Fic: A Twitch Upon The Thread (Peter and Regulus, PG)
Signups for the Multifandom Femgenficathon started at 12:30 this morning, so if any of you want to sign up, please! Do so! (Fifty SEVENTY-TWO people have signed up already, and it hasn't even been open for twenty-four hours yet! If this keeps up, I shall have to expand the list of prompts.)
***
And now, as I've already posted "Killing Time" to omniocular, I'll post this story here...though I'll probably post it elsewhere later.
Title: A Twitch Upon the Thread
Author: gehayi
Recipient's Name: impinc
Rating: PG
Characters: Peter Pettigrew, Regulus Black, Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange; mention of James, Remus, Sirius, Dumbledore, Lily and Baby! Harry
Word Count: 8,592
Summary: Two Death Eaters. Two friends. Two choices. Two very different fates.
Author’s Notes: impincrequested the following preferred genres and scenarios: Darkfic. Post-apocalyptical. Dystopias, especially ones disguised as utopias. Dark Lord!Harry. Dark!Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. Between when MWPP get out of school and 1980, but focused on the Death Eaters. Pastfic. Maruader friendship fic (but it better not have even the slightest hint of Remus/Sirius!). Trio friendship fic. Happy/hopeful/bittersweet endings. Dark!Weasleys.
Well, I didn't get in all of that, but it's definitely pastfic, set during the First War with Voldemort (the year of the story is 1980, to be exact), and is focused on two Death Eaters in particular (one a Dark! Gryffindor), though quite a few are mentioned, including a couple of cousins of Sirius and Regulus. The friendship of MWPP plays a part as well. And I think it's dark, as well as a bit sad.
The two quotes are from "The Queer Feet," from The Innocence of Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton and "The Man Without A Heart," from The Pink Fairy Book, edited by Andrew Lang.
The spelling used throughout is British, and conforms to the spelling in the British editions of the books. Thanks to underlucius for beta-reading and Britpicking.
***
May 1980
When he saw Peter crouched in a corner of The Silent Woman, his small hands gripping a mug of some murky drink, his pale blue eyes flickering uneasily as he watched the Death Eaters in the pub laughing and drinking, Regulus' first thought was--Who is that?
The next moment he knew that it was Peter, and he couldn't understand why he hadn't recognised his friend at once. For they were friends, had always been, ever since he was a first-year and Peter was a second-year. Friends, despite James' comments about sneaky Slytherins, Remus' puzzled glances that expressed volumes about Peter's dubious taste, Severus' cutting words, Sirius' blunt fists, Bellatrix's icy eyes and persistent hexes. They'd outlasted Slughorn's oft-expressed conviction that Regulus, as a young wizard of good family, could surely find better companions than a baker's boy from Birmingham; they'd ignored McGonagall's unspoken but clear conviction that one of her lion cubs was slumming by befriending a mere Slytherin.
Then realisation slammed into him, and he knew why he hadn't recognised Peter:
Peter looks old.
And that made no sense, for Peter was barely twenty, and his hair was still dirty blond, and his face remained unlined. But the longer Regulus looked, the more he remembered a mummy he once saw in the London Museum, grey and brittle and shrouded with the dust of centuries. Peter looked like that; his normally pale skin was as grey as ash, and his features seemed ready to crumble from within at any moment.
Somehow, the thought of walking over and sitting across from a mummy was repulsive. Regulus almost turned to leave.
But then Peter stopped furtively glancing around the pub as if it were a jungle filled with Dementors and Lethifolds, and stared directly ahead.
Regulus, chilled by the stare, tried to dull the edge of his fear by describing the stare to himself:
Like the dead and soulless gaze of Inferi, as they trudge forward at the command of another;
Like the gash of a razor, open and bleeding;
Like a man in a nightmare, turning at last to face a dreadful fiend, only to see it wearing his own face.
Not any of these things, precisely, but a trace-taste of all of them.
It took all of Regulus's nerve to walk over and face that terrible stare. He forced himself to do so, because he was certain that Sirius wouldn't face it, that Sirius would will himself to believe that all was well, because Sirius couldn't endure problems that couldn't be fixed. He had to fix them--with money or gifts or a useful spell.
And if facing an insoluble problem hurt too much, Sirius ran away. Either physically, as he had done at sixteen, or emotionally.
Sirius, Regulus knew, was courageous. He'd fly into battle against deadly odds without a single thought, without even worrying about whether he might die. But courageous wasn't the same as brave. Sirius couldn't deal with the unsolvable, with situations that couldn't or wouldn't be fixed.
Right now, he suspected that Peter was one of those situations.
He sat down across from Peter and wallpapered a smile onto his features. "Hi," he said cheerily.
A minute or two passed before Peter's attention returned. Almost as soon as he did so, he flinched, pressing himself against the back of his chair, dodging a non-existent kick or curse.
"Easy," Regulus whispered, trying to calm him. He could not help but wish fervently that he could simply punch or argue life back into Peter. He was absolute rubbish at calm. "Easy, Peter. It's me. Reg."
Peter's eyes cleared--not entirely, true, for that terrible expression was still there, but at least Regulus felt that Peter could see him. An instant later, he spoke in a grey and terrible voice. "Reg?" he said hoarsely. "Are you real?"
Regulus started to laugh before the expectancy in Peter's face hit him and choked off the laughter.
He's serious.
"'Course I'm real," he said in a hollow, overly jolly tone, searching Peter's expression for some sign that his friend was playing a not-very-funny practical joke on him. "What'd you think?"
"I don't know," Peter said in an exhausted voice. "You could be imaginary. I imagine lots of people these days. And they all claim to be real."
Exasperated, Regulus snapped at him. "Are you trying to drive yourself crazy?"
Peter made a guttural noise deep in his throat. It took a second or two for Regulus to realise that Peter was laughing. "No. I think I'm already there. On the borderline, anyway." Mercifully, he closed his eyes.
Regulus considered asking What happened to you since I saw you last?, but he feared Peter might not answer that. He didn't admit, even to himself, that he was more afraid that Peter might.
He settled for a safer question. "What are you doing here?"
Peter, his eyes still closed, removed his hands from his mug of Firewhisky, then rubbed his fingers across the worn wooden tabletop as if it were Braille. "What do you mean?" he asked.
Regulus leaned across the table so far that his nose and Peter's were almost touching. "Have you noticed who else is in this pub?" he hissed. "This isn't a good place for--well, for anyone Dumbledore likes."
Another flinch, this time at Dumbledore's name. But then Peter opened his eyes, cocked his head and spoke in a nearly normal voice. "You don't have to worry, Reg. I'll be fine."
"You won't be fine if they catch you!" Regulus said in a furious whisper. "Damn it, Peter--"
As a spasm of pain wriggled across his face, Peter held up his hand and spoke quietly. "Regulus. I don't have to worry about that. Not now." Then, as if the words had taken entirely too much effort, he fell silent and bowed his head, closing his eyes once more.
Regulus stared at Peter, nausea roiling in his stomach. There was only one reason that Peter wouldn't have to worry about being caught. But the notion of Peter being a Death Eater was as ludicrous as his own mother announcing to Sirius and himself that the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black was descended from house-elves, and that Kreacher was the rightful heir.
He swallowed several times, wondering what he should say.
Opening his eyes once more, and averting his head slightly, Peter spoke. The words sounded as if they had been weighted down with boulders. "I suppose you hate me now."
Regulus shook his head, forgetting that, at the moment, Peter couldn't see him. "Still waiting for the why, though."
The words would have sounded bitter if Peter's voice had had any expression. As it was, he sounded as if he was saying The grass is green and the sky is blue.
"Oh, I was persuaded to join. Quite forcefully."
A number of questions sprang to Regulus's mind--questions like Who persuaded you? and How? and Why?--but he decided not to discuss this. Not here, among the people who had "persuaded" Peter. And not tonight, Regulus thought to himself. I don't think Peter could stand to say anymore tonight.
Besides, right now, he didn't want to listen. Judging by some of the furtive glances he was getting from some of the other Death Eaters, he'd be wise not to listen. Not in public, anyway.
"We'll talk more about this later," he said, smiling a polished smile as he rose from his seat, hoping that Peter knew he meant it. He walked away quickly (but not too quickly) , stopping at various tables of Death Eaters to utter an orthodox comment here, a vulgar jest about Muggles there, as he made his way out of the pub.
He felt Peter's pale blue eyes boring into him as he strode out the door.
***
He saw Peter often after that, at least at meetings. Left to his own devices, Peter huddled in the shadows, trying not to be noticed. He rarely succeeded in this; the Dark Lord enjoyed humiliating his latest servant. It was a rare meeting when the Dark Lord didn't find some reason for referring to the fact that even a Mudblood wizard served him, that Peter was willing to betray his own.
Each time, after this ritual humiliation, Peter, flanked by hulking wizards like Avery and Jugson, would walk--or, if the Dark Lord commanded, would crawl--toward their master. Then, Voldemort would grip Peter's chin in a vice-like, skeletal hand and force Peter's eyes to meet his.
Invariably, after a few minutes of this, Peter was shaking, and his eyes were full of screams.
However, it was nearly a month later before Regulus had an opportunity to talk to Peter about this, for Peter--trying frantically to fulfil his duties as a Healer trainee, a friend, and a Death Eater--had a very full schedule. At last, however, Regulus convinced Peter to visit his apartment in Mayfair, and Peter, as if too exhausted to say no, agreed.
"It's Legilimency," Peter said wearily, once Regulus had reassured him that the apartment was free of Listening Charms. "I don't tell the Dark Lord anything. He just…stabs my mind and rips out the information he wants by the roots."
Legilimency, Regulus knew, was far more subtle than that--a delicate art, rather than mere magic. What Voldemort was doing was no better than performing brain surgery with a dull, rusty axe. This offended Regulus twice over. Magic should be handled better than this, especially by the being he'd sworn to serve. And the fact that Voldemort was using crude magic as a weapon against one of his own people was even worse. In a war, there are us, and there are them. We aren't supposed to treat our own people the way we'd treat them.
Following on the heels of that thought was a more immediate one. "What's he finding out?"
Peter refused to meet Regulus's eyes. "Just...things. Nothing important."
Regulus sighed. After nine years of hanging around with Sirius, James and Remus, he'd have thought his friend would have learned to lie properly. "Look, Peter. I do know about the Order of the Phoenix. It's not exactly what you'd call a state secret."
Peter stared at him, utterly flabbergasted. "H-h-how do you know?"
"Because Dumbledore asked me if I wanted to join, of course." Regulus snorted. "He said he thought I had 'immense potential,' and that I had 'the capacity to be far more than anyone expected me to be.' I think it shocked him when I said no."
"What did he do?"
"He just talked--very softly and very calmly--and managed to give me the impression that he thought I was making a dreadful mistake. I couldn't wait to get out of his office."
"I wish I'd had the nerve to say no," Peter said quietly, a mask of exhaustion slipping over his features. "I never wanted to be part of this war in the first place."
"Why'd you join, then?"
"The Order, or the Death Eaters?"
"Both."
"The Order? Because Dumbledore asked me, I guess. And because I knew the others would join, and I didn't want to be the only one who hadn't."
"That's a terrible reason for joining."
Peter shot him a patient glance, as if to say, I know THAT, idiot.
"And the Death Eaters?" Regulus refused to let Peter away that easily.
Peter sighed. "Reg, if I went into every excruciating detail of what they did, you'd think I was whining, lying, or both."
"Summarise, then!"
"All right," said Peter in a flat tone. "They tortured me. For months. They took me apart, physically, mentally and emotionally. When I still wouldn't give in, they created solid illusions of my friend's corpses--including you--and showed them to me, and told me my stubbornness had got them killed. They DID kill my entire family except for my mother, and nothing as quick and merciful as the Killing Curse was involved." He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Some things they did…I still can't put them into words."
Regulus frowned. "Why didn't anyone notice you were missing?"
"Rosier," Peter said simply. "He was Polyjuiced into me."
"Didn't anyone notice?" Regulus knew Evan Rosier slightly, as most purebloods knew each other. He couldn't imagine Rosier posing as Peter successfully for one minute.
"Apparently not." Once more, Peter's voice sounded exhausted. That bothered Regulus. Peter should sound angry and unhappy, not drained of energy.
"Did I see you--Rosier pretending to be you, I mean--during that time?"
Peter shrugged. "I don't know. Did you see me between last December and mid-March?"
Regulus nodded, unwilling to voice how often he'd seen Peter during those months--or how freely he'd talked. Not that he'd said anything wrong; he'd been quite enthusiastic about the Death Eaters (and oh, how he'd railed about the slander of that name). But he'd still spoken openly of being a Death Eater to an Order member--and a Muggleborn, at that. Treason, in the eyes of most of his compatriots.
And I never knew, he thought. Rosier must be waiting for just the right minute to tell me that he has a knife to my throat.
He forced his attention back to the conversation, mentally resolving to do something about Rosier later. "No one noticed. Not even--"
"No. They didn't." Three short, neutral words, but not the way Peter said them.
Regulus thought for a few minutes. "Why, Peter?" he asks at last. "Why serve the Dark Lord, if you hate this so much? Why don't you just run off somewhere and start over?"
The corners of Peter's mouth twitched upward. "That's definitely not the party line. Are you sure you're a Death Eater, Reg?"
Regulus glared at him. "You're changing the subject. You always change the subject when you don't want to talk about something."
Peter sagged onto an antique, horsehair-covered couch and closed his eyes. "I stay because I'm afraid," he said softly. "I don't think for one minute that I could just disappear. He'd be furious. And he'd send out searchers. Failing that, he'd grab my mother. Or Remus. Or you. And if death were the only thing that happened, you'd be lucky. Sooner or later, he'd find a way to reel me back. And then"--Peter shivered. "I doubt I could count on the Dark Lord being merciful enough merely to kill a traitor."
"Maybe Dumbledore would help," Regulus said, feeling guilty about suggesting that Peter turn from the Dark Lord. The Death Eaters did tend to be overly zealous, but they had thousands of years of wizarding tradition behind them--not to mention a war to win. And they weren't evil. They just wanted to preserve the world he knew and loved. So he really shouldn't want Peter to turn his coat yet again, should he? Shouldn't he feel as if Peter would be betraying them all, instead of escaping?
Peter was already shaking his head. "I can't ask him. I don't want to be the weakling who has to be saved by Dumbledore. I want to rescue myself. Or try, at least."
A question popped out before Regulus could think about it. "Do the other three know?"
Peter favoured him with a you must be joking look. "Please. Sirius thought you were Dark simply because you'd been Sorted into Slytherin. He'd be convinced I was evil incarnate."
Regulus didn't bother to ask why Peter didn't talk to James; Sirius and James thought very much alike. Regulus had often felt that his brother and James Potter shared a single brain. On more than one occasion, he'd wondered if the only portion his brother controlled was the brain stem.
But he did wonder why Peter hadn't mentioned Remus. Peter and Remus were almost as close as Sirius and James. If anyone should be talking to Peter, it should be him.
He knew he should ask about that, but he couldn't. Somehow, it gave him a mean little glow inside to know that Peter was talking to him, was trusting him, rather than his brother and his brother's friends. He felt as if he'd won something.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
The sardonic light in Peter's eyes dimmed. "I don't know," he said, rubbing his temples. "I just don't know."
***
Life, after that, became complicated.
Regulus wasn't sure why. He was as proud of being a pureblood as ever, as determined to fight to preserve wizarding ways. He wasn't overly fond of killing--and he hadn't bargained for it, really, as he'd thought the name "Death Eater" was an insult dreamed up by their political opposition--but he was willing to do it. This was a war, after all.
And if he was frightened of the Dark Lord, so what? Every Death Eater had been, at some point or other. Except for Bellatrix, and everyone knew she was mad.
Still, thoughts of Peter began crossing his mind at odd moments. When Lucius proclaimed the actions of Death Eaters to be the greatest and noblest of all wizards, Regulus saw Peter's aged face and frightened expression. He'd never had the slightest trouble killing Muggles before--they weren't really people, were they? Not the way that wizards were people. Now, when he held Muggles at wandpoint, he heard Peter saying, "They killed my entire family, except my mother."
And when he watched Voldemort force Peter to crawl and kiss the hem of his robes, Regulus hated the others for laughing. Hated himself for laughing as well, because he was afraid not to.
And over and over, he heard Peter's voice whispering, Are you sure you're a Death Eater, Reg? Are you? Are you?
What made it worse was that Peter--after a vain attempt to break free, which, Regulus and the other Death Eaters were told, had been punished severely--seemed to be settling into his new role of lowly minion. He sleepwalked through existence, obeying loathsome orders with depressing swiftness. It sickened Regulus. He hated to think of Peter becoming one of them.
Then he wondered why he was thinking of the Death Eaters--who surely should have been "us"--as "them."
In June, Severus Snape brought the news of Trelawney's prophecy, and the Dark Lord gave a command to all Death Eaters--to find all those who had defied him three times, however obliquely, and kill them before his enemy could be born. Regulus thought that was a logical, if cruel, move. Peter disagreed.
"Killing mothers of babies never works in fairy tales," he said, leaning against the back of Regulus's horsehair couch as he sipped his tea. "A midwife always spirits the predestined baby away to be raised by forest animals or something. Or the baby is abandoned and gets adopted by a humble woodcutter and his wife that the child's enemy would never notice."
"That's just stories."
Peter shrugged. "Even fairy tales are sometimes true. Mind you, if I were the father of a baby due in July, I wouldn't take any chances. I'd take my wife to a Muggle hospital and have them induce labour while it was still June."
Regulus looked at Peter. "Do you believe Trelawney's prophecy?"
"No," said Peter, after only the barest hesitation. "But the wizarding world will love the idea. If someone is destined to save them from the Dark Lord, that means they won't have to bother opposing him. The child will do that for them."
Do you think that they should oppose the Dark Lord? Regulus wondered. He longed to ask, but--as he remembered how often the Dark Lord ransacked Peter's mind--the words stuck in his throat. The Dark Lord wouldn't like one of his servants asking another one such a question. No, not one scrap.
Even if the question was, of course, purely hypothetical.
June was also when Regulus saw Peter kill for the first time. It was a routine mission, which normally would have required no more than two or three Death Eaters. However, since Peter's attempt at breaking from Voldemort's control, he had been accompanied by at least one Death Eater from the Dark Lord's inner circle. The message was clear: Peter was necessary, at least for now, but he was not to be trusted. And the Dark Lord was watching him…all the time.
That night Lucius Malfoy was Peter's guard. Regulus saw the look that passed between the two--a sneer of contempt curling Lucius's lip, the unreasoning terror burning in Peter's eyes.
"You are going to do whatever you're told tonight, aren't you, Wormtail?" Lucius murmured.
Peter hesitated.
"Aren't you?" repeated Lucius, a hint of menace creeping into his tone.
"Yes," Peter whispered, dropping his gaze.
Don't give in to him! Regulus wanted to snap. That only makes him bully you even more!
But he dared not say anything. Anything he said could get Peter in trouble. Could get himself in trouble. And he didn't need that. He really didn't.
"Who're we going after tonight?" he asked instead, turning toward Lucius.
"Someone the Dark Lord wants dead," Lucius replied curtly. "That's all you need to know."
"I thought it might help to know a bit about the--the target."
"Why?" said Lucius, a frown creasing his brow. "What do you know need to know about the enemy beyond the fact that he IS the enemy? Isn't that enough for you, cousin?"
"I-I suppose." Mentally, Regulus cursed himself for even bringing up the subject.
For a long moment, Lucius gave him a probing look, then nodded. "Good." That said, he turned his attention to the locks on the back door.
The locks opened easily--no Muggle lock had ever been made that was an adequate defence against magic. Within minutes, Regulus, Peter, Lucius Malfoy and two new recruits Regulus scarcely recognised entered the house.
The torture took rather longer than necessary, chiefly because Lucius insisted on using the two children of the family as an object lesson for the new recruits. As the parents lay frozen in the Full-Body Bind, helpless to do anything but watch, Lucius cast various curses over and over on the boy and girl, then stopped and ordered the recruits--who called each other "Day" and "Spencer"--to try casting the same curse.
Regulus stared at this and tried to keep his face impassive. Only Muggles. Not human beings. Not really.
He sneaked a glance at Peter, who was standing in a corner, his back against the wall, his eyes squinched shut.
Lucius must have followed his gaze, for the next instant he was speaking in a voice of deceptive calm. "Wormtail. Step forward."
Peter shuddered, but he did as he was told.
Lucius smiled unpleasantly. "Kill the Muggle spawn, Wormtail. Now."
Regulus felt torn. Peter had no choice but to kill, not with four other Death Eaters there. He might be able to cast a spell in Lucius's direction, but Regulus knew that his elder cousin was quite protective of his own life, and that Lucius was almost certainly utilizing a Shield Charm. And even if Peter did manage to get past the shield and strike Lucius down, there were still Day and Spencer to deal with. Either or both could maim or kill Peter in a minute, while the other informed Voldemort of Peter's treason. And after that...Peter would be lucky if he were granted the mercy of death.
I could help, he thought. I could attack Lucius when his back was turned. He'd never expect that of me.
But something in him recoiled from that notion. You did not attack your kin, no matter how much you loathed them. That was a tenet he'd absorbed when he was still being fed baby food.
Peter still had not lifted his wand.
"Go on, Wormtail," said Lucius, his voice taking on a distinctly menacing edge. "Kill them. Or shall I kill you instead?"
As if in a dream, Peter lifted his wand, speaking the words of the Killing Curse.
Nothing happened.
"Worthless," Lucius said with a sneer. "My newborn son could cast a better Killing Curse than that. Again."
Again and again and again he tried, and always the attempts resulted in failure. Peter seemed to have no instinct for killing.
Or perhaps, Regulus thought, he is making an effort. Maybe he's trying not to cast it. Intent matters, after all.
The same thought seemed to have occurred to Lucius, for he abruptly paused in his commands to Peter and stared at him from hooded grey eyes. "I think perhaps what you lack is the proper incentive. Now. I know that you have not been, shall we say, fond of me since Bellatrix and I commenced...re-educating you about the Dark Lord. In fact," he added, "I could almost swear that you hate me."
Peter said nothing. But Regulus noticed that as Lucius spoke, Peter gripped his poplar wand so hard that his knuckles were white.
"If you do"--and Lucius's voice became sharper--"I suggest that you pour every ounce of that hatred into the Killing Curse. If you do not"--he placed his wand against Peter's left temple--"well. You know there are any number of amusing things I can do to you. Scramble your brains until you're no better than a vegetable. Melt away your arms, or legs, or eyes. Or perhaps I'll simply transform you into a thing, as the Dark Lord did to...what was her name? Dorothy?"
Peter had gone very pale, and looked as if he were about to be sick. "Dorcas," he mumbled through nearly paralysed lips. "Her name was Dorcas."
Lucius dismissed that information with an uplifted eyebrow and a shrug. "The choice is yours, Wormtail. Serve, as you have vowed to serve. Or suffer, at my pleasure." He pressed his wand of elder wood harder against Peter's temple. "Choose fast."
Don't, Regulus thought at Peter. Don't, don't, don't...
"Avada Kedavra." The words were hissed with barely leashed rage, as if Peter would have given everything he was to have Lucius Malfoy on the receiving end.
There was a flash of green light. Regulus had to force himself not to flinch from it.
And then there was silence, broken only by the choked sounds of a woman trapped in the Full-Body Bind and trying to weep for her children.
Peter was still pale, and he was breathing heavily, as if he had just run a marathon. He stepped swiftly out of reach of Lucius's wand. "Satisfied?" he said, glaring up at Lucius as if daring him to say that he wasn't satisfied at all.
"Not precisely satisfied," Lucius murmured as he gave the corpses of the children a bemused glance. "But you do have potential, at least. Tell me, how do you feel, after having killed?"
Peter shrugged. "All right."
He wasn't all right. Regulus was sure of that. No Healer, having deliberately killed, could possibly be all right. And Peter was a Healer by nature as well as by profession.
The answer displeased Lucius for another reason. "That's all? Merely...all right? You felt no passion, no joy at having absolute power over life and death?"
Once again, Peter shrugged-which might have meant anything.
Lucius looked at Peter with utter contempt. "You are weak, Wormtail," he said. "There's no glory in you, no greatness. You are completely unworthy of serving the Dark Lord."
"It wasn't my idea," Peter replied with deliberate calm.
Lucius looked as baffled as if a chair had spoken. It was inconceivable that a Mudblood wizard should be sarcastic to a Malfoy-and to his former torturer, at that-particularly when the Mudblood in question was not noted for his bravery. Such things simply didn't happen in the real world.
Day-or perhaps it was Spencer-interrupted. "'Ere, we've done what we come to do, 'aven't we? Why're we still 'anging about 'ere?"
Lucius, Regulus noticed, found that to be a good idea and immediately appropriated it. "Everyone, follow me. We can reconvene at The Silent Woman, and see how the others did tonight."
A few moments later, the five of them were eight hundred miles away in an Unplottable pub.
Regulus had assumed that once they arrived at The Silent Woman, Peter would want to talk. But to his surprise, Peter showed no inclination to talk about the events of the evening, or how he felt about them. He merely drank, swiftly and steadily and without pleasure, as if he were in a contest to see who could get drunk the fastest.
After giving Peter what felt like a thousand chances to speak, Regulus could stand it no longer. "Peter...don't you want to say anything?"
Peter swallowed an enormous gulp of Firewhisky, and then looked Regulus square in the eye. "No, Reg. I don't. I really don't."
***
After that, Regulus expected Peter to change, to become more like the Death Eaters he himself was related to. But, strangely, nothing happened. He remained quiet and unhappy; he continued to hate (and, in some cases, fear) the other Death Eaters.
Regulus couldn't understand it. Either Peter had changed in some way that he couldn't figure out, or killing hadn't affected him at all. Neither one of these made any sense.
As if by mutual agreement, they talked very little about their various missions for the Death Eaters. Instead, Peter asked Regulus for stories about himself and his brother, growing up in the House of Black. And Regulus, who hadn't spoken to Sirius in nearly a year, asked Peter what his impossible brother and his friends were doing now. Not that Peter could always tell him.
"I'm sorry," he said regretfully after Regulus had asked after Sirius for the third time in two weeks. "I really don't know where Sirius is, or what he's doing. He wrote up a whole slew of articles for the Quibbler before he went haring off to wherever, and the paper's releasing them at carefully set intervals, to make them look like reports straight from the field. That's all I know."
"Come on," said Regulus, sitting backwards on one of his kitchen chairs and attempting to fix Peter with a Lucius-like glare. "He's your best friend...well, one of them. You must know something."
Peter sighed deeply. "It's a war. Everything is very hush-hush and on a strictly need-to-know basis."
"And you don't need to know."
"I assume that if I did, someone would tell me." The tone was so stiff that it might have been starched.
"I'll bet James knows," muttered Regulus, Accio-ing two bottles of lager from the cold pantry, opening them, and passing one to Peter. "Do you know what James told me once? To leave Sirius alone. I wasn't his brother. James was."
Peter winced. "Sorry."
"It's all right. I mean, it's not as if we've been close for a long time...since he went off to Hogwarts for the first time, in fact. I'm just saying that if you need to find out anything about Sirius, James would be a good place to start. Sirius doesn't hide anything from James."
"Finding out might be worse," Peter replied. "He”--with a quick glance over the shoulder--”still invades my mind on a regular basis."
And even if you forgot-or Obliviated yourself-I'd still know, Regulus thought. Because you'd tell me. And then the Dark Lord would be able to get the information from my mind instead.
"I suppose it's better for them that they haven't told you anything," he said at last. "Considering the situation, I mean. But still..."
"I miss the three of them sometimes," Peter said quietly. "Which is stupid, isn't it? They're still around. They haven't gone anywhere." He shook his head, as if to clear it. "What about you? You ever find yourself missing people who are still there?"
"I miss Hogwarts," Regulus said. "Though, granted, it wasn't perfect. I never liked being watched by my cousins or Evan Rosier or Theophilus Wilkes."
Peter grimaced. "If anyone had told me when I was at school that I'd end up working with the same people who bullied me there, I'd have asked that person to kill me on the spot."
"It was easier back then, I think," said Regulus, a faraway look in his eyes. "Even with the tests and detentions and everything. Being a kid at Hogwarts was pretty good, most of the time."
"Sometimes I still feel like a kid," Peter said with a sigh. "I know we're all supposed to be terribly grown-up now and be ready and eager to go out and die for...well, the rights of wizards or the Dark Lord's ambition or whatever.
"But I keep remembering that three years ago, my biggest concerns were getting enough NEWTs and finding a girlfriend. And that the hugest crisis in James' life was whether or not Gryffindor was going to beat Slytherin at Quidditch. Things are moving so fast that sometimes I feel as if someone's been playing with a Time-Turner."
There was a long pause, which was broken at last by Peter. "You know, I don't know where Sirius is. But I do know how he is. He's over the moon."
This was news. "Why? Given the way the war's going..."
A snort. "It has nothing to do with the war. Sirius is a godfather. Pardon me-official godfather. Though Lily says that she might as well just list all four of us as the boy's fathers on his birth certificate and have done with it."
"I think that might give slightly the wrong impression." Regulus tilted his chair back and grinned as Peter shot him a disgusted look. "So James and Lily had a son. When?"
"About five minutes before midnight, the last day of July."
"And you're not concerned about Trelawney's prophecy?"
"Regulus," Peter said patiently, "I was there when Lily delivered. I swear to you, there was no star in the east, and angels and shepherds were conspicuously absent from St Mungo's."
"You never did trust Divination much," Regulus said in a reflective tone. "Even at school."
Peter took a large gulp of lager. "No, not really. People have been predicting the end of the world and the births of various saviours for centuries, and both keep not happening.
"Besides," he continued, "according to what Snape said, the only qualifications the wizarding world's messiah has are a) being a boy and b) being born some time at the end of July. Well, there were 3,587 boys born in the U.K. during the last week of July. I checked. I figure, what are the odds that James' boy is the one in the prophecy? Hell, we don't even know that Prophecy Boy is going to be English. He could be from Outer Mongolia or something."
Regulus burst out laughing. "Or an Eskimo. Imagine him growing up hunting polar bears with his magic harpoon--"
Peter chuckled low in his throat. "Merlin's beard, you've got an obscene mind."
Regulus tried to work himself into a properly righteous huff. "I think," he said, in as stately a voice as he could manage between laughing, "that you might be projecting just a little."
Peter rolled his eyes. "You forget. I know you. I've known you for a long time. Innocence is not your strong suit."
Regulus groaned and drank some lager. "So what's the boy's name?"
"Harry James. Remus was arguing for Harry J, because the J could stand for John for his middle name, Joseph for mine, and James for...well, James, but then Sirius started arguing for Sirius Alphard Potter..."
"He didn't."
"He did. And he kept on arguing for it, even after I pointed out that the initials spelled 'sap.' That was when Lily stepped in and said that her son was going to be named Harry for her father and James for her husband, and if Sirius didn't like it, perhaps they should find a new godfather."
Regulus pictured the disconcerted expression that must have come over his brother's face at that moment, and snickered.
A companionable silence fell between them. Peter was lost in thought. Regulus tried to picture James Potter as a father, but it was impossible.
"I wish it could always be like this," Peter said at last in a wistful voice.
"What, the two of us sitting in my flat's kitchen having beer? Might get a little tedious, Peter."
"You know what I mean." Peter scowled at the bottle of lager in his hand as if it were responsible for all his woes. "As if everything were all right. No war. And no need to worry about friends on both sides."
"Or friends who are on both sides," Regulus agreed with a nod.
A flinch. "I know. I'm probably the only man in England who could stand in the middle of a battle between the Order and the Death Eaters and get hit with the Killing Curse by both of them."
"I doubt if you're the only one," Regulus said gently.
Peter heaved a great sigh. "Somehow, that doesn't make me feel any better."
"Sometimes," Regulus said, squinting at the ceiling, "I'd like to quit. Just turn in my letter of resignation and Floo off to Tahiti."
"Nice idea. Too bad it wouldn't work."
"You never know," Regulus said. "Might be worth trying."
Peter eyed Regulus sceptically. "Regulus. We're bound to him. By this damned thing." He lightly touched his left forearm, where the Dark Mark was imprinted. "Even if you ran away to the ends of the earth, lived as a Muggle for the rest of your life, and had plastic surgery done to disguise your face--"
"Plastic what?"
"Like a Disguise Spell," Peter said impatiently. "Only for Muggles. Anyway, even if you did all that, he could still find you, through the Mark, and catch you..." He paused, as if quoting."'...With an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let you wander to the ends of the world, and still able to bring you back with a twitch upon the thread.'"
"So we're just fish. And the Dark Lord can reel us in any time he likes."
"Essentially, yes." Peter sounded resigned.
Regulus privately thought that was one of the bleakest images that he'd heard in a long time. "You think we're going to win, then?"
"I don't think anyone is going to win, except for him. After all, once he gains power...well, he's not going to want to share it, is he? Especially not with a bunch of ambitious Slytherins."
Regulus's mouth went dry. "What do you think he'll do?"
"Reward the fanatics, like Bellatrix. Kill the ambitious ones who might have ideas about palace coups, like Lucius. That'll eliminate 75% of the Death Eaters right there. I don't think many will survive, unless he's convinced they're not ambitious―like the former Hufflepuffs, for example―and unless they're more use to him alive than dead."
"What cheery thoughts you have, Peter," Regulus said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.
"It's just sense," Peter said with a shrug. "It's not as if he gives a tinker's dam about any of us. We're just pawns and slaves to him."
Something in Regulus revolted at the notion. Blacks are slaves to no one.
Perhaps the seed of rebellion started growing at that moment.
"I still think Tahiti sounds like a good idea," he said aloud.
"Oh, it's a lovely idea,” Peter said, smiling sadly. “The only trouble is, it wouldn't work. There's no way he'd be able to let a couple of deserters go; sparing us would make him look weak, and not finding us would make him look stupid. Either one would damage his image. He'd have to find us and execute us publicly to demonstrate why deserting his cause was a very dangerous thing to do."
"I wish you weren't always so damned logical," Regulus muttered.
"I lived with James and Sirius for seven years," Peter replied. "I think I became logical in self-defence."
Regulus sighed, and switched back to a safer topic. "So what does Harry look like?"
"Small. Red-faced. Bit of black fuzz on the top of his head. Sleeps a lot, and cries at inconvenient times. Typical baby, really."
"And?" Regulus prompted, sure there must be more.
Peter's face lit up like the sun. "He's beautiful."
***
After that conversation, Regulus started searching for vulnerabilities that the Dark Lord might possess. Peter's bleak vision of the fate of the Death Eaters after Voldemort had taken power troubled him. And, Slytherin-like, he focused on possible secrets which might be of use to him.
He found little. Reminding himself that this did not mean there was nothing to find, he dug deeper.
Oddly enough, it was Bellatrix who finally told him what he needed to know. She came up to him one night after a meeting, an unexpectedly solemn expression upon her face. "I need to talk to you, cousin."
Crossing his arms over his chest, Regulus regarded her with suspicion. "You know, Bella, whenever you use the word 'cousin,' I know you want something."
Bellatrix frowned. "That's not nice, baby cousin," she said in a dangerous, dancing tone. "You should think better of your family. You never know when you might need them."
I will forget that you just called me a baby. "Why might I need my family?" he said, striving for a light-hearted expression. "Am I experiencing some sort of family crisis I know nothing about yet?"
Bellatrix gazed up at the stars and laughed. Regulus tried not to imagine what she might be seeing.
"He knows, Regulus," she said, her voice rich with gloating. "The Dark Lord knows of your disloyalty."
It was on the tip of Regulus's tongue to deny it, to say that she was lying, and lying badly at that. But then he saw Bellatrix give a reproving nod, and his heart sank. Somehow, some way, he'd been betrayed.
Bellatrix laughed, lovely bell-like laughter which set his teeth on edge. "It was the Mudblood who betrayed you."
Not intentionally, Regulus retorted mentally. Peter simply can't block the Dark Lord from his mind. None of us can.
None of these facts made him feel any less hurt, however.
"How many times did we tell you not to trust Mudbloods?" Bellatrix shook her head, as if scolding an errant child. "This one would have been the death of you, if Lucius, Rodolphus, Cissy and I hadn't intervened."
"I suppose I should thank you," Regulus said stiffly.
"Oh, we did it for the family, not for you," Bellatrix said dismissively. "You've been a disloyal fool, true, but the House of Black doesn't deserve to be disgraced forever because of your idiocy."
Regulus sighed. "Get to the point, Bella. What do I have to do to get back in the Dark Lord's good graces?"
Bella appeared to consider the question. "Well...killing your vile brother might help."
Regulus stared at her. He knew he couldn't have heard right.
"Oh, and don't think of fleeing to Tahiti," Bellatrix added in a mocking voice. "You couldn't escape the Dark Lord, no matter where you ran. He's far, far too powerful for the likes of you, and is utterly heartless. How can you destroy a man without a heart?" So saying, she strolled away laughing.
Regulus shoved the Dark Lord's appalling command to the back of his mind, and tried to focus on what Bellatrix had just said. A man without a heart...that was a vaguely familiar concept, but he couldn't quite remember why.
It took several days of searching through various magical libraries before he came across an ancient tale about an evil and powerful wizard who turned young men to stone and kidnapped a young woman to be his slave-wife. Regulus thought of Peter, petrified with fear, and Bellatrix, whose sanity had vanished as Voldemort had enslaved her affections. The old tale was frighteningly familiar.
He flipped through the story, searching for any mention of the wizard's heart. At last he found it.
'Far, far from here,' said he, 'in a lonely spot, stands a great church, as old as old can be. Its doors are of iron, and round it runs a deep moat, spanned by no bridge. Within that church is a bird which flies up and down; it never eats, and never drinks, and never dies. No one can catch it, and while that bird lives so shall I, for in it is my heart.'
Regulus didn't think that the bird could contain a wizard's heart. Human hearts were rather large and bulky things, not easily removed.
But something that the heart symbolized―emotions, maybe, or a person's spirit―yes, it might be possible for an object to hold those things.
Regulus redoubled his efforts at trying to find the spell that could do this.
August passed into September. Sirius was once more off on a secret mission about which Peter knew nothing. Regulus was glad. The longer Sirius stayed out of reach, the safer he would be. However, he could not help but notice the feral look in the eyes of Bellatrix, Lucius and the Lestrange brothers. His kin were waiting―even eager―for him to fail.
That he would fail was a given. Sirius might be an opinionated, reckless idiot, but Regulus had no desire to kill him.
Which, Regulus reflected, would almost certainly get himself killed. I don't want to die. I'm only nineteen, for Merlin's sake.
But, on the other hand, he couldn't take Peter's path. Lately, there seemed to be less of Peter and more of Wormtail the Death Eater. Things that Peter would never have done, Wormtail did unfeelingly, often looking up afterward as if hoping for a kind word or a pat on the head.
Well done, Wormtail, Regulus thought bitterly. You torture and kill so easily. What a good dog you are.
And yet...some remnant of the old Peter was left. Regulus read that much in his bowed head, his stooped shoulders and his despairing eyes.
Regulus recalled a legend Peter had told him about a nightmarish place called Hell, and wondered if Peter felt as if he were already there.
No, he couldn't take Peter's route. That was unthinkable.
Time passed, and still Sirius did not return. Regulus made a convincing pretence of trying to find his brother, and spent every spare moment he had in researching the spell from the fairy tale. After reading quite a number of Dark magic books from the Black family library, he learned the name of the thing that could hold a portion of a human soul―a Horcrux. And he also learned more than he'd ever wanted to know about the sorts of containers that were suitable for Horcruxes, the incantations and rituals needed to create one, and the myriad repugnant ways to split one's soul. Unfortunately, none of it was any use without some knowledge of where Voldemort's Horcruxes might be, and the Dark Lord was hardly likely to confide in him.
More than once, he was tempted to go to Peter. Peter was clever; Peter would surely be able to figure out the locations that the Dark Lord considered significant.
What stopped him was the painful certainty that Peter would be unable to conceal Regulus's actions from the Dark Lord. The next time the Dark Lord ravaged Peter's mind, he would surely discover what Regulus was up to. And then...
He did not want to die. But even more, he did not want to die pointlessly.
So talking to Peter was out.
It hurt, not being able to talk to Peter. What was worse, Regulus could see that it hurt Peter as well. Sometimes, during meetings, Regulus would feel Peter staring at him in wounded bewilderment, like a dog who'd been punished and who didn't know why.
I'm sorry, he would think at Peter, wishing desperately that each of them was a Legilimens. But I'm not going to die without getting even. And I want to get even for you, too.
It was not until the end of September when Regulus discovered the location of one of the Horcruxes, thanks to an old Muggle woman named Florence Cole who had worked as a matron at an orphanage fifty years ago.
It took her a while to understand who he was inquiring after. Asking about "the boy who was the son of the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin" would mean nothing to Mrs Cole. And even though he had divined Merope Gaunt Riddle's identity from the Dark Lord's boast of being Slytherin's last descendant, Regulus dared not speak the name of "Riddle" too openly. Someone, anyone, could be listening―and he was suspect already.
So, surreptitiously wiping his sweaty palms on those damnable Muggle trousers he'd been compelled to wear to the nursing home where Florence Cole now lived, Regulus asked about orphans with certain unusual aptitudes. After a bit of jabber about a girl who painted and a boy who had a knack with building radios―which was Greek to Regulus―Mrs Cole mentioned Tom Riddle.
"Nasty boy, he was," she said with a grimace. "Loved hurting other children, I'd take my oath on it, though, mind you, we never actually saw him doing anything. But he'd get in a quarrel with a boy and the next thing you knew, that boy's pet rabbit would be hanging from the ceiling. And I don't know what he did to Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop when he was lost in a seaside cave with them, but they were never right afterwards." She sniffed. "He kept haunting those caves over the years. Nearly every summer, the orphanage would take a day trip to Blackpool, and every single time, he'd make a beeline for those caves. Like they were a shrine or something."
So there it was. Admittedly, it wasn't a map, but how many out-of-the-way caves could there be near Blackpool? And he was surely enough of a wizard to sense any spells that the Dark Lord had cast to protect the Horcrux hidden there.
But once he was home, Regulus hesitated.
All right. He couldn't kill his brother. But maybe he didn't have to. Maybe he could fake his death and Sirius's; solid illusions of his friends' corpses had fooled Peter, after all. Maybe he and his brother could move somewhere the war wasn't. Australia or something. Maybe...
No.
Sirius would never leave James. And Peter would be mortally hurt that Regulus had fled and left him behind. His death would hurt them both, but not nearly as badly as his becoming a person even he despised.
And death was better than living huddled in terror, never knowing when to expect the boot at the door or the green light of the Killing Curse. Much better.
Desperately, he longed for just one more moment―one second when he could tell Peter and Sirius goodbye.
Sighing, he squared his shoulders, grabbed a can of Floo Powder from the shelf above his fireplace and tossed a handful of it into the fire.
"The caves near Blackpool," he said, stepping into the flames.
He didn't notice, as he departed, that his voice held no fear at all.
***
***
And now, as I've already posted "Killing Time" to omniocular, I'll post this story here...though I'll probably post it elsewhere later.
Title: A Twitch Upon the Thread
Author: gehayi
Recipient's Name: impinc
Rating: PG
Characters: Peter Pettigrew, Regulus Black, Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange; mention of James, Remus, Sirius, Dumbledore, Lily and Baby! Harry
Word Count: 8,592
Summary: Two Death Eaters. Two friends. Two choices. Two very different fates.
Author’s Notes: impincrequested the following preferred genres and scenarios: Darkfic. Post-apocalyptical. Dystopias, especially ones disguised as utopias. Dark Lord!Harry. Dark!Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. Between when MWPP get out of school and 1980, but focused on the Death Eaters. Pastfic. Maruader friendship fic (but it better not have even the slightest hint of Remus/Sirius!). Trio friendship fic. Happy/hopeful/bittersweet endings. Dark!Weasleys.
Well, I didn't get in all of that, but it's definitely pastfic, set during the First War with Voldemort (the year of the story is 1980, to be exact), and is focused on two Death Eaters in particular (one a Dark! Gryffindor), though quite a few are mentioned, including a couple of cousins of Sirius and Regulus. The friendship of MWPP plays a part as well. And I think it's dark, as well as a bit sad.
The two quotes are from "The Queer Feet," from The Innocence of Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton and "The Man Without A Heart," from The Pink Fairy Book, edited by Andrew Lang.
The spelling used throughout is British, and conforms to the spelling in the British editions of the books. Thanks to underlucius for beta-reading and Britpicking.
***
May 1980
When he saw Peter crouched in a corner of The Silent Woman, his small hands gripping a mug of some murky drink, his pale blue eyes flickering uneasily as he watched the Death Eaters in the pub laughing and drinking, Regulus' first thought was--Who is that?
The next moment he knew that it was Peter, and he couldn't understand why he hadn't recognised his friend at once. For they were friends, had always been, ever since he was a first-year and Peter was a second-year. Friends, despite James' comments about sneaky Slytherins, Remus' puzzled glances that expressed volumes about Peter's dubious taste, Severus' cutting words, Sirius' blunt fists, Bellatrix's icy eyes and persistent hexes. They'd outlasted Slughorn's oft-expressed conviction that Regulus, as a young wizard of good family, could surely find better companions than a baker's boy from Birmingham; they'd ignored McGonagall's unspoken but clear conviction that one of her lion cubs was slumming by befriending a mere Slytherin.
Then realisation slammed into him, and he knew why he hadn't recognised Peter:
Peter looks old.
And that made no sense, for Peter was barely twenty, and his hair was still dirty blond, and his face remained unlined. But the longer Regulus looked, the more he remembered a mummy he once saw in the London Museum, grey and brittle and shrouded with the dust of centuries. Peter looked like that; his normally pale skin was as grey as ash, and his features seemed ready to crumble from within at any moment.
Somehow, the thought of walking over and sitting across from a mummy was repulsive. Regulus almost turned to leave.
But then Peter stopped furtively glancing around the pub as if it were a jungle filled with Dementors and Lethifolds, and stared directly ahead.
Regulus, chilled by the stare, tried to dull the edge of his fear by describing the stare to himself:
Like the dead and soulless gaze of Inferi, as they trudge forward at the command of another;
Like the gash of a razor, open and bleeding;
Like a man in a nightmare, turning at last to face a dreadful fiend, only to see it wearing his own face.
Not any of these things, precisely, but a trace-taste of all of them.
It took all of Regulus's nerve to walk over and face that terrible stare. He forced himself to do so, because he was certain that Sirius wouldn't face it, that Sirius would will himself to believe that all was well, because Sirius couldn't endure problems that couldn't be fixed. He had to fix them--with money or gifts or a useful spell.
And if facing an insoluble problem hurt too much, Sirius ran away. Either physically, as he had done at sixteen, or emotionally.
Sirius, Regulus knew, was courageous. He'd fly into battle against deadly odds without a single thought, without even worrying about whether he might die. But courageous wasn't the same as brave. Sirius couldn't deal with the unsolvable, with situations that couldn't or wouldn't be fixed.
Right now, he suspected that Peter was one of those situations.
He sat down across from Peter and wallpapered a smile onto his features. "Hi," he said cheerily.
A minute or two passed before Peter's attention returned. Almost as soon as he did so, he flinched, pressing himself against the back of his chair, dodging a non-existent kick or curse.
"Easy," Regulus whispered, trying to calm him. He could not help but wish fervently that he could simply punch or argue life back into Peter. He was absolute rubbish at calm. "Easy, Peter. It's me. Reg."
Peter's eyes cleared--not entirely, true, for that terrible expression was still there, but at least Regulus felt that Peter could see him. An instant later, he spoke in a grey and terrible voice. "Reg?" he said hoarsely. "Are you real?"
Regulus started to laugh before the expectancy in Peter's face hit him and choked off the laughter.
He's serious.
"'Course I'm real," he said in a hollow, overly jolly tone, searching Peter's expression for some sign that his friend was playing a not-very-funny practical joke on him. "What'd you think?"
"I don't know," Peter said in an exhausted voice. "You could be imaginary. I imagine lots of people these days. And they all claim to be real."
Exasperated, Regulus snapped at him. "Are you trying to drive yourself crazy?"
Peter made a guttural noise deep in his throat. It took a second or two for Regulus to realise that Peter was laughing. "No. I think I'm already there. On the borderline, anyway." Mercifully, he closed his eyes.
Regulus considered asking What happened to you since I saw you last?, but he feared Peter might not answer that. He didn't admit, even to himself, that he was more afraid that Peter might.
He settled for a safer question. "What are you doing here?"
Peter, his eyes still closed, removed his hands from his mug of Firewhisky, then rubbed his fingers across the worn wooden tabletop as if it were Braille. "What do you mean?" he asked.
Regulus leaned across the table so far that his nose and Peter's were almost touching. "Have you noticed who else is in this pub?" he hissed. "This isn't a good place for--well, for anyone Dumbledore likes."
Another flinch, this time at Dumbledore's name. But then Peter opened his eyes, cocked his head and spoke in a nearly normal voice. "You don't have to worry, Reg. I'll be fine."
"You won't be fine if they catch you!" Regulus said in a furious whisper. "Damn it, Peter--"
As a spasm of pain wriggled across his face, Peter held up his hand and spoke quietly. "Regulus. I don't have to worry about that. Not now." Then, as if the words had taken entirely too much effort, he fell silent and bowed his head, closing his eyes once more.
Regulus stared at Peter, nausea roiling in his stomach. There was only one reason that Peter wouldn't have to worry about being caught. But the notion of Peter being a Death Eater was as ludicrous as his own mother announcing to Sirius and himself that the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black was descended from house-elves, and that Kreacher was the rightful heir.
He swallowed several times, wondering what he should say.
Opening his eyes once more, and averting his head slightly, Peter spoke. The words sounded as if they had been weighted down with boulders. "I suppose you hate me now."
Regulus shook his head, forgetting that, at the moment, Peter couldn't see him. "Still waiting for the why, though."
The words would have sounded bitter if Peter's voice had had any expression. As it was, he sounded as if he was saying The grass is green and the sky is blue.
"Oh, I was persuaded to join. Quite forcefully."
A number of questions sprang to Regulus's mind--questions like Who persuaded you? and How? and Why?--but he decided not to discuss this. Not here, among the people who had "persuaded" Peter. And not tonight, Regulus thought to himself. I don't think Peter could stand to say anymore tonight.
Besides, right now, he didn't want to listen. Judging by some of the furtive glances he was getting from some of the other Death Eaters, he'd be wise not to listen. Not in public, anyway.
"We'll talk more about this later," he said, smiling a polished smile as he rose from his seat, hoping that Peter knew he meant it. He walked away quickly (but not too quickly) , stopping at various tables of Death Eaters to utter an orthodox comment here, a vulgar jest about Muggles there, as he made his way out of the pub.
He felt Peter's pale blue eyes boring into him as he strode out the door.
***
He saw Peter often after that, at least at meetings. Left to his own devices, Peter huddled in the shadows, trying not to be noticed. He rarely succeeded in this; the Dark Lord enjoyed humiliating his latest servant. It was a rare meeting when the Dark Lord didn't find some reason for referring to the fact that even a Mudblood wizard served him, that Peter was willing to betray his own.
Each time, after this ritual humiliation, Peter, flanked by hulking wizards like Avery and Jugson, would walk--or, if the Dark Lord commanded, would crawl--toward their master. Then, Voldemort would grip Peter's chin in a vice-like, skeletal hand and force Peter's eyes to meet his.
Invariably, after a few minutes of this, Peter was shaking, and his eyes were full of screams.
However, it was nearly a month later before Regulus had an opportunity to talk to Peter about this, for Peter--trying frantically to fulfil his duties as a Healer trainee, a friend, and a Death Eater--had a very full schedule. At last, however, Regulus convinced Peter to visit his apartment in Mayfair, and Peter, as if too exhausted to say no, agreed.
"It's Legilimency," Peter said wearily, once Regulus had reassured him that the apartment was free of Listening Charms. "I don't tell the Dark Lord anything. He just…stabs my mind and rips out the information he wants by the roots."
Legilimency, Regulus knew, was far more subtle than that--a delicate art, rather than mere magic. What Voldemort was doing was no better than performing brain surgery with a dull, rusty axe. This offended Regulus twice over. Magic should be handled better than this, especially by the being he'd sworn to serve. And the fact that Voldemort was using crude magic as a weapon against one of his own people was even worse. In a war, there are us, and there are them. We aren't supposed to treat our own people the way we'd treat them.
Following on the heels of that thought was a more immediate one. "What's he finding out?"
Peter refused to meet Regulus's eyes. "Just...things. Nothing important."
Regulus sighed. After nine years of hanging around with Sirius, James and Remus, he'd have thought his friend would have learned to lie properly. "Look, Peter. I do know about the Order of the Phoenix. It's not exactly what you'd call a state secret."
Peter stared at him, utterly flabbergasted. "H-h-how do you know?"
"Because Dumbledore asked me if I wanted to join, of course." Regulus snorted. "He said he thought I had 'immense potential,' and that I had 'the capacity to be far more than anyone expected me to be.' I think it shocked him when I said no."
"What did he do?"
"He just talked--very softly and very calmly--and managed to give me the impression that he thought I was making a dreadful mistake. I couldn't wait to get out of his office."
"I wish I'd had the nerve to say no," Peter said quietly, a mask of exhaustion slipping over his features. "I never wanted to be part of this war in the first place."
"Why'd you join, then?"
"The Order, or the Death Eaters?"
"Both."
"The Order? Because Dumbledore asked me, I guess. And because I knew the others would join, and I didn't want to be the only one who hadn't."
"That's a terrible reason for joining."
Peter shot him a patient glance, as if to say, I know THAT, idiot.
"And the Death Eaters?" Regulus refused to let Peter away that easily.
Peter sighed. "Reg, if I went into every excruciating detail of what they did, you'd think I was whining, lying, or both."
"Summarise, then!"
"All right," said Peter in a flat tone. "They tortured me. For months. They took me apart, physically, mentally and emotionally. When I still wouldn't give in, they created solid illusions of my friend's corpses--including you--and showed them to me, and told me my stubbornness had got them killed. They DID kill my entire family except for my mother, and nothing as quick and merciful as the Killing Curse was involved." He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Some things they did…I still can't put them into words."
Regulus frowned. "Why didn't anyone notice you were missing?"
"Rosier," Peter said simply. "He was Polyjuiced into me."
"Didn't anyone notice?" Regulus knew Evan Rosier slightly, as most purebloods knew each other. He couldn't imagine Rosier posing as Peter successfully for one minute.
"Apparently not." Once more, Peter's voice sounded exhausted. That bothered Regulus. Peter should sound angry and unhappy, not drained of energy.
"Did I see you--Rosier pretending to be you, I mean--during that time?"
Peter shrugged. "I don't know. Did you see me between last December and mid-March?"
Regulus nodded, unwilling to voice how often he'd seen Peter during those months--or how freely he'd talked. Not that he'd said anything wrong; he'd been quite enthusiastic about the Death Eaters (and oh, how he'd railed about the slander of that name). But he'd still spoken openly of being a Death Eater to an Order member--and a Muggleborn, at that. Treason, in the eyes of most of his compatriots.
And I never knew, he thought. Rosier must be waiting for just the right minute to tell me that he has a knife to my throat.
He forced his attention back to the conversation, mentally resolving to do something about Rosier later. "No one noticed. Not even--"
"No. They didn't." Three short, neutral words, but not the way Peter said them.
Regulus thought for a few minutes. "Why, Peter?" he asks at last. "Why serve the Dark Lord, if you hate this so much? Why don't you just run off somewhere and start over?"
The corners of Peter's mouth twitched upward. "That's definitely not the party line. Are you sure you're a Death Eater, Reg?"
Regulus glared at him. "You're changing the subject. You always change the subject when you don't want to talk about something."
Peter sagged onto an antique, horsehair-covered couch and closed his eyes. "I stay because I'm afraid," he said softly. "I don't think for one minute that I could just disappear. He'd be furious. And he'd send out searchers. Failing that, he'd grab my mother. Or Remus. Or you. And if death were the only thing that happened, you'd be lucky. Sooner or later, he'd find a way to reel me back. And then"--Peter shivered. "I doubt I could count on the Dark Lord being merciful enough merely to kill a traitor."
"Maybe Dumbledore would help," Regulus said, feeling guilty about suggesting that Peter turn from the Dark Lord. The Death Eaters did tend to be overly zealous, but they had thousands of years of wizarding tradition behind them--not to mention a war to win. And they weren't evil. They just wanted to preserve the world he knew and loved. So he really shouldn't want Peter to turn his coat yet again, should he? Shouldn't he feel as if Peter would be betraying them all, instead of escaping?
Peter was already shaking his head. "I can't ask him. I don't want to be the weakling who has to be saved by Dumbledore. I want to rescue myself. Or try, at least."
A question popped out before Regulus could think about it. "Do the other three know?"
Peter favoured him with a you must be joking look. "Please. Sirius thought you were Dark simply because you'd been Sorted into Slytherin. He'd be convinced I was evil incarnate."
Regulus didn't bother to ask why Peter didn't talk to James; Sirius and James thought very much alike. Regulus had often felt that his brother and James Potter shared a single brain. On more than one occasion, he'd wondered if the only portion his brother controlled was the brain stem.
But he did wonder why Peter hadn't mentioned Remus. Peter and Remus were almost as close as Sirius and James. If anyone should be talking to Peter, it should be him.
He knew he should ask about that, but he couldn't. Somehow, it gave him a mean little glow inside to know that Peter was talking to him, was trusting him, rather than his brother and his brother's friends. He felt as if he'd won something.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
The sardonic light in Peter's eyes dimmed. "I don't know," he said, rubbing his temples. "I just don't know."
***
Life, after that, became complicated.
Regulus wasn't sure why. He was as proud of being a pureblood as ever, as determined to fight to preserve wizarding ways. He wasn't overly fond of killing--and he hadn't bargained for it, really, as he'd thought the name "Death Eater" was an insult dreamed up by their political opposition--but he was willing to do it. This was a war, after all.
And if he was frightened of the Dark Lord, so what? Every Death Eater had been, at some point or other. Except for Bellatrix, and everyone knew she was mad.
Still, thoughts of Peter began crossing his mind at odd moments. When Lucius proclaimed the actions of Death Eaters to be the greatest and noblest of all wizards, Regulus saw Peter's aged face and frightened expression. He'd never had the slightest trouble killing Muggles before--they weren't really people, were they? Not the way that wizards were people. Now, when he held Muggles at wandpoint, he heard Peter saying, "They killed my entire family, except my mother."
And when he watched Voldemort force Peter to crawl and kiss the hem of his robes, Regulus hated the others for laughing. Hated himself for laughing as well, because he was afraid not to.
And over and over, he heard Peter's voice whispering, Are you sure you're a Death Eater, Reg? Are you? Are you?
What made it worse was that Peter--after a vain attempt to break free, which, Regulus and the other Death Eaters were told, had been punished severely--seemed to be settling into his new role of lowly minion. He sleepwalked through existence, obeying loathsome orders with depressing swiftness. It sickened Regulus. He hated to think of Peter becoming one of them.
Then he wondered why he was thinking of the Death Eaters--who surely should have been "us"--as "them."
In June, Severus Snape brought the news of Trelawney's prophecy, and the Dark Lord gave a command to all Death Eaters--to find all those who had defied him three times, however obliquely, and kill them before his enemy could be born. Regulus thought that was a logical, if cruel, move. Peter disagreed.
"Killing mothers of babies never works in fairy tales," he said, leaning against the back of Regulus's horsehair couch as he sipped his tea. "A midwife always spirits the predestined baby away to be raised by forest animals or something. Or the baby is abandoned and gets adopted by a humble woodcutter and his wife that the child's enemy would never notice."
"That's just stories."
Peter shrugged. "Even fairy tales are sometimes true. Mind you, if I were the father of a baby due in July, I wouldn't take any chances. I'd take my wife to a Muggle hospital and have them induce labour while it was still June."
Regulus looked at Peter. "Do you believe Trelawney's prophecy?"
"No," said Peter, after only the barest hesitation. "But the wizarding world will love the idea. If someone is destined to save them from the Dark Lord, that means they won't have to bother opposing him. The child will do that for them."
Do you think that they should oppose the Dark Lord? Regulus wondered. He longed to ask, but--as he remembered how often the Dark Lord ransacked Peter's mind--the words stuck in his throat. The Dark Lord wouldn't like one of his servants asking another one such a question. No, not one scrap.
Even if the question was, of course, purely hypothetical.
June was also when Regulus saw Peter kill for the first time. It was a routine mission, which normally would have required no more than two or three Death Eaters. However, since Peter's attempt at breaking from Voldemort's control, he had been accompanied by at least one Death Eater from the Dark Lord's inner circle. The message was clear: Peter was necessary, at least for now, but he was not to be trusted. And the Dark Lord was watching him…all the time.
That night Lucius Malfoy was Peter's guard. Regulus saw the look that passed between the two--a sneer of contempt curling Lucius's lip, the unreasoning terror burning in Peter's eyes.
"You are going to do whatever you're told tonight, aren't you, Wormtail?" Lucius murmured.
Peter hesitated.
"Aren't you?" repeated Lucius, a hint of menace creeping into his tone.
"Yes," Peter whispered, dropping his gaze.
Don't give in to him! Regulus wanted to snap. That only makes him bully you even more!
But he dared not say anything. Anything he said could get Peter in trouble. Could get himself in trouble. And he didn't need that. He really didn't.
"Who're we going after tonight?" he asked instead, turning toward Lucius.
"Someone the Dark Lord wants dead," Lucius replied curtly. "That's all you need to know."
"I thought it might help to know a bit about the--the target."
"Why?" said Lucius, a frown creasing his brow. "What do you know need to know about the enemy beyond the fact that he IS the enemy? Isn't that enough for you, cousin?"
"I-I suppose." Mentally, Regulus cursed himself for even bringing up the subject.
For a long moment, Lucius gave him a probing look, then nodded. "Good." That said, he turned his attention to the locks on the back door.
The locks opened easily--no Muggle lock had ever been made that was an adequate defence against magic. Within minutes, Regulus, Peter, Lucius Malfoy and two new recruits Regulus scarcely recognised entered the house.
The torture took rather longer than necessary, chiefly because Lucius insisted on using the two children of the family as an object lesson for the new recruits. As the parents lay frozen in the Full-Body Bind, helpless to do anything but watch, Lucius cast various curses over and over on the boy and girl, then stopped and ordered the recruits--who called each other "Day" and "Spencer"--to try casting the same curse.
Regulus stared at this and tried to keep his face impassive. Only Muggles. Not human beings. Not really.
He sneaked a glance at Peter, who was standing in a corner, his back against the wall, his eyes squinched shut.
Lucius must have followed his gaze, for the next instant he was speaking in a voice of deceptive calm. "Wormtail. Step forward."
Peter shuddered, but he did as he was told.
Lucius smiled unpleasantly. "Kill the Muggle spawn, Wormtail. Now."
Regulus felt torn. Peter had no choice but to kill, not with four other Death Eaters there. He might be able to cast a spell in Lucius's direction, but Regulus knew that his elder cousin was quite protective of his own life, and that Lucius was almost certainly utilizing a Shield Charm. And even if Peter did manage to get past the shield and strike Lucius down, there were still Day and Spencer to deal with. Either or both could maim or kill Peter in a minute, while the other informed Voldemort of Peter's treason. And after that...Peter would be lucky if he were granted the mercy of death.
I could help, he thought. I could attack Lucius when his back was turned. He'd never expect that of me.
But something in him recoiled from that notion. You did not attack your kin, no matter how much you loathed them. That was a tenet he'd absorbed when he was still being fed baby food.
Peter still had not lifted his wand.
"Go on, Wormtail," said Lucius, his voice taking on a distinctly menacing edge. "Kill them. Or shall I kill you instead?"
As if in a dream, Peter lifted his wand, speaking the words of the Killing Curse.
Nothing happened.
"Worthless," Lucius said with a sneer. "My newborn son could cast a better Killing Curse than that. Again."
Again and again and again he tried, and always the attempts resulted in failure. Peter seemed to have no instinct for killing.
Or perhaps, Regulus thought, he is making an effort. Maybe he's trying not to cast it. Intent matters, after all.
The same thought seemed to have occurred to Lucius, for he abruptly paused in his commands to Peter and stared at him from hooded grey eyes. "I think perhaps what you lack is the proper incentive. Now. I know that you have not been, shall we say, fond of me since Bellatrix and I commenced...re-educating you about the Dark Lord. In fact," he added, "I could almost swear that you hate me."
Peter said nothing. But Regulus noticed that as Lucius spoke, Peter gripped his poplar wand so hard that his knuckles were white.
"If you do"--and Lucius's voice became sharper--"I suggest that you pour every ounce of that hatred into the Killing Curse. If you do not"--he placed his wand against Peter's left temple--"well. You know there are any number of amusing things I can do to you. Scramble your brains until you're no better than a vegetable. Melt away your arms, or legs, or eyes. Or perhaps I'll simply transform you into a thing, as the Dark Lord did to...what was her name? Dorothy?"
Peter had gone very pale, and looked as if he were about to be sick. "Dorcas," he mumbled through nearly paralysed lips. "Her name was Dorcas."
Lucius dismissed that information with an uplifted eyebrow and a shrug. "The choice is yours, Wormtail. Serve, as you have vowed to serve. Or suffer, at my pleasure." He pressed his wand of elder wood harder against Peter's temple. "Choose fast."
Don't, Regulus thought at Peter. Don't, don't, don't...
"Avada Kedavra." The words were hissed with barely leashed rage, as if Peter would have given everything he was to have Lucius Malfoy on the receiving end.
There was a flash of green light. Regulus had to force himself not to flinch from it.
And then there was silence, broken only by the choked sounds of a woman trapped in the Full-Body Bind and trying to weep for her children.
Peter was still pale, and he was breathing heavily, as if he had just run a marathon. He stepped swiftly out of reach of Lucius's wand. "Satisfied?" he said, glaring up at Lucius as if daring him to say that he wasn't satisfied at all.
"Not precisely satisfied," Lucius murmured as he gave the corpses of the children a bemused glance. "But you do have potential, at least. Tell me, how do you feel, after having killed?"
Peter shrugged. "All right."
He wasn't all right. Regulus was sure of that. No Healer, having deliberately killed, could possibly be all right. And Peter was a Healer by nature as well as by profession.
The answer displeased Lucius for another reason. "That's all? Merely...all right? You felt no passion, no joy at having absolute power over life and death?"
Once again, Peter shrugged-which might have meant anything.
Lucius looked at Peter with utter contempt. "You are weak, Wormtail," he said. "There's no glory in you, no greatness. You are completely unworthy of serving the Dark Lord."
"It wasn't my idea," Peter replied with deliberate calm.
Lucius looked as baffled as if a chair had spoken. It was inconceivable that a Mudblood wizard should be sarcastic to a Malfoy-and to his former torturer, at that-particularly when the Mudblood in question was not noted for his bravery. Such things simply didn't happen in the real world.
Day-or perhaps it was Spencer-interrupted. "'Ere, we've done what we come to do, 'aven't we? Why're we still 'anging about 'ere?"
Lucius, Regulus noticed, found that to be a good idea and immediately appropriated it. "Everyone, follow me. We can reconvene at The Silent Woman, and see how the others did tonight."
A few moments later, the five of them were eight hundred miles away in an Unplottable pub.
Regulus had assumed that once they arrived at The Silent Woman, Peter would want to talk. But to his surprise, Peter showed no inclination to talk about the events of the evening, or how he felt about them. He merely drank, swiftly and steadily and without pleasure, as if he were in a contest to see who could get drunk the fastest.
After giving Peter what felt like a thousand chances to speak, Regulus could stand it no longer. "Peter...don't you want to say anything?"
Peter swallowed an enormous gulp of Firewhisky, and then looked Regulus square in the eye. "No, Reg. I don't. I really don't."
***
After that, Regulus expected Peter to change, to become more like the Death Eaters he himself was related to. But, strangely, nothing happened. He remained quiet and unhappy; he continued to hate (and, in some cases, fear) the other Death Eaters.
Regulus couldn't understand it. Either Peter had changed in some way that he couldn't figure out, or killing hadn't affected him at all. Neither one of these made any sense.
As if by mutual agreement, they talked very little about their various missions for the Death Eaters. Instead, Peter asked Regulus for stories about himself and his brother, growing up in the House of Black. And Regulus, who hadn't spoken to Sirius in nearly a year, asked Peter what his impossible brother and his friends were doing now. Not that Peter could always tell him.
"I'm sorry," he said regretfully after Regulus had asked after Sirius for the third time in two weeks. "I really don't know where Sirius is, or what he's doing. He wrote up a whole slew of articles for the Quibbler before he went haring off to wherever, and the paper's releasing them at carefully set intervals, to make them look like reports straight from the field. That's all I know."
"Come on," said Regulus, sitting backwards on one of his kitchen chairs and attempting to fix Peter with a Lucius-like glare. "He's your best friend...well, one of them. You must know something."
Peter sighed deeply. "It's a war. Everything is very hush-hush and on a strictly need-to-know basis."
"And you don't need to know."
"I assume that if I did, someone would tell me." The tone was so stiff that it might have been starched.
"I'll bet James knows," muttered Regulus, Accio-ing two bottles of lager from the cold pantry, opening them, and passing one to Peter. "Do you know what James told me once? To leave Sirius alone. I wasn't his brother. James was."
Peter winced. "Sorry."
"It's all right. I mean, it's not as if we've been close for a long time...since he went off to Hogwarts for the first time, in fact. I'm just saying that if you need to find out anything about Sirius, James would be a good place to start. Sirius doesn't hide anything from James."
"Finding out might be worse," Peter replied. "He”--with a quick glance over the shoulder--”still invades my mind on a regular basis."
And even if you forgot-or Obliviated yourself-I'd still know, Regulus thought. Because you'd tell me. And then the Dark Lord would be able to get the information from my mind instead.
"I suppose it's better for them that they haven't told you anything," he said at last. "Considering the situation, I mean. But still..."
"I miss the three of them sometimes," Peter said quietly. "Which is stupid, isn't it? They're still around. They haven't gone anywhere." He shook his head, as if to clear it. "What about you? You ever find yourself missing people who are still there?"
"I miss Hogwarts," Regulus said. "Though, granted, it wasn't perfect. I never liked being watched by my cousins or Evan Rosier or Theophilus Wilkes."
Peter grimaced. "If anyone had told me when I was at school that I'd end up working with the same people who bullied me there, I'd have asked that person to kill me on the spot."
"It was easier back then, I think," said Regulus, a faraway look in his eyes. "Even with the tests and detentions and everything. Being a kid at Hogwarts was pretty good, most of the time."
"Sometimes I still feel like a kid," Peter said with a sigh. "I know we're all supposed to be terribly grown-up now and be ready and eager to go out and die for...well, the rights of wizards or the Dark Lord's ambition or whatever.
"But I keep remembering that three years ago, my biggest concerns were getting enough NEWTs and finding a girlfriend. And that the hugest crisis in James' life was whether or not Gryffindor was going to beat Slytherin at Quidditch. Things are moving so fast that sometimes I feel as if someone's been playing with a Time-Turner."
There was a long pause, which was broken at last by Peter. "You know, I don't know where Sirius is. But I do know how he is. He's over the moon."
This was news. "Why? Given the way the war's going..."
A snort. "It has nothing to do with the war. Sirius is a godfather. Pardon me-official godfather. Though Lily says that she might as well just list all four of us as the boy's fathers on his birth certificate and have done with it."
"I think that might give slightly the wrong impression." Regulus tilted his chair back and grinned as Peter shot him a disgusted look. "So James and Lily had a son. When?"
"About five minutes before midnight, the last day of July."
"And you're not concerned about Trelawney's prophecy?"
"Regulus," Peter said patiently, "I was there when Lily delivered. I swear to you, there was no star in the east, and angels and shepherds were conspicuously absent from St Mungo's."
"You never did trust Divination much," Regulus said in a reflective tone. "Even at school."
Peter took a large gulp of lager. "No, not really. People have been predicting the end of the world and the births of various saviours for centuries, and both keep not happening.
"Besides," he continued, "according to what Snape said, the only qualifications the wizarding world's messiah has are a) being a boy and b) being born some time at the end of July. Well, there were 3,587 boys born in the U.K. during the last week of July. I checked. I figure, what are the odds that James' boy is the one in the prophecy? Hell, we don't even know that Prophecy Boy is going to be English. He could be from Outer Mongolia or something."
Regulus burst out laughing. "Or an Eskimo. Imagine him growing up hunting polar bears with his magic harpoon--"
Peter chuckled low in his throat. "Merlin's beard, you've got an obscene mind."
Regulus tried to work himself into a properly righteous huff. "I think," he said, in as stately a voice as he could manage between laughing, "that you might be projecting just a little."
Peter rolled his eyes. "You forget. I know you. I've known you for a long time. Innocence is not your strong suit."
Regulus groaned and drank some lager. "So what's the boy's name?"
"Harry James. Remus was arguing for Harry J, because the J could stand for John for his middle name, Joseph for mine, and James for...well, James, but then Sirius started arguing for Sirius Alphard Potter..."
"He didn't."
"He did. And he kept on arguing for it, even after I pointed out that the initials spelled 'sap.' That was when Lily stepped in and said that her son was going to be named Harry for her father and James for her husband, and if Sirius didn't like it, perhaps they should find a new godfather."
Regulus pictured the disconcerted expression that must have come over his brother's face at that moment, and snickered.
A companionable silence fell between them. Peter was lost in thought. Regulus tried to picture James Potter as a father, but it was impossible.
"I wish it could always be like this," Peter said at last in a wistful voice.
"What, the two of us sitting in my flat's kitchen having beer? Might get a little tedious, Peter."
"You know what I mean." Peter scowled at the bottle of lager in his hand as if it were responsible for all his woes. "As if everything were all right. No war. And no need to worry about friends on both sides."
"Or friends who are on both sides," Regulus agreed with a nod.
A flinch. "I know. I'm probably the only man in England who could stand in the middle of a battle between the Order and the Death Eaters and get hit with the Killing Curse by both of them."
"I doubt if you're the only one," Regulus said gently.
Peter heaved a great sigh. "Somehow, that doesn't make me feel any better."
"Sometimes," Regulus said, squinting at the ceiling, "I'd like to quit. Just turn in my letter of resignation and Floo off to Tahiti."
"Nice idea. Too bad it wouldn't work."
"You never know," Regulus said. "Might be worth trying."
Peter eyed Regulus sceptically. "Regulus. We're bound to him. By this damned thing." He lightly touched his left forearm, where the Dark Mark was imprinted. "Even if you ran away to the ends of the earth, lived as a Muggle for the rest of your life, and had plastic surgery done to disguise your face--"
"Plastic what?"
"Like a Disguise Spell," Peter said impatiently. "Only for Muggles. Anyway, even if you did all that, he could still find you, through the Mark, and catch you..." He paused, as if quoting."'...With an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let you wander to the ends of the world, and still able to bring you back with a twitch upon the thread.'"
"So we're just fish. And the Dark Lord can reel us in any time he likes."
"Essentially, yes." Peter sounded resigned.
Regulus privately thought that was one of the bleakest images that he'd heard in a long time. "You think we're going to win, then?"
"I don't think anyone is going to win, except for him. After all, once he gains power...well, he's not going to want to share it, is he? Especially not with a bunch of ambitious Slytherins."
Regulus's mouth went dry. "What do you think he'll do?"
"Reward the fanatics, like Bellatrix. Kill the ambitious ones who might have ideas about palace coups, like Lucius. That'll eliminate 75% of the Death Eaters right there. I don't think many will survive, unless he's convinced they're not ambitious―like the former Hufflepuffs, for example―and unless they're more use to him alive than dead."
"What cheery thoughts you have, Peter," Regulus said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.
"It's just sense," Peter said with a shrug. "It's not as if he gives a tinker's dam about any of us. We're just pawns and slaves to him."
Something in Regulus revolted at the notion. Blacks are slaves to no one.
Perhaps the seed of rebellion started growing at that moment.
"I still think Tahiti sounds like a good idea," he said aloud.
"Oh, it's a lovely idea,” Peter said, smiling sadly. “The only trouble is, it wouldn't work. There's no way he'd be able to let a couple of deserters go; sparing us would make him look weak, and not finding us would make him look stupid. Either one would damage his image. He'd have to find us and execute us publicly to demonstrate why deserting his cause was a very dangerous thing to do."
"I wish you weren't always so damned logical," Regulus muttered.
"I lived with James and Sirius for seven years," Peter replied. "I think I became logical in self-defence."
Regulus sighed, and switched back to a safer topic. "So what does Harry look like?"
"Small. Red-faced. Bit of black fuzz on the top of his head. Sleeps a lot, and cries at inconvenient times. Typical baby, really."
"And?" Regulus prompted, sure there must be more.
Peter's face lit up like the sun. "He's beautiful."
***
After that conversation, Regulus started searching for vulnerabilities that the Dark Lord might possess. Peter's bleak vision of the fate of the Death Eaters after Voldemort had taken power troubled him. And, Slytherin-like, he focused on possible secrets which might be of use to him.
He found little. Reminding himself that this did not mean there was nothing to find, he dug deeper.
Oddly enough, it was Bellatrix who finally told him what he needed to know. She came up to him one night after a meeting, an unexpectedly solemn expression upon her face. "I need to talk to you, cousin."
Crossing his arms over his chest, Regulus regarded her with suspicion. "You know, Bella, whenever you use the word 'cousin,' I know you want something."
Bellatrix frowned. "That's not nice, baby cousin," she said in a dangerous, dancing tone. "You should think better of your family. You never know when you might need them."
I will forget that you just called me a baby. "Why might I need my family?" he said, striving for a light-hearted expression. "Am I experiencing some sort of family crisis I know nothing about yet?"
Bellatrix gazed up at the stars and laughed. Regulus tried not to imagine what she might be seeing.
"He knows, Regulus," she said, her voice rich with gloating. "The Dark Lord knows of your disloyalty."
It was on the tip of Regulus's tongue to deny it, to say that she was lying, and lying badly at that. But then he saw Bellatrix give a reproving nod, and his heart sank. Somehow, some way, he'd been betrayed.
Bellatrix laughed, lovely bell-like laughter which set his teeth on edge. "It was the Mudblood who betrayed you."
Not intentionally, Regulus retorted mentally. Peter simply can't block the Dark Lord from his mind. None of us can.
None of these facts made him feel any less hurt, however.
"How many times did we tell you not to trust Mudbloods?" Bellatrix shook her head, as if scolding an errant child. "This one would have been the death of you, if Lucius, Rodolphus, Cissy and I hadn't intervened."
"I suppose I should thank you," Regulus said stiffly.
"Oh, we did it for the family, not for you," Bellatrix said dismissively. "You've been a disloyal fool, true, but the House of Black doesn't deserve to be disgraced forever because of your idiocy."
Regulus sighed. "Get to the point, Bella. What do I have to do to get back in the Dark Lord's good graces?"
Bella appeared to consider the question. "Well...killing your vile brother might help."
Regulus stared at her. He knew he couldn't have heard right.
"Oh, and don't think of fleeing to Tahiti," Bellatrix added in a mocking voice. "You couldn't escape the Dark Lord, no matter where you ran. He's far, far too powerful for the likes of you, and is utterly heartless. How can you destroy a man without a heart?" So saying, she strolled away laughing.
Regulus shoved the Dark Lord's appalling command to the back of his mind, and tried to focus on what Bellatrix had just said. A man without a heart...that was a vaguely familiar concept, but he couldn't quite remember why.
It took several days of searching through various magical libraries before he came across an ancient tale about an evil and powerful wizard who turned young men to stone and kidnapped a young woman to be his slave-wife. Regulus thought of Peter, petrified with fear, and Bellatrix, whose sanity had vanished as Voldemort had enslaved her affections. The old tale was frighteningly familiar.
He flipped through the story, searching for any mention of the wizard's heart. At last he found it.
'Far, far from here,' said he, 'in a lonely spot, stands a great church, as old as old can be. Its doors are of iron, and round it runs a deep moat, spanned by no bridge. Within that church is a bird which flies up and down; it never eats, and never drinks, and never dies. No one can catch it, and while that bird lives so shall I, for in it is my heart.'
Regulus didn't think that the bird could contain a wizard's heart. Human hearts were rather large and bulky things, not easily removed.
But something that the heart symbolized―emotions, maybe, or a person's spirit―yes, it might be possible for an object to hold those things.
Regulus redoubled his efforts at trying to find the spell that could do this.
August passed into September. Sirius was once more off on a secret mission about which Peter knew nothing. Regulus was glad. The longer Sirius stayed out of reach, the safer he would be. However, he could not help but notice the feral look in the eyes of Bellatrix, Lucius and the Lestrange brothers. His kin were waiting―even eager―for him to fail.
That he would fail was a given. Sirius might be an opinionated, reckless idiot, but Regulus had no desire to kill him.
Which, Regulus reflected, would almost certainly get himself killed. I don't want to die. I'm only nineteen, for Merlin's sake.
But, on the other hand, he couldn't take Peter's path. Lately, there seemed to be less of Peter and more of Wormtail the Death Eater. Things that Peter would never have done, Wormtail did unfeelingly, often looking up afterward as if hoping for a kind word or a pat on the head.
Well done, Wormtail, Regulus thought bitterly. You torture and kill so easily. What a good dog you are.
And yet...some remnant of the old Peter was left. Regulus read that much in his bowed head, his stooped shoulders and his despairing eyes.
Regulus recalled a legend Peter had told him about a nightmarish place called Hell, and wondered if Peter felt as if he were already there.
No, he couldn't take Peter's route. That was unthinkable.
Time passed, and still Sirius did not return. Regulus made a convincing pretence of trying to find his brother, and spent every spare moment he had in researching the spell from the fairy tale. After reading quite a number of Dark magic books from the Black family library, he learned the name of the thing that could hold a portion of a human soul―a Horcrux. And he also learned more than he'd ever wanted to know about the sorts of containers that were suitable for Horcruxes, the incantations and rituals needed to create one, and the myriad repugnant ways to split one's soul. Unfortunately, none of it was any use without some knowledge of where Voldemort's Horcruxes might be, and the Dark Lord was hardly likely to confide in him.
More than once, he was tempted to go to Peter. Peter was clever; Peter would surely be able to figure out the locations that the Dark Lord considered significant.
What stopped him was the painful certainty that Peter would be unable to conceal Regulus's actions from the Dark Lord. The next time the Dark Lord ravaged Peter's mind, he would surely discover what Regulus was up to. And then...
He did not want to die. But even more, he did not want to die pointlessly.
So talking to Peter was out.
It hurt, not being able to talk to Peter. What was worse, Regulus could see that it hurt Peter as well. Sometimes, during meetings, Regulus would feel Peter staring at him in wounded bewilderment, like a dog who'd been punished and who didn't know why.
I'm sorry, he would think at Peter, wishing desperately that each of them was a Legilimens. But I'm not going to die without getting even. And I want to get even for you, too.
It was not until the end of September when Regulus discovered the location of one of the Horcruxes, thanks to an old Muggle woman named Florence Cole who had worked as a matron at an orphanage fifty years ago.
It took her a while to understand who he was inquiring after. Asking about "the boy who was the son of the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin" would mean nothing to Mrs Cole. And even though he had divined Merope Gaunt Riddle's identity from the Dark Lord's boast of being Slytherin's last descendant, Regulus dared not speak the name of "Riddle" too openly. Someone, anyone, could be listening―and he was suspect already.
So, surreptitiously wiping his sweaty palms on those damnable Muggle trousers he'd been compelled to wear to the nursing home where Florence Cole now lived, Regulus asked about orphans with certain unusual aptitudes. After a bit of jabber about a girl who painted and a boy who had a knack with building radios―which was Greek to Regulus―Mrs Cole mentioned Tom Riddle.
"Nasty boy, he was," she said with a grimace. "Loved hurting other children, I'd take my oath on it, though, mind you, we never actually saw him doing anything. But he'd get in a quarrel with a boy and the next thing you knew, that boy's pet rabbit would be hanging from the ceiling. And I don't know what he did to Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop when he was lost in a seaside cave with them, but they were never right afterwards." She sniffed. "He kept haunting those caves over the years. Nearly every summer, the orphanage would take a day trip to Blackpool, and every single time, he'd make a beeline for those caves. Like they were a shrine or something."
So there it was. Admittedly, it wasn't a map, but how many out-of-the-way caves could there be near Blackpool? And he was surely enough of a wizard to sense any spells that the Dark Lord had cast to protect the Horcrux hidden there.
But once he was home, Regulus hesitated.
All right. He couldn't kill his brother. But maybe he didn't have to. Maybe he could fake his death and Sirius's; solid illusions of his friends' corpses had fooled Peter, after all. Maybe he and his brother could move somewhere the war wasn't. Australia or something. Maybe...
No.
Sirius would never leave James. And Peter would be mortally hurt that Regulus had fled and left him behind. His death would hurt them both, but not nearly as badly as his becoming a person even he despised.
And death was better than living huddled in terror, never knowing when to expect the boot at the door or the green light of the Killing Curse. Much better.
Desperately, he longed for just one more moment―one second when he could tell Peter and Sirius goodbye.
Sighing, he squared his shoulders, grabbed a can of Floo Powder from the shelf above his fireplace and tossed a handful of it into the fire.
"The caves near Blackpool," he said, stepping into the flames.
He didn't notice, as he departed, that his voice held no fear at all.
***