"Stopped" DvD Commentary, Part 2

[gehayi]

Here's the conclusion of the DvD Commentary on Stopped, Part 1. I really wish I hadn't had to break this up. Sigh.

***

Peter did not, precisely, forget about James's invitation. Rather, he was unaware of time passing. Each day, which appeared to be hundreds of hours long, melted identically into the next--like water colours flowing together to form a sea of muddy brown.

Depression can severely mess up your time sense. This can be very confusing.

There were still clocks, calendars and schedules in the outside world, of course, and Peter made an effort to comply with such oddities, especially while at St. Mungo's. Yet at the same time, he knew that time was not real any longer. The seasons had not changed or passed since last December, when Voldemort had captured him; "spring," "summer" and "autumn" had become conventional but meaningless sounds. It was always bleak midwinter now, and always bone-chillingly cold.

Sleep was the best way to escape the endless winter.

Sleeping a lot is also a symptom of depression.

He couldn't always escape the memories--Dreamless Sleep potions caused mental instability if taken too often---but if he wanted to sleep, it was either that or transform into a rat.

Peter, being a Healer trainee, would certainly know the risks of suppressing REM sleep, as people who aren't allowed to dream can develop psychoses. I had to make the point here that Peter saw this, dangerous though it was, as more of an escape than transforming into a rat, because a number of other fanfic writers had published stories around this time describing Rat! Peter's view of the world, free from pain, fear and guilt.

And considering how Dorcas had died, transforming himself into something not human was unbearable.

And there's his motive for choosing Dreamless Sleep over transformation-along with the confirmation, suggested already by the slit-pupilled and multifaceted eyes, that Dorcas did not die human.

Consequently, Peter was sound asleep when James's head appeared in his fireplace on the twenty-eighth of September.

Confirmation of the date, if anyone hadn't gotten it already.

"Wormtail!"

That's got to be one of the nastiest and most negatively Freudian nicknames that one teenaged boy could possibly give another. It doesn't really sound like a friendly name at all, does it?

The hated nickname, spoken in a hiss, jolted Peter awake. No. Not him. Please, God, not him.

I don't think James WAS hissing. I think he was speaking in a very loud whisper. Peter, barely awake, didn't make the distinction.

Not that there was any real point in praying to God any more. God didn't listen to the damned.

You learn a lot about Peter here. A) He believes in God, which sets him apart from most wizards. B) He's frightened enough of Voldemort to pray to God for deliverance, even if he doesn't believe it will do any good. C) He believes he's damned-which, considering that Peter lives in a world where he knows for a fact that there are souls (Dementors eat them) and that the afterlife exists (he's certainly seen Hogwarts' ghosts), is a terrible thing to have to live with. And D) he believes himself to be guilty of some great crime or sin. For the innocent and the good are not damned.

"Wormtail, damn it, where are you?"

Peter glanced fearfully over at the fireplace, then let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. James. Good.

Very carefully, his mind skittered away from the fact when his best friend said his nickname, he heard Voldemort's voice. He did not want to think about how completely Voldemort owned him.

"James?"

James, looking irritated, peered at Peter over the tops of his glasses. "Peter, what are you doing home? I thought you were coming to dinner with Lily and me. Pads and Moony are already here."

Yes, I know that Sirius's nickname is Padfoot and not Pads. I picture James playing with the nickname-stretching it out and shortening it as if it were Silly Putty.

Peter frowned. "I thought that was next week?"

Or next month, his mind added. Or next year. Sometime in a future that will never arrive, anyway.

"No," said James, his voice fairly dripping with patience, "it's today. I'll leave the Floo open for you. Do hurry up--Lily's worried about you."

What he means is, “I was worried about you.”

And with a final exasperated glance in Peter's direction, James withdrew his head from the fire.

Don't you just hate getting worried when it turns out there was no reason for it?

Peter sighed, cast one last longing glance at the chair where he'd been sleeping peacefully, and hurried off to get dressed. A half hour later, attired in a formal navy blue robe with gold trim,

The colour of the robe is deliberately ironic. Blue stands for truth and loyalty.

he Flooed to James and Lily's Mortlake cottage.

Yes, there is such a place as Mortlake. It's a riverside portion of the Royal Borough of Kingston-on-Thames in London, and is an odd mixture of an industrial present (it's on the flight path from Heathrow, among other things) and an elegant townhouse past. It was home, at one point, to the famous Elizabethan alchemist Doctor John Dee, who died there in 1608, which gave me the idea of having a wizarding neighbourhood in Mortlake. The blue house at Number 1, Thames Bank, which I gave to James and Lily as a pre-Godric's Hollow residence, also exists--on one side of it lie Mortlake Brewery and a landmark pub called The Ship, while on the other side are historical buildings.

The others were already waiting in the living room. James, in scarlet, was attempting to soothe an armful of squirming, squalling baby. Lily, dressed in a maize-gold robe that complemented her hair, had evidently just come in from the kitchen; she was wearing a large gingham apron over the robe, and she had a streak of gravy on one cheek. Remus, in a charcoal-grey suit that was probably second-hand, was stirring a cup of tea. Sirius, in skin-tight jeans and a black leather jacket, was downing a glass of Firewhiskey.

Lily almost always gets put in green robes, so I gave her gold ones instead-along with a very practical apron. Remus is wearing a second-hand Muggle suit because it's what he can afford, and because he often has to work in the Muggle world to pay his share of the bills. Sirius is dressed as he is because a) he's still rebelling against everything and b) he looks damned good in that outfit, and he knows it.

"There you are," said Lily, bustling forward with an anxious expression and kissing him on the cheek. "When you didn't show up, I was scared. I thought something might have happened to you. So many people are…disappearing…these days--"

Unlike James, Lily admits to being worried.

Peter removed his wand from his robe pocket, murmured a quick "Scourgify!" to cleanse his robes of soot, and glanced apologetically at Lily. "I'm sorry you were worried. No, nothing's happened to me--not lately, anyway."

Peter comes very close here to telling Lily that something HAS happened to him, albeit not lately. Unfortunately, James interrupts, and Lily misses the clue.

He smiled nervously. A joke, see? I can joke. I'm fine.

"No talking about the war," said James firmly as he burped his son. "Today, we're together. The war doesn't exist."

Lily sighed, and squared her shoulders. "Of course," she said, and Peter thought there might have been a flash of pity in her expression.

Lily, who is far more pragmatic than James, is protecting her husband here. I think she already knows that pretending the war isn't real won't work.

"Well, sit down and relax, Peter.

I love how, in a few minutes, she picks up on how tense Peter is.

Dinner will be ready in a few minutes." And with that, she scurried back to the kitchen.

As Remus drew him aside, Peter heard Sirius say, "Pity she doesn't have a house-elf to help her around the place, Prongs."

The sudden roar of a plane overhead

The cottage is on the flight path to Heathrow, remember?

caused the windows to rattle and the cottage to tremble, drowning out James's answer. Sirius's reply, however, was perfectly clear. "Merlin, no, I wouldn't want Kreacher in this house..."

Their voices faded as they wandered into the dining room.

Remus shook his head. "He shouldn't do that."

"I think I annoyed James by forgetting his invitation." He sighed. "I didn't mean to forget. Honestly."

"I know." Remus smiled, a tired-hand-me-down smile that had clearly seen better days.

A lot of fics make Remus rather carefree until after the Potters (and supposedly Peter) were killed. I think he'd be more likely to be under stress at this point-he's suffering from a debilitating illness, he's helping to fight a war, and, as we're about to find out, issues of trust are developing.

"I wasn't talking about that, though. I was talking about Sirius. Sirius shouldn't have just ignored you."

"Oh," said Peter blankly. It hadn't occurred to him that this was a bad thing. In his experience, Sirius being mischievous and amicable was far more disturbing to Peter's peace of mind. Sirius in a good mood was a Sirius who was rebelling against everything--and who wanted his best friends to come along for the ride, no matter how hazardous or deranged the ride might be.

Peter and Sirius are friends, but they aren't very similar in background or in thinking. Peter would prefer being safe and ignored at this point, rather than taking chances and being spotted by the wrong people.

"It's all right," he said, looking up at Remus's long, lined face. "I didn't really notice."

Remus laughed quietly. "You're a good liar, Peter."

In fact, Peter's far better at lying than Remus knows...even though, at this stage, most of his lies are lies of omission.

Peter wasn't quite certain whether to be insulted or not. He decided not to be. Getting angry took so much energy.

"He's been like that a lot lately," Remus added, removing the spoon from his mug. He set the spoon in a spotless ashtray beside the iron trivet on which a teapot, covered in a patchwork cosy, was resting. Taking a long draught of his tea, he continued, staring at nothing in particular, refusing to meet Peter's eyes.

"Has Dumbledore spoken to you lately?"

Two “latelys” in two consecutive pieces of dialogue. Oh, dear.

Peter couldn't remember if Dumbledore had spoken to him or not. He picked up the only empty, clean mug that remained on the table, and poured himself some tea. "No. He hasn't." Perplexed, he glanced at Remus's tense expression. "Why?"

"Because," Remus said quietly, "Dumbledore believes that there may be a traitor in our midst. One of You-Know-Who's people. And Sirius agrees."

It didn't occur to Peter that he might be the traitor that Dumbledore was talking about. "One of You-Know-Who's people" meant, to his mind, someone who longed to serve Voldemort, like Lucius Malfoy or Bellatrix Lestrange. Moreover, someone was certainly watching him, gleefully informing the Dark Lord whether or not his pitiful scraps of information were vaguely accurate...and telling Voldemort that Dorcas Meadowes was trying to help his latest slave break free.

One thing that I'd always seen in First War fics was Peter's awareness of himself as the traitor. That always bothered me, but I didn't know why till I started writing this. Peter doesn't see himself as the bad guy, but as a victim; he refuses to think of himself as the traitor, because these are his friends, and he can't bear to realize that what he's doing is betraying them.

It also makes sense that someone unknown is keeping an eye on Peter, because unlike most of the other Death Eaters, Peter isn't an ideologue. He doesn't believe in Voldemort, or in Voldemort's agenda; the Dark Lord says in canon that Peter's loyalty is merely fear, and that he would not be with the Death Eaters if he had anywhere else to go. By definition, this would make him suspect.

Dorcas...

deleterius and last year's Easter Egg stories are responsible for my turning Dorcas Meadowes into Peter's girl. After a spate of Marauder-Sues, a number of people demanded that Peter be given a canonically plausible, non-Sue girlfriend. At the same time, xdistantsparkle requested a story about Dorcas and Peter. I decided to expand on that story for "Stopped."

Dorcas had been a member of the Order, a plump Ravenclaw with a round, agreeable face.

Dorcas is plump because I had gotten tired of all those skinny Sues with curves in the right places. She's a Ravenclaw because the Order would need someone doing research-everyone can't be a field agent, after all-and research just fit a Ravenclaw's personality.

Her chief value to the Order had lain in her genius for finding unsuspected countercurses.

She had been useful. And the other Order members had been grateful, in a vague, tepid way. It was hard to be enthusiastic about a researcher, no matter how able, when others were risking their lives--and often dying--in battle.

Researchers rarely get the credit they deserve, even if their work is essential. And I wanted to show that, due to members of the Order having to fight the war virtually unsupported, they sometimes failed to see beyond the obvious.

Peter had seen more.

He liked her short dark hair that glistened a warm brown in sunlight. He liked her mischievous brown eyes that shone with pleasure when she saw him. He liked her infectious laugh and her low, husky voice. He liked her sharp mind and her quick wit, and how, when they debated current issues, she never backed down, never once kept silent when she thought she was right.

Dorcas, for her part, seemed to like much in Peter as well--the awe and wonder in his pale blue eyes whenever she glanced at him, the slight stammer that showed he'd been carried away by the intensity of his feelings once again. She liked his practicality and his logic; she adored his passion for reading. She was moved by the solemn, gentle care he gave to the tortured, the injured and the dying.

Most of all, she liked his smile--not the good-humoured, hail-fellow-well-met grin he used for public consumption, but the private smile only she seemed able to surprise out of him, the smile that briefly lit his face with astonished joy.

They aren't glamorous, either of them, but they do see the best in each other. And I wanted Peter to have loved, and to have been loved...however briefly.

It was Dorcas he had turned to with the news that he had joined Voldemort--not the friends whom he feared would kill him out of righteous wrath.

I was trying to answer the question of why Peter wouldn't tell his friends that he'd been turned--particularly if he hated Voldemort. Given the behavior of Sirius and Remus in the Shrieking Shack, I think he might well have feared that they simply wouldn't believe him, and would kill him on the spot. And from this fear, of course, would come both doubt and distrust.

Dorcas had held him tightly as he had stared into nothingness, his face burning with shame, his voice barely a whisper as he struggled to describe the unspeakable.

Going to Dumbledore was unacceptable. Though Peter had said nothing, Dorcas had known that he could not bear the idea of beseeching Dumbledore to free him from slavery; it would be no more than exchanging one owner for another. She had understood that no matter how hard it was, no matter how much pain and effort it cost him, Peter needed to free himself.

And here I answer another question-why wouldn't Peter go to Dumbledore? I think it's because Peter would have been a very young man when he turned--around nineteen or twenty--and his pride and ego were at stake. He might have told Dumbledore after he managed to break free, but he couldn't endure being a weak, untrustworthy failure in his former Headmaster's eyes. It's a very natural and human reaction, but it will lead to disaster.

Dorcas never once considered that she not help him do so.

She had found spells of unbinding--spells that sorely weakened the Dark Mark--fairly quickly. It was not long before the bond enslaving Peter to Voldemort began to weaken as well.

It was unfortunate that Voldemort could also feel the bond weakening.

Slaves who attempted to break free needed to be taught a lesson.

The Dark Lord did not punish Peter. He punished Dorcas. And he took his time.

Knowing, of course, that hurting Dorcas would hurt Peter far more deeply than anything else. My version of Voldemort tends to be both intelligent and sadistic...and very good at keeping his minions in line.

Ages before the Dark Lord's wrath against her was slaked, Dorcas Meadowes ceased to be human. Mercifully, the thing that had been Dorcas screamed itself into insanity before Voldemort wearied of the harsh howls being torn from its de-evolved throat.

This isn't very specific, but I don't think it has to be. The reader's own imagination fills in the hideous gaps.

Peter had been forced to watch, and to do nothing.

If I were writing this today, I'd say that Peter was held in a Full-Body Bind. He did not have a choice about saving her, didn't even have a chance to save her--but he blames himself, nevertheless. This was the woman he loved, and she died because of him. Can we say "guilt," boys and girls?

Now, hearing Remus's words, he shot an appalled and sickened look at Remus, clenched his eyes shut in an effort to blot out the hideous images which were swimming to the surface of his memory, and shuddered.

"Who's the traitor?" he demanded in a harsh whisper. "Did he say who?"

Remus shook his head. "He doesn't know. But there are those he considers...possibilities." And with that, he glanced away from Peter, staring out the window once again.

Remus, of course, has begun to fear that Sirius is the traitor. Peter's not picking up on that, because to his mind Sirius is far too direct and reckless a personality.

This time, Peter followed his gaze and beheld a small silhouette of a boat bobbing on the black waters of the Thames beneath a leaden sky. It reminded him of a woodcut he had seen in a book as a small boy. The woodcut had been of a dark and endless river with twisted black cypresses and contorted weeping willows crowding beside the riverbanks, and a cavernous sky overhead. One lone boat sailed upon that river; one solitary person, a robed figure without a face, poled the boat toward the viewer silently, relentlessly, inexorably.

Charon. That had been the name of the picture. Charon, Conveying Souls to the Underworld.

I saw that woodcut in a book of mythology that I owned as a child. I used to stare at it for hours, studying the shapes and the shadows.

Peter gazed as the boatman on the Thames seemed to merge with the woodcut of the boatman of the Styx.

"We're losing," he said in a weak voice.

Remus whirled on him. "Don't say that, Peter! The Order has to win this war. There's no hope otherwise."

Bewildered, Peter stared at Remus. War? Who cared about the war? Or the Order either, for that matter? It was they who were losing, the four of them. They were losing trust and hope and each other, and they could not stop it, any more than they could leash the north wind or force the tide not to turn.

And he could not say anything. Speaking of what was happening to them would make it real.

Peter did not think he could bear that much reality.

Again, not wanting to face what's wrong is a very human response--James, in his desire to ignore the war for a bit, makes it as well--but by not facing what's wrong between himself and his friends, Peter is making it impossible to fix the problem.

"Sorry," he said, trying to speak normally. "I was thinking about something else. Not the war."

This is true, but it sounds like a lie...just as many of the lies and half-lies throughout this story sound the truth.

Remus shot him an incredulous look that Peter understood perfectly. What else did anyone think of these days but the war?

He'd better answer, Peter realised. If Remus was innocent, failure to answer might be suspect. And if Remus had been forcibly turned, as he himself had been--or worse, if he had joined the Dark Lord voluntarily in return for the rights and privileges that Voldemort promised Dark Creatures--well, it was better that he have nothing adverse to report, wasn't it?

Part of him insisted that it was ludicrous. Remus was the soul of honour and probity. He would never do such a thing in a million years.

I wouldn't do anything like that, either, his mind answered sadly. And yet...I did.

Reason number three for Peter not trusting his friends as much as he'd like: he knows what Voldemort is capable of doing to break a person. And he can't say that nothing would break them, nothing would cause them to turn--because he was a decent person, and he did both.

And there was no adequate reply to that.

"I'm tired of losing people," he said at last. "People and patients and…it never stops, Remus. It never stops."

When Voldemort wanted to break my will, he killed my sisters. When he wanted to break my mind and spirit, he destroyed Dorcas before my eyes. I can't lose any more people I love, Remus. You, Sirius, James, Lily…you're all I have left. If we lose faith in each other--if we stop being friends--I don't know what I'll do.

My characters have a bad habit of not saying everything that they are thinking. Remus, of course, thinks Peter is weary of watching people die; personally, I think that fear of his friends' deaths and fear of the death of their friendship are very mixed up in Peter's mind.

Remus placed a comforting hand on Peter's shoulder. At least, Peter thought it was intended to be comforting.

On the other hand, werewolves were quick. One false move on Peter's part, and Remus could choke off the oxygen to his brain, or tear out Peter's jugular vein with his nails.

But he'd never do that!

...unless he was truly Voldemort's willing servant.

...unless he was being blackmailed into it.

...unless he's under the influence of Imperio.

And there was no way to know.

He hated himself for even thinking that about Remus. Remus had always been to him what James was to Sirius. James and Sirius were his friends, but Remus was his brother.

Oh, God, he couldn't lose Remus too. He couldn't.

Remus is such a popular character that I had to raise a variety of canon-plausible reasons why Peter, Remus's friend, could conceivably believe that he might be the traitor--not only now, but years later in the Shrieking Shack. I've always had the impression that Peter's behavior in the Shack was, alternately, an appeal to Remus and an attempt to blame Remus. Strange behavior toward a former friend...unless Peter was uncertain which side Remus was on.

Mentally, he damned Dumbledore for raising the question of a traitor in the Order, and James for making him come here today instead of letting him sleep without dreams or nightmares, sunk in the grey fog filling his brain. He didn't want to think about this. He did not want to think at all.

"Do you want me to talk to Sirius about what Dumbledore said?" he said hesitantly. "S-sometimes it helps to talk to someone who isn't directly involved."

Peter is trying to be genuinely helpful here. The problem is, in retrospect, his behavior looks like misdirection.

"No," Remus replied in a dull aching voice. "He wouldn't want to hear it. He especially wouldn't want to hear that you'd heard the news from me."

There was a slight pause before Peter realised that he should question that last statement. "Why? Why wouldn't he want to hear that?"

Remus gave him a sharp glance. "You haven't been talking to Moody lately."

Peter shivered.

"Something wrong?"

"It's just--the way he talks sometimes. He tried to tell me that the Death Eaters deserve to have their souls taken from them." A thread of anger crept into Peter's voice as he spoke. "And I said that wasn't fair. And it isn't. W-we hate them for the inhuman things they do to others, and then we turn right around and take away their humanity? How does that make us any better than they are? It doesn't make sense."

My Peter is an Anglo-Catholic. His mother is fiercely devout. He also lives in a magical world in which he has known since he was eleven that ghosts and the afterlife are not superstitions or articles of belief, but cold hard facts. Consequently, he hates the Dementors--and the wizarding world's use of the Dementor's Kiss as capital punishment. Soul-devourers and the destruction of souls outrage and offend him, on an emotional and spiritual level.

"Moody would probably say that's repayment for their sins," murmured Remus. "That, or retribution."

"Retribution's just a fancy word for getting even," said Peter, already beginning to feel exhausted.

Notice he doesn't think of retribution in terms of justice.

"And how can you pay for what you did wrong if you aren't even you any more? When there's nothing left but a husk that doesn't know enough to stop breathing? You can't even pay for it in the afterlife because there's no you to go on to the afterlife!"

Oh, he's not afraid of this happening to him. Not at ALL. And of course that gives him yet another excellent reason to keep silent...and to distrust those who might be able to help.

"Moody thinks that's no better than creatures of the Dark deserve." Remus's expression was carefully neutral.

Peter thought of James taunting Snape, of Sirius and the Prank, of himself kneeling before Voldemort, choking out secrets that might get his friends killed. "Everybody's a creature of the Dark, at times."

This fits with Catholic belief, and with Peter's later behavior in the Shack, when he begs everyone to spare him. Everyone is a sinner; everyone needs mercy.

"Some of us more than others," Remus said with a tight bitter smile.

"I can't believe that Moody would suspect you," said Peter, attempting to smother the thought that suspecting Remus did make a horrible kind of sense. The Dark Lord did promise werewolves greater freedom, as well as opportunities to avenge themselves on the society that hated them. Remus was kind and patient, but even a kind and patient werewolf might grow weary of hatred, fear and contempt eventually and might ache to lash out.

More reasons to suspect Remus. Note, though, that he's trying to smother the suspicions. He really doesn't want to suspect his closest friend as the Death Eater who's been watching him.

"Well," said Remus, "he does. Of course, he also suspects Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Minerva McGonagall and you, so I can't take his suspicions too seriously."

"Me?" Peter stared at Remus in dull amazement. "He suspects me? Why?"

Again with the ambiguous questions. Peter is startled here, as anyone would be-but, again, in retrospect, the questions could look like disingenuous misdirection.

"I've no idea." Remus rolled his eyes. "I think that he's been cursed one time too many. It's eating away his brain."

Remus not only doesn't suspect Peter; he thinks the very idea is ridiculous.

"Do you suspect anyone?"

The question was an idle one; Peter thoroughly expected Remus--whether he was guilty or innocent--to say "No!" automatically. Instead, Remus glanced away from the window and stared at the flowered carpet.

"I-I don't know. I don't want to. But," and Remus scowled, "he could be. He has the right background, and there's something You-Know-Who possesses that he wants very badly." He shook himself. With an all-too-casual air, he added, "Are you still talking to Regulus?"

Wow. Way to go for subtle allusions to Sirius's possible motive for turning, Remus. This is also the first time that we learn that Peter has friends other than the Marauders, and that one of them is Regulus.

Peter blinked, wondering at the abrupt change of subject. "Of course. He's a friend."

Peter completely misses the fact that Remus suspects Sirius, again because of Sirius's personality.

"Sirius thinks he's worthless."

"Sirius is wrong."

"You know…Regulus is probably a Death Eater."

"He IS a Death Eater." Peter sighed. "Look, he didn't know what he was joining. He thought it was just a political party, or a group of activists. Just a bit of mummery and ritual--nothing to take seriously. He didn't know what it was going to involve."

Please note that even though Peter isn't sure about Remus's loyalties, and despite the fact that he knows that Moody considers him a potential traitor, he still goes out on a limb and pleads Regulus's case. Regulus has to be a good friend.

"He had to have heard the rumours, Peter."

"Of course he did," Peter retorted. "But most people don't join a political organisation and think, 'Well, now that I've joined, I shall terrorise the public and slaughter people.' He probably thought that the rumours were just gossip started by the opposite side."

My Regulus is a fundamentally decent young man, despite his belief in pureblood superiority and wizarding tradition, so I had to come up with a reason why a decent kid would join the Death Eaters in the first place.

"Even so…"

"He wants to quit."

Remus gazed at him with a pitying expression. "Do you honestly believe that quitting is an option?"

"I don't know," said Peter reluctantly. "I hope so."

And now the conversation shifts, becoming as much about Peter as about Regulus.

"I doubt if he can simply hand in his letter of resignation to You-Know-Who…much as he wants to."

Peter took a deep breath. "He made a stupid mistake. That's all. He's sorry. He knows he was wrong. He shouldn't have to pay for the rest of his life for being stupid."

"In your opinion," Remus replied softly. "And mine. Moody and Sirius would probably disagree. They'd say that there wasn't any humanity left in a wizard, once he turned to the Dark."

Yet another reason why Peter finds it so hard to trust other wizards-the widespread belief in the wizarding world that there's no coming back from the Dark. He and Regulus are irredeemable in the eyes of most wizards, and Peter knows it.

"Do you think that Dumbledore believes that? Or," and Peter bit his lower lip, "do you think that he'd help?"

Irony of ironies...Peter won't go to Dumbledore to save himself, but he's willing to go to Dumbledore for Regulus's sake.

Remus considered for a few moments, then nodded. "Yes, I think he believes that. Otherwise, he wouldn't be warning us against the traitor, would he? He'd be trying to get the traitor onto our side."

Remus and Peter don't know about Snape working for the Order, of course. It might have made a difference if they had.

Peter felt as if he were choking. "But...this is Regulus I'm talking about. Dumbledore knows him. He's Sirius's brother."

"Yes. But this is war. They can't afford to take that kind of a chance."

Peter said nothing. He couldn't. He felt as if someone had just struck him in the stomach with a sledgehammer.

And there it is. Regulus, and, by extension, Peter, both stand condemned. There is nowhere they can go.

As he battled for words, for air, for anything to overcome the feeling of panic crushing his rib cage as if he were drowning, Lily stepped into the room.

"Dinner's ready," she said.

***

Peter did not bother to speak during dinner; he concentrated on the food. It tasted like cardboard, but that wasn't Lily's fault--so did most food he ate these days.

Depression, again.

At least it was warm and filling.

Determinedly, he did not think about Remus being the traitor watching him...or about the people in the Order being quite righteously certain that no one on the side of the Dark Lord could possibly crave anything better.

This is like sitting in a room and trying NOT to think of pink elephants.

He was far from the only distracted one at the table. Remus was not talking much, and when he did, it was nothing more than light-hearted small talk--the kind of banter you'd engage in with strangers you wanted to impress. Sirius was pointedly not looking at Remus, and he was being odiously cheerful--rather, Peter thought, like a game show host.

Just as Remus suspects Sirius, Sirius suspects Remus. And everyone is playing a part, pretending nothing is wrong.

James, clearly not understanding what was wrong but nevertheless looking and sounding apprehensive, chatted mostly about Quidditch and Harry--two supremely dull topics, as far as Peter was concerned. Even after seven years at Hogwarts, he still found Quidditch confusing, and as for Harry…well, the child might be interesting someday but right now, he was barely two months old and hadn't even discovered that he had feet and could insert them into his mouth.

It doesn't make sense that everyone would like Quidditch, so Peter-the smallest and least athletic of the four--doesn't.

Peter would have left after pudding (which was home-made pound cake, a dessert he detested) if he hadn't been cornered by a harried Lily.

"Peter," she said, looking frazzled, "I need to talk to Sirius--preferably over dishes. Could you please take Harry for a walk?" And with that, she placed the baby in Peter's unresisting arms.

"Sirius'll want to cast Scourgify on the dishes," Peter reminded her. "You'll be talking to him for all of two seconds."

I knew someone would raise the issue of “Why not just clean the dishes magically?” I had Peter bring this up so that Lily could dismiss it.

"He's not casting Cleansing Charms on my dishes," Lily retorted. "I've seen what happens when Sirius casts Scourgify on china. The plates look as if they've been scoured with a cheese grater. No. We'll do this the Muggle way. Slowly. And up to our elbows in hot water."

You've just described my entire friendship with these three, Peter thought.

He didn't consider refusing, however. You just didn't do that when Lily asked for help.

So, fifteen minutes later, Peter--wearing one of James's old cloaks, and trying not to trip over the hem--was pushing a pram containing a very bundled-up baby away from the blue house at Number 1, Thames Bank.

Harry's bundled up because it's September in England, and because his parents' pre-Godric's Hollow residence is close to the Thames River. It's going to be cold...and damp.

"Your parents are daft, you know," he murmured to Harry in what he hoped was a soothing tone.
"Yours and the Longbottoms. Now, if I had a child, I'd send the baby and his mother off to Antarctica rather than have them stay here in the middle of a war."

Harry made a sound similar to "Ba-ba-ba-wstfgl."

I had a lot of fun coming up with words for the sounds that babies make. No one ever needed me to explain any of those nonexistent words, either.

"No, really. I wish I'd sent Dorcas someplace safe. But she was so determined to help..." Peter's face twisted involuntarily.

He'd like to cry. If he weren't a twenty-year-old Englishman who's trying desperately to keep control of himself and his emotions, he probably would.

"If I'd known what he was going to do to her, I'd never have told her what I'd done. Never."

Harry murfled.

"You'd have liked her, you know. Well, maybe you would have." Peter sighed. "Most people she worked with don't even remember her."

Dorcas's grotesque remains had been found by Mad-Eye Moody, along with certain scraps of information which told him that Voldemort was the killer.

Moody tells Harry in OotP that Dorcas was killed by Voldemort personally; since I doubt that Voldemort left a note saying, “I did this,” I settled for evidence found on the body.

He and Dumbledore, Peter was sure, had decided not to tell the rest of the Order what had happened to Dorcas; it would be bad for morale.

Finding out that a young woman had been transformed-or perhaps de-evolved-into something less than human might give even the most reckless Gryffindor in the Order pause. Intellectually, I think Peter understands this. Emotionally...it's one more lie that he has to deal with. And this time, it's coming from the wrong side.

Most of the Order members had simply assumed that Dorcas had been slain with the Killing Curse. They had mourned her at the funeral with formal indifference, and speculated idly about her death over the funeral baked meats, and went on.

Few people were close to her; few people felt the loss deeply. Of course, that also means that few people saw how badly Peter was hurting, as well.

Peter had said nothing. He dared not. His first refusal of Voldemort had cost his sisters' lives; his attempt to break free had cost him his love.

According to my later canon, Peter's sisters, their husbands and their children were all killed-though whether out of overzealousness on the part of Lucius and Bellatrix or on Voldemort's orders, Peter doesn't know.

Peter's thoughts were interrupted as Harry opened his mouth and let loose an ear-splitting wail.

Peter leaned in the pram, picked the baby up, placed him against his shoulder, and began rubbing the child's back in small, circular motions. "Yes," he murmured. "Seems like I've been wanting to scream like that for years."

Harry bubbled against Peter's shoulder.

"He's going to win." Peter stared out over the Thames. "Not because he's right, or because he deserves to. There just aren't enough people fighting him.

It really, really annoys me that the Order-what we've seen of it, anyway-is so small. And that most of the wizarding world, for all its vaunted fear of Voldemort, does nothing to help itself.

And there are loads of people who are supporting him--not because they want to, but because they're afraid not to.

I felt that I should point out that Peter isn't the only coward in the series. Most of the wizarding world, both in the first war and in the second, does exactly what Peter's doing-going along with Voldemort out of fear.

"It'll be ghastly when he takes over."

Peter turned to look at the baby in his arms. "Promise me something, Harry. Promise me you won't be a hero. Promise me that as soon as you see him coming after you, you'll run to the Australian Outback. Or the Himalayas. Or Point Barrow, Alaska. Anywhere but here. Don't fight him. I couldn't bear it if you ended up like Dorcas.

"And don't be like me."

Notice that Peter doesn't see any good options. Either you fight Voldemort and end up inhuman, insane, dead or all three, or you join him out of sheer terror. Fighting Voldemort and winning isn't even possible in Peter's mind-and of course that's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

There was no answer but the child's breathing. Harry had fallen asleep.

Gently, Peter placed Harry back in his pram and slowly walked back to the blue cottage.

But no sooner had he hung James's cloak back on the coat rack, returned the pram to the nursery, and handed the sleeping baby over to his mother when Sirius cornered him--with a determined look in his grey eyes.

I've always agreed with Madeleine L'Engle that “gray” and “grey” are two different colors--”gray” being a more metallic shade, like a battleship, and “grey” being a tint that would occur in nature, such as the color of fog.

"Wormtail. I've got to talk to you. It's vital."

Don't call me Wormtail, Peter thought, not bothering to say it aloud. He'd told Sirius how much he hated that nickname at least five thousand times, but his dislike never made any impression.

I think that Sirius honestly thinks that he's being funny and friendly by using that nickname. Notice, too-James and Sirius both call Peter “Wormtail.” Remus never does in this. In fact, I don't think he even uses the nickname in canon.

"Can't it wait?" he asked, hating the whine in his voice.

Sirius doesn't bring out the best in Peter. It's interesting that their two Animagus forms are both highly intelligent, curious animals who are or can be loyal to their packs...but a rat and a dog would not normally socialize. And a rat, to certain types of dogs, is prey.

"Please, Sirius? I-I'm tired."

Which was true. Exhaustion had seeped into his bones. All he wanted was to go home, sleep for a year, and forget about today's debacle.

Sirius sneered. "You always were lazy."

There wasn't any point in commenting on Sirius's rudeness; Peter knew he would only sound petulant.

"Fine," he said wearily. "What do you want?"

Sirius gazed at him sternly. "Did Remus talk to you earlier?"

"Yes."

"About?"

Peter almost groaned. "The war. What else do any of us talk about these days?"

"Nothing else?" The sentence snapped out like a whip.

Peter considered. Dumbledore, Moody, Regulus, treachery...no, it all added up to the war in his book. He shook his head.

Summarizing like this is perfectly normal...and once more, it's something that would look quite deceptive after the fact.

"He didn't mention where he's been going on his missions?"

"No." Why would he? Peter wondered. They're supposed to be secret.

"You didn't ask?" Plaintively.

"I have enough trouble keeping track of my own missions. Besides...I assume there are things that it's better for me not to know."

I think that Peter prefers not to know classified material. That way, Voldemort can't find it out from him via torture or Legilimency.

"Always careful, aren't you?" The sneer was back.

"I'm a Healer," Peter said quietly. "I try to put people's bodies back together after the Death Eaters take them apart. Sometimes I even succeed. I think you'd want me to be careful."

How's that for a dichotomy? He's not only a Death Eater, he has to repair the damage that Death Eaters do. There's no way that Peter can rationalize that the Death Eaters aren't doing any harm...every day that he goes to work, he can see how many people are ending up wounded, maimed and dead because of a group that he's part of.

Sirius ran his hand through his hair. For a moment it looked even messier than James's. "I do. I do, honestly. It's just--what do you do when something's horribly wrong and you know it's horribly wrong and you think that you know what's making it all go wrong, but you...just...can't...fix...it?"

Peter thought of St Mungo's, and the cursed and wounded people he treated daily. "You do what you can," he said quietly. "If you can't heal it outright, you minimise the damage--or at least make sure that the curse or infection doesn't spread, even if it doesn't get better. And it's not enough. But sometimes that's all you can do."

Sirius had turned pale as milk. "Minimising the damage---that would be difficult. I don't know if I could do something like that."

Wondering why Sirius was discussing medicine, of all things, Peter lifted one shoulder and then let it drop. "You wouldn't have to, under normal circumstances."

"Nothing's normal nowadays."

Peter rubbed his temples; he could feel a dizzying migraine coming on. "Sometimes, in abnormal circumstances, you have to do things that you would never even think of doing otherwise. Like an emergency tracheotomy with a penknife to save someone from choking. Or...or those Muggles who crashed in the Andes and who ended up eating each other."

And if that didn't spell out that Sirius should do whatever it took to save Regulus--or Peter--he didn't know what would.

Neither of these boys is particularly good at communicating when he's talking around a subject.

"That..." Sirius stared at Peter, wet his lips and swallowed several times. "That's bloody harsh, Peter."

"You do what you have to do to save people's lives," Peter repeated. "It isn't always easy, and it's rarely pleasant."

Sirius nodded--as little as possible--and then looked away.

This is the conversation Sirius refers to in the Shack when he says that Peter told him that Remus was the traitor. He didn't. They simply misunderstood each other completely-mostly because both, here, are very young men whose emotional pain blinded them to what the other person was saying.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them for a thousand minutes.

"I need to go, Sirius," Peter said at last, speaking in a gentle tone that lied and said he wasn't fleeing the subject, or Sirius's company, or memories that twisted in his mind like a knife. "I'm very tired. And tomorrow I start another seventy-two hour shift."

All of which was true. But Sirius's pain and Remus's possible treachery--or was it the other way around?--made being here unbearable. He could not endure another minute in this house. And if that made him a coward, well, so be it.

He should say something to Sirius. He knew that. But for the life of him, he didn't know what.

Before he could speak, Sirius nodded and slumped off in another direction. Peter didn't go after him. What would be the point?

He bade a hasty (but not too hasty) farewell to his host and hostess, and a friendly (but not too friendly) goodbye to Remus.

Peter's not only careful, he's aware that he's being careful.

Judging by their smiles and cheerful voices, they saw nothing unusual in his demeanour, nothing strange in his departure. Despite the fears and insecurities spawned by the war, everything was as it had always been between them, as firm and unshakeable as bedrock.

So, as he Flooed home, there was really no reason why he should picture the Potters, Sirius, Remus and himself as a line of paper dolls, ripped apart and blown in opposite directions by an unrelenting storm.

At the end, the image from Plath's quote about two black, cut-paper people came back to me, and I suddenly visualized a child's paper dolls being destroyed by wind and rain and lightning. It seemed the perfect metaphor for the fragility and vulnerability of five people and their friendship, so I closed with it.

***