And No One Would Ever Know

The chintz curtains were closed. A ray of grey light seeped into the shabby living room, lighting up dust mottes before settling on an unevenly stuffed sofa and the woman sitting on it. She was gripping her mug of tea as if her life depended on it.

After taking a sip she put the mug down on the coffee table, relaxing her grip to take a white lace handkerchief out of the handbag next to her. She dabbed her eyes with it automatically. They were dry anyway. With her other hand she played about with her mug, pushing it into the light so that all the cracks became visible

It was his favourite one. He'd got it for his twelfth birthday, from one of his friends. Had it been Remus or Sirius? Or maybe Lily, as it was something a girl might give? The mug was the only thing he'd drink out of in the holidays, whether it was tea, Ribena, or his favourite, home - made lemonade. She couldn't count the times she'd had to Reparo it. It seemed to get broken at least once a month, even after he'd left Hogwarts and should have grown out of his teenage clumsiness. The Reparo charm must have got weaker every time it was used. A chip of china was missing out of the handle.

Harriet Pettigrew pushed her mug - no, Peter's mug - out of the light, accidentally moving it nearer to two boxes. One was lined with red silk on which her son's finger lay, preserved by a number of complex charms. In the other a medal rested on white silk. Somehow it caught a bit of light and seemed to be twinkling at her, just like her old transfiguration teacher and Peter's headmaster. Bastard. It was all his fault. But Order of Merlin, First Class! Shouldn't she be proud of Peter, her baby! How the hell could he have been so stupid, didn't he know it would end this way?

The ceremony had been very high profile, even though all the Ministry officials knew it was just a replica of the finger that was being buried in the miniature coffin. Harriet, in the mourning robes which she'd bought for Ian's funeral all those years ago, had felt rather out of place between the intimidating Barty Crouch who was rumoured to be down for the next Minister and Dumbledore who she had been in awe of since her own schooldays. But a hero's death deserved a hero's funeral. She wasn't even allowed to bury Peter in the small family tomb next to Ian. Crouch had said Peter had to have a proper monument. Who was she to argue? It was a pity though, how on earth was she going to visit his grave? She was going to have to climb all those steps every time she wanted to leave some flowers. And the statue didn't even look that much like him. The hair was all wrong.

Was her little boy happy now? He'd always wanted glory; it was a shame he couldn't enjoy all the attention he was getting now. Even if the price was a bit high. Three lives, not to mention all those muggles. Lily's son, having to grow up without his parents. Harriet remembered when Peter was Harry's age and kept her up all nights when he was teething. Who was going to comfort little Harry when he cried? Harriet had also attended the Potter funeral and she couldn't have not noticed the woman Harry would live with. Everyone had pointed and whispered about tight-lipped Petunia Dursley, made conspicuous by her distinctly muggle black suit. Harriet didn't point or whisper. She felt sorry for her, obviously feeling just as strange among wizards as Harriet had felt among Ministry officials those few days later. She felt even sorrier for Harry, though. Maybe it was her motherly instinct, but she somehow knew the baby wouldn't have an easy life with his relatives.

Harriet summoned a photo album and flicked through it. Peter as a baby in his cradle, crying. Peter and Ian. Peter smiling widely to show his two missing front teeth and herself standing proudly behind him. Peter on his first broom. He'd never really learned to fly. Just like his dad, that one. But they'd always gone to practice Quidditch on the little clearing every Saturday anyway. And she would bring them lemonade and sausage rolls and they would have fun.

Peter in his first robes and waving his new his wand about. They'd had to save up to buy him an Ollivander's. Nothing but the best for their little boy's education. Various friends of Peter's, but mainly James, Remus and Sirius, getting a little older with every picture. And the very last photo, from James and Lily's wedding. Like most of the Hogwarts era ones it had been taken by Remus. The shy boy had a passion for photography and was actually quite good at it.

This time, he'd caught Peter and Sirius in the middle -or was it the end - of a food fight (Lily had been furious). Peter was trying to wipe custard off his face with a tissue. Sirius, on the other hand, was staring at the camera seductively while licking whipped cream off the back of his hand. Had he killed Peter? Or had Peter killed him?

Harriet sighed, closed her album and stood up. Her mind was made up.

Ten minutes later she was at her son's bedsit near Knockturn Alley. After lighting a fire she went over to his old desk, opened the secret drawer and took out all the letters. Two piles - the ones signed "Lucius Malfoy" and the ones from Pat, who he had gone out with for over a year back in Hogwarts. Pat hadn't been at the funeral, despite Harriet having wanted her there. The Ministry thought it would be too dangerous to let many people come.

Pat's letters went into the handbag. Malfoy's went into the fire. Harriet watched them burn with satisfaction.

The Death Eater robes at the back of the wardrobe (had he really thought she wouldn't find them?) were going to be trickier to dispose of. They said you couldn't burn robes like that. They were supposed to be so full of Dark Magic that they were inflammable. Maybe she could hide them somewhere? Or dump them in the little stream that ran past her back garden. Or maybe in the Thames would be better.

Yes, this was definitely the right thing to do. Or rather, not to do. Peter would like it; he'd keep his glory this way. And after all, no one would be hurt by it. "What you don't know won't hurt you".

And no one would ever know.