Secrets Kept: From the Eyes of a Rat

He chanted a song of wizardry,

Of piercing, opening, of treachery,

Revealing, uncovering, betraying.

Then sudden Felagund there swaying

Sang in answer a song of staying,

Resisting, battling against power,

Of secrets kept, strength like a tower,

And trust unbroken, freedom, escape;

Of changing and of shifting shape,

Of snares eluded, broken traps,

The prison opening, the chain that snaps.

Backwards and forwards swayed their song.

from "The Lay of Leithian" in J.R.R. Tolkien's The Silmarilion

"The smallest act in the most limited circumstances bears the seed of the same boundlessness and unpredictability; one deed, one gesture, one word may suffice to change every constellation...though we don't know what we are doing when we are acting, we have no possibility ever to undo what we have done... The possible redemption from the predicament of irreversibility is the faculty of forgiving, and the remedy of unpredictability is contained in the faculty to make and keep promises... Without being forgiven, released from the consequences of what we have done, our capacity to act would, as it were, be confined to one single deed from which we could never recover...."

- Hannah Arendt, from "Labor, Work and Action" in Amor Mundi.

Chapter 1

Fevered Dreams

1 November 1981

There was a festive mood in the air. Despite the bleak weather, wizards and witches were celebrating in the streets, taking no heed of the International Statute of Secrecy. Ignoring the disbelieving stares of Muggles, the magical community ventured out into the open without even bothering to don Muggle apparel. They went alone, in pairs, and in groups, singing, laughing, drinking, and even hugging strangers. Owls flew from place to place, some to spread the good news, others asking if it were true. For the first time in a decade, the Magical Community was able to breathe freely without needing to look over its shoulder, checking every so often for that nameless menace.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was gone.

In the midst of a bustling street, a man hurried through the crowds, as if running away from someone. Not paying the slightest attention to where he was going, he blindly rushed into countless pedestrians.

"Hey you! Watch where you're going!" a voice called after him.

But the man seemed to be walking in a daze, completely unaware of his surroundings. He would only break out of his stupor every now and then to glance furtively around him, making sure that he was not being followed.

It had started to drizzle. People started taking out their umbrellas while others hurried to find shelter, but the man simply continued on his way. What's a little rain, compared to what they could do to me, he thought. Rain never killed anyone.

He turned into a corner, and the sight that greeted him nearly gave him a heart attack.

"Hello, Peter. Fancy meeting you here. Where are you off to?" said Sirius Black, his voice oddly monotonous.

Peter Pettigrew felt an icy cold seep into his gut. "Hello, Sirius. I was just out for a walk, and..."

"Did you hear about Voldemort?" the other man cut in.

Peter visibly recoiled. "Y-yes, I did. They're saying he's gone, and..."

Sirius moved closer, like a wolf moving in for the kill. "And he took James and Lily with him. Oh, don't worry, Harry's still alive." He was standing right in front of him now, so close that Peter could smell his stale breath, tinted with a hint of firewhiskey. "Where were you last night, Wormtail?" Sirius spat out.

Peter took a tentative step back. "I w-was home, preparing my stuff, and..."

"Oh, yes, I knew you were at home. I knew you were preparing to go into hiding, just like the rest of us. Imagine my surprise when I went to your house and saw that no one was home. Imagine my astonishment when upon entering I saw that you were not packing at all. And imagine my horror," Sirius said, his face only inches away from Peter's. "When I realized just who the spy was, and that I handed James and Lily to him on a silver platter."

Peter felt his sweat dripping down his head and down his back. His hands were shaking and he could barely breathe. A moment of indecision paralysed him, but he knew he must act quickly. He just needed a split second to escape, just a moment...

There! Sirius shook his head in an effort to keep the rain away from his eyes. It took just a couple of seconds, but it was enough. Peter bolted, away from Sirius and into the street, hoping to blend into the throng of Muggles. He could hear Sirius' pounding footsteps in his wake, barely catching him but managing to keep up.

I need to find a deserted alley, someplace I could Apparate, he said to himself. He bumped into a women carrying a bag full of fruits, scattering them on the pavement.

"Damn!" he heard Sirius shout. Peter spared a moment's glance and saw Sirius glide unceremoniously in the street, stepping on a handful of oranges.

Just find an alley, any alley, he chanted to himself. He ran through the crowds, left, right, right, left, and another left. He felt like he was running around in circles, every corner looking like the first. Laughter flowed out from a pub, mocking him in his plight. Strangers were looking at him, their glares accusing him and condemning him.

Don't be so paranoid, he chided himself.

He now found it hard to breathe. Feeling a stitch burn his left thigh, he slowed down to a manageable walk. Glancing behind him to see if Sirius was still at his heels, he only saw countless Muggles doing whatever it was Muggles did.

Thank God, he said to himself. He leant against a wall, struggling to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, letting the rain wash over him. He stayed there for a minute, a second, or an hour. Time no longer has any meaning for him.

"Now did you really think that you could run away from me that easily?"

Peter slowly opened his eyes. Sirius Black was standing menacingly in front of him. He looked to his left but saw that a high brick wall blocked this way. Think, he told himself. You've escaped worse scenarios. You can get through this.

"You're not going to kill me, Sirius," he told the taller man, stalling for more time. Keeping eye contact with Sirius, he moved his hand towards his pocket, where his wand was hidden.

Sirius gave a hollow laugh. "Oh, you think?" he said unemotionally.

Peter slowly edged to his right, towards the open street. "No, you're not going to kill me in front of all these Muggles," he whispered. He gave a surreptitious glance around the street: a Muggle pub, several boutiques, a flower shop, and a grid. A grid that led rainwater into the sewers...

The sewers. A plan was starting to form in his mind. Stay calm, now, he told himself.

Sirius was advancing on him, his right hand inside his robes. Holding his wand.

Peter set his plan into motion. Keeping his eyes trained on Sirius, he moved towards the street. Inside his robe, his wand was now cutting off a finger. Well, who could have thought that the Cruciatus is actually good for something? he thought as he tried to keep an expressionless façade.

He waited until he was in the middle of the street before he called out, "Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?"

He immediately whipped out his wand and softly muttered, "Trucidare!"

The spell caused a massive explosion, a scorching ball of heat that spread outwards. He heard a woman scream in pain. In the midst of the chaos caused by the spell, hidden by smoke and debris, he dropped his severed finger on the street and changed into his Animagus form. As he transformed, he could see Sirius moving through the haze, his hands reaching out to grab him.

He could smell blood, its metallic scent mixing with the sweet fragrance of tulips. Lilies. Sirius was laughing hysterically. Peter rushed towards the grid and into the sewers, entering the welcoming darkness and the solitude it offered.

Deep inside the bowels of the earth, he could still hear his friend's maniacal laughter.

***

Laughter erupted around him, raucous and youthful peals of mirth. A warm reassuring hand clasped his shoulder. He turned around, a smile on his face, but no one was there. The Gryffindor common room stood bare before him. The furniture, old and dilapidated, was falling apart. The fire, far from being a source of warmth and comfort, looked menacing with its tall and wild flames.

He turned towards the spiral staircase, moved towards the familiar dormitory. The door opened into an old bedroom, his old bedroom. His bed, his toys, his photographs, everything was there though a thick layer of dust covered all. A spider web hung in the centre of the room, acting as a barrier between him and the door. Faint smells emanated from beyond that door, scents from his past: lamb stew, mashed potatoes, and chocolate pudding.

He could hear someone humming, singing from below. The gentle voice, a woman's voice, represented security and unconditional love. How he longed for that voice, to bask in the genuine warmth it brought. How he longed for caresses of days long gone, for the soft nurturing hands of yesteryear.

Hysterical laughter followed him as he moved towards the barrier. He fumbled about his robes for his wand, but the familiar piece of wood was not there. He used his hands to separate the sticky threads. Some clung to his hands, giving them an ethereal tint.

He slowly opened the door with his clammy hands. The vacant Gryffindor common room stood before him, mocking him.

Maniacal laughter echoed around him, reverberating in the lifeless room.

***

Water dripped incessantly from above. The overpowering stench assaulted his senses, turning his world into a hazy mist of human waste. He fought the urge to vomit. He scampered along, looking for an escape from this hellhole. His body ached all over and the wound on his hand throbbed painfully. The sewer rats were wary of him, aware that he was far from being an ordinary rat. Some fled from him, while others, perhaps the alpha males, were more aggressive. Thankfully, none had bitten him. Yet.

Despite the muck and the vermin, the sewers brought him a certain amount of comfort and made him somewhat at ease. Steeped in this dark solitude, without time and space to guide him, he felt a sense of freedom. Nothing existed except for him, and he could do anything he wanted. Nothing hounded his every move nor demanded to know his very being. The Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters meant nothing.

He lost track of time. The concept seemed absurd in this world, where everything flowed yet nothing changed. How could one monitor the passing of days in a world where seconds could stretch for an eternity?

He could no longer go on. His numb hand had started to emit a reeking yellow substance. Pus. He felt weary and longed for the bliss of sleep. Dreamless sleep. How he hated his dreams, his nightmares. How they haunted him and taunted him in his slumber, showing him the utopia of the past and the terrors of today. And that laughter, that incessant laughter, pursuing him even in dreams and filling his subconscious.

No, I will not sleep. Not yet, he thought.

***

Dark figures surrounded him. Phantoms with white faces. Someone somewhere was laughing. He tried to move away, but his body refused to cooperate. He tried to look away but he could not even move his head.

The laughter grew louder, making his ears hurt. He felt a warm liquid flow out of his ears. Using all his strength, he forced his hands up to his face and towards his ears. Blood.

The figures moved closer. He felt suffocated and trapped. There was nowhere left to go. A blinding green light began to envelop him.

"There is no escape," a raspy voice taunted him.

The laughter still did not stop.

***

Peter woke up with a start, his body shivering uncontrollably. I cannot stay here anymore. I would just die here, he thought. He forced his tender body to move and slowly made his way through the sewers. He kept his eyes open, alert for any possible exit. Eventually he found one, an opening that led to a busy street.

The sun had already fallen, though people still bustled about. He dodged through muggles and automobiles. A few cars nearly ran over him. The place looked vaguely familiar, though he was unsure of his exact location.

Tentatively, he ventured out. Every now and then he would see a familiar shop or pub, though he still felt disoriented. He wove through the streets of the city with no definite destination in mind.

What if I'm going around in circles?

The chilly air seeped through his skin, numbing his senses. He was becoming light-headed, due either to hunger or to his untreated wound. Scanning the area, he saw a nearby restaurant and hurried towards it. He scampered towards an adjacent alley, and his eyes lit upon an overflowing trash receptacle.

Using his acquired rat skills, he expertly scaled the tall bin. Putrid scents and food in various states of decay welcomed him. He fought the urge to gag as he burrowed deeper into the bin, in search of something still edible. Anything edible. He eventually settled on day-old leftover spaghetti. As he nibbled on the noodles, he felt hot tears form behind his eyes. No, I will not cry, he told himself. I will not allow myself to cry.

The meal, though not fully satiating him, did give him enough energy to continue his trek around the city. He manoeuvred through the streets, hoping to see something he recognized. After a good couple of hours of searching, just when he was ready to give up, he saw a place he knew. Situated between a book shop and a record store was a small, grungy inn. The Leaky Cauldron. He almost wept in relief. He squeezed his way in through the small space in between the door and the frame.

Despite the dark and shabby interior, people filled every available space in the pub. It's just like a party in here, he thought. Witches and wizards, some more sober than others, drank and talked merrily. Singing could be heard from the far corner while an odd company of hags and dwarves played cards near the door. He scanned the room and saw a few familiar faces. Dedalus Diggle, Mundungus Fletcher, and, the room spun around him, Remus Lupin.

Should he risk it? He could hide beneath the table, or he could stay near the walls. What are the odds that Remus would glance down and see him in this retched lighting, especially in his current state of sobriety? Besides, if there was one thing he was good at, that was sneaking around. Careful to not draw attention to himself, he moved through the tables towards the Order members.

"When do you reckon the trials will be?" Dedalus asked his companions.

Remus took a sip of firewhiskey before answering. "Well, Karkaroff's trial begins next Monday."

"Have you 'eard? Sirius ain't gettin' a trial," the red-faced Mundungus spoke up. "Crouch just made the statement."

"Just what he deserves," muttered Remus.

Dedalus glanced at Remus uneasily. "I thought he was your friend."

"So did I," Remus answered testily.

"I still can't believe tha' Sirius was the traitor," Mundungus slurred. "He an' James was like brothers. An' he hates those Death Eaters."

Peter could not resist from going closer. Well, this certainly is an interesting conversation.

"But he did turn," Remus answered. "He betrayed James and Lily, not to mention killing a dozen muggles. And he killed Peter," he finished, his voice laced with pain.

Peter could have laughed. Poor little Padfoot. Always sticking his mangy nose where it's not wanted, now getting more than he deserves.

Dedalus sighed. "Poor Pettigrew. He should've known that he couldn't take on Black. He had no chance."

Peter sat up indignantly. What do you mean, I had no chance?

Remus nodded. "Poor Peter. He was a true Gryffindor." He raised his drink. "To Peter Pettigrew, wherever he may be."

The two men raised their glasses. "To Peter."

Somewhere below them, a rat chortled gleefully.

***

He needed a new home. He could no longer stay at the Leaky Cauldron, for Tom was a neat freak with a mission against pests. Going home to his mother was no longer an option, especially if he wanted people to believe that he was truly dead. More importantly, he needed to stay at a wizarding home in order to be aware of current events. And of news regarding the Dark Lord, he mentally added.

He could pose as a pet. How, though? He could try to sneak into the Magical Menagerie, though he didn't know how he could slip into the rats' cage. Plus, he was obviously different from the sleek black rats the store sold. The proprietor would only throw him out once she noticed.

Engrossed in his dilemma, Peter did not notice the pair that sat at the table he was currently hiding under. He barely stifled his high-pitched shriek as a booted heel stepped on his tail. He was contemplating the merits of biting the rude man's ankle when he heard a voice speak up.

"Dad? Can I please get a new pet while we're here?" a boy asked.

The father, presumably, sighed audibly. "We'll see, son. First, we need to buy the baby's medicine."

Peter carefully edged his way to the corner. Isn't that Arthur Weasley? I guess they'll have to do.

He patiently waited for the pair to finish their meal, and surreptitiously followed them across Diagon Alley. They were headed for the Apothecary. As Arthur went to consult with the proprietor, his son opted to explore the shop.

Now is my chance.

Peter rushed through the various jars and barrels, aiming to intercept the boy. As the child turned around a corner, he came face to face with a grey rat. I do hope you aren't the squeamish type, Peter thought.

The little boy moved closer. "Hello there, Mister Rat," the child whispered.

Peter stood on his hind legs. Now, aren't I just the smartest rat you've seen?

The child smiled. "What other tricks can you do?"

Peter cocked his head to the side.

"Doesn't matter," the child murmured. "I can teach you. Do you want to come with me?"

Peter nodded. Now that's a good little boy.

The boy held out his hand and Peter jumped into it. "By the way, I'm Percy Weasley."