Menial Tasks

Menial Tasks

It was a rainy, utterly abysmal day. The dark, swirling clouds formed a heavy blanket over the sky, leaving the world beneath rather dreary. Somewhere under that deep blanket, a small figure was scurrying towards shelter.

"Damned bleak weather," muttered Wormtail, fumbling with the lock. The door finally gave way, and he stepped inside. It wasn't very warm or cozy in the hideout of a Dark Lord, but at least it was somewhat dryer than outside. Why do I have to do all the tedious work, the running around? he asked himself bitterly.

He was fairly certain that when he signed up for this line of work, the job description had said nothing about nearly catching his death of pneumonia. Of course, there were a lot of things he hadn't expected to do when he signed on . . .

He stamped his feet on the floor mat, shuffled off his wet coat, and walked upstairs toward his Master's audience chamber, fiddling with the document in his hand. Stop that train of thought, Wormtail. They deserved what they got, every last one of them . . . even Sirius.

Didn't they?

Yes, of course, he told himself firmly.

Wormtail turned into the hallway. Lucius Malfoy was exiting the Lord's room, a smug smile on his face melting into disgust at the sight of him. "Well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in," he sneered.

Wormtail recoiled. "I'm not here to speak to you," he said with as much disdain he could muster.

"The Master is busy at the moment. I suggest you wait here, lest you disturb him. Believe me; he is not in a pleasant mood today." Lucius gave Wormtail one last look of revulsion before he descended the staircase.

What was he going to do? Throw open the door and loudly announce his arrival? Wormtail might look it, but he wasn't stupid, not when it came to staying alive. He quietly swore. He knew quite well what Malfoy thought of him, and it didn't sit well with him at all. "If you betray one man, it's only a matter of time before you betray another," Lucius had once told him. "The Dark Lord does not reward those who are not truly loyal. When that happens, the Master will know . . . Oh, yes, he'll know, and I'll be there in the in shadows, watching. I'll be laughing at the weak, pathetic sycophant who thought himself worthy enough to be the Dark Lord's right hand. You'll learn your place soon enough, gutter rat." Oh, how he hated Lucius Malfoy.

He stood there outside the door, patiently waiting for the Dark Lord to summon him. He would probably make Wormtail wait a little while before he allowed him entrance. That was his way; he would do things in his own time and dare anyone to object. Wormtail, of course, was not objecting.

He worried the piece of paper in his hands a little more. The Dark Lord knew he was completely loyal to him. After all, it was he who had accomplished the task of effecting the resurrection of his Master when others had either tried and failed or not tried at all. The Master was pleased with his service. He wouldn't have his hand otherwise.

Wormtail suddenly noticed that he was shivering; the rain had chilled him to his bones. He hadn't really felt it, though. It had been a long time since he really felt much of anything. His mind drifted back to where it always inevitably did.

Why did Prongs have to change? I admired him so much once. Up until Seventh Year, nothing could be better. Slytherins trembled at the sight of us; it was such an exhilarating feeling. Wormtail smiled at the memory of a quivering, sputtering Snivellus. It was as if we owned the school. Of course, then the Whomping Willow incident occurred. Wormtail scowled. Prongs and the others had to develop consciences. Prongs shouldn't have kidded himself; we all knew that that Evans girl was a primary reason for his great epiphany. He'd do anything to impress that girl. It was so pathetic. Wormtail looked at the floor and shook his head. James should have known that friends should come first, not a girl.

Look who's talking; friends come first?

Shut up.

Wormtail sighed and tried to dismiss these unsettling thoughts. He didn't know why they kept coming back to him. Perhaps, it was being so alone all these years, without the other Marauders. His school years with them were basically what constituted his whole life, his time as a Weasley family pet excluded. These days, his life was filled with nothing but menial tasks. There was no meaning, no validation.

Wormtail had no doubt in his mind that he was once an equal in the Marauder circle. Perhaps no one else saw it, but it was true. Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs had ridiculed him, belittled him, and dismissed him as an almost-Hufflepuff, but hadn't they also included him in the pranks? Hadn't he become an animagus with the others? Hadn't his name been on the Map alongside theirs?

Wasn't he worth the praises of his Master, despite what Malfoy might think?

With a ghostly creak, the door behind him suddenly opened. "Enter," hissed a high, cold voice.

Wormtail shuddered involuntarily, swallowed hard, and turned to enter. He stepped into the room and approached his Master. The room was dark, barely lit by a candelabrum on a table by the door. The Dark Lord was silhouetted against the window, gazing out at the rain and misery below. He didn't look up.

"I h-have the information y-you requested, my L-lord . . ." Why in Merlin's name did have to be reduced to a stuttering idiot whenever he was nervous? Well, in this case, seeing as how he was standing before the greatest of all Dark Wizards, he had good reason to be nervous. He still cursed his stuttering, though.

"Excellent," his Master replied, forming a steeple with his fingertips. "Leave it on the table there." Wormtail jumped to obey, almost stumbling over his own feet, and placed the paper on the table. "You may go now."

"M-my Lord?" he asked. He had hoped for some sort of commendation. After all, he had gone to great risks to retrieve this information for his Master. He had followed his orders to the letter.

"I said you may go," the Dark Lord repeated. His voice had dropped in volume, and it made Wormtail's skin crawl.

Wormtail needed no further warning; he quickly bowed and took his leave, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him. He leaned against the cool paneling, feeling hollower than ever.