Something Wicked This Way Comes

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Peter nervously ducked around a corner, looking in both directions to make sure that he hadn't been spotted. He was nervous - more nervous than he'd ever been since, well, the last time he'd had to report to the Dark Lord.

The entrance to the Dark Lord's residence was through a large, out-of-use Muggle warehouse, but, thought Peter almost instinctively, that doesn't make him any less great or powerful. He hurried over to the red, rusting door and wrenched it open. As always, he winced at the screeching sound which echoed down the dark alleyway. Peter always half-wished that his illicit meetings with the Dark Lord could be conducted entirely in silence. It would make it all seem less real, he thought. Without noises to bring him thundering down to earth, Peter thought that he could almost quite happily attend the Death Eater meetings.

Within the warehouse, boxes were scattered everywhere. Most of them had the same printing on, advertising a Muggle fruit and vegetable company, but they were all different sizes and some, Peter noted with faint amusement, were home to a large number of rats. He often had a childish temptation to join them when he saw them on the way to meet the Dark Lord. He wanted to play in the polystyrene straw and nibble at the cardboard and maybe even dodge the cats that sneaked in through a hole in the roof.

Peter shook his head; the Dark Lord was relying on him to be there on time. He would be angry if he was late, and Peter didn't want to be on the receiving end of the Dark Lord's wrath. He'd seen several Death Eaters endure Cruciatus when they had displeased the Dark Lord, and he didn't want to experience it again himself. Once, on the night his life had changed, had been enough.

Peter followed the rough path laid out by the spaces between the rows of boxes which were littered everywhere. The evening was very dark and only a few dim lights, which never seemed to be turned off, lit his way. He was tempted to take out his wand to act as a torch-light, but he was worried that a tramp might have stumbled across the warehouse as a place to sleep. If the tramp saw him with a wand, who knew what Peter might be forced to do?

I could memory charm him, Peter thought wildly, but then he remembered the fiasco in sixth year when he and James had attempted to memory charm Snape and Avery after they'd played a prank on them - James had handled Snape fine, but Peter had bungled Avery's memory so badly that he had had to spend the rest of the week recuperating in the hospital wing. Memory charms were out.

He could kill the tramp, but Peter didn't like the thought of that. He wasn't a murderer - not really, anyway. He had never even cast an Unforgiveable. So what - Peter stopped, realising that his imagination was running away with him. There was no tramp, and he didn't even need to have his wand as an extra light anymore as he had found the correct cardboard box. He was just being silly.

The cardboard box in question stood upright and was very tall, easily capable of holding a man of six foot or more, so little Peter was an easy fit. Upon stepping in, Peter was hit with the usual tell-tale smell of sour milk, a fault in the hiding place which Avery was repeatedly assuring the Dark Lord that he would sort out. Groping for his wand, Peter blinked at the side of the cardboard box he was facing, trying to make out the thin cut running all the way down, which was held together on the other side by some Muggle version of Spellotape.

Delicately, paranoid of making any mistake, Peter drew his wand down the line and whispered, "Aperio."

As though sliced open with a knife, the cut split, growing wider and wider in a matter of seconds, until it had expanded so that Peter could get through. He squeezed through the gap, stepping out into a long, narrow corridor. He brushed himself down quickly, sweeping invisible bits of cardboard and dust from his robes. He had to be presentable for the Dark Lord.

It was very dark along this corridor; an infinite blackness which never seemed to end. "Lumos," Peter whispered, drawing his wand once more.

If anything, Peter would have said that the long corridor leading to the Dark Lord's chambers was not dissimilar to the entrance to the Ministry of Magic. He'd only been there once - years ago, when his father was still alive - but he'd always been fascinated by the décor. The walls, the ceiling which looked as though it stretched into infinity...Peter had a secret love of that ceiling, and the one like it in the Hogwarts Great Hall. He liked the thought that the planets could be watched without going outside, or that the weather could invade indoors. Not that he'd ever mentioned it to James and the others; it was far too silly.

The Dark Lord's corridor ceiling didn't reflect the weather or the planets. Instead, a sort of grey, swirling stuff stirred itself, and a soft whispering sound echoed down from it. More than once, Peter had attempted to hear what the whispers were saying, but he could never quite make them out. They were nice, though, he thought; a bit like the wind murmuring lazily between the trees on a summer day. He wouldn't have minded stopping here in the corridor and just listening to the whispers for hours on end, but he had never had the opportunity.

Peter now made his way cautiously along the corridor; tryig to blend into the shadows and jumping when he thought he heard noises. He looked around, wrinkling up his nose. The carpet was rather tatty-looking and the wallpaper was faded and peeling - more broken promises from Avery, apparently - and the sour milk smell was even stronger. In terms of grandeur, the Ministry had the definite advantage. Peter remembered when he was young, thinking that the Ministry could see everything that went on in the wizarding world. He wondered briefly whether they could see him now, and what they would do with him if they could.

At the end of the corridor, there was a tall, green door with a shining silver knocker in the shape of a snake's head on it. The whispering voices were at their loudest here, although Peter still wasn't sure whether he could make out the words. They were hissing at him now, not friendly like before. What were they saying? Un - un - unwilling? Unworthy? Peter couldn't tell.

Timidly - for he was always most timid at this point - Peter raised his hand to the silver knocker and banged it down twice.

A shutter was raised and a gruff voice said, "Arm."

Peter rolled up his sleeve, began to stick his right arm through the shutter, saw a bit of dirt just above his wrist and thought better of it. He retracted it, hastily licked his other hand and rubbed his right arm to clean the dirt off. It smudged, leaving a greyish mark which didn't look much better.

"ARM," said the voice, rather more impatiently this time.

Rubbing his now-wet arm against the side of his shirt, Peter dutifully stuck it through the shutter once more. He felt a brief tap - probably from a wand, although he wasn't sure - and felt his Dark Mark prickle as it flared up.

"Alright," the voice said.

The door opened, seemingly of its own accord. Peter entered, smoothing his robes down self-consciously once more. The whispering voices had unnerved him.

Peter had come to the Dark Lord's chambers several times by now, but he had never been able to work out who it was that acted security guard for the door. The voice didn't sound tinny enough to be that of a House Elf; yet at the same time there was never anyone behind the door when it opened. Peter didn't like to think what other creature it might be.

The Dark Lord's chambers were a great deal more splendid than the hall outside. Carpeted with a pearly grey, they conveyed an air of haughty royalty, with strange magical objects decorating the main room. Bookshelves, filled with information about the Dark Arts, covered an entire wall from floor to ceiling. Peter knew that the shelves were at least three books thick. The sour milk smell was stronger than ever now, and seemed to be coming from behind the door which he had never seen opened - little white jets of smoke puffed under it every few minutes. Peter had never liked to ask what was behind the door, or even comment on the smell.

The ceiling was a pale, sickly green and a thousand candles danced and flickered near it, making sure that the room was illuminated. They cast significant light on a polished brown surface which displayed an infinite collection of silvery amulets. Many of these amulets were jewelled with red and green stones which shone and glittered in the wavering light. Peter had no idea what any of them were used for, but he was sure that they were all very expensive and very illegal. He liked them a lot, though; he often found himself staring at them. The concept of owning just one of these precious items was jaw-dropping.

And sitting next to the bookshelves on a yellowish chair on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by a small group of Death Eaters who were gazing at him in admiration, was the Dark Lord himself.

He was staring at Peter with hard eyes, although there was the same amused expression on his face he always wore whenever Peter entered. The Death Eaters all looked over to him, less amused, as though he had accidentally burst in on a private gathering. Peter shifted his weight onto his other leg, struck with a familiar, uncomfortable feeling of not fitting in.

"Wormtail..." the Dark Lord said softly, and Peter winced at the nickname. He had let it slip out once when he was giving away the Order's secrets, and the Dark Lord seemed to find using it funny. Peter didn't. He felt violated; as though he had given away one secret too many. That nickname was private. No one else, especially the Dark Lord, should be allowed to use it.

"Our little...Gryffindor," the Dark Lord continued. Although it was the same thing he said whenever Peter came to him, the Death Eaters all laughed.

"My l-lord," Peter said, bowing his head.

The Dark Lord's expression became more business-like.

"News?"

"L-little, my lord," Peter told him hesitantly, crossing the room.

The Dark Lord scowled.

"Only - " Peter continued hastily, "only - the Order has recruited several new members in Cornwall." He paused, wondering how much else to give away. He didn't want to endanger his friends too much.

"Anything else?" the Dark Lord asked, now looking mildly interested. "Raids?"

"T-two planned, my lord," Peter gasped out. "Arthur Weasley is putting the Ministry onto it. MacNair and Rookwood. He's going to be appealing for warrants to search their houses for Dark objects."

"Weasley," the Dark Lord mused. "I knew a Weasley, once. Nasty little thing. Red hair, I remember."

"That would be the family, my lord," Rookwood spoke up eagerly. "Red hair - and more children than they have Galleons."

The Dark Lord again looked amused at this idea. Rising sedately from his chair, he walked leisurely over to what looked like a globe, apparently deep in thought. Peter and the Death Eaters watched his every move expectantly. Little red and green dots kept lighting up and dying down on the globe. Sometimes the lights lasted for only half a second; other times for more than a minute. The Dark Lord brushed his long fingers gently over the globe, making it spin around several times until he stopped it. Bellatrix Lestange seemed to swoon. Had the situation been different, Peter would have rolled his eyes.

Abruptly, the Dark Lord turned and addressed Lucius Malfoy.

"Lucius, you will do everything in your power to prevent these raids from taking place. I don't care if you have to kill Weasley yourself - do not let them happen. Do you hear me?"

"My lord," Malfoy replied, bowing low.

Peter regarded Malfoy for a moment or so. He wasn't too sure that he liked him - he hadn't spoken to him often, but there was a strange coldness about him which made Peter shiver. No, Peter decided, he definitely didn't like Lucius Malfoy.

Malfoy, obviously sensing that he was being watched, swivelled round and glared at Peter suspiciously, who jumped and had to pretend he was examining a particularly interesting wallpaper pattern.

"Is there anything else, Wormtail?" the Dark Lord asked.

"No, lord," Peter replied truthfully, and then, to throw the attention off himself a little, asked the first question which popped into his head: "When will the M-Mudblood attacks be started again? I mean, will they be - will they - " He stopped, wringing his hands together. He could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead; thoughts of the Dark Lord becoming displeased in any way were running around in circles inside his mind.

The Dark Lord gave him a long, hard look, before saying slowly, "Patience, Wormtail, is a virtue."

"And virtue is a grace, and Grace is a little girl who would not wash her - " Peter stopped babbling, looking around at the stony faces of the other Death Eaters. They were unimpressed. "Face," he finished miserably.

"Indeed," said the Dark Lord briskly. "Thank you for that interlude, Wormtail, but we have important matters to discuss. Bletchley, would you escort Wormtail into the next room."

With a squawk of protest, Peter found himself being manhandled through a grey door into a small room - a dining room - by a large man, and being pushed rather roughly down on one of the chairs. Catching a quick glimpse through the door, he saw Nott and Zabini smirking. The door was closed by the man who had removed him. Peter could not quite make out his face.

"What was that about?" Peter asked - after all, both his flesh and his pride had been bruised in just a few short minutes.

"Don't want you listenin', does 'e?" Bletchley said. He sat down opposite to Peter and was now under candlelight. He had a beefy face and wore a hat and was sneering quite rudely at Peter.

"What?" asked Peter, confused. Surely the Dark Lord didn't think that...

Bletchley's grin grew even nastier.

"You brain-dead fairy. Our Master's clampin' down on us." At Peter's confused look, he continued, "You a spy, right?" Peter nodded. "Well, the way 'e sees it is you could just as easily turn your cloak again - start givin' out 'is secrets to Dumbledore. Geddit?"

Peter's eyes widened in realisation. Because he was a spy - because he was giving away secrets from his own friends - the Dark Lord had decided that he wasn't trustworthy. A valid point, Peter had to admit, but so - infuriating. He'd spent the past three months sneaking back and forth between sides, breaking appointments, telling his friends half-truths. And for what? To be left in a cold, shadowed room with only a leering old man for company.

"How - who - " he spluttered, trying to gather his thoughts together and complete a coherent sentence at the same time.

"Our 'onest friend, Lucius Malfoy," Bletchley answered the unasked question. "Put the boss onto ya a few weeks back. Said it wasn't worf riskin' tellin' 'is secrets in the presence of a traitor, wevver 'e's workin' for our side or not."

"But I wouldn't - "

Bletchley shrugged. "'Oo knows what you could do?"

Peter didn't reply. He felt uncertain about what was going to happen to him. The room was cold, and he wasn't sure whether it was wise to be consorting with former Slytherins. He had been in Gryffindor, of course, and his Gryffindor friends were loud and brassy and proud of their house. He had adapted to them and was not used to this cool, chiselled display the other Death Eaters showed - it unnerved him.

Neither of his parents had been terribly impressed when he had been sorted into Gryffindor. "Foolishness can often be mistaken for bravery," his mother had snorted scornfully when he had extolled the Gryffindor virtues to her. They had both been rather disappointed when he hadn't shown a particular talent for learning - they had, after all, both been Ravenclaws.

But Peter had liked being thought of as brave. He wanted to be a hero, and heroes were brave. It was as simple as that.

Peter looked up at Bletchley, and was startled to notice that he was gazing at him, a grim smile plastered on his face.

"It won't be long, ya know," Bletchley said softly.

"Er - pardon?" said Peter. He didn't like to be too rude. Bletchley might be wearing a trilby which gave him an odd sense of refinement, but Peter was perfectly aware that, if the man wished, he could pull out Peter's large intestine through his nose.

"It won't be long," Bletchley repeated. "Soon, your friends will know the troof. Then where will ya be, rat? The Dark Lord will 'ave no use for ya - 'e's been watchin' you, ya know, and 'e knows you don't take part in the attacks - an' you'll be killed."

"Killed?" Peter's voice inadvertently raised an octave. He hadn't expected that.

"'Course." Bletchley snorted derisively. "'S'all mapped out for you, innit? 'Appened to Black, it'll 'appen to you. When you're worfless or thinkin' of turnin' traitor, that's when 'e kills ya."

He snapped his mouth shut with a chilling finality and leant back into the darkness so that Peter could no longer see his face.

"But I - " Peter began, his throat drying up. He realised it was no use asking anything else - Bletchley was evidently closed for further questioning.

With a morbid sense of his own doom, he reached for a pitcher of water displayed on the table. He poured a little into a carved crystal glass, hands shaking, hoping that it would quench his parched mouth. It was warm and when Peter looked into the glass, he could see that it was quite dirty as well.

Sipping on it nevertheless, he reflected on what Bletchley had just said. Would his friends ever find out his secret; begin to suspect that he wasn't sneaking off to visit his mother all the time? No! screamed a part of his mind. They trusted him; that was the point. They were all in the battle together. He had been given some hefty responsibilities within the Order, hadn't he?

But then again, Peter's duties weren't always so important. At times he was little more than a glorified delivery-boy; carrying coded, incomprehensible messages to and from various members of the Order. When he had joined with Dumbledore, he had been full of aspirations. He had imagined himself lurking in dark alleyways with a hat and a Muggle gun, watching Death Eaters torture people, before reporting back to the Order's meetings for a hero's welcome. It should have been exciting. Peter should have been acknowledged for all his worth.

Well, obviously he wasn't as important as James or Lily, Peter tried to reason with himself - they were both in training to become Aurors. It stood to reason that they would be given the heavy duty work by Dumbledore. If they couldn't be counted on, then who could? And Sirius - well, he knew things. He had grown up in a family which had strong ties to the Dark side - he knew secrets about the Dark Lord's followers. He was a powerful weapon - and at any rate, he was a top wizard, always had been. Even Remus had proven himself worthy - he hadn't blindly followed the rest of the werewolves into an allegiance with the Dark Lord.

But it seemed so unfair. They were the ones living out Peter's fantasies, whilst he was left behind in the guest room at Mad Eye Moody's.

And when he had been approached by Lucius Malfoy...well, Peter didn't want to think about that. He could remember his threats - threats of bloody, stinging torture, unending - torture unknown to the Ministry and which, he was told, would put the Cruciatus curse to shame. Peter didn't want to remember the threats. He had agreed to Malfoy's wishes and had turned traitor.

He had half-hoped that he might still be able to save face. He could become a double-spy and pass information back to the Order. He could still be a hero. That was until he met with the Dark Lord face-to-face. Then he knew that betraying him would have a penalty far more severe than the glory of any reward the Order could offer him. And so he remained a traitor to Dumbledore's side.

But, Peter mused, if his actions were examined, he was what Godric Gryffindor truly wanted. At face value he was a wizard who knew when to cut his losses, a wizard who showed bravery beyond belief to both sides, a wizard who was a fighter, who could bring himself to tear away from his allegiances at a moment's notice. He faced his worst fears of meetings with the Dark Lord, and yet he summoned up all his courage and managed to go through with them. He had never yet missed an appointment. How could the Dark Lord not see him as a worthy follower; how could his friends not respect him? His qualities were, well, noble. He was a hero.

Peter started as the door opened with a sharp creek and light flooded into the room. Standing there was Lucius Malfoy, illuminated in the doorway.

"He wants you back," he said, a faint, nasty smile on his face.

Peter stood up hastily; the Dark Lord did not like to be kept waiting. He made his way to the door, passing by Malfoy who was holding it open.

"Wouldn't Potter be interested if he knew..." Malfoy whispered silkily into his ear.

Peter shuddered and made his way into the room. The Dark Lord was seated once more on his silk chair, Bellatrix Lestrange kneeling at his feet and looking up at him with utmost devotion.

"I trust that Bletchley has made you aware of the reason for your absence?" he asked, one eyebrow arched.

"Yes," muttered Peter mutinously.

Both eyebrows raised.

"Yes, my lord," Peter said more loudly, raising his head. "I - I know why."

"Good." The Dark Lord paused for a moment, apparently considering Peter. Peter shivered; it was almost as though he could read his thoughts. Finally he said, "I am watching you, Wormtail."

Peter bowed his head once more.

"When - ?" he began.

"I shall let you know when you are to come to me again," the Dark Lord anticipated his question.

"Lord, the raids - you - you will make sure that we - well - " Peter broke off, shame-faced, hating that his worry had got the better of him. It was not a question that should be asked.

However, much to his surprise, the Dark Lord did not become angry or annoyed. A contemplative look gathered on his face, and he turned his head away from the Death Eaters as he spoke.

"You have not studied the Greek tragedians, have you, Wormtail?" he asked in a low voice.

Peter didn't answer; he waited with bated breath to see what the Dark Lord would say next.

"I shouldn't have imagined it," he continued, a sneer entering his voice. "Do you remember your Euripides, Lucius?"

Malfoy bent his head like Peter, and said that no, he did not.

The Dark Lord's head hung even lower; his hair falling over his face and he spoke from the back of the throat.

"'Then they went back to the place where they had started from, to those fountains the god had caused to flow for them. And they washed off the blood; and snakes licked clean the stains, till their cheeks shone.'"

The Dark Lord looked up suddenly - he had a lean face, wrinkled, white skin, greying hair and for a moment Peter could hardly believe that an old man could wield so much power. His sudden gaze almost winded Peter.

"Be careful, my tricky friend. I will protect my allies as they return to me, but beware of acting the conspirator again. You will find that I do not tolerate my spies to switch sides too often."

Peter gave a quick bow and started to back towards the door which would lead him into the hallway. He was vaguely aware of laughter - they were making fun of him - but he chose to ignore it. It was always the way, and the shadows hid him now. He would soon be out.

"Take heed, Wormtail," warned the Dark Lord. "You may hide yourself in darkness, but impurity can be pursued by daylight, too."

Trying not to trip over his feet, Peter scrambled out of the door into the obscurity once more.

Peter turned and scuttled as far as he could along the corridor, wiping himself down - the dining room had been dustier than he had realised. The door slammed behind him harshly, leaving him alone in the dark. He stumbled, slowing down. The whispering voices could be heard again, lulling him into a sense of peaceful calm. He would be alright. The Dark Lord would see that he was trustworthy, and James and Sirius and Remus would never even think of doubting him. He would be alright.

"Lumos," Peter whispered once more. And he followed the pin-prick of light into the blackness.

The End