The Unforgivable

There are worse things than physical pain. Slit a man's wrist, and it hurts. Slit his wife's wrist, and it hurts much, much more.

Sometimes the Cruciatus Curse is not enough.

Standing, waiting in the stone-walled chamber is Peter. Others are present, but only one of them is important: Lord Voldemort. Peter's hands move restlessly, tugging at his robe, lifting to touch his own cheek, joining together in front of his stomach.

His lord speaks. The bowed Peter locks his muscles lest he falls to hisknees (or further) before his master.

"And now, the test..."

The words make the balding man cringe. His eyes dart left and right, any direction but directly at Lord Voldemort.

"Stand still, Wormtail." The words are command, but the tone is mocking. Panther to cornered mouse. Cornered rat.

Peter cannot keep the shiver from either his body or his voice. "Y-y-yes, master."

Voldemort raises his wand. "Egreto Acerbitas!"

Without a sound, without even another shiver, Peter falls to the floor.

* * *

A kick to his ribs makes him open his eyes -- a kick to the ribs will do that. Peter's breath leaves him in a grunt. He half-curls instinctively to avoid another, and opens his eyes to glance around. Eyebrows furrow over his dull-colored eyes. He knows this place.

"Awake, are you?"

The voice is familiar as well, though it seems... so long ago.

"He is," replies a second, male as well.

Hands fix into the back of his robes, hauling him up and to his feet. His side hurts, and he drops an arm protectively as he sneaks glances left and right. His breath catches.

A red-head. The face. They are back in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, but the owner of that face is no longer a boy. It pushes into his own. "Finally," Ron sneers at him, then draws back only far enough to make room for a punch. Again Peter loses his breath, but the grip of the person behind him keeps him upright.

Another face, man-not-boy, pushes forward. "We trusted you," the dark-haired man hisses at him, green eyes narrowed. "Ron took you in, fed you, loved you!" Harry Potter takes hold of each of Peter's shoulders, keeping him in place so that he can jerk his knee up.

The pain is much, much worse this time, white and hot and blinding. Peter sucks air through his teeth, but cannot speak.

Ron is before him again, voice flooded with rage and betrayal. "You'd be better off dead!" Another punch snaps Peter's head to the left. "Wormtail! Worm! Your name fits you!" the man-not-teen spits the words at him.

Peter's insides twist. He cannot disagree.

His voice comes in a whisper, "Yes, master."

His words do not help. Peter can feel the anger, the hatred of those around him. He is a disappointment. He had had a place with them. He had been... wanted. Loved. And he betrayed them.

Others come forward, throwing words and blows at him, as violence and anger thicken the air.

Dean, once so quiet and gentle, comes forward, wielding fire. Peter screams wordlessly in pain. Then Seamus is there, slashing him with a switchblade.

But it is their words that hurt more than all that. They beat in hishead like a pulse. He had had a place. He had been wanted. He had been loved. It is his fault that he no longer has those things -- his fault! He deserves this.

When Neville steps forward, whip in his hand, Peter is no longer fighting to get away.

Neville asks in a deceptively soft voice, "You deserve this, don't you?"

Peter can only agree. "Yes, master!"

His robe is pulled off, and he's turned against a wall. He hears the whip before feeling it, but it's their words that cut into him more.

"You deserve this!""This is your fault!""You had a place, you were wanted, and you gave it up!"

All the balding man can do is cry out and scream, "Yes, master!"

Then all goes black, and he crumples down to the floor. His legs will no longer hold him up. Even his limbs know that he deserves this.

* * *

Cold stone floor under his cheek, hand, arm. His eyes open, but thebright light and voices of the dorm are gone. A cloaked figure moves at the edge of his vision.

Even before Voldemort addresses him, Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He cannot stop himself from shaking.

"Well? Did it work?"

He deserves this. He has earned this. He had had a place. He had been wanted. He had been loved. It is /his/ fault he no longer has those things. His fault. His fault. He deserves this.

"Yes master..."