Title: A Simple Turth
Author Name: Erin 

Author E-mail:(erin@sentai.org)

Author Website: http://sentai.org/~erin/
 
Supplicant

The moon had risen -- and set -- hours ago, leaving in its wake a clear, inky-black sky, with pinpricks of stars that were barely bright enough to see by, adding only grey shadows to the darkness.

Peter Pettigrew was glad of that. There were many things hidden by this cold winter's night that he did not wish to see-

"Ignesco!"

It wasn't a voice he recognised, but after this night of nights, that came as no surprise.

The incantation -- which had not even been spoken sotto voce, but shouted as if the caster were some cheap, Muggle conjurer playing at true magic -- set alight a pile of dry kindling that Peter himself had gathered hours before. The fire, high and roaring, illuminated their small clearing, and the patch of forest surrounding it. Six or seven dark shapes, which he took to be his new comrades-in-arms, were but barely visible out of the corners of his eyes.

They circled him, predators sure in the knowledge of their prey's defeat. But Peter only had eyes for what was arrayed in front of him, as he knelt in the snow, as the warmth seemed to drain form his body.

It was really very odd how much colder a brisk wind felt in the dead of winter.

Peter did not have to touch the girl's skin to know that she was as cold as he felt. She was pale, almost like ice -- that same odd shade of blue as snow in shadows.

"For Voldemort," he had whispered before he'd begun, knowing, as the magic flowed through him, that it was the first -- and last -- time he would speak the Dark Lord's true name.

The great red -- mass -- of what had once been her innards still steamed in the night air. Peter could still see the wavering, jagged marks where he'd driven his knife into her, splaying her open -- all the way open -- as his companions had held down her thrashing limbs, the torn hem of someone's cloak jammed down her throat to keep her screams from being heard.

Peter himself hadn't screamed while he'd done it, or thrown up, or anything else that might have shamed him or his patron. He still hadn't, and with each passing moment, such an act seemed even more unlikely. Peter was strangely proud of this.

She was a Muggle, abducted only hours before from a nearby town, chosen as much for her physical frailty as for the appalling state of her clothes. In Peter's eyes, she had the look of a girl who would not be missed by anyone at all if she chanced to disappear.

Peter leaned forward. He had no idea what the next step was, but right now all he wanted to know was whether the girl's blood felt as slick as it looked. Was it the cold that kept it from-

A hand was at his shoulder, pulling him away from the girl. Peter flinched away from the touch, a flush rising in his cheeks.

"No. Not you." A different voice this time -- there was an older cast to it, something hoarser, gruffer, a foreign touch that Peter could not place.

He looked up and saw that the other Death Eaters had formed a rough circle around the girl and himself. They stood like statues, their robes barely rippling in the breeze. He cringed under the intensity of their gazes and began to shake. The firelight had turned their featureless masks a pale, pinky colour, like mockeries of a normal human face-

The man -- he assumed it was a man -- stepped forward and dipped a hand scrapped red and raw by the cold, into the warm red of the girl. Peter froze, and then lifted his head for a better view. He watched, unblinking, as the hand, now a different red, was slowly brought to his face.

Peter closed his eyes quickly as the man smeared a trail of warm, wet blood from his forehead to his chin.

That seemed to be a watershed for the others, as he felt different hands paint his face, his hair, his neck red with blood. Their touch was never nothing less than gentle.

He could feel it crusting on his lips, drying on his eyelashes-

Two hands under each armpit yanked him roughly to his feet, and Peter opened his eyes.

He was turned around, glee burning high and sharp in his chest. Soon- soon-

Another man stepped out of the woods, and Peter's breath caught in his throat. He was trapped, inexorably, in that endless, beautiful, terrifying red gaze.

Peter did not need the other Death Eaters' promptings, and dropped easily to his knees. "My Lord," he whispered. He would have thrown himself flat at this man's feet, were it not for the Dark Lord's breezy, dismissive gesture, a fluttering of bone-white fingers.

"My Lord," Peter said again as he scrambled closer, the mask of blood crackling as he spoke.

"Your arm," the Dark Lord murmured, and pointed to Peter's left.

Peter held up the arm and shook it almost wildly until the sleeve of his robe slid down past his elbow. It was all he'd worn for the ceremony; he had cast off his undertunic hours before, out of nerves, once it had become too sweat-sodden.

The Dark Lord smiled at him, oddly, faintly, and pressed his index and pointer fingers to a spot on Peter's arm only a hair's-breadth below his elbow. An incantation was hissed.

The world went white with pain.

Peter did not scream.

When colour returned, and sensation, Peter, his chest heaving, lowered his arm and regarded the mark now branded upon his flesh. The Dark Mark. It was the same colour as his new Lord's eyes.

The flesh around the Mark was swollen and warm to the touch, and Peter sucked a breath in through his teeth as he let his finger circle it. He could now feel the slack and pull of the Dark Lord's thoughts in his own mind, like echoes of a dark and distant tide.

Peter stared and stared, until a voice, high and cool, jolted him back to the moment.

"Rise, my new Death Eater. Rise and take your rightful place amongst your fellows." The words reverberated softly at the far reaches of his brain.

Peter stood, and with a thrill of pride, took a silvery-white mask another Death Eater proffered to him. He slid it on as he bowed over and over to the Dark Lord to show his gratitude. The mask felt so very cool against his skin.

They followed the Dark Lord into the forest, and Peter laughed shrilly under the canopy of bare branches, in relief and glee. It was over. He was in. Let them trumpet their ridiculous cause, ranting about Mudbloods and half-bloods and traitors to wizardry. Peter's reasons for joining were far simpler. The Dark Lord could rule the world if he wanted, burn it down and cleanse it of the impure. Peter only wanted what was his due.

And unlike his fellows, Peter's commitment was not eternal, no matter what he had sworn beforehand. Peter had his own secret, his own way out. A twitch of whiskers, a flick of a tail, and they would never find him.

* * *

Fourteen years later, and Peter Pettigrew knelt anew in a dark forest, hands streaked with blood.

But this time, the forest was in Albania. The blood was his own.

"Please," he whispered, tears streaking his grimy face. His body still ached from the strength of the magic used to force him back to a human shape.

Wormtail, a voice hissed in his mind, as a sinister fog rose from the forest floor. A smoky face coalesced, terrifying in its familiarity.

Wormtail. The voice was clearer now, and Peter could hear the anger behind the words, and the contempt.

He never should have come this way, never. No matter what he had heard. The Dark Lord was formless. He should have been powerless -- not this! Not some frightening, incorporeal thing that could flit in and out of Peter's thoughts-

Did you truly think you could keep this a secret from me forever, Wormtail?

"No master no master no master-"

SILENCE.

Peter was struck dumb.

What I could have done with an Animagus, Wormtail. What I could have done.

Peter whimpered. He knew what this meant. He knew what was coming.

I can see one reason and one alone why you would chose to keep such a thing secret from me, Wormtail. You sought to leave my service at your pleasure. Treasonous creature.

Wormtail tensed and bent forward, ready for the killing blow. Sobs wracked his body as he was filled with an odd sort of relief. At least now it would all be over.

Cool, faint laughter tickled his frontal lobes. Foolish Wormtail. You swore a blood oath to me -- you shan't escape so easily. Death is too kind for the likes of you.

And if you seek to flee -- remember that I know your secret now. You will be caught. You will be punished. The voice paused. And then you will serve me anew. You are mine, Wormtail, now and forever.

Wormtail felt sick, numbed and empty.

Now, he was truly caught.

Now, there was no way out.

 
End