sank to the floor, staring in mute horror at the purple bruises his fingers had raised on her.

"Mummy?" George, her eldest, was looking down at her in sleepy-eyed confusion. "What's all that noise, Mummy?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but no words emerged, even as the door was flung inward to admit two dark-robed, masked figures.

***

Mulciber was gone, his job finished. Edgar Bones was held in a full-body bind next to the table still set for dinner. His wide, haunted eyes searched beyond where Lucius stood, to the corridor.

"I don't suppose you'd be obliging enough to tell us where the Order's meeting place is?" Lucius asked, more or less rhetorically. Bones would take the secret to his grave. He had pointed this out to the Dark Lord, but one did not argue with orders. All the same, one less Order member to deal with, the better. "It really would save us a great deal of trouble. All of us."

Edgar did not even grace him with a glance. "Let my family go."

"Will you make a trade?" This was different. Not at all what he'd expected. Lucius was suddenly alert. "The information for your family?"

Unfortunately, as he found out very soon, it was too late.

Simon Wilkes came barrelling down the stairs, flying past Lucius without so much as a sideways glance, and, heedless of dignity or the lack thereof, the sound of retching followed from just outside the door. Even the normally unflappable Rosier looked greensick as he followed at a more sedate pace. From the corner of his eye, Lucius could see Travers making his own way down the staircase, an inordinately pleased expression on his face. A dark stain marred one cheek.

Lucius did not hesitate. Swinging his wand back to face Edgar Bones, he said. "You'll thank me for this. Avada Kedavra!"

Bones sank to the ground just as Travers reached his side. "Oh. That's a shame. You could have been more patient."

"Our orders were to finish the job, and leave after," snapped Lucius. At the sound of a faint whimper, he spun on his heel to find the slightly stooped figure of Fenrir Greyback gazing almost raptly down at a blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. "What's this?"

"I let Travers have the rest on one condition," the werewolf purred, his yellow eyes oddly softened. "That I get the honours."

"Then do it," Lucius all but snarled.

"Temper, temper, Malfoy," Greyback observed with surprising mildness. "If you'd rather leave, you're quite welcome to it. You're not one for..." his eyes flicked to the staircase, and back, "...messes, I'm told." He studied the baby, head tilted to one side. "I'm half-tempted to just bite him. I do like cubs."

"Our orders were--"

"I know what our bloody orders were, Malfoy!" The eyes were on him again, snapping with annoyance. It was not the sort of look one liked seeing on a feral werewolf. Lucius took one instinctive step backward. "You follow them your way, and I mine. The Dark Lord scarcely seems to care, so long as it's done."

He did have a point. It was not one that Lucius appreciated, but it was true nonetheless. "Very well then. If you wish to take your time, that's your choice. I'm going home." And on that note, he stalked from the house.

As he whipped past, Wilkes raised his head and balanced himself upright, one hand splayed on the wall of the house. "You didn't see it, did you?"

Lucius paused, and shook his head, not quite able to look at the younger man. "I had no desire to. I know how Travers works, and Greyback as well. They're useful in their own way."

"They're nightmares, that's what they are," Wilkes whispered. "They're why everyone's scared of us."

"And that's the plan," replied Lucius coolly. "You knew this before."

Wilkes nodded weakly. "I'd just rather not see it, all the same."

Looking over Wilkes' shoulder, Lucius caught sight of Rosier, looking noticeably calmer now that he was out in plain air. "We're finished here, Rosier. Travers and Greyback have their own business to attend to. I've got no part in it, and you needn't if you'd rather not. Cast the Mark, and we're done."

With a smart nod, Rosier pointed his wand at the sky. "Morsmordre!"

For a moment or two, Lucius just stared upward at the glowing green skull-and-serpent. Then, with a curt shake of his head, he Disapparated.

***

"It would seem," Dumbledore began, the usual twinkle in his eyes overlaid by the hollows beneath them and the look of tired resignation, "that we have a traitor in our midst."

There was a palpable shifting within the room, as his audience could not help but glance uncomfortably from one neighbour to the other. Alastor Moody stamped his new wooden leg for attention.

The pause was almost certainly dramatic before he announced gravely, "Edgar Bones is dead. The Death Eaters entered his home last night and, according to what few spell traces Alastor," he nodded in Moody's direction, "could find, he was first placed under Imperius, which he shook off, but not before casting the Killing Curse at his own father and locking his wife and three children in an upstairs bedroom with several of the Death Eaters in question, one of which was certainly Fenrir Greyback."

The revelation provoked a flurry of gasps, whispered responses, and no small number of looks directed toward James and Lily Potter, whose friend Remus Lupin had been absent for several months now. Though it had never been formally addressed, rumours had spread some time ago that Lupin had been seen in an alleyway outside Gregory Vance's pub with Greyback and another unidentified Death Eater.

"Someone revealed the Bones family's whereabouts to the Death Eaters." Dumbledore's gaze traversed the crowd, wary and unrelenting. "I assure you, we will find out who it was, and punishment will be meted out accordingly."

"Damned right, it will be," Moody thundered. "Even Azkaban's got levels, some worse than others."

Inching closer to James, Lily shuddered slightly. "I don't want to think what 'worse' means in Azkaban."

"No light, no windows...just Dementors, day and night," James murmured, his eyes fixed on the floor. "I don't think even Mulciber's going there, in spite of what he's done. I don't know who they save those cells for. I don't think I want to know."

Lily didn't either, nodding fervently. Though she hated to admit it, the very idea of Azkaban was terrifying to her. That morning's Prophet had a photograph of Mulciber emblazoned across the front page, looking stoic and thoroughly unrepentant. He had refused to disclose the names of any of his accomplices in the Bones murder. Greyback's involvement had been confirmed merely on account of the way the Bones children were killed---

Oh God. She clenched her hands together. Harry was safe at home with his grandmother. She knew this. And yet... "I want to go home, James."

"We'll leave soon, Lil," he replied, hugging her close.

"We must be doubly careful," Dumbledore continued ominously. "Far too many things have gone wrong in the past few weeks. We cannot afford to lose much more."

He vanished into the next room with Moody and Hagrid soon after, and the rest of the group milled about, everyone visibly unwilling to call attention to themselves. Losing patience, James drew Lily to the door, murmuring quick farewells.

Sirius was half-tempted to follow but elected to wait, aware that Dorcas was deep in conversation with Emmeline some distance away.

"Oi! Black!" Sirius frowned as he glanced over his shoulder. Mundungus Fletcher, teetering only ever so slightly, was waving at him. "So now you'll speak to me, eh? Only here?"

"What are you talking about?" Sirius was fighting the urge to laugh. Dung Fletcher could never quite manage to sound aggrieved without whining. "I've not seen you anywhere else."

"What about the Hog's Head, eh? Three nights ago? I saw you there, and you looked through me as if you'd never seen me before. Went off with Dumbledore like you were some high-and-mighty prince, all nose-in-the-air and not touching anything..."

Sirius blinked. "I wasn't...I have no idea what you're talking about, Dung."

"He's right, you know," put in Dorcas, at his side. "Dung, he wasn't there. Unless he's perfected the art of being in two places at once, I can assure you he wasn't there three nights ago. We were sitting down to dinner with my parents, as it happens."

"I saw you," Dung reiterated, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "You'll not make me forget it." And with that, he stomped off in the direction of the door.

Dorcas had her head buried in Sirius' shoulder, and he could feel her shaking from laughter. "You've just earned the wrath of Dung Fletcher. Beware, lest he breathe on you."

"Now that is frightening," murmured Sirius, albeit distractedly. "How could he have seen me at the Hog's Head? I've not been there since we left school."

"I don't know. Considering what they serve there, he might well have seen Merlin cheating at cards with Hermes and several monkeys, and claimed it was exactly as he saw it." Dorcas shrugged. "Is it bothering you so much?"

"Not bothering, just..." Sirius trailed off into thought. "Could he have seen someone who looked like me? I mean, he mentioned Dumbledore, and I can't imagine he'd mistake Dumbledore, even in a drunken stupor."

"You'd be surprised what happens when people drink," Dorcas remarked, raising her eyebrows. "I've heard it leads to illicit snogging, among other things." She paused to study him curiously. "What's the matter?"

"Dorcas, do you think it might be...?" He cut himself off, and drew her near the window, away from the rest of the group. "There's one person who matches that description, right down to the mannerisms, and not recognising Dung."

"You can't mean--"

"Reg. My brother." He spoke the words as if he did not recognise them. "But it doesn't make any sense. Why would he, of all people, be secretly meeting with Dumbledore?"

"I've heard stranger things," admitted Dorcas. "He's left school, hasn't he?"

"I..." Sirius had to think for a moment, "I actually don't know. I think he should have by now, but I don't know how his year at Durmstrang fit into the whole thing." He threw up his hands in frustration. "It's probably nothing at all. Dung drank too much and started seeing things. As you said, it happens."

"You could ask Dumbledore," she suggested.

Sirius shook his head. "He won't answer anything like that, not now." He eyed the rest of the room darkly. "You don't have any ideas, do you? About who it is?"

"None whatsoever," said Dorcas, her gaze following his. "I just don't want to believe it of anyone here. Surely..." She sighed. "I don't know, Sirius. I just don't know."

Within earshot but thankfully blocked by a bookshelf, Peter Pettigrew forced himself to look away from them, to look away from anyone, really. At least he'd been more careful than Moony. Everyone knew he'd met with Greyback, for whatever incomprehensible reason. Or perhaps it was Bellatrix that was more careful, always happening upon him at what seemed like the perfect time. He had only seen her once or twice more after that first evening at the pub, and each encounter was as hazy as the last, clouded in perfume and her mesmeric eyes.

As if his guilty thoughts had conjured her up, when Peter returned to his flat, he found a piece of parchment on his windowsill. An invitation, with a short note from Bellatrix at the bottom: Call it a favour, and not the sort to be turned down.

***

And so he went, found himself staring up at the gates to the Malfoy estate with no small amount of trepidation. A group of four or five people brushed past him on their way in and he slipped into their shadows, hoping against hope not to be seen until he could find Bellatrix.

After showing his invitation to the admittedly disdainful-looking ghost-butler, Peter found himself herded along through the colonnaded foyer to a large, glass-walled ballroom. On instinct, he immediately retreated to a nearby wall, half-obscured by velvet curtains. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Bellatrix at the centre of a group, laughing.

Peter had not noticed the small orchestra in the corner of the ballroom until the lead violinist let fly a series of dissonant chords, loud enough to startle him to his feet. The other guests barely seemed to notice, though Bellatrix was now swaying back and forth in time to the music, her long-lashed eyes half-closed as a smile played at her lips.

It was a waltz of sorts, led by the violin. Cherub-faced Rosier had led his lady to one of the emptier areas of the ballroom, where they were now dancing. The Lestranges followed, the serviceable movements of Rodolphus overshadowed by his wife's languid grace. Curious, Peter thought, how both Bellatrix and Rosier were far more eye-catching than their partners. He wondered if the partners resented it. Had he been in their position, he would have.

What do you mean had you been? You were, Peter, and still are. Or do you continue to delude yourself? Unbidden and unwanted, Peter's thoughts strayed to his absent friends. Sirius would have danced without any hesitation. James, perhaps, though not necessarily, unless Lily were there. Remus would have hesitated, hung back against the wall to watch in silent appreciation. But what of Peter Pettigrew? Does he not exist outside of comparison?

The number of dancers increased and Peter retreated, moving toward the window as if in an attempt to blend into his surroundings. He used to be so good at it. But not here, not now, not in this gathering of velvet and darkness where he so obviously did not belong. They all noticed him here, through narrowed eyes and whispers. Almost as an afterthought, he wondered where Snape was. Sirius and James were so fond of pointing out how obvious it was that Snape was a Death Eater, but if that was the case, then why wasn't he here?

He turned, the glint of silver catching his eye through the window. The melody slowed, taken up almost sweetly by the violin with a net of pizzicato below. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy spun on the marble portico, perfectly matched with the music. Moonlight slanted down upon them as they weaved between pillars, lost somewhere in a world of their own, a pair of silvered sylphs.

They do teach the torches to burn bright. He had never been as literary-minded as Remus and Sirius, but the line had clung when Remus had suggested it to him...had it only been two years before? His Valentine's Day card to Laura Hennessey during their seventh year.

Leaning closer, he continued to watch them, unaware of his breath misting upon the glass, only that the two figures seemed haloed in light. And Lucius Malfoy was smiling. Not his usual half-twisted upturn of lips, as if privy to a cruel joke the viewer did not understand. No, this was something else entirely, mirrored in Narcissa's face, stars and moon made manifest.

Incandescence, Peter. What know you of that? What were you ever but a shadow? Crawling behind Potter and Black, giving your all for the simplest smile, the smallest acknowledgement of your pathetic existence?

Why did the voice in his head suddenly sound like Laura? Peter's hands clenched tight against his sides. She was right, of course. He was pathetic. He had wasted his life. Until now. Now, everything will change. And they will all see it. As the violin sang out above the low, threatening measure of orchestra, as his eyes devoured the perfection of the couple on the portico, ambition fixed itself in Peter Pettigrew's mind. He would outshine them all.

Just then, he felt a hand on his shoulder spin him round, roughly, to face the room again. It was Macnair, a death's head grin widening his thin lips. And beyond Macnair, the ballroom, the dancers spinning as if entirely unaware of the cloaked figure moving through their midst.

Toward Peter.

The music swirled and crescendoed. Peter could have sworn the very air grew colder as the figure neared him. Much to his chagrin, he could feel his knees shaking, the sweat crawling across his palms. One withered hand slipped free of the robes, holding out a wand.

"Wormtail."

"Yes...my lord," Peter managed, forcing himself to look upward into the darkness beneath the hood, the eyes he could not quite see.

"Come closer." He stepped back then, and Peter found himself drawn forward, away from the relative obscurity of the window toward the whirl of colours and shapes beneath the crystal chandelier at the ballroom's centre. "Have you anything more you wish to tell me, Wormtail?"

My name is Peter. Why can't you call me by my name? Why can't anyone call me by my name? He longed to ask, but his tongue seemed glued in place, leaving him no recourse but to nod wordlessly, the up-and-down motion setting the room lurching around him. Of course he recognised the voice, the bizarre singsong tones of the old man from the Leaky Cauldron.

"Come now, cat got your tongue?" He could have sworn the wizard was smiling, though it was impossible to tell. "Everyone else in this room has proved themselves to me. Why should you be any different?"

Because I'm not a Death Eater. He wanted to say it aloud, could feel the words bubbling upward in his throat, but stoppered. What was he doing here, then? Following Bellatrix Lestrange. Whose allegiance he had known for years, if only through Sirius' not-so-impartial eyes. He could feel her eyes on him now, laughing and pitying. Poor, poor Peter, duped so easily. He wasn't the traitor. He couldn't have told her anything. He hadn't...

...had he?

"I grow impatient, Wormtail."

It wasn't possible. He'd known where Edgar Bones lived, yes, but he hadn't told her. He'd have remembered, surely, if he had told her. And God knows he never would have. He wasn't the traitor. He couldn't be.

A stinging hex slashed across his shoulder, perfectly aimed. "You forget yourself, Wormtail," the hooded wizard hissed. You-Know-Who. Even before Peter saw the red-slitted eyes, the snakelike nose, he had known. "Perhaps we ought to teach you a lesson."

"I don't know anything," Peter finally managed to stammer out. "Nothing, you hear. I don't know anything. Please, just let me go..."

"Hmm..." A cruel smile twisted the distorted lips upward, "I don't think so."

Another hex zipped past his leg, leaving a thin, painful trail. "Please." Always say please, Peter. It's rude not to. He eyed the rest of the room, but the Death Eaters were everywhere, cutting off any escape route. The host and hostess were nowhere to be seen. Not that they would have done anything, Peter suspected, no matter what Lucius Malfoy had said to him at the Ministry of Magic.

"...Is this what you want, little worm?" The wand hovered several inches away from Peter's nose. He stumbled back a step or two. The wizard advanced. "Is this what you want?"

No. I want to go home.

But, before Peter could even say anything, he snarled, "Crucio!"

The room exploded. Or so it seemed. They were still dancing, cold-blooded bastards the lot. He could still hear the music somewhere beyond the haze. Was he screaming? He couldn't tell, save for the words pounding helpless through his skull.

No...make it stop...call me anything you want, I'll tell you anything you want, anything at all, just make it stop...please make it stop...

And it did. For a moment. Arrested on the floor, his eyes half-rolled back, the last thing Peter Pettigrew saw was the crystalline image of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy silhouetted silver and gold against the moon. Uncaring. Unknowing.

The last shivering chord faded to silence, and he fainted.

***

When he awakened the next morning, he was in his own bed. The clock read eleven, and the sun blasted through the open curtains, bright enough to make him throw one arm upward to shield his eyes.

For a half-second he believed the sun had genuinely burnt a hole in his skin, so blistering was the pain as he moved. Tears pricked at the backs of Peter's eyes, but he squeezed them shut. When he opened them again, some moments later, he saw the Mark. Black, sharp, and grinning up at him from his forearm. He could have sworn the eyeless hollows were following him, could hear the high-pitched laughter from the shadows deep in his mind, above the sudden pounding in his skull.

The pounding that did not cease, even when he shook his head and shoved his arm back under the blankets. Wormtail...Wormtail...

"Wormtail!" It was Sirius' voice, he recognised instantly. "Wormtail, are you up?"

Peter groaned. This being Sirius, he was liable to come barging in if he didn't have an answer soon. Pitching his voice as loudly as he could, he called back, "I wasn't until about five seconds ago. Go away!"

"Wormtail, I need to talk to you."

"Can't you come back later?" Peter was aware that his voice had taken on an unmistakeable whine. "I was asleep. Sirius, please." But he was already dragging himself out of bed, throwing on a robe to hide the monstrosity still thrumming on his forearm. He pulled the door open to give Sirius his best quasi-hung-over glare. "What?"

Sirius was frowning at him, looking rather more concerned than Peter would ever have thought to expect. "Bloody hell. You look awful."

"Nice to see you too," Peter retorted, ignoring a further twinge in his arm. "Now, what's the matter?"

"May I come in? It's..." Sirius glanced warily toward the dusty staircase, "It's a bit awkward, really."

"Awkward?" echoed Peter, though he stepped back to allow Sirius to enter. Though the last thing he wanted to do was engage in any sort of discussion that could be classified as 'awkward', there seemed no will left in him for denials. The Cruciatus Curse was not known for its strengthening properties. And besides, loath as he was to admit it, he was more than a little curious. "Alright, let's hear it, then."

"I can't stop thinking about what Dumbledore said. That someone's spying on the Order for the Death Eaters." He grimaced. "Do you think it's true?"

"I..." Peter hoped his heartbeat wasn't as loud as it seemed inside his head. "I don't know."

"I mean, Dumbledore said it. And I don't think he'd say something like that if it weren't true, especially with Moody to back him up..." Sirius had begun to pace the room, one hand tangled in his hair. "I just don't want to think it. You know? I can't even imagine what could be going through someone's head to make them do that."

"Maybe they just want to survive," Peter murmured. "Look at everyone who isn't in the Order or the Death Eaters. They just want to live their lives. Is that so horrible?"

Sirius frowned at him, looking genuinely puzzled. "We're doing what's right, Wormtail. Do you want to live in a world ruled by Voldemort?"

At the name, Peter shuddered convulsively, as the Mark on his arm seemed to throb harder than ever. "Don't we already, though? A little bit? I mean, he's got us all scared of his name."

"Not all of us," replied Sirius quietly.

"Well, not all of us are heroes, Padfoot. Some of us just want all of this to be over. For things to be normal again." He sank onto the couch. "Can't you understand that?"

"Of course I want this to be over. It's a bloody mess, and it's not getting any better. But for it to be over, we need to finish it ourselves."

Peter longed to argue that, to point out the merits of normalcy and simplicity and things making sense again. Instead, he sighed. "What was the awkward thing?"

"The..." Sirius frowned. "Oh, yes. Of course. Have you heard from Moony recently?"

That was the last question Peter had expected to hear. Stuttering, he finally managed to come up with, "Define recently."

"I don't know. Four months?" he threw out, apparently at random.

"I had a letter from him last month. He says he does not recommend Siberia as an ideal holiday destination. The food's awful and the weather even worse." Peter eyed Sirius expectantly, noting the other's expression of uncertainty.

"And nothing else? Nothing about...what he's doing?"

Peter shrugged. "Not that I saw. He's not supposed to talk about it, I assume. Some arrangement with Dumbledore. You've had those before." I never did. I was never good enough. Not that it mattered now. In fact, he intended to keep as far away from that sort of thing as possible now. Even as he considered this, the Mark on his arm burned hotter, and he had to fight to keep the pain from showing on his face.

Even so, Sirius noticed, in his own careless sort of way. "Something the matter?"

"Hangover," was Peter's reply, perhaps too quick. "I will never drink cheap Firewhisky again. Only the best for me."

He'd always thought of himself as an awful liar, at least when compared to his friends. It did occur to him in passing that he had obviously been good enough to keep up with them at school, and perhaps he hadn't been giving himself enough credit. Now, he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to laugh or to cry when Sirius cracked a smile at the remark. "Now I know what to get you for your birthday." Then, just as quickly, the smile vanished. "You're quite sure there wasn't anything else in Moony's letter?"

"Padfoot, why don't you just tell me what's going on?" His head was beginning to ache now, distractingly. He knew the root of the problem, of course, and he was well aware of why Remus had left for Siberia in the first place. The question was whether or not Sirius knew, and more importantly, cared. Peter was a great deal more sceptical regarding the latter.

"I just...I'm a bit concerned about him is all." Sirius stood up and began to pace back and forth. "Even before he left, I barely saw him. I don't know what's going on, and I thought you might."

"I'm sure he's got his reasons," Peter offered. "We've all been a bit cautious lately, and with perfectly valid reasons as far as I'm concerned."

"This is more than that, Wormtail. He's been in Siberia for months now. There's nothing in Siberia. How are we to know he's even there? Anything could have happened. And then there was that rumour about Fenrir Greyback..."

"Greyback's here. Moony isn't." Peter stood up and began steering Sirius toward the door. "Padfoot, I think you've got yourself worked up about nothing. Go home and calm down."

"I don't see how you can be so calm about it," Sirius sniped, glaring at Peter. "Although I suppose you don't see terribly much, being a secretary."

Peter did wince at that. "I've seen just as much as you, Padfoot. Which is why all I want is for this whole bloody thing to be over. I'm tired of watching people die. I'm tired of casualty lists and plans that only end badly. I wouldn't be surprised if that was why Moony went to Siberia. So he wouldn't have to see it all firsthand. So he could escape it."

He had expected many reactions, ranging from scorn to outright anger, but Sirius was only looking at him with an expression of slowly dawning shock. "Escape the war?"

"He's a werewolf, Padfoot, if you've forgotten. He had it bad from the start, and what Greyback's been doing is only making it worse. Can you truly blame him? He just wants to live his life, and if Siberia's the only place to do it, well..." Peter trailed off miserably. He suddenly felt a great desire to take himself to Siberia and never come back. Of course, that would never do. Even if the Order didn't care, the mark on his arm would guarantee that far more unpleasant spies would find him.

"No, I don't suppose he's in a very good position at all," Sirius murmured. "Voldemort's offered werewolves their freedom. Did you know that?"

Peter nodded vaguely. "It doesn't matter. I imagine he'd promise anyone anything if it meant it got him what he wanted."

But Sirius didn't seem to be listening anymore. With a vague farewell, he all but flew through the door, leaving Peter standing confusedly in his wake.

***

As two Aurors and several other wizards presumably part of the Order of the Phoenix streamed onto the Quidditch pitch, Simon Wilkes wondered, not for the first time, why on earth he had listened to Evan Rosier.

It had seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. Rosier's first chance to lead a mission and whatnot, and naturally he'd wanted Simon with him. He'd wanted Snape too, but Snape had been sent off for something else, and he'd had to do without. Simon had noted some time ago that the Dark Lord and the higher-ups felt Rosier was best suited to missions that did not require a great deal of thought. For while Rosier was sneaky, grand conspiracy was not his forte.

They hadn't started at the Quidditch pitch; in fact, they had started some distance away, at a Muggle campground. And it had all started relatively well, as these things went. Simon had been more than slightly hesitant, following the Bones incident--as he had come to call it--but this expedition featured a thankful lack of Travers or Greyback. For that alone, he was willing to come along.

The campground had been Regulus Black's idea, delivered in his usual timid manner, though with what might have been a trifle more discomfort than usual. They had all been uncomfortable lately, though, to be fair. Ever since Alastor Moody had swooped down somewhere along the coast of Northern Ireland and captured Igor Karkaroff without so much as a by your leave.

They were still winning; that much was certain. But whatever advantage they had taken with Bones was now erased by Karkaroff's imprisonment. Rosier, in his infinite...Simon had always balked at calling it 'wisdom', although he supposed cunning would suffice. In his infinite cunning and desire for advancement, he had decided to take it upon himself to even the stakes.

There was a small fire still smouldering in the centre of the clearing, and three tents ranged around. It looked...peaceful. Unsuspecting, his mind added. It would be easy. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rosier motioning for him to stay back, to guard their escape route. Simon accepted, irrationally grateful to Rosier for remembering where his preferences, if not any particular strength, lay. He turned away from the campsite and squinted into the darkness of the woods, suddenly aware of how little he could see out here.

From behind him, he could hear the echo of voices, though they were too far away to make out the exact words. The sound of footfalls on the twigs, however, caught his attention enough to make him peer out from the bush where he had hid himself.

"Wilkes, get out of here! It's a trap!" That was Jugson, hissing from behind a nearby tree. Not quick enough, however, as a bolt took him in the back of the head. And Simon obeyed, running pell-mell through the woods. The large expanse of the Quidditch pitch caught him by surprise, though he could not stop in time to avoid it.

Lamps bright as daylight flared to life, beating down upon where he stood. He froze, as if with the hopeless wish that if he kept still enough nobody would see him. A golden-haired shape flew past him and grabbed his arm. Rosier. "Wilkes, what the hell are you standing about for?"

"I..." He couldn't speak. He let Rosier start dragging him toward the far end of the pitch, only to stop short at the sight of several wizards grouped directly in front of them. At their head was the quintessentially recognisable Alastor Moody, complete with wooden leg. Irrationally, Simon wondered if they could outrun him. Him, yes, but not any spell he might cast.

Rosier let him go and stepped aside with a brilliant smile. "Why, if it isn't the Chief Auror. How's the leg, Moody?"

"Drop the wands and hands in the air," Moody snarled. "Do it, and we might be kind."

Simon did not need to be told twice. Discretion was the better part of valour, his father had always said. The wand was just slipping from his fingers when a hissed curse from just next to him caused him to clutch it tight and drop to the ground on instinct.

Blood was pouring down Moody's face. Even with one hand over the ruin of his right eye, he raised the wand in his left and pointed it directly at Rosier. "Avada Kedavra!"

Rosier looked surprised, Simon realised. It was such a rare expression for him that Simon had scarcely recognised it. His eyes were wide open, the green dulled beneath the floodlights.

Simon could not have said what possessed him in those last moments. Rosier had been his friend since their first year at school together, but in a quintessentially Slytherin manner. They were not friends because they liked one another, as such; they were friends because they complemented one another. And he was simply used to having Rosier there. The sudden absence jarred him, frightened him. He lunged toward the bleeding Auror, his mouth forming the words of the Killing Curse.

The entire world froze in mid-air. During his last few seconds, all Simon Wilkes had the chance to consider was that Moody looked just as surprised as Rosier.