Title: Stag Night

Author: CLS

Rating: R

Warnings: Minor OotP spoilers sprinkled throughout.

Archiving: Just ask!

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Summary: On the night before James's wedding, Sirius wants to make sure that James and his other friends have a good time. Will things ever be the same again? A tale of friendship and of growing up in a time of darkness.

Stag Night
by CLS

Part 1: Last Call

"But apart from my transformations, I was happier than I had been in my life. For the first time ever, I had friends, three great friends. Sirius Black… Peter Pettigrew…and, of course, your father, Harry--James Potter." ~ J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Last call."

The singsong voice of the barkeep cut through the hubbub of a dozen different conversations.

Last call. What bleary-eyed pub denizen can afford to ignore those words? And hard words they are, like cold water thrown on a wet dream, capable of slicing through heated arguments, passionate kisses, or drunken bickering.

"Last call, ladies and gents."

Witches, wizards, and assorted other beings roused themselves from their tables, each one a self-contained universe where life and loves were rehashed, or swept under the rug with the next drink. Some shambled toward the bar, on autopilot more than anything else, while others dragged their chatter along with them, not able to let go of the thread even when the promise of the last drink called.

At one particular table, however, a quartet of young men--obviously old friends from the loud words interspersed with long silences--seemed too intent on squabbling to heed the all-important call.

Recent students at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would certainly have recognized two of them at once; the pair of dark-haired men had been part of the most successful Quidditch team that Gryffindor House had fielded in fifty years. Perhaps there would have been a bit of discussion as to why James Potter was now working for the Ministry of Magic instead of playing Chaser for Puddlemere United and why Sirius Black hadn't been convicted of any crime yet. The other two men at their table would probably have looked familiar without being memorable, as friends of the famous and infamous often do.

"Okay. Maybe the invisibility cloak was a bad idea." Sirius Black tried to hide a yawn from his friends as he ran his fingers over the large purple bruise splayed across one cheek.

"Bloody well can't fit all four of us under it anymore, can we?" James Potter, who had longer black hair that favored unruly spikes and horn-rimmed glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose, directed his attention to the ceiling while massaging an obviously stiff neck. Judging by the unnatural angle, it looked as if it couldn't help but be painful. His drink had barely been touched.

"Oh, James, your neck's still bothering you, isn't it? Are you sure you'll be all right for the wedding tomorrow?" the smallest of the four asked. He alternated between toying with his empty beer glass and playing with the contents of his pockets, while scanning the faces of his companions with beady brown eyes.

"Always a master of the obvious, eh, Peter?" Sirius snapped, but softened slightly upon seeing the look of terror that sprang across Peter's face like a rabbit flushed from its hole by a hound. "James just needs to relax, have some fun." He scowled a bit and went on, "If I can't find a bit of fun in London, then--"

"Last call, y'know," said the fourth man. He eyed his nearly empty pint of bitter and downed it with a shrug.

"Well spotted, Remus, old man," Sirius replied, forcing a smile that caused the bruised side of his face to twinge painfully. "The night is still young…and, hey, it wasn't my fault that--anyway, let's have another round, while I work out what to do next."

"Perhaps you're forgetting that we're broke." Remus pushed an overgrown tangle of brown hair out of his eyes and stared levelly at Sirius.

"Nah, we've just shot our wad of Muggle money," Sirius didn’t bother to hide his irritation, "which they won't take in the Leaky Cauldron anyway."

"Maybe we ought to call it a night…" Remus looked down at his empty glass and chose his words carefully. "It's late and you haven't slept in--"

"Too bloody boring for you?" Sirius fired back and knocked over the empty pint beside him with a sudden sweep of his hand. Peter hastily grabbed the careening glass before it rolled off the table. "Maybe you'd like to go back to your sodding walking tour of sodding Cornwall?"

"I didn't say that, no." Remus frowned and reconsidered his last statement

"Maybe you just don't like girls." Sirius leered at him. "Rather be poking into ruined castles looking for Dark--"

"Sirius--Ow!" James turned to glare at Sirius rather more suddenly than his stiff neck would allow. His shoulders tensed and he froze in pain. Through clenched teeth, he muttered, "Will you two stop it? You’ve been at it all evening like a pair of goblins with only one Galleon between you. Can’t you just--"

"One more round, eh?" Peter interjected, his watery eyes pleading with his three friends, who were all glaring at each other. "What do you say?"

All four fell silent and the babble of the pub washed over the table like the surge of an ocean wave noisily filling an empty tide pool. Remus sighed and massaged his temples. If only his head would stop aching; if only the Titans clashing inside his skull would leave him in peace. The loud Muggle clubs to which Sirius had dragged them had certainly not helped. This smoke-filled pub hadn’t been much better.

He was overreacting, spoiling the fun. And it should have been fun, a lighthearted night out in James’s honor. This could be the last chance for all four of them to be together--they who had been so inseparable at school through seven years of pranks, shared adventures, and near-brushes with death and detention. Leaving Hogwarts hadn't changed their friendship that he could see, but the world seemed determined to pull them apart. And, after tomorrow, James would be a married man.

"No harm in that, I suppose." Remus forced a smile and the tension around the table ebbed. Peter grinned like an idiot, while James went back to massaging his neck.

"Empty out your pockets, lads," Sirius directed, and winked at Remus as the others dredged up their remaining money.

James produced a handful of Knuts. Peter thrust a hand into his pocket and fumbled his fingers over the two remaining Sickles there. The coins clinked against another metal object.

"Whatcha got in there, Peter? Sounds like a couple Galleons, at least." Sirius smirked and held out an expectant palm.

"No. Not--not at all," stammered Peter, his fingers becoming entangled in cloth momentarily. He extracted the two silver coins and dropped them on the table, then stuck his hand back into his pocket, feeling for the other metal object, the one he'd been fingering all night.

"Aw, come on. That's it?" Sirius eyed Peter suspiciously. "Surely an up-and-coming lawyer such as yourself can kick in a bit more?"

"Just a clerk, you know." Peter laughed faintly. As Sirius well knew, a junior clerk, even at the prestigious firm of Fishbone, Mullion, and Pettigrew, didn't earn much. It took ages to advance. His father, who'd gotten him the job, was only a senior associate. You had to be dead to be made partner, as the ghost of his great-grandfather, Pontius Pettigrew, explained to him regularly.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

"We’ll start you off in D&B," the elder Mr. Pettigrew had pronounced on Peter’s first day at Fishbone, Mullion and Pettigrew. "You’ll learn the ropes there, my boy. Best place for you."

D&B. You could call it "Deeds & Bequests" or "Dead & Buried." Take your pick. The latter was what the other two clerks, Eurydice Featherfoil and Persephone Toadflax, called their little kingdom, which consisted of the cavernous clerks’ room, the cramped office of the head of department and a dungeon-like vault in the basement.

Peter’s greatest fear had been that the Deeds and Bequests department would turn out to be utterly and mind-numbingly boring. However, only the Litigation Department had more drama, more tears, more screaming, than D&B. After the first week, boring would have been a blessed relief.

He worked under Mr. Bartelby, the stony-faced head of department, as did the other clerks. With all the work they had, they could have used two more clerks, but none of them ever complained because that brought up the specter of the previous clerk, young Bartelby, who had left the department shortly before Peter joined. "Left the department" was the way that Eurydice would say it, always in hushed tones and never in the presence of Mr. Bartelby.

The blunt truth--which took Peter a week to figure out when he’d first started there--was that Mr. Bartelby’s son had been killed, caught up in the incident at the Prewitt School in which the shadowy supporters of You-Know-Who had attacked a primary school that freely admitted Muggle-born children. Nine witches and wizards had died, some of them bystanders like young Bartelby who had fought to rescue the children and keep the Death Eaters from setting fire to the entire building. It was a shame, but it only served to point up the folly of getting involved with powers greater than yourself. That should be left to those foolhardy enough to work for the Ministry.

If Mr. Bartelby had been affected by his son’s death, he never showed it. But Peter knew--as a result of the after-hours snooping by a certain rat--that their head of department kept a bottle of Firewhisky in his desk and that sometimes at the end of the day he locked his office door, poured himself a large glass from the secret bottle and wept. Peter found it repulsive, and he never told anyone else what he’d seen.

D&B was, therefore, at least one clerk short. In addition to the piles of work they already had, a steady stream of witches and wizards came into the office to change their wills or to make new ones. There were days when Peter wished that he had a bottle in his desk too, days when the pain and suffering of their clients grew to be so much that all he wanted was to hide in some deep, dark place and sleep for a week, days when the sound of Mr. Bartelby’s voice calling, "Pettigrew, step into my office," was enough to make his head explode.

He wondered if the rest of his life would be more of the same: ten hours a day with only a clerk’s salary to show for it at the end of the week. When he wasn’t at work, his main occupation seemed to be escaping from work. At school, he hadn’t thought much about what he wanted to be "when he grew up". If he thought about it at all, he supposed that he wanted the sort of comfortable life that his parents had without having a clue as to how or why.

His school friends didn’t have a clue either, at least as far as Peter could tell. James single-mindedly applied himself to his job at the Ministry and seemed determined to marry his Muggle-born girlfriend.

Remus, poor sod, didn’t seem as if he’d ever find a job. Maybe Peter should have tried to get him a position at the law firm--Remus was certainly capable of clerking and much more--but he cringed at the thought of anyone finding out that he, Peter, knew a werewolf. Of course, Remus wouldn’t want to put him in such an awkward situation, so Peter never brought it up.

Sirius wanted more than anything to be an Auror, but the Ministry had turned down his application. He grumbled about it mightily and spent his days as a hired bodyguard for the rich and terrified, while his nights were devoted to the girlfriend-of-the-week or one-night stands--at least to hear him tell it. Peter wasn’t usually invited on Sirius’s pub-crawling escapades, so he couldn’t tell if those long, frequently bawdy tales were entirely true.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

"Do I have to turn your pockets out myself, Peter? If you’re holding out on us--"

"No, Sirius, I told you, I’m broke. If I could, you know, I…"

Sirius shot Peter a dark and disbelieving look and then added his own contribution. "Hrmph. Enough for two pints. Have to do," he said as he counted up the small pile of change. "We can all share."

"I'll just go up to the bar, then," Remus mumbled. He scooped up the coins and stood before anyone else could volunteer.

James cocked his head slightly (as much as he could manage without bringing on further agony) and pushed his glasses back up his nose. He watched Remus’s thin frame weave through the crowd, until finally swallowed by the crush of people at the bar. It hurt to do so. Everything hurt.

He had thought this getting married business would be easy. After all, he and Lily were in love and wanted to be together. That should be simple, right?

Not exactly.

Lily had suggested a wedding in the wizarding tradition, which had come as a great relief to James who hadn't looked forward to dressing in odd, formal Muggle clothing for his own wedding (not that dress robes were that much more comfortable). Of her relatives, only her parents and her sister were to attend the wedding. Her parents had loved the idea, but Petunia had thrown a fit. She usually did that.

All nice and simple.

Except that Lily's parents had then insisted on throwing a series of parties for all the Muggle relatives who wouldn't be attending the wedding.

Thus James, dressed in uncomfortable and unfamiliar clothing, had endured several weeks of tea parties and sherry parties and garden parties that featured an endless stream of elderly great-aunts and bored-looking cousins. Perched on fragile furniture with a tea cup balanced in his lap, he had smiled and attempted conversation with the hard-of-hearing relations while his shoulders had become tenser and tenser and that spot in the center of his back, right below his neck, had begun to burn as if someone had stuck a hot poker under his skin. Sirius had offered to perform a Muscle Melting Charm, but he wasn't about to let Sirius cast any spells on him right before the wedding as there was no room for an "accidental" application of the wrong charm.

"Sirius. go a bit easier on Remus, will you?" James wrenched his head away from the scene at the bar to look his friend in the eye. "This walking tour thingy of his…it's not entirely by choice. He doesn't like to talk about it, but he hasn't had any luck finding a job."

"Yeah, I know," Sirius sighed and toyed with James’s beer glass. James didn't seem to care as he'd gone back to rubbing his neck. Sirius stared into the beer, mechanically sloshing the amber liquid back and forth.

"I’ve made enquiries at the Ministry," James said after a long pause, "but they're so bloody prejudiced there."

"And he's good--not that it would matter to some of those stupid buggers." More beer sloshed as Sirius tapped the glass on the table. "Sorry, James, I'm not counting you as one of that lot."

"I know…. He got top marks on his O.W.L.s, and if he'd taken the N.E.W.T.s--"

"--didn't see the point, did he? We need all the good wizards we can get, if Volde--" Peter winced and then wagged his hands in tiny, frantic motions. "--if You-Know-Who is ever to be put down. Shit, and they're saying Crouch is going to be the next Minister of Magic. That guy wouldn't even take a piss without reading the rulebook first."

"Dumbledore's been asking around, too." James lowered his voice. Things had gotten so openly partisan lately that merely uttering the name of the only wizard said to be feared by Voldemort could be dangerous. "Something will turn up. I'm sure of it."

"You're more optimistic than I am," Sirius snorted, then took a large swig of the only remaining beer at the table. "Moony's one of the best of our year and if those fucking bastards," he slammed down the half-empty glass for emphasis, sending a fountain of beer shooting out the top, "can't see it, then--"

"Hullo, Moony. Back so soon?"

"Perhaps I shall open a pub." Remus smiled as he set down the full pints, adroitly avoiding the puddle of beer in front of Sirius. "I'll need a bouncer, though, some great brute who can keep out the riff-raff, stop bar fights, that sort of thing. Know anyone like that?"

"The ‘Wolf and Hound’, right?" Sirius laughed. He waved his wand lazily at the spilt beer and magicked it out of existence before continuing, "Sounds like fun. Should be a great way to meet girls."

"Better than having to cozy up to goblins and trolls," Remus said, and took drink of one of their communal pints. "That last one must have weighed at least twenty stone."

"What?" Sirius looked baffled and irritated as he grabbed the pint away from Remus.

"The bouncer in that last club, er, what was it called? Club Mew Mew?" James grunted whilst stretching his neck from side to side.

"Oh, right," Peter giggled. "He must have stood a head taller than Sirius."

"And he was--argh!" cried James, as his neck cracked loudly. "Um, rather trollish, don't you think?"

"Just an ordinary-sized bloke," Sirius said while trying to chase away the yawn that had been plaguing him all night. "He got the drop on me. That's all."

When one of your best friends got married, of course you had to do something. As Best Man, Sirius felt responsible for seeing that they (and especially James) had a good time. Not that this should have been a chore for Sirius, who liked nothing more than to put on Muggle clothing, roar down country lanes on his big black motorcycle and find pubs where he'd either end up picking up a girl or picking a fight--sometimes both. This expedition was not turning out as well as expected, however.

Disastrous was more like it.

Fenton's House of Mirth, the comedy club in Diagon Alley, had been a big bust. The jokes were all stale, probably because the comedians could never be sure if there were Death Eaters or Aurors in the audience. Jokes about current events were therefore avoided, leaving the comedians to fall back on "Did you hear the one about the wizard…" Sirius tried to liven things up by shouting dirty limericks (he knew hundreds) from their table in the back.

That was the first club that had thrown them out.

After that, Sirius had hit upon a tour of Muggle clubs in Soho. There had been a few bumps along that road, too, particularly after their Muggle money had run out and Sirius had proposed sneaking into the last place under James’s invisibility cloak.

"The night's not over yet." Sirius took a long drink of their last pint. The yawn, that miserable little reminder of sleep deprivation, twitched at the corners of his mouth, waiting to leap out and hog-tie his brain.

"We're out of money," Remus reminded him.

"How was I to know that they'd make us buy so many of those bloody weak drinks?"

"Never been before, Sirius? Come now, I thought you'd been everywhere," James scolded.

"Er, I'm working my way through London… Just hadn't got to those particular places yet."

"Mmmm. P'raps I'm out of line here," Remus said in a decidedly non-conciliatory tone, "but I'd like to point out that the money would have lasted longer if you hadn't kept stuffing pound notes into the dancers', er, whatever."

"It was bloody fun!" Sirius roared back and jabbed a finger at Remus. "I'd like to point out to you, that you never have any bloody fun!"

Peter sucked in his breath sharply and fell back on making little clucking noises. James eyed both Sirius and Remus severely, then said, "Sirius, I appreciate your efforts, but… It may be time to call it a night. How long has it been since you've slept? Two days? Three days?"

"Damned security," Sirius grumbled as he folded his arms and sat back roughly in his chair. "Had to get through the damned security arrangements. Not that you were much help, James, off to all those bleeding tea parties and leaving me to deal with that paranoid bastard. Whose idea was it to have Moody in charge of security for the wedding?"

"You know as well as I do that, considering all the witches and wizards that are coming, there need to be…precautions taken." James drew a long breath between clenched teeth and rubbed his neck. "If I could have been there to help… but, er, it was important to Lily and all that."

"Well, I could have helped," Peter squeaked. "Really, if you need more help, then I--and what security arrangements are we talking about exactly?"

"But Moody…" began Sirius, ignoring Peter bouncing in his chair. The yawn finally got the better of him, however, and forced his face into a long spasm that only served to underscore how tired he was and how ready for more partying he wasn't.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

It wasn’t unusual to find Sirius Black dressed in Muggle clothing and having a beer in a Muggle pub, but the nearly full glass, that was unusual, and sitting alone at a table near the door, that was unusual. Of course, the person who’d arranged to meet him here at the Druid’s Folly was rather unusual, too. And he was late.

Sirius toyed with his pint. In last ten minutes, the pub had filled with a noisy evening crowd, standing elbow-to-elbow at the bar and occupying the ten or twelve tables in the public room. Behind the bar a large sign read, "Guinness is good for you", a sentiment that Sirius heartily agreed with as he sipped his own pint of Guinness. He felt out of place here, but not because he didn’t know anyone. On any other night, given any other excuse to visit a pub, that wouldn’t be a problem. He’d be up at the bar or playing darts or chatting up a girl. But tonight he wasn’t supposed to get distracted. He was supposed to meet someone--who was late.

The door opened and Sirius got another soggy wave of the April damp. Although there was a fire burning across the room, from his seat next to the door he didn’t share in the warmth. After determining that the newcomer, a skinny bloke who looked barely old enough to drink legally, wasn’t the one, he pulled the collar of his jacket up to his chin and looked darkly around the room. He didn’t think he needed help with the wedding arrangements, but a word in James’s ear from Dumbledore had sealed his fate, pushed him into this uncomfortable corner. He felt trapped in the way he’d been sixth year, when Snape and his gang had locked him in the second floor bathroom with a hornets’ nest that they’d managed to smuggle into school.

Maybe he’s already here, just hiding somewhere, Sirius thought. From what he knew about this fellow, the one who was already--he checked his watch--twelve minutes late, he was cautious, bordering on paranoid.

A disguise? Not many witches or wizards were comfortable mixing with Muggles. Sirius prided himself on his abilities in that regard. An Auror, one of the top Aurors at the Ministry by all accounts, could pull it off. There weren’t any other solitary drinkers like himself, though; everyone in the mixed crowd of farmers and the more well dressed sort seemed to belong, at least to watch them laugh and talk with one another.

The hubbub made him itch to dive in. He took a drink instead. Then another. Fifteen minutes late.

The girls at the next table seemed authentic, he decided after he set down his half-empty glass. The three of them, all wearing rather short skirts, whispered and sniggered amongst themselves. Sirius appraised their bare legs. Unless Polyjuice Potion were involved, these too were genuine. One of them, a blonde wearing purple lipstick, caught his eye. He knew that look. He stared back at her and the chase was on.

Except Sirius couldn’t--not tonight. He was waiting for the bloody Auror who was seventeen bloody minutes late.

He concentrated on the dart players across the room, trying to follow the game and wishing he could join in. The next time he looked at the table next to his, Purple Lipstick’s friends were getting up, making giggly comments about powdering their noses. Then she was alone, and she gave him that look.

A word or two won’t do any harm, Sirius thought as he got up. He might be back at this pub a few times before the wedding and it was always good to know the locals, especially the female locals.

"Not from around here, are you?" She looked up at him from underneath heavily made-up eyelashes.

"Stopped by for a drink...on my way to see my cousin in, er, Froxfield."

"You got a car, then?"

"Motorbike." Sirius jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged, as if it were no big deal.

"I’ve always wanted to ride a motorbike, but me dad thinks they’re too dangerous." She twirled a strand of hair in her fingers while looking him up and down carefully. "What’s your name, then? I’m Annie."

"Sid."

"Well, Sid," she began with a giggle, but changed her mind and went on in a conspiratorial tone, "I hope that bloke over there is a friend of yours, or else he might nick your pint." She gave a suggestive look toward something or someone behind him and whispered, "He doesn’t look too friendly to me."

"Huh?" Sirius turned around in confusion and there, sitting at the table next to the door, twenty minutes late, was Alastor Moody.

"Shit," Sirius muttered to himself. He flashed her a brief smile. "Better see what this bloke wants with my pint. Yeah, maybe I’ll see you later."

There was only one chair at the table next to the door and it was now occupied. With no place to sit, Sirius looked down at the man.

"You’re late."

Moody sat, back to the wall, his legs jutting out in such a way that anyone coming near would have to give him a wide berth. He wore muddy boots and above them, a pair of mud-splattered trousers. His wild, dark hair was streaked with gray and his face had the weather-beaten appearance of a farmer who spent a lot of time out of doors; yet a closer look at the leathery skin tattooed with oddly shaped scars didn’t quite fit with that vocation, unless the farmer frequently got tangled in the blades of his thresher or had been mauled by the swine more than once.

"And you’ve got bollocks for brains," Moody replied softly with a distinct Northern accent. He yanked a chair away from a nearby table, glaring at the table’s occupants who had a few choice words for him, and motioned Sirius to sit. "You’d do well to keep away from the skirts, laddie."

Sirius had the urge to yell something back at him, famous Auror or not, but this wouldn’t get them off to a good start, so he reached for his glass and took a drink instead.

"Just checking out the locals, you know." He set the empty glass down with a challenging thunk. "No harm in that, is there?"

Moody narrowed his beady eyes thoughtfully. "’Harm? I’d say it’s dangerous to do your thinking with what’s in your trousers instead of what’s in your head."

Sirius opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t. The room grew dim and spun around him as if he were being sucked into a whirlpool of blacker-than-night nothingness. His head hit the table. Somewhere far away, someone laughed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Damp, wet, dark. And still spinning. Sirius took a deep breath, trying to find order in the chaos inside his head, and then opened his eyes. He lay outside under a cloudy night sky. The ground beneath him was wet and squishy. His jeans were soaked.

He groaned, hands clutching his head, and then sat up. How long had be been lying there? His motorbike, seemingly unharmed, stood nearby in front of a dark wall, faintly illuminated by a distant source behind him. Not a wall, a hedge. This was the field where he’d left the bike after casting a Muggle-repelling charm as well as several spells meant to deter wizards.

At least it wasn’t raining anymore.

Sirius got to his feet and turned around cautiously. He wasn’t alone. Light from the village formed a halo behind Moody so that his face was in shadow. Never mind the face. Even without being able to see the expression, Sirius knew that it wasn’t a cheerful grin.

"Never turn your back on a drink, lad, else someone’ll put something far worse than a sleeping potion in your pint. Constant vigilance." Moody took a silver flask from inside his jacket and raised it in salute before taking a swig.

Bloody hell. Not off to a very good start, are we? Sirius thought as he brushed grass and mud from his jacket. His breath hovered in front of his face, diamond-like drops condensing in the damp, chilly air.

Moody capped the flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He put the flask back in his jacket and said in a deep, rumbling voice, "Ah, that’s better. Now, where were we? Yes... Dumbledore, he asks me to help with Potter’s wedding. Concerned about the security, he is, about the safety of one hundred and thirty-seven guests, sitting ducks for some nasty business if things are not…secure. And how could Volemort resist, when Potter and Evans want to get married in the middle of a bleeding sheep field at noon on the summer solstice?"

Sirius shrugged. All this was obvious.

"Potter says his best man’s going to see to the security, like it was some little party thrown by overeager students in their common room. Now, I told Dumbledore that if Potter wants to get himself and a few close friends cursed to pieces, that’s fine by me. But there’s a lot more at stake here, isn’t there?"

The wedding of the decade, James liked to call it with his usual cheeky pride. And James had a right to be proud. Lily was more than a "good catch", as the Hogwarts gossips had labeled her after the engagement had been made public (though not within earshot of Lily or James). Lily was what James needed. Sirius couldn’t come up with a better way to express it because he didn’t understand all that passed between those two. He knew James; until recently, he would have said that he knew James better than anyone on earth. And that meant that he knew the effect that Lily had on James; he could feel it at a gut level every time he saw them together, even if he didn’t understand it.

There was a lot at stake, not only James’s happiness, but also the spirit of the entire wizarding world, in a way. In these dark times when people didn’t go out much, didn’t gather together in large numbers for fear of attack, holding an open celebration like this was blatant defiance of Lord Voldemort ’s campaign to terrorize and divide the magical community. If they pulled it off, the wedding would stand out like a blazing torch that refused to be extinguished.

"Who’s coming to this thing, eh?" Moody continued. "Five Aurors, the heads of three departments at the Ministry and most of the Hogwarts teaching staff. Quite a prize for Lord Voldemort, I’d say."

"Well, of--" Sirius stopped, suddenly irritated for sounding so conciliatory. All right, that was the politically acceptable thing to do, but he was couldn’t, or wouldn’t. He crossed his arms stiffly and began again. "Look, if you don’t want to do this, it’s fine with me. The location is a secret. And as for security, James and I can handle--"

"Handle what?" Moody snorted. He walked slowly around Sirius. "You couldn’t even meet me in a Muggle pub without getting yourself all bollixed up. Do you know how many ways you could have been ambushed tonight by a clever wizard with a mind for mischief? And as for keeping it secret, well I don’t put much stock in the secrets that people keep. Sooner or later, someone somewhere will let something slip."

Sirius continued to glare at him, angrier and angrier, but afraid to speak for what he might say, for what trouble he might cause for himself as well as for James.

"Good at security, are you? Let’s have a look at this motorbike." Moody reached into his shirt pocket. He pulled out a wad of leather and unwrapped it to reveal a large glass eye that rolled around in his open palm, quivering curiously. He pointed at the bike and stared down at the eye, concentrating on something that Sirius couldn’t see.

"Ah, Muggle-repelling charm, of course. Easy to break," Moody muttered. Without taking his gaze away from the queer third eye, he produced a wand from somewhere. There was a swish in the air, red sparks flew out of the wand and the motorbike glowed faintly for an instant. "Let’s see… What else? A few other spells besides. Hmmm. That one… yes, certainly decent, well executed, not so easy to break."

Sirius shifted his feet uncomfortably. The muddy field was slowly swallowing his boots. He didn’t like the game this Auror was playing, didn’t like being dressed down as if he were a talentless first year back at school.

Moody, meanwhile, had put away his magical eye and was circling the motorbike with his wand held stiffly out. The bike’s polished black metal winked at Sirius as the other wizard’s shadow played across the chrome and steel body. Sirius stepped closer, trying to catch the words of muttered incantations. Moody paid no attention to him, too intent on spell breaking.

Red, orange, and blue sparks shot from the wand, but these fizzled and died before reaching the bike. Moody lowered his wand and stepped back, arms folded.

Not as easy as you thought, eh? Sirius smirked and crossed his arms, unconsciously echoing the Auror’s stance.

For a moment, the muddy field was silent as both men contemplated the large black motorbike glowing faintly from the distant lights, the prize in an undeclared war that had sprung up between the two of them as naturally as ice on the surface of a pond in winter.

Moody grunted and his head was suddenly wreathed in a luminous cloud of foggy breath. He nodded to himself, raised the wand and murmured one final incantation. This time no sparks flew, but the surface of the motorbike, from handlebars to tailpipe, glowed white for a few seconds. There was crackling in the air as of distant fireworks, followed by a single Pop!

"Decent piece of spell work, that." Moody broke the silence after he lowered his wand. He nodded to Sirius, and then put the wand away. "Combining an amnesia spell with hexes for boils, nausea and blindness was nice, very nice. Not many wizards could get past all of that."

Sirius didn’t reply. His arms had remained tightly folded across his chest throughout Moody’s demonstration of spell-breaking technique.

Moody reached out to pat the motorbike and said, "Now, lad, the--" He gave a strangled cry, his hand convulsively clutching one of the handlebars. He seemed stuck.

Sirius paid scant attention to Moody himself, but took one long stride toward the bike and swung his leg as if to kick the engine. Instead of hitting the bike, however, he hooked his foot under a small loop of wire and tugged.

In an instant, Moody stopped struggling. He jerked his hand away from the motorbike so violently that he fell backward.

"You might have mentioned that last spell," Moody growled up at Sirius from a muddy spot on the ground.

"Not a spell." Sirius extended a hand and helped the other man to his feet.

"What the hell was it, then?" Moody flexed the fingers of one hand, which were moving in a rather random spasmodic dance.

"Extra battery wired to the…that is, electricity. It’s a Muggle sort of thing," Sirius finished quickly. While he was proud of his cleverness, the scowl on Moody’s face was turning nasty. And the man was legendary for his nastiness. They were supposed to work together on security for the wedding, so Sirius had better not push any further.

"Is that so? I want to hear more about this." Moody gave a final shake to the affected hand and seemed satisfied with it. With a sharp laugh, he slapped Sirius on the back and said, "We’ve got some work to do, laddie."

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

Sirius fought off another yawn and started again, "Security’s all done now, Peter. Nothing's going to go wrong, so we can concentrate on the matter at hand. Hmmm. D'you think you could get some cash from the Night Demon at Gringotts?"

"Oh, er, I don't…" Peter stammered. Gringotts' Night Demon would dispense a modest amount from your account, after asking a series of long and complicated questions. But, there was always the danger that it wouldn't feel like giving you the money in the end and would throw a hex at you instead. Tricky business, even when sober.

"Yeah, there's always Seven Shoe Alley, if we had a few Galleons." Sirius was not one to give up easily.

"A few hundred is more like it," James said, his face becoming flushed. "The girls there don't just dance on your table for a few notes and a drink, do they? I mean, that's a whole different--"

"Aw, don't you want to find out? You're about to get married, turn into a sodding paragon of respectability." Sirius looked down his nose at James with mock primness and then laughed. "Don't give me that look; I know you. Once upon a time, you were willing to take chances for a bit of fun. Remember the time you dared me to run stark naked through the--"

"--and we both got detentions for it! But the looks on their faces were worth it, eh?" James chuckled at the memory, then sighed, "Since we don't have any money, it's all rather academic at this point. Why don't we just call it a night? We could all use some sleep."

Remus nodded and shifted in his chair, as if to rise, while Sirius and James locked eyes. Peter knew that stare well, knew that whether they carried on or not would be determined by who broke first. James and Sirius, it always came down to those two. Always had, he corrected himself.

Peter's hand twitched in his pocket yet again to make sure that the lump of metal there had not escaped by accident--his last hope, if only he had the courage to use it. And, he didn't want to use it. No, there'd be hell to pay when Father found out. But the alternative was far, far worse.

Part 2: The New Crowd

Peter had fallen in with a bad crowd.

That’s how some--his parents or his clueless coworkers--might have seen it. Of course, James Potter and Sirius Black, in spite of their pure-blood pedigrees and top marks at school, had been called a "bad influence" by the elder Pettigrew and had been the source of endless hand-wringing from Peter’s mum, but that was years ago and they’d changed their minds about James since then.

Oh, it had begun in a small way, an occasional drink after work at the Golden Apple along with the usual grumbling about the bloody awful state of the world, about how purebloods didn’t seem to get much respect these days, about how Mudbloods were running things at the Ministry (yes, you could say those things at the Golden Apple without raising any eyebrows). His new friends were all purebloods, just a group of working blokes that liked a pint or two after work. Maybe his new friends didn’t make him laugh the way Sirius and James did nor come up with as many daring and ridiculous adventures. In school, the four of them had been free to roam the Forbidden Forest and the secret passages of Hogwarts castle so long as they didn’t get caught. The real world wasn’t like that.

Jack Travers was one of Peter’s new friends, not a complicated or deep person, just a regular guy who liked a drink at the end of the day and a good laugh. Jack was in the trades--he hadn't even gone to Hogwarts--and he worked at the stationer, Alexander & Co., as an apprentice parchment-maker. One of his jobs was to deliver rolls and rolls of parchment to offices like Fishbone, Mullion and Pettigrew.

And they did go through the parchment at the law firm as the solicitors called on Peter and his fellow clerks to copy out version after version of legal briefs. Magic couldn’t be applied to the production of such documents because the Court of Magical Law would not accept an enchanted document as legally binding even if there were only a Copying Spell on it. So when old Mr. Bartelby, Peter’s boss, came sweeping into the clerks’ room in the Deeds and Bequests Department demanding the fifteenth revision of a will, Peter would sharpen his quill and reach for a fresh roll of parchment.

Jack stopped by the office two or three times a week bearing great loads of parchment in his brawny arms. His blue eyes danced restlessly when he dished out sly winks and outrageous compliments, making the female staff blush and giggle. For some reason, he’d usually end up talking to Peter about something or other: Quidditch, or some joke that’d he’d heard, or something one of the girls had said.

Peter hadn’t been at the firm more than a couple of weeks before Jack suggested they go out for a drink after work. Peter had accepted, grateful to be away from the mountains of parchment and rivers of ink, or so he saw the geography of his desk at the end of the day.

"What about England in the semi-finals, eh?" Jack said as he set down two pints of Baddock’s Special Pumpkin Porter on the table. He had pale blue eyes and a round baby face topped with a shock of straw-colored hair. The perpetual five o’clock shadow on his jaw contrasted with his boyish features and could make Jack seem downright sinister, but only on those rare occasions when he wasn’t laughing or grinning.

"Er, well, the Italians, you know," Peter said, more interested in looking around the pub than in the World Cup standings.

He’d never been to the Golden Apple, the pub located at the end of Diagon Alley and near the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Too near, some said. Peter took a tentative sip of his beer and scanned the room apprehensively.

The landlord, a tall, plump man, presided jovially over a noisy, crowded bar. Quidditch had a definite presence in the pub; team banners, posters and signed photographs of players festooned the walls, giving Peter a rather dizzying feeling as players on broomsticks zoomed in and out of the pictures. For the most part the witches and wizards at the bar or seated at tables seemed normal. Perhaps there were a few too many Slytherins for Peter’s comfort. He recognized Rosier and Wilkes from his Hogwarts’ days, but they didn’t see him, which was a great relief since they had always been keen to give Peter a thrashing at school if they caught him alone.

But Peter wasn’t alone. And he wasn’t a schoolboy any more.

"Damn right, Peter," Jack said. He took a long drink of thick orange-brown beer and set the glass down with a satisfied thunk.

Peter thought that he’d missed something--Quidditch was never one of his strong points--but Jack grinned at him as if he’d just said something profound.

"The Italians have Volpicelli and Demarco," Jack went on, "but what have they got for a Keeper, eh? If England had some halfway decent Chasers, there’d be a chance. What about that friend of yours--Potter? Think he’d play for us? He was damned good at Hogwarts."

"James? James Potter, you mean?"

"Yeah, bloke with the black hair and glasses. I’ve seen him stop by your office, so I thought you were friends."

"Yes, um, we were friends at school," Peter answered, suddenly embarrassed for reasons he couldn’t fathom. "But James works for the Ministry now and I guess it keeps him pretty busy."

It might have sounded like a lame excuse, unless you knew James, who would throw himself into a new enterprise with an intensity that Sirius called "Potter-fection". Where Sirius would noisily wrestle with a task until he mastered it (even at the expense of a bit of collateral damage along the way), James would quietly focus on attaining perfection. His career as Head Boy had been like that; he never cared much about holding the job when they were younger, but once it had fallen in his lap, James had to be the perfect Head Boy. While this gave the four of them something to laugh about when they managed to sneak out of school for proscribed adventures, in public James was rather insufferable to his friends as well as to everyone else during their seventh year. Potter-fection. There was no other explanation.

"Ah, well," Jack shrugged, "we could use a couple better Chasers. And a new Seeker."

"Hungerford’s pretty good," Peter said, eager to display some knowledge of the game, however meager. "Been playing for the Tornados for what--three years?"

"She’s a Mudblood, Peter," Jack said loudly with a dramatic shake of his head. "They just don’t have it in them. Quidditch is our sport. When you get right down to it, how can you expect bloody Muggles to understand it? You just can’t trust a Mudblood in a pinch. They’ll choke every time, mark my words, and Hungerford‘s no exception."

Peter looked around nervously. If you uttered the word "Mudblood" in the Leaky Cauldron, conversation would stop at all the nearby tables and people would stare. But the other patrons in the Golden Apple gave no sign of having heard. Perhaps that should have been a warning, but he ignored it. Instead, he took a drink and felt a warm glow spreading inside him, a result of the strong beer, the close-packed room, and the grin on Jack Travers’s face. The Golden Apple was starting to seem like a nice enough place in spite of all he’d heard about it.

Summer peaked and faded, as did England’s hope for a shot at the Quidditch World Cup. As Jack Travers had foretold, England lost to Italy in the semi-final for lack of scoring. (Italy, however, were upset by Sri Lanka in the final, a four-day mudfest in Kuala Lumpur.)

Peter came to feel comfortable at the Golden Apple, more comfortable than traipsing around the countryside with Sirius or spending an evening with James and Lily. Oh, Lily was always kind to him, but she did seem to monopolize James, who was different somehow when he was with her. And James was actually going to marry her--that was just starting to sink in. They were planning the wedding and it made Peter increasingly nervous. He feared for his friend. Love was supposed to conquer all, but how could James ignore what was going on around them? James, who worked at the Ministry, should have seen.

Peter could see what was happening, dealing as he did with the shattered remains of people’s lives every day at work, with the steady stream of widows, widowers and orphans who came to change their wills or to listen to Mr. Bartleby read out the last will and testament of a loved one while they sobbed or hiccupped or moaned and Peter supplied endless cups of tea, handkerchiefs and tins of Haythornthwaite’s Digestive Tablets ("Magical Miracle-Cure for Aches of All Sizes and Shapes").

Muggles and Muggle-borns were being killed left and right, though no one knew precisely how many. The whole subject was taboo, like the open cesspool at the edge of the village to which everyone contributes but that no one will fix when it backs up and starts flooding other people’s houses; or like the argument between Uncle Horace and Cousin Oswald that simmers below the surface at every holiday gathering and in which everyone in the family must take sides but no one talks about; or like the wounded stray dog that haunts the neighborhood, growling and begging for scraps while growing weaker, until one day it’s not there and no one wants to think about why or where it went.

If you don’t talk about it, will it go away?

Dumbledore had always maintained that if Muggle-born witches and wizards weren’t accepted and trained, the entire wizarding world would be the loser. Peter hadn’t really given much thought to the question while he was at school, but out in the real world, things were different. According to Jack Travers and the other regulars at the Golden Apple, all this so-called fairness led to purebloods marrying Muggles. There were more Squibs today than ever before and it all went back to Mudbloods and how they were diluting the ancient blood of true witches and wizards.

And in the face of all this, James Potter was going to marry a Mudblood.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

Sirius twitched as he fought off another yawn. No, please, no, Peter silently begged Sirius to rally. He needed more time.

Time slowed to a crawl for Peter as he watched Sirius blink and shake his head. James gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and sat back in his chair ever so slightly. He was going to stand up, Peter knew, and then it would be over.

Slowly, ever so slowly, like pulling a spoon from a pot of treacle, Peter brought his hand out of his pocket.

"Wait!" he squealed. The shout took him, as well as the others, by surprise. Time resumed its normal course as he opened his hand, palm down, and slapped the table. The clink of metal against wood got everyone's attention. Peter's fingers trembled as he withdrew them to reveal an ornate gold key, almost as large as his hand.

"There is one more place that we might… a sort of a club, er, and I borrowed the key from Father…" Peter's voice trailed off as he looked at the three of them. He had gotten their attention, at least.

"What in the hell are you talking about?" Sirius was first to respond, his eyes drilling into Peter.

"Tigerseye…yeah, that's what it's called. This, er, club--well, not exactly… my brother went there once and he told me--um, they have, you know, girls, that is, women there and--"

"You're really losing it, Peter," Sirius concluded with a shake of his head, "if you think we'd be interested in some stuffy old lawyer's club."

"No, not exactly… you see, it's a--"

Remus, irritated with Sirius for being so dense, surprised himself and the others by saying, "A brothel. Isn't that right, Peter?"

"A whorehouse?" roared Sirius, nearly choking with laughter. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Sirius and James peppered Peter with questions, but he was unable to string any coherent syllables together, let alone words. Remus ignored them and instead picked up the key. He weighed it in his palm. Dense enough to be gold, the key was surprisingly light because of the fine, filigreed patterns worked into it. Tendrils of gold wove around each other in an almost Celtic fashion. Tiny tigers crouched, hidden within the network of lines like jungle beasts on the prowl.

Remus was startled, yanked out of his jungle reverie, when James snatched the key away and asked Peter, "This is a key to a private club that is… where?"

"Seven Shoe Alley," stuttered Peter. He gulped, as if called upon to swallow a lump of molten iron, and went on, "My brother went there and he told me--"

"Which brother?" Sirius asked sharply. "Not Simon, was it?"

"Paul. He works at the firm, y'know, and one time Father asked him to take a client out--"

"Okay. Paul doesn't have enough imagination to make up anything this interesting," Sirius grunted. "Whoa, hang on. This key belongs to your father's law firm?"

"Er, yes, well they take clients there sometimes…" Peter started to sweat as much as he had in any of those nightclubs they'd visited. He hadn’t thought that the others wouldn’t believe him. They had to believe him.

"And you just borrowed this from your father?" James asked.

"Sort of… He's out of town right now, taking a deposition in Bavaria, but he likes you, James, you know. He's always telling me how I should be more like… Anyway, I'm sure that he would think, that is, he would approve if…"

"If only you'd bothered to ask him," James finished. He rested his chin on his hands and stared at Peter with a mixture of wonder and disbelief.

"But, really, the firm does this all the time." Peter bobbed his head up and down in what he hoped was an encouraging way.

"Let me see that." Sirius grabbed the key, while James continued to fix his eyes patiently on Peter. "All right, let's assume for a moment that this key is what you say it is and that there is this… this private club in Seven Shoe Alley." Sirius waved the key under Peter's nose and went on, "Lawyers go there so it must cost a small fortune -- which none of us has at the moment."

"The firm has a sort of account there, you see, so it'll all be taken care of. And the books are so horribly messed up." The others were transfixed as the words spilled out like water from a ruptured dam. "I know because sometimes I take lunch with one of the other clerks who works for Mr. Eisenhut in the Billing Department and she…." Peter blushed, a crimson tide slopping across his pale, quivering face. "…she says that they're about twenty years behind on getting the accounts squared away, but it all works out, you know, as we just bill more to cover expenses if we need to and--"

"It's nice of you to think of us, Peter, but…" Remus interrupted the river of babble, and then paused to look at each of them in turn. "James here needs some rest. We all do, not that some of us will admit it." He glanced at Sirius, who was so transfixed by the key that he forgot to bark.

"I appreciate your efforts, Peter, I really do--" James began.

"And what about my efforts?" Sirius roared. "I’m the one who got beat up just to make sure you were having a good time tonight. Ha! We wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me talking you into proposing to her again after she turned you down the first time."

"Sirius Black single-handedly arranges the Potter-Evans match?" snorted James. "I’m not so sure about that. If anyone deserves the credit for getting things started, it’s probably Peter."

Sirius glared at James, but a smile danced at the corners of his mouth, temporarily squashed by righteous indignation.

"Me?" said Peter, looking from James to Sirius in a panicky way, as if they were both having one on him.

"I’d been trying to get Lily to go out with me for years and she wouldn’t give me the time of day until seventh year. It was your letter the summer before seventh year that made me think about going to see Lily before term started," said James, "and she didn’t seem to think I was such a pointless git after that and--"

"I thought it was because you spent far too much time together in the prefects’ office. I seem to recall there’s a very large sofa there--convenient, eh?" Sirius grumbled, though he was grinning now.

"Gentlemen," Remus said sternly, "do we intend to spend the rest of the evening debating? I suggest that there are better times to hold such a debate."

James saw that Remus was grinning, too. He had stepped into the ring and taken on his sometime-role as referee for Prongs-Padfoot matches. Peter might be able to distract for a while, but only Remus could force the two combatants back into their corners.

"All right," James laughed, holding up his hands, palms out, in mock-surrender. "I concede. I owe all my current happiness to Mr. Black." But inwardly, he had to give Peter some of the credit. He thought back to the summer before seventh year and Peter’s letter. A simple letter. A simple journey. So it had seemed at the start.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

The Tube was approaching his stop. At least he hoped that the unpleasant series of jolts and the noise like a suit of armor being dragged across a stone floor meant that they would soon be at Bethnal Green instead of in some metal-bending, bone-crunching crash. Apparating would have been a far more pleasant alternative--he already knew how, though he didn’t have a license--but the risk of the Ministry finding out was too great.

James looked around at his fellow passengers: older women clutching bulging shopping bags of various shapes and sizes; mothers with children of various shapes and sizes; old men who stoically read newspapers amidst the car’s rhythmic clacking, the whooshing of air, and now the groaning and shrieking of the brakes. Harsh lights gave an unnatural cast to the faces and the silence--no one talked or laughed or gave any sign of acknowledging anyone else--made James wonder if he hadn’t accidentally stumbled onto another species entirely. Gods, how did the non-magical masses stand being stuffed into claustrophobic cars that sped through these dark tunnels, tunnels that looked and felt like the vaults underneath Gringotts Bank? Only goblins could have designed the London Underground.

A chance remark from Peter, a bit of Hogwarts news, had started him on this journey. Girls confided in Peter for some reason and he was always the first to get new gossip over the summer holiday.

Dear James,

Or should I say, your Head Boyness? I can’t work out how you got the job, but it’s great! Snape is going to be so mad I bet his face will turn green even without hexing. Speaking of which, I ran into Elspeth Honeypecker in Diagon Alley yesterday and she told me she had it straight from Mandy Barnes that Lily Evans is Head Girl! How’s that for a nasty shock to a certain Slytherin gang?

Has it stopped raining long enough for a spot of Quidditch practise? Ha-ha. Father has relented and released me from clerking at the firm. Six weeks of copying out contracts is enough torture for me! I’m a free man, so come down to London if you can.

Peter

James had known that he’d have to pay Lily Evans a visit, if he could arrange to come to Town, as soon as he’d read Peter’s letter. He just hoped that he’d survive the trip through the bowels of Muggle London.

He stood and prepared to exit, tucking the unfamiliar and uncomfortable Muggle shirt into the stiff new jeans that he’d put on just for the occasion. The train lurched to a final stop and the doors opened. James allowed the crush of people to push through the doors ahead of him. He peered through the grimy windows and tried to read the name of the station. "Bethnal Green". That was the right one. He dawdled so long that he had to jump through the doors just as they were closing.

While people milled around him, James stood for a moment on the poorly lit platform and wrinkled his nose at the various odors, most of them unfamiliar and all of them unpleasant. And it was hot, too, as if several day’s worth of summer heat had been concentrated underground. How did they come up with this as a way of getting around? Trains he could understand, at least the sort that chugged comfortably through the countryside, like the one that had brought him down to Town. But the Tube, as they called it, was a poor imitation of a train, more like a form of torture than a form of transportation.

He followed the stream of people up a moving staircase that bucked and creaked in a most unmagical way, suggesting hidden machinery. Once on the street, he blinked in the bright sunlight and tried to get his bearings. He took out the other letter and reread it; the directions sounded simple enough. He set off on what he thought was the right course and tried to make sense of the shops along the way; they sold many things, some he recognized, but others left him baffled. Why did Muggles need to clean a vacuum, for example? After seeing the mysterious machines in the window of the shop called "Vacuum Cleaners – New, Used and Repair," he concluded that "vacuum" meant something entirely different to them. Perhaps a Muggle who wandered into Diagon Alley would be equally confused by "Ollivander’s Wands," not to mention "Quality Quidditch Supplies."

After a few false starts, he found the right street about a quarter-mile from the Underground station. There the houses were jammed up against one another on either side of the street in a long wall of dirty red brick. Didn’t anyone ever clean them? At home, for example, the house-elves diligently scrubbed the exterior brick on the manor house.

At first sight, all the houses seemed identical and he almost chucked the whole undertaking--he would walk to Diagon Alley, though, instead of attempting another ride on the Tube--but after staring at the street for a few moments, he could pick out individual houses in the way that one finally learns to tell one tree from another from another in a forest, even though they all look alike at first glance. Each of the houses had a dollop of a garden in front, some weedy and overgrown, some paved over, some full of garbage, and some bursting with flowers. The front of each house had a door precisely in the same spot, but the color varied from house to house, from somber to garish, although quite a few sported only peeling paint and rusting hardware. Most, but not all, doors had numbers on them.

The house with the number that he was seeking had one of the neater front gardens. Tall spikes of foxglove poked over the wrought iron fence and he recognized several common magical plants growing in neatly arranged pots. He paused as he checked his watch and was surprised to hear bees buzzing lazily in the late July sun here in the midst of a landscape of lifeless brick. After a moment’s hesitation, he strode purposefully up to the front door because James Potter always did things with purpose, no matter how nervous he felt underneath.

He knocked and the door was answered by a middle-aged woman wearing plain, Muggle clothing.

"Mrs. Evans?"

The woman nodded, and she looked at him so quizzically that he reached up to straighten his hair and wondered if there was something wrong with the Muggle clothes he wore.

"I’m James Potter, a friend of Ev--of Lily’s from school. I wrote to her and…"

"She did mention something about a chap from school." The woman frowned and hesitated for a moment, but then stepped into the house and called up a set of stairs just inside the door, "Lily! Your friend from school is here!"

No answer was forthcoming. The woman twisted a kitchen towel that she held in her hands and looked upstairs expectantly. While they waited, James surveyed the small front room. The furniture, although not as dark and ornate as the Elizabethan-era furnishings he’d grown up with, looked normal enough, but the glaringly unfamiliar Muggle appliances--something that looked like a fishbowl full of nothingness trapped in a wooden box, lamps of odd sizes and shapes with black wires snaking off to some hidden realm, and other things that he couldn’t identify--reminded him how far he was from his childhood home, and from the wizarding world.

"Oh, dear. She’s been up in her room all day," the woman said, more to herself than to James. "I don’t know why she won’t--" She broke off at the sound of a girl’s voice from somewhere on the ground floor; the voice was unfamiliar to James, shriller than Evans’s voice and with less of a London accent.

"Mummy! I need help with my hair and you haven’t hemmed by green dre--"

The girl strode imperiously into the front room. She was wearing a dressing gown and her hair was wrapped in a towel. Did Evans have a sister? The thin girl with the pinched face looked nothing like her.

"Who’s this, then?" The girl gave James an interested smile, while plucking at her dressing gown to straighten it.

"A friend of Lily’s from school." Mrs. Evans smiled distractedly. "James… Potts, is it?"

"Potter," he corrected.

"You don’t look like one of those freaks," the girl said acidly. Her smile evaporated, replaced by a contemptuous sneer.

"Petunia!"

"Well, they are, Mum. But that’s Lily’s problem." She smiled again, this time a frigid smile of sugar-coated disgust, and then turned on her mother, dismissing James entirely. "I can’t go to the party in that green dress as it is. The length has gone out of fashion. I told you yesterday! You just have to hem it. And I need to get started on my hair. I’ve got to be ready by five, you know. This is a terribly important party -- loads of the right people will be there -- and I can’t look like a fright, now can I?"

"Well, dear, why don’t you fix the dress yourself, and then I’ll help with your hair?" her mother said evenly. She smiled briefly at James and seemed slightly embarrassed, although he couldn’t tell if this was due to his presence or to her daughter’s behavior.

"I don’t know where the stupid dress is, do I?" said Petunia. "I gave it to you yesterday and you said you’d fix it for me."

"Excuse me," Mrs. Evans said to James. "I’ll just be a minute and then we’ll see about Lily."

The two disappeared, but James could still hear them from somewhere in the house, Petunia whining about her dress while her mother lectured her on improving her manners.

After some minutes of standing awkwardly in the doorway, James began to wonder if Evans had really been serious in suggesting he come. He had written to congratulate her on becoming Head Girl. "Next time I come down to London perhaps we can get together and start planning out the year," he’d said. She’d been pretty cool to him for most of sixth year, but her response to his letter had been polite, almost friendly. She had written back inviting him to visit if he was in Town--they’d agreed on this day at three o’clock in the afternoon--but maybe her invitation arose solely out of politeness; maybe she couldn’t be bothered with him. No, that was ridiculous. As Head Boy and Head Girl, they had decisions to make and events to organize. He hoped that she wasn’t charging ahead without him. Evans did have a reputation for taking matters into her own hands.

With a frown, James walked cautiously up the narrow staircase. At the head of the stairs was a closed door. The other doors were open, revealing two bedrooms and a bath that were empty as far as he could tell. Sunlight streamed through a tiny window in the bathroom and fell on the well-worn carpet in the corridor. Family photographs crowded the walls. He recognized red-haired Evans in several of them and confirmed that she looked nothing like her blonde sister. The voices downstairs could still be heard faintly, but all was silent upstairs. He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether this journey to what seemed like a foreign country had been a good idea. But here he was, so he knocked on the only closed door in the corridor.

"Er, Lily? It’s James, James Potter."

There was a rustling sound from inside the room and then silence. He waited, listening intently. The door opened and there stood Evans looking very much like a witch in a long full skirt and flowing top, a surprise in the midst of so much Muggleness. Her red hair, usually neatly pulled back, spilled haphazardly from an untidy knot on the top of her head.

"I’m sorry if I came at a bad time…" James trailed off, feeling like an idiot. She had "bad time" written all over her face, judging from the red-rimmed eyes and the hard set of her mouth. She met his eyes briefly and then looked down, shuffling the pieces of paper that she held in her hands.

"I did say that you should come, didn’t I?" She frowned and bit her lip. "But perhaps this isn’t the best…maybe you should…"

"Well, I can understand how you might be upset," he said with a smile that he hoped would be disarming. "The sight of James Potter has been known to make Slytherins quake with fear. As Head Boy I am, of course, going to strike fear in the hearts of all students, Slytherin or not. I’ve been doing a correspondence course over the summer on striking fear in the hearts of men and, er, women. Do you think it’s working? You might want to give it a try. Do wonders for you. And you could practice on your sister."

She looked up at him, green eyes shining, and smiled the nicest smile that James could ever remember. It was as if she’d never smiled before and it dazzled him in spite of the way she looked--or maybe because of it.

"Now there’s something I hadn’t thought of," she said with a sniff and hastily wiped her eyes with the back of one hand.

The amusing patter that usually sprang forth effortlessly from James’s lips had temporarily dried up and he couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. A movement caught his eye as one of the pieces of paper she’d been holding escaped from her hand and fluttered to the floor. He reached down to retrieve it, determined to prove himself useful.

"You don’t have to--" she said with an urgency that James didn’t understand, not at first. She fixed her gaze on him, her cheeks reddening.

"Sorry. None of my business, is it?" James flushed slightly as he stood and hoped she wouldn’t notice. He thrust the paper toward her. "Look, I’ll just go now and we can meet at school at the start of term, or send owls if we--"

"Yes… No." She sighed and pointed at the paper that he’d retrieved. "Look, you might as well see this now. Go on. Read it. You’re not the only one who’s heard that I’m to be Head Girl. I got three owls today and I’m sure there’ll be more."

Puzzled as to whatever could have provoked such a reaction in the normally cool Lily Evans, James unfolded the paper, actually a scrap parchment that had been torn roughly on one edge. The letters were spiky and angry-looking, the words hurriedly written and smeared in places.

They shouldn’t let trash like you into Hogwarts. You are an abomination and should never have been picked for Head Girl. Step aside and let a real witch have the job.

"And the others… they’re like this?" said James in an even tone. He stared at the paper as he spoke, reluctant to meet her eyes.

"Worse." She laughed bitterly and turned away, long skirt swirling in her wake as she sat down on the end of a narrow bed that nearly filled the tiny room. A window next to the bed faced the street with its row of nearly identical houses whose windows stared back like a crowd of strangers at the scene of a tragic accident.

"You can’t let a few nasty letters stop you." James leaned against the doorframe and stared at her profile.

"Just forget it. You wouldn’t understand," she said in a low voice. For a moment there was only the soft swish of paper on paper as she turned the other letters over and over in her hands. When she looked up at him, the pain in her green eyes had flared into anger. "I thought you should know that there might be trouble, but it’s not your problem, all right?"

"Of course it is!" James shot back. "Anything that undermines our authority is my problem too. Let me see the others."

"You’re a pureblood, aren’t you?" She jumped up suddenly and grabbed the letter from him, waving it at him as she went on, her voice edgy and brittle, "Do you know that I’m only the second Muggle-born ever to be appointed Head Boy or Head Girl? There wasn’t even a half-blood chosen until 1944! According to these vile notes, I’m going to be polluting Hogwarts and all of the wizarding world merely by existing."

"And your ‘mere’ existence proves them wrong!" cried James. "No, more than that. You’re one of the best witches in our year and having you as Head Girl shows up all that ‘purity of blood’ stuff as utter rubbish. Don’t you see?"

She stared at him, mouth open. He realized that he’d been shouting, realized just how much taller he was and that he loomed over her, filling the doorway like some menacing madman.

"Sorry," he said, ducking his head and looking down at his feet.

Without a word, she handed him the other letters, then sat once more on the bed. A painful knot formed in his stomach as he unfolded the first piece of paper.

Mudblood bitch. Hogwarts is better off without filth like you. Beware.

The last one was worse.

if you set foot in school ill rip you’re heart out and all you mudblood friends to

His insides twisted, as if he’d been punched in the gut, and he felt his limbs grow cold; anger coiled up inside him, poised to strike. Only he didn’t know whom or what to strike. Anger dissolved into frustrated confusion and his head began to throb. Neither of them spoke for some time. She poked at the floor with her foot, obsessively smoothing an already smooth rug.

"Oh, I know you’re right about… about showing them," she sighed, "but sometimes I…"

"Hey, now," James said softly and sat beside her. "You’ve got me, the Head Boy who strikes terror into the hearts of Hogwarts rule-breakers. I certainly won’t put up with any of this nonsense, and neither will the prefects or the teachers."

"Thanks," she said simply, her eyes still downcast. "I hope you’re right, I really do."

"Well, maybe a certain Slytherin prefect will be a bit bent out of shape, but you leave him to me." James blustered, trying his best to jolly her along and banish the darkness that seemed to have settled around her shoulders like an unseen mantle.

"I’m not so sure about that." She looked up at him and he was pleased to see that a spark of amusement had returned to her green eyes. "After what happened last year at the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match, I’m not sure that we can leave a certain Slytherin to you. The Head Boy can’t go around transfiguring his least favorite people into toads after all."

"Sod it all! Er, I don’t suppose Head Boys are supposed to say that either."

"Maybe you should have been taking a course in how to be a proper Head Boy," she said with a chuckle.

"Proper Head Boy?" James snorted. "I’ll have you know that--"

"Freaks. You’re going to be in so much trouble." Petunia had appeared in the doorway, still wearing her dressing gown and clutching an acid green something-or-other, probably the party dress. She gave Lily a nasty smirk and then yelled, "Mum! Lily’s got that boy in her room!"

"We were just talking shop, Wizard-talk, you know," James said with a smile that he knew to be fairly irresistible to members of the opposite sex, "talking about a spell for turning a person into a toad, don’t you know, and wondering about how to get just the right shade of green. Your dress, for example, would be a marvelous color for a toad. Do you mind if we test it on--"

"Mum!" Petunia shrieked, twitching, prepared to run away like a flightless bird on the verge of extinction.

James stood up and took a step toward her. She whirled around and fled into one of the other bedrooms; the door slammed behind her. Lily had one hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud and clutched her stomach with the other. James liked the way her eyes sparkled--he always had--and he laughed, too.

"Freaks, are we? Good Lord, your sister’s just as bad as any of those Slytherins up at school," James chuckled, but then grew serious. "You’re not going to get in trouble, are you?"

"No," she said with a sigh, "but let’s not give her any more ammunition. We’d better go downstairs. I’m sorry for taking up your time with my silly problems. We didn’t even get round to talking about the new term. I don’t know if you can--that is, maybe you’ve got another engagement or something--but if you have time, and you want to stay, I could make you a cuppa."

He stayed for tea and then for the rest of the afternoon, long after Petunia had flounced out in a huff to her "very important" party. He stayed for supper and helped Lily with the dishes afterward. And when he finally turned up on Peter’s doorstep, hours later than he’d said he would, his only excuse was that being Head Boy was a very time-consuming business.

Part 3: Deeper and Deeper

"Credit where credit is due," Remus said wryly with a pointed glance to Sirius. "Now that we’ve got that all worked out, what do you say we call it a night? It'll be a long day tomorrow since we have to be off early to wherever the hell James decided to get married--"

"All will be revealed on the morrow." James smiled, shrugged, and then winced, having forgotten that any movement of his shoulders was likely to bring back the pain. "Remus is right. We could all use some sleep, especially you." He shot a glance at Sirius. "Can't have you snoring during the ceremony or falling asleep at the reception, now can we? You're on the hook to make the first toast."

"Hey, don't worry about me." Sirius pointed to himself with the key for emphasis. "I'll be ready. It's really only last night that I didn't, er, get a lot of sleep because Moody insisted that we re-do all the warding spells at…well, I can't say, can I?"

"Give us a hint, then?" Peter whined, and his face twisted into a bad imitation of a smile.

"You'll find out soon enough," James replied. "In fact, as ushers, you and Remus will be the first to know."

Remus stood and gripped the back of his chair like a lectern. "James has his reasons, I'm sure," he said quietly and looked down at Peter. James opened his mouth as if to explain, but Remus cut James off, clapping Peter on the shoulder and saying in a lighter tone, "Give it a rest, eh? You've been driving us crazy all night and now it's time to go home."

Sirius frowned and stifled another yawn, while James nodded his head in response. Peter licked his lips, noticing how dry they'd become, how his entire mouth felt dry, his tongue mummified like the carcass of a dead animal baking in the hot desert sun.

"No. Please," Peter began, wringing his hands while staring at the scarred surface of the table. Geoff loves Elspeth. Wimbourne Rules. Riddle eats it. A few hundred years of graffiti scored the wood. He was worried about surviving the next few hours.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

What came first?

There wasn’t one event that Peter could point to, but a gang of them like the gang of boys who had terrorized the country parish where his family went on holidays, the band of tough little shits that had backed nine-year old Peter up to the lip of a muddy, bramble-filled ditch one shove at a time, each shout being accompanied by another taunt and another step closer to the gooey edge until Peter could not escape the jeering wall of boys closing in on him and he finally lost his balance, pitching backwards into the prickly ooze.

If Peter had to stand before some celestial Court of Magical Law and justify his existence, had to beg for mercy and forgiveness, he might bring up last October. It wasn’t his fault. There were circumstances beyond his control, after all.

On the morning of the first of October, a Mr. Wood-Nettle had come to the law firm for the reading of his wife’s will. In addition to her bequest, she had left him with three small children under the age of five. While Mr. Bartelby read out the will, droning on and on through two rolls of parchment, Peter had the job of minding the children. The two older ones were whiny, malicious brats whom he had to chase over and under the clerks’ desks after they escaped from Mr. Bartelby’s office. The youngest, an angelic-looking baby, proved to be far worse than her older brothers when she bit Peter’s finger and then threw up all over his shoulder.

Through it all, Mr. Wood-Nettle seemed barely aware of his surroundings and deaf to the screams of his children, his face pale and haggard. Afterward, Eurydice and Persephone, the other clerks, hinted at some dark end for the late Mrs. Wood-Nettle at the hand of You-Know-Who. Peter didn’t want to know; he wished they’d all go away and leave him in peace.

The afternoon brought no improvement.

"--has to be done."

"I quite agree--"

Peter, who had been dozing at his desk, woke with a start at the sound of his father’s voice.

"--and we shall see the thing done right."

He groaned to himself and hoped he wouldn’t be getting another lecture about "Hard Work" and about how lucky he should feel to have a place at the law firm. He peeked out from behind the barricade of his folded arms. It looked as if he’d escape the lecture today because his father was escorting a rather stout witch in a sea-green dress toward Mr. Bartelby’s office. This almost certainly meant more work for Peter. He stole another glance around the room. The other clerks weren’t anywhere to be seen, so he wouldn’t be able to wheedle his way out.

"Pettigrew! If you please!" came the expected call from Mr. Bartelby’s office.

Peter’s ancient desk chair creaked and groaned as he reluctantly got up. He shuffled across the room, still hoping that Eurydice or Persephone would get back from lunch so that he could talk them doing into whatever Mr. Bartelby wanted done.

At the office door, he met his father. The man was not his usual energetic self. His round face, normally florid, had the look of an undercooked dumpling and his moustache hung limply. He even forgot to reprimand Peter for the splotch of regurgitated baby’s milk on his robe and the ink stains on his fingers. Instead, he clapped his son heavily on the shoulder.

"Sad business, what?" Peter’s father muttered while shaking his head and staring down at the floor. He looked up, took a deep breath and said in a firmer voice, "Get on with you. There’s work to be done."

Peter was practically shoved into the tiny office by his father’s leave-taking, which almost landed him in the lap of the large woman in green.

"Bartelby! What is the--" the witch spluttered angrily as Peter struggled awkwardly to his feet

Mrs. Longbottom. Peter should have recognized the stuffed vulture on her hat sooner. Mrs. Longbottom--did she even have a first name?--was an old school friend of his mother’s and a frequent guest for tea at his parent’s house. What Peter recalled most vividly were the numerous times as a child that he’d been pinched on the cheek or berated by the woman.

On this afternoon, her face was pale and puffy and her eyes were red-rimmed. Despite the all-too-familiar tone of rebuke, Peter might not have made the connection with the torments of his childhood, but for the hat and the large elephant-shaped wart on the tip of her pointed chin, which had been the source of much sniggering when he was a child, though one was not allowed to speak publicly of its existence.

"Oh, it’s little Peter," she said, her voice cracking, "and all grown up. I remember when you used to play with Frank and--"

Peter reached instinctively for a handkerchief as Mrs. Longbottom let out a great bellow like a dying rhinoceros. He remembered with a sudden sickening wrench to his gut that Bentley, the second eldest son, had been killed just last week in Shropshire while trying to save a busload of Muggles from flying into a barn. And now Frank, the youngest, was the only one left…and Frank Longbottom was an Auror, not the safest profession these days.

"Watch yourself, Pettigrew," said Mr. Bartelby sharply to Peter, his long sallow face screwed up into the usual pained expression. Then with genuine concern, he said to Mrs. Longbottom, "Will you have a cup of tea or something stronger, perhaps?"

"No, nothing," she said curtly and handed the handkerchief back to Peter. "Let’s get on with it."

After a nod from Mr. Bartelby, Peter brought in quills, ink and several rolls of parchment, and then climbed onto the high stool in the corner next to the large desk that took up half of the cramped little office. Clerks always took notes when clients made wills, which he presumed was the reason for Mrs. Longbottom’s visit. People never stopped by D&B for social calls.

"Let’s get started, shall we?" said Mr. Bartelby, back to a businesslike manner as he unrolled a large parchment ceremoniously and began to read, "Here begins the last will and testament of Diapensia Hicklepin Longbottom, wife of the late Geoffrey Arbuckle Longbottom, daughter of Cleophas and Eunice Hicklepin, also deceased. Whereas the testatrix…"

The afternoon crawled along with the excruciating slowness of a wounded animal trying to drag itself under cover. As Mr. Bartelby read the current will, Mrs. Longbottom alternately barked and sobbed over the minutia of property and degrees of relation of various family members. Obscured by the details, but hanging in the air like a cloud threatening rain, was the simple fact that she had no grandchildren and only one son left. Although he was newly married, Frank Longbottom had no children.

Peter wondered what his own mother’s reaction would have been in such a situation; she’d probably take to her bed for days and cry herself through several hundred handkerchiefs. Of course, she had five grandchildren upon whom she doted and she had already begun to nag Peter about his apparent lack of prospects for producing any. Mrs. Longbottom, on the other hand, had lost her only two grandchildren the previous spring when the house of her son Caleb had been reduced to flinders.

Mrs. Longbottom held up well during the afternoon’s ordeal, although her nose got redder and her temper frayed. Peter, however, found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. When she heaved her large chest, the floppy white lace collar of her dress did a peculiar dance that reminded him of sea foam on the beach, jiggling and burbling as the tide goes in and out. Peter grew inattentive to the notes he was making as he dreamed of a holiday at the shore, preferably in Spain or France or anyplace far from the dreary English autumn.

"Pettigrew!"

"Yes, sir--Augh!" Peter gasped as he looked down at the parchment where his notes read, house in Surrey to grand-nephew in event of death of sunny and warm ocean breezes warm san--

"Read it back, Pettigrew," said Mr. Bartelby sharply. "I do not wish to ask you a third time."

"Er, right, sir. Let me just...find my place here," stammered Peter, running a finger down the parchment. His other hand flailed in an attempt to jab the quill into the inkbottle and the bottle spilled, spreading a cancerous black blotch across his notes. Ink was dripping into his lap as he looked up sheepishly at the frigid visage of Mr. Bartelby, lips tightly pursed in anticipation of a rebuke, and at Mrs. Longbottom, whose hard, piggy eyes were narrowed in disgust. His mother would be hearing about this.

Things improved a little after that. Mrs. Longbottom departed at four-thirty, having regained her composure enough to thank Peter civilly and send her regards to his mother. But he wasn’t free to go because Mr. Bartelby insisted that the new version of the will be written out and thoroughly checked before he could go home.

It was nearly half-past seven when Peter finished. By that time he needed a drink, maybe more than one. Instead of going home, he headed for the Golden Apple. Where else?

Peter was still thinking of sunny beaches and ocean breezes later that night as he pushed himself down the corridor leading into the public room, inching along like a drunken slug. He grimaced and clutched his stomach. It would be better not to dwell upon slimy things just now.

The drunken part was accurate, at any rate. For the third time that week, he was pissed, so completely blotto that he could barely feel his knees as he stumbled back into the noisy, smoke-filled room. He couldn’t help it, he told himself. Who wouldn’t want to get numb, get sodding paralyzed, with a job like his?

"Watch it!"

"Auuugh!" cried Peter as his nose collided with a tray of dirty glasses. He stumbled backwards as Harley Baddock, one of the bartenders, grunted and swayed in a desperate dance aimed at holding onto the tray while stopping the tower of glasses from tumbling off.

Peter fumbled for a glass that had tipped over the side and was falling slowly, as slowly as if someone had tried a Levitation Charm on it.

"Ooops!" he said as he reached for it, but couldn’t quite get his fingers to connect. After what seemed like many minutes, the glass landed on the worn wooden floor with a thud and bounced under a barstool.

"Butterfingers," giggled Peter, nearly choking on his own hysteria. Missing the glass was funny; watching the glass roll around on the floor was funny; and the irritated flush on Harley’s contorted face was just about the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

"Here now, here now," came the gruff voice of the burly landlord from behind the bar. Without bothering to sort out the situation, he reached across and smacked Harley on the back of the head with a towel. "Clumsy oaf! Assaulting customers and dropping the glassware! You hurt there, Mr. Pettigrew?"

"Fine, Mr. Baddock," Peter called from the floor where he was crawling on his hands and knees to retrieve the errant glass. His head was starting to pound and he couldn’t quite remember why a glass falling on the floor had been so funny.

"You miserable excuse for a wizard," continued the elder Mr. Baddock to Harley. "What I did to deserve a great stupid git like you for a son, Merlin only knows. Belong in Hufflepuff, you do. Now get on with your work."

Harley Baddock, whose ancestors had always been innkeepers as well as Slytherins, had shocked and embarrassed the whole family by being sorted into Hufflepuff when his turn came to go to Hogwarts. Even though Harley had finished school last year, the old man had still not forgiven him and was often heard muttering, "Hufflepuff" under his breath when Harley screwed up. In a funny way, Harley seemed to enjoy the attention, though little of it was positive.

As his father went back to the other end of the bar, Harley unfroze with an angry look toward Peter, who was still sitting on the floor. He slammed down the tray and ducked behind the bar where he began dropping glasses into a tub of water, creating an off-key symphony of clinking.

"What’s so funny, Pettigrew?" he muttered angrily. Harley was tall and heavyset with collar-length black hair, a lock of which always fell on his forehead precisely off-center. Add to that gray eyes and sideburns that crawled across his long ruddy cheeks like sinister caterpillars and the total effect was one that made girls giggle for reasons that Peter did not understand.

"Oh, by the way, your nose is bleeding. Serves you right."

Peter got up and surrendered the glass he had rescued. Sure enough, his nose felt wet. He didn’t want to see, so he wiped his fingers off on his robes and got out a handkerchief while clutching the rail along the bar for support. He couldn’t go back to the table, the usual one where he’d been sitting with Jack earlier; the obstacle course of tables, chairs and pub patrons seemed insurmountable.

Suddenly nothing was funny.

"I need a drink."

"Hrmph," Harley said, noisily knocking glasses about behind the bar. "How do you reckon you’ll get home when you’re too pissed to Apparate, eh? Your buddy Jack’s disappeared and I’m not taking you home tonight."

"Jack left?" Peter turned clumsily to survey the room behind him and nearly lost his balance. "When? Just now? Where’d he go?"

"Just now?" the junior barman laughed hard enough that the glasses momentarily stopped hitting each other. "Dragonsbollocks! He left nearly three-quarters of an hour ago, left in quite a rush, he did, and without settling up at the bar. The old man was cursing him up and down for that. Where’ve you been?"

"Needed some air," Peter mumbled as he pulled himself onto a barstool. He’d spent some time lying on the cellar floor amidst beer barrels and wine bottles after he had accidentally tumbled down the stairs on his way to the loo.

"D’you know that there’s a lot of rats in your cellar?" Peter said, still clinging to the edge of the bar with the cloth pressed to his nose. The world was starting to spin. "Er, never mind. I’ll have ‘nother pint."

"I think you’ve had enough, Pettigrew. I already told you that I’m not taking you home this time," Harley said while he stole a guilty look toward the elder Mr. Baddock at the other end of the bar. "No, sir. Got me a date."

"A date?" Peter giggled.

"Shhhh. Not so loud," Harley said.

Peter shook his head woozily and tried unsuccessfully to get off the barstool. The bartender motioned for him to stay, found a freshly washed glass and poured out a pint.

"I’d catch it from him," Harley went on after he’d set the full glass in front of Peter, "but he doesn’t know, see?"

Peter eyed the beer suspiciously. His stomach was telling him not to be so foolish. He took a drink anyway, though he had to grasp the glass with two hands to keep from dropping it.

"What witch would go out with you?" Peter said, pushing the pint away. He was trying very hard not to think about slugs. The thought of tall, goofy-looking Harley Baddock with a date was quite useful in that regard.

"Ha!" Harley replied and leaned over the bar, whispering, "You’d be surprised, you would..."

"Er, girl with three heads?" Peter said fuzzily, trying to get the bartender’s face to come into focus. "Hang on. I’ve got it. A goblin. You’ve got a date with a goblin."

"Better ‘n that."

"Ahhhh," Peter moaned and laid his head down in his arms because the world would not stop spinning.

Harley must have taken this as a gesture of sympathetic solidarity because he whispered in a still lower voice, "A Muggle."

Peter opened one reluctant eye and looked up. "Yeah…sure. How’d you meet this M--girl, anyway? She walk into the pub?"

"Well, my Dad’s a nutter about brewing his own beer, y’know," Harley said in a low voice, eager to unburden himself. "There’s this cooper, see, in a village round about Little Horsted, and he makes these barrels Dad likes. Sometimes he sends me out to pick up ‘em up--I get to drive a lorry and everything--and there’s this girl there that sort of hangs around. I got to talking to her and… You know what they say about Muggle girls, eh?" Harley poked Peter in the arm to punctuate this point. "Eh? Not great bloody prudes like most witches, I can tell you."

Peter closed his eyes again, not wanting to know more about the mating habits of Muggles nor of Harley Baddock, for that matter. He and his vertigo were left in peace for some time, until Harley said loudly, "And where in the hell have you been?"

Peter groaned. Have I been somewhere, he wondered? The way he felt, anything was possible. When he decided to take a risk and open his eyes, Jack Travers, an uncharacteristically dark look on his face, was standing next to him.

"The old man’s gonna have your hide," Harley continued with a sneer, "for skipping out without paying."

"I’m here, aren’t I?" Jack sneered back. He dug a few Galleons out of his pocket, flung them on the bar, and then grabbed Peter’s nearly full pint.

"This yours?"

Without waiting for a reply, Jack gulped down a third of the beer and sloppily set the glass back on the bar. His hand shook. His hair was tousled and his robes were in disarray, as if he’d been through a cyclone. Wherever he’d been, Peter didn’t think he’d enjoyed himself.

"Drinking your troubles away, Travers? It won’t work." Evan Rosier came up behind them and gave Jack a hard shove on the back for emphasis. Rosier, a former captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, was at his nastiest, a sneer of delight splashed across his broad, ugly face. Peter shrunk away from him, though Jack seemed to be his target tonight.

"You should talk, Rosier," Jack said tightly without turning to face him. "You’re just as--oh, fuck off, will you? I’ve had enough for one night."

Peter looked in confusion from one man to the other. He didn’t think that Jack knew Rosier well--leastwise not to speak to him on such terms. His alcohol-soaked brain was trying to work through the implications of this, but his drunken speculations were cut short when Jack grabbed his robe and pulled him away from the bar, shoving past Rosier.

"Come on. Let’s get some fresh air."

Jack dragged him through the crowded public room and out the door. Miraculously, Peter survived the rough passage without retching. Once they stood in the chilly night air, the world stopped spinning.

"What was that about?" Peter said haltingly.

"You needed a bit of air, Peter old sod," Jack said with a scowl, his face a mask of shadows and unspoken words under the light of the single yellow street lamp. In the next moment, though, his grimace softened into the familiar grin, like butter melting on toast.

"Feeling well enough to Apparate?" he said, slapping Peter on the shoulder.

"Er, I guess so," Peter answered weakly. Though his head still pounded, his stomach no longer wanted to leap up and strangle his brain, a decided improvement. "I should be getting home and all that."

"Aw, it’s too early to go home," Jack said, all traces of his previous dark mood gone. "Let’s have a bit of fun, something I bet you’ve never done."

"Whah?"

Jack beamed back at him and said, "Car-tipping."

That was how Peter came to be standing next to Jack on a dark country road somewhere in England. At least, he supposed they were in England. As his eyes grew accustomed, he could make out the shapes of trees silhouetted against the stars. Open fields stretched around them in all directions. Several glowing spots on the horizon hinted at far-off cities. And it was quiet, too quiet. After the noisy pub, there was something eerie and unnatural about the dead silence of a country road.

"Where are we?" Peter asked, his breath puffing into wisps of white. He had cast a Locating Charm that allowed him to follow Jack when he Apparated away from Diagon Alley, but that told him nothing about where they actually were.

"Off the road," Jack hissed and yanked on Peter’s robes.

They heard a whining sound and then saw the twin lights of a Muggle car, which made clumps of grass and hedges come alive and, by a trick of the moving lights, appear to march ever closer. A bewildered Peter crouched in a ditch at the side of the road. Jack seemed infinitely sure of himself as he watched the car draw close. Then he raised his wand.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

The car lurched upward, unsteadily at first, and floated over the road.

"Now watch," Jack muttered. The smallish black car hovered in the air like a giant battle-scarred beetle and then slowly rotated until the front end pointed down and the headlamps glared fiercely at the pavement. Suspended above the road, the car might have been a static illustration in a book: how dragons hunt or famous Quidditch moves explained in several easy-to-understand steps. The Muggle inside was screaming all the while, though the car’s windows muffled the noise, making it sound as if the panicked voice were far away.

"Car-tipping, see? The poor Muggle doesn’t know what’s happening," Jack laughed through clenched teeth, clearly enjoying himself even while concentrating on maintaining the spell. "Sometimes they think it’s space aliens. Ha! Great bloody stupid Muggles! Can’t you just hear the old rotter?" He went on in a creaky, nasal falsetto, "‘On me way home from the pub, I was, when the car jes’ heaved to, wheels righ’ off the road like summat were controllin’ her. Musta been them space aliens, I reckon.’"

Peter had to laugh, in spite of the panicking Muggle bottled up inside the car. Funny thing, but his headache had slipped away without him even knowing, like a drunken party guest who finally sobers up enough to realize that he’s overstayed his welcome.

"Come on, Peter," Jack said, wand held rigidly and eyes fixed on the floating car, lest the spell break, "conjure up a bit of light and give the bloke something to look at."

"Er, let me see here," Peter said slowly as he frowned in concentration. Finally, after marshalling what little wits remained to him, he pointed his wand and said, "Pyrosphericae."

Multi-colored blobs--yellow, green, blue, purple--emerged from the tip of his wand, ballooning into pulsing balls of ethereal fire the size of his head as they drifted toward the car, The Muggle stopped yelling when fireballs began to circle the car like enormous drunken fireflies. Peter could see the face awash in shifting colors, the eyes wide, the mouth hanging slackly open. A terrified old man, he thought.

Suddenly it wasn’t so funny.

Peter was almost at the point of speaking, almost about to say that they had gone too far, almost about to do something, anything, when--

--screech!

Tires squealed on pavement. Where they had been alone in the dark, save the captive car, there was now another set of headlamps glaring at them and the high-pitched whine of another engine. Another car, small and sleek, roared into view, going far too fast for the darkness and the quality of the road.

Peter dropped his arms in surprise, as did Jack. The fireballs winked out of existence and the floating car lunged heavily downward, becoming painfully reacquainted with gravity in one ear-splitting crash followed by a brief series of metal-groaning and glass-breaking noises.

Time crawled. Trapped in an adrenaline-induced limbo, Peter saw the second car skid sideways across the road in an attempt to avoid the other car. It veered away just in time to avert a crash. But it did so by driving off the road and up a tree, flipping over while continuing to plow into a second tree. Something had to give. The tree cracked and fell forward onto the car just as the petrol tank ruptured, lighting a fireball that was a hundred times brighter than anything Peter had conjured.

"Son of a Squib," muttered Jack angrily. "Bastard son of a fucking Squib. Let’s get out of here."

"But there might be someone al--and shouldn’t we tell someone?" Peter stammered.

"Tell someone?" Jack laughed harshly. "You want to tell the Muggles and get laughed at, or someone from the Ministry and end up in Azkaban? No thanks."

Jack got up, eyeing the black car warily. When it had fallen, the car had partially rolled over and it now poised precariously on its side. From where they stood it was impossible to see if the driver was alive.

"But-but what if someone finds out?" Peter gasped, struggling to his feet.

"Muggles have accidents on country roads," Jack shrugged. He stood surveying the scene, his pupils turned a brilliant, eerie white by the raging fire and his impassive face coloring red-into-orange-into-yellow from the flickering flames. After a moment, in which the fire crackled and roared, he said thoughtfully, "You have a point, though. We ought to take a look."

They both approached the nearly unrecognizable black car cautiously, staying out of sight of the driver’s side, which lay at the bottom of the heap. As they came around the end of the car, Peter saw a flicker of movement from inside. The Muggle, his face and hands lined with rivulets of blood, was trying feebly to get out of the car through the shattered window on the passenger’s side.

The Muggle saw them and stopped struggling.

"Pl-please," croaked the old man, reaching a hand through the shattered window, "please help…"

Even from the shadowy grotto of the ruined car, Peter could see the pleading look in the old man’s eyes and heard--or imagined he heard-- whispered words begging him to…do something. But what could he do? What should he do?

Peter raised his wand, hand trembling.

"Obliviate!" he cried.

Jack jerked him away, out of the Muggle’s line of sight. He frowned at Peter briefly, but then shrugged away whatever troubled him.

"Not what I had in mind, but it’ll do, I suppose," Jack said. He threw an arm casually around Peter’s shoulder, saying, "Time to get on home, eh?"

Part 4: Lone Wolf

Peter took a deep breath and raised his eyes. James. Sirius. Remus. They looked at him with a mixture of amusement, pity, and curiosity, a look familiar to the short fat boy who'd always needed rescuing, who had struggled with the Animagus Charm to find that the only transformation he could manage was boy-to-rat. Wormtail, they called him. It was funny to them, so funny that Peter even shared in the joke. Good old Peter.

"Please. I'm going to be in so much trouble from--"

Peter faltered, his eyes darting from face to face. Sirius smirked, but James still seemed sympathetic. As usual, he couldn't read the look on Remus’s face. Why was it so stuffy in the pub all of a sudden? Remember to breathe, you idiot. He sucked in a lungful of air.

"--from Father. I did, er, borrow the key without asking and when he finds out. But, I don't care, you see, because…because you've all stuck by me in some pretty bad spots. Remember at school when that passageway collapsed up on the fourth floor and you stayed to dig me out, even though Pringle was on his way? I thought I was dead for sure." Peter chortled feebly and then hurriedly continued, "…and there's so little that I could do in return. I'm not strong or clever or brave like you are. I know that. So, I thought that I could at least try to do this for James, because of all we've been…because we have to stick together, you know, and I-- This is all that I have to give and….since I'm going to be punished anyway, why don't we at least have a bit of fun first, eh?"

Silence haunted the table like an unhappy ghost. The pub had begun to empty out and that left less and less noise to fill in the empty spaces between the four of them.

The scrape of the chair on the floor was palpable as Remus sat down. "You've all stuck by me in some pretty bad spots." The words set off a chain-reaction, trapping him in a web of remembrance, bringing back sights and sounds that weren’t all fond memories.

"I'll go first, then," James pronounces solemnly as he looks at the other boys seated in a circle on the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack.

"It bloody well better be me," Sirius laughs and raises his wand. "If this charm doesn't work, then someone's going to be hauled up before Dumbledore..."

Pain. The all-too-familiar pain of transformation squeezes his bones and stabs his muscles. He gasps for breath. He claws at the floorboards like a half-drowned sailor who's finally found the shore. The room swims before him. He sees the horns of a stag and tries to focus on the large dark eyes. Can this be real? It's the wet tongue of a big black dog licking his cheek that convinces him he's not dreaming...

Dimmest of all was the memory that he'd tried to forget a thousand times. Trying only made him relive it again, and again.

He stands at the end of the tunnel and looks back through a haze of pain, most of the human torn away from him already. Enough remains to see that Severus Snape stands at the other end, mouth open, yelling words that no longer make sense. He tenses, ready to spring, but before he can close the gap between them, the boy disappears. He runs down the tunnel on four legs and--there it dissolves, not enough of the human left to hold onto the thread...

Remus found himself staring at the pub's front door, the one that led out into the dark and dirty streets of Muggle London where a bloke could be anyone or no one, where being faceless and lost was as effortless as water flowing down hill. He turned back to the earnest and troubled look on James’s face, and could feel his friend's mind tugging at the tangled knot of their predicament, trying to work out what would be "best for us all".

In the end, Remus and James spoke up at the same time.

"Well, I don't suppose--"

"Peter, you shouldn't--"

They both laughed and James nodded to Remus who began again, "I don't suppose that any of us is going to get a decent amount of sleep, so we might as well carry on and see this club of Peter's."

Sirius gave a low whistle and pocketed the key. He stood and hauled James along with him.

"This may be our only chance," he said over James’s stiff-necked groans, "to see how those rich sods party. Yeah, and like Peter said, his old dad would be delighted to give you a smashing send-off."

"Mind you watch yourself." Peter sprang up and scurried around the table to James’s side, buzzing like a bee in a field of wildflowers. "Don't want you getting hurt before we get there. Heh-heh. This'll be just the thing; you'll see."

Remus rose more slowly, contemplating Wormtail's mercurial nature as he watched James and Peter thread their way through the tables on the way to the Leaky Cauldron’s back door. He mused out loud, "Do you think Peter's telling us the whole story about that key? His father can be a bit of an ogre, but I wonder…"

"You coming, then?" Sirius, now standing too, leaned heavily on the table as he scrutinized his friend. This time there was concern rather than scorn written on his face.

"Sure. Wouldn't miss it," Remus replied. He avoided Sirius’s stare by reaching down to retrieve his well-traveled jacket, which was artistically spattered with Cornish mud. What's gotten into me? he wondered, letting his eyes wander across the thinning crowd in the public room.

The Leaky Cauldron specialized in dark corners where conversations could be held between people who didn't want to be seen or heard. Often, the air itself shimmered, a sure sign that an Obfuscatus Charm had been cast by those who really wanted privacy. Evan at this late hour, a smoky haze still lingered, doing a good imitation of a confusion spell. A pair of hags puffed away on long pipes that usually contained a sticky black pitch approximately equivalent to road tar. At the fireplace, an elderly wizard was having a smoke ring-blowing contest with a large party of dwarves. They'd been at it for a while, judging by the clouds of multicolored smoke hanging over them.

How foolish he had been--lulled into believing in fairness and justice by the years he'd spent at Hogwarts--to think that anyone in the wizarding world would want to hire him. Werewolf. Abomination. Creature of Darkness. He'd had all those epithets (and worse) hurled at him during his fruitless search for a job. He was beginning to lose hope, despite encouragement from his friends as well as from Dumbledore. Since there seemed little happening on the job front, he'd hit upon the idea of a spring walking tour of Cornwall. He had the time (plenty of it) and had always wanted to see more of that country. Sirius had been right about the lure of ruined castles and caves that often sheltered unusual Dark creatures or that still held traces of the old, Dark spells. Perhaps his fascination with the Dark Arts boded ill. He worried about that sometimes, too, being officially classified as a creature of Darkness himself.

His friends worried about him, too. James and Peter wouldn’t say anything to his face, but Sirius was another matter. They’d nearly had a row about this very subject two weeks ago, right before Remus had left for his ill-fated walking tour of Cornwall.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

"You look like shit, Moony," Sirius pronounced at the sight of Remus, who had just appeared in the doorway that separated the tiny kitchen from the rest of the flat.

"Thanks very much. I’m always a bit knackered on the day after, you know that. And, you don’t look so well yourself," Remus said dryly. Sirius was barelegged and wore a wrinkled, inside-out tee shirt. In his unshaven and pale-faced condition he might have been a recovering werewolf, too. "How late were you out last night? I let myself in around midnight and then fell right to sleep. I didn’t even hear you come in."

"Don’t remember," Sirius yawned and went back to fiddling with a Muggle machine on the kitchen’s single, crowded countertop, which was piled haphazardly with empty food cartons, beer bottles, and other flotsam and jetsam.

Dishes clattered as Sirius hunted through the jumble of cups and plates in the sink. He held up a glass to the light of the single small window. As it seemed to be clean enough, he filled it from the tap, and then poured the water into the top of the machine. This seemed to take all his concentration. There was a sharp click as he pushed a button on the machine, and then the thing began to hiss and rattle while steam came out the top.

"Too much to drink," he chuckled with a shrug, "and then there was Sasha. She lives downstairs. Fantastic. Brilliant move on my part to take a flat in a building full of secretaries and shop clerks." He looked directly at Remus, grinning. "Nice girls, and they’re all Muggles so they don’t have a clue, not the faintest idea, you know. I could--"

"No, thanks." Remus shook his head and stared at the Muggle machine where brown liquid was now dripping into a clear glass pot. "Anyway, I’m leaving this afternoon after I get a few things in town."

"Leaving? But, you just got here, Moony," Sirius groaned. "Is this something that I’m supposed to know about?"

"I’m off to Cornwall, right? I sent you an owl about it before the full moon."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. Now I remember," he mumbled and ran a hand through his short black hair, still rumpled from sleep like the rest of him. "Sorry. Been so busy at work and with all the wedding rubbish…"

Neither spoke for a few minutes while the machine burbled and sputtered. Sirius turned his attention to the mess in the sink and made an attempt to sort it out. Remus, his arms folded, leaned against the doorway and watched his friend make precarious piles of dishes.

When the sputterings and rattlings finally ceased, Sirius inspected the pot of brown liquid by taking it from the machine and holding it up to the light.

"Coffee?" he asked as he poured a cup for himself "It’s really quite good. Nice little machine that runs on electricity. It’s new since the last time you were here."

"Tea will do for me," Remus answered. His stomach lurched suddenly and unpleasantly as the smell of coffee filled the kitchen.

"Hmph. The flat comes with electricity, you know, so I like to try these things out."

Remus recovered from the nausea that hovered over him like vultures circling a fresh kill, and laughed weakly, "Irresistible, I know. Do you have another machine that makes tea?"

"Ha!" exclaimed Sirius triumphantly as he pushed aside a stack of plates and threw several paper food cartons on the floor in order to make space on the counter for a mustard-yellow electric kettle. Soon it was steaming, although not as fast as if it had been enchanted.

Remus watched him fill the kettle and listened to him babble on about heating coils, voltages and such arcana, amazed once again by his friend’s fascination with the minutia of Muggle life. Electricity was fairly astonishing, especially since Muggles had come up with it on their own, but all these machines were slow and cumbersome compared to the proper spells. Like most wizards, Remus had grown up largely ignorant of how Muggles got along day to day. Although his father had been a Muggle, his parents stayed within the wizarding community after he was bitten as a small boy. If his father ever missed any of the trappings of his former life, he never mentioned it.

"Here you go. No milk, I’m afraid," Sirius said, after the water had been boiled and the tea steeped. He handed Remus a steaming mug and then gestured at a waist-high metal box tucked under the counter. "Might be a bit in the fridge actually, but--very scary in there. Let’s see about breakfast. Er, what have I got? Cornflakes, bread… Oh, I shall be very brave and look in the--" He leaned down and opened the door to the metal box. "There is a bit of milk, but it’s gone off. Aha! Here’s some bacon that doesn’t appear to be green."

"I’m getting tired of this re-fridge-rator," Sirius continued as he retrieved a paper-wrapped parcel and then stood up. "It keeps things cold, but they get rather moldy in a hurry. A simple Preserving Charm works much better. Want some bacon?"

"Yes, please," Remus answered. He was ravenous after not being able to keep anything down on the previous day, the day after the full moon. It had taken most of his energy just to Apparate from his mother’s house in Oxfordshire, and a single night’s sleep hadn’t improved things much.

"Right, then." Sirius went to work throwing bacon into a pan on the gas ring. Once he’d finished that task, he ducked into the little bathroom, which was stuck off the kitchen as an afterthought, and came back with his wand.

"No machine for cooking bacon?" Remus coughed to suppress a laugh when Sirius waved his wand to light a flame under the pan. Another incantation caused a fork to leap from the sink, float over to the pan and begin poking at the bacon.

Sirius ignored the question and said, "This trip to Cornwall, about a job, is it?"

"Bit of a holiday actually. I--uh--have some applications out, but I’m not likely to hear on anything for a while, so I thought I’d do a little sightseeing before the wedding. Lots of magical creatures, of course, and cursed castles and--"

"I get the idea," Sirius said. He raised one eyebrow and gave Remus a penetrating stare, as the enchanted fork manically danced over the sizzling pan. "Bloody irresistible for you, hunting up Dark creatures."

"Studying is more like it," Remus said carefully, looking into his tea for a moment. "Outwitting demons or nasty fairies is quite tricky. There’s a lot of legend and misinformation and--"

"--and you could write a book about it." Sirius finished with a forced laugh.

Remus nodded and sipped his tea. They’d been over this ground before and he didn’t want to revisit what was becoming a sore spot between them. He was spared from further discussion when Sirius decided that the bacon was ready.

Aside from the tiny kitchen and the even tinier bath, there was only one room in the flat and it served as dining room, bedroom, and parlor. This was obviously a place that no cleaning lady had ever dared to enter since most of Sirius’s possessions were jumbled about in plain view. Sirius cleared off a small table with a sweep of his arm, sending books, parchment and an empty beer bottle to the floor. They sat down without further conversation and fell to eating.

"Watch yourself, okay?" Sirius said with uncharacteristic worry after they’d polished off the bacon. "There’s a lot of nasty shit out there right now--not all of it demons and fairies. Voldemort’s little army is getting bolder every day and you’d be--" He gave an exasperated grunt. "I just wish you’d be more careful. You put yourself into places where…"

Sirius paused, his face troubled. He took a sip of coffee and looked intently into his cup.

"Where what?" Remus asked guardedly. "Where I’m sure to bump into Voldemort? Is that what you mean? After what happened to my father, how can--"

He shoved his plate into the teacup with a sharp clink. In the silence that followed he spread his hands flat on the table, palms down, and stared at them while he tried to calm himself. Those were fingers, human fingers, before him--not claws or paws or scales, or any of the other more fanciful things rumored about Lord Voldemort and his followers. Once again, he wondered if Sirius--and James, too, though James refused to bring it up--worried more about his safety or about his prospects for being recruited.

Sirius banged his own cup on the table and cleared his throat.

"Look, I’m not accusing you of anything," he said in a gentler tone than before. "I just meant to say, that is--that no witch or wizard is entirely safe any more."

"Business must be good, then," Remus commented, suddenly interested in his cold tea.

"Booming. Couldn’t be better," Sirius said with a shrug, less eager than Remus to change the subject. After an unsuccessful attempt to become an Auror, he’d landed a job with the Cerebus Protection Agency, a private firm that specialized in security for wizards. "We can barely keep up with the demand for Security Charms, enchanted alarms, and bodyguards. Today I’ve got to go to Cheltenham to--" He halted and looked at his watch. "Bloody hell! Is that the time? ‘Scuse me for a minute while I wash up."

Sirius got up from the table and strode across the room to a large battered wardrobe. He rummaged through clothing, leaving an untidy heap on the floor, and came away with an armful that he carried to the flat’s tiny bathroom. Several minutes later he emerged, clean-shaven with his hair slicked down and wearing a somber, dark suit.

"You’d trust me to guard your wife and daughter at the races, wouldn’t you?" he asked.

"Mmmm. Depends on how old the daughter is," Remus said.

"Good point," Sirius smirked. He picked up his cup and downed the last of the coffee, but didn’t sit. A restless energy had seized him. "I’ll bet you could get a job at the agency. They’re always looking for good people and your wards are the best. I can personally vouch for your Fence Spell being able to stop a Quidditch player at top speed." He paced the little room, kicking aside discarded clothing as he went. "Yeah. This is a great idea. Why didn’t I think of it before? I’ll talk to the head of the firm and--"

"Please don’t," Remus interjected firmly. "I’m sure they’d want--"

"Five sodding recommendations, yeah. And I sweated like a goblin roasting on a spit about getting those recs," Sirius interrupted in turn, "but you won’t have any trouble. All the teachers liked you at school."

"You’re forgetting that I’m registered, Sirius," Remus said slowly, dragging out each word. "Once I came of age, my records became public. Anyone who cares to enquire at the Ministry can find out what I am. And they would, of course. Can you honestly see a security firm employing a werewolf, especially with things as they stand now? "

"Hmph. P’raps you’re right. But, something will turn up for you," Sirius said with a brief smile that fooled neither of them. "Anyway, it’s mostly bloody boring work and I won’t be there too much longer. I’m angling for something bigger."

"Really? You mean they might take you as an Auror?"

"Damn right. Moody--he’s probably the most famous of the lot--well, I’ve been working with him on security for the wedding, y’know. And some of the things he’s done make me look like--let’s just say that if they let him become an Auror, I don’t see how they can complain about my record. I’ve learned a lot from him, even though he’s a right pain in the arse to work with. If Moody recommends me, they’ll take me this time."

Sirius shifted mental gears and said, "Where in hell are my boots?" After rooting around the room, sending clothes and blankets flying, he pulled out his wand, crying, "Accio boots!" A pair of new-looking black boots emerged from a pile of clothing like dolphins leaping above the surface of the sea. He deftly caught them, and then sat heavily on the sofa to pull the boots on.

"You’re not Apparating all the way to Cornwall today, are you?" he said sharply, looking up at Remus with more concern than censure.

Remus shook his head. "I’ll take the train to Truro and go on from there."

"Good, because you still look like shit," Sirius said lightly. "Need money? I could lend you a bit, just in case you need… train fare to get back."

"Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I’ve enough for the return trip, if it makes you feel better."

"Great. You know that there’s this rehearsal dinner-thingy on the twentieth. James--or maybe it’s Lily--wants us all there." Sirius paused while he tugged at a robe that was pinned underneath him on the sofa, then went on, "And after that, we’ll go out, just the four of us. James deserves a bit of fun, especially after having to deal with all of Lily’s relatives."

Remus, who had been dragged along on pub-crawls before, merely rolled his eyes. Did James know what he was in for?

"You’re not getting out of this," Sirius warned with a wicked grin. He stood and put on the robe, then pointed his wand menacingly at Remus. "I don’t care if a dragon attacks you; you’d better turn up."

"Oh, I promise," Remus smiled back at him. "Don’t worry about me, though. I’m sure I’ll be much safer on holiday than you are at work."

Sirius laughed as he raised his wand, and then held it motionless, poised to begin the spell. A more sober expression marched across his face and he said firmly, "Any funny stuff and I want to hear about it, all right? You could be in a lot of danger, y’know, and if you don’t--Oh, hell, Moony, don’t look at me like I’m a complete idiot!" With a final and disgusted shake of his head, he raised the wand and swiftly brought it down to complete the Apparition spell.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" And he was gone.

"Right," Remus replied quietly to the empty flat.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

"Yeah. Wait'll they get a load of us at this sodding whorehouse, eh, Moony?" Sirius chuckled and then drained the remaining beer from the glasses on the table.

"What?" Remus tried to collect his thoughts as he folded his jacket over one arm. "Oh, they'd never suspect that we're a traveling road show of bestiality."

Sirius laughed heartily and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, having consumed the last of the beer.

"You sure you're going to make it?" Remus tried to gauge his friend's level of intoxication.

"Don't give me that crap." Sirius threw an arm over Remus’s shoulder and pulled him away from the dregs. "I can drink all of you under the table. Any time. Day or night. Awake or in my bloody sleep."

"But, even you--" Remus began as they lurched through the obstacle course of tables and chairs that lay between them and the pub's back door. He checked himself because he didn’t want to start another argument.

"Hey, watch it!" yelled an angry witch, a puddle of Gillywater in her lap after Sirius crashed into her table. He took no notice, although Remus mumbled a hasty apology.

"Fantastic," Sirius chortled thickly as he dragged his friend like a weedy log caught in a trawler's net. "This'll fix James right up. Be as good as new, he will. And Peter… Ha! Might be old Peter's only shot at getting laid."

"Mmmm" was Remus’s only comment as he concentrated on navigating. He hoped that Sirius wouldn't feel like holding forth on his prospects. In fact, he was beginning to hope that the key to this mysterious brothel would turn out to be a practical joke. Only, Peter didn't have the imagination to dream up anything like this.

"Ah, Mr. Prongs and Mr. Wormtail," cried Sirius gleefully as they rejoined the others at the door. "Mr. Moony and Mr. Padfoot beg to join you."

He let go of Remus and staggered into James who pushed him away while protectively clutching his neck. Sirius ignored a very dirty look thrown in his direction and grinned.

"Onward, lads."

PArt 5: Seven Shoe Alley

Aloysius McPhee’s London on Ten Sickles A Day (1975 Edition) had this to say about Seven Shoe Alley:

For the broad-minded and adventurous traveller, no visit to London would be complete without a trip to Seven Shoe Alley, often compared to Amsterdam’s Nachtwerkstraat. A multitude of entertainment establishments, varying in seediness, can be found off the central plaza, which is dominated by a spectacular fountain that gushes dazzling cascades of multi-coloured water day and night. Both tourists and locals can be found strolling in London’s famous Red Light District. Public venues feature live acts; private clubs cater to a variety of specialized tastes. Be prepared to spend more than a few Galleons, if you wish to sample the sex trade for which this locale is famous. Although businesses operate under license from the Ministry of Magic, crime is not unknown here and the newcomer should beware.

Sirius Black had something else to say, though. He stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the chaotic whirl of colors and sounds as proudly as if he’d just conjured the entire scene solely for the entertainment of his friends.

"Bloody incredible, isn’t it?"

None of the other three answered, struck dumb as they struggled with the sensory traffic jam brought on by bright lights, pulsing colors, babbling conversations, warring musical styles, odors that by turns tickled and repulsed. What did it all mean? Over-stimulated brains hadn’t gotten around to tackling that question yet.

The four of them, dressed in tatty Muggle clothing that didn’t stand out so much here as it might have any other place in wizarding London, were standing on the edge of the large plaza that was the center stage, the parade ground, the living, breathing, squirming billboard for Seven Shoe Alley. In the late spring evening the open-air heart of the district buzzed with people; they lingered near the noisy fountain, or strolled the margins, or clustered around the windows of the garishly decorated buildings encircling the plaza like a cheap garter; they sported everything from wizard’s robes to next-to-nothing; they talked and laughed and carried on in half a dozen languages.

First to catch any newcomer’s eye was the fountain. No timid tourist, no matter how briefly he’d stuck his nose into Seven Shoe Alley, could fail to notice that single, enormous jet, a pulsating mushroom of neon-bright colors, each more violent than the last, that shot up fifty feet and then fell noisily into a large, shallow pool, where a thick layer of foam struggled against gravity and against the bounds of decency as dense masses of bubbles rose up from the surface and congealed into foamy shapes, entwined forms writhing in rainbow colors, though it was difficult to tell what acts they might have been performing through the shifting spray and ever-changing light.

And the enchanted water was merely the teaser, the tip of the iceberg, the frosting on a very messy cake.

"This is the place for us, lads," Sirius crowed, as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. "That pub was getting to me, making me sleepy. Ha! Ruddy amazing sight, this is. I would’ve thought of this sooner, except we didn’t have near enough cash, but with this key of Peter’s--" He took out the key, with its curling gold tendrils and hidden tigers, and tossed it up in the air, catching it as he went on, "There’s a bunch of shops over there that sell clothes and things--fun things, some of them. And the clubs…"

Across the plaza colorful signs perched over most every doorway, vibrant writhing letters that taunted passersby; the sign at the High Flying Broomstick, for example, shifted from "Live Acts" to a wriggling purple preview of just what the words meant. Sirius couldn’t help but grin.

Sleep, who needs sleep?

His eye roamed the entire scene, the brightly lit plaza as well as the dark corners where, more often than not, couples lingered in the alleys, or the stairways, or the alcoves. Over there a man stroked the neck of a shadowy companion, then pinned her--him? Maybe it didn’t matter--against a wall as the hand vanished, no doubt into territory that Sirius knew well, so well that he felt the rough fabric of his own jeans rub against him the way the whores would, if you paid them enough.

Sirius tucked the key away and jammed his hands into his pockets. He glanced expectantly at his friends, but he got no immediate response. He nudged Remus with his shoulder, after concluding that James and Peter weren’t likely to say anything coherent any time soon.

"What do you think? We could have a bit of fun here, eh?"

Remus looked away from his friend, not toward the hypnotic lights or the creatures on parade, but toward the shadowed hollows formed from the cracks between the buildings or the spaces under wooden stairs clinging to their walls or the darkened doorsteps that were big enough to hold a somewhat private meeting.

He saw a couple doing a rough dance in the shadow of a dustbin, movements spastic, hurried, violent. How can anyone call that pleasure? He heard someone crying, a thin voice that worked its way to him through all the water splashing and music blaring and the incessant babble. He patiently tracked down the sound and watched a frail slip of a girl sobbing as a man and a woman haggled. How Old? Fourteen? Sixteen? She was too thin, and the light too dim to tell for sure. Money changed hands and the girl vanished. He smelled sweat and piss and too much perfume meant to distract the nose, the scent-equivalent of a neon sign broadcasting the name of a club while drawing the eyes away from peeling paint and broken windows.

"Better than Soho, what?" Sirius exclaimed, and gave him a rougher shove.

Remus remained silent, although he knew that this would result in further assaults from a Sirius who wasn’t in the mood to take silence for an answer. He compared what lay before him to the Muggle streets he’d walked down, not in Soho, but dockside in Glasgow and London where he’d sit for hours in poky little cafes--grimy fish and chip shops or pungent curry houses--often as the dockworkers came off shift and the whores drifted alongside them like smoke from an unseen, smoldering fire.

He couldn’t say why exactly he’d hang around the docks when he should have been looking for a job, maybe the thrill of going somewhere, even if it was only on a ship stacked with enormous metal boxes set into the hold by a crane, bigger than any dragon he’d ever heard of, and bound for God-knows-where. Once he’d considered trying to get a job on one of those ships--after all, he was stronger than any two Muggles his size--and then he’d sail off toward the infinite horizon where sky never quite met sea. But, the voyages of those slow freighters were lengthy. He’d have to spend weeks on board, long weeks as the moon waxed and waned.

Stupid, stupid idea. And he was an idiot for dreaming such absurd dreams.

So instead of voyaging, he’d sit and watch the stevedores and the whores and all the mysterious metal contraptions that only Sirius would know and love. It was drab and gray down on the docks, not like Seven Shoe Alley, yet he saw the same pinched expressions on the faces when no one was supposed to be looking, the same secret panic hovering over women as they passed by with desperate eyes and red, laughing lips, and the same greedy mouths of the men who wanted to feast on the whores that hawked themselves like so many orders of fish and chips wrapped in greasy newspaper. Pass the vinegar, mate.

"You’ve outdone yourself this time, Padfoot," Remus said as he turned to face Sirius. "Now let’s get on with it and find this place."

"Ruddy Mr. Cool, you are," Sirius grumbled. "Well, you just wait--"

"And I suppose you’ve been here before?" James asked, getting his wits about him as he sensed a dogfight in the near future.

"Had a few drinks, poked about in the shops, er, you know how that goes." Sirius shrugged with exaggerated casualness, and then nudged James with his elbow. "Fancy a bit of shopping? I know a few places where you could get some things that Lily might--"

James coughed rather deliberately and Sirius stopped. It had been touch and go to get James this far and he realized that he’d better not bollix it up now by saying something stupid. If things worked out tonight, they wouldn’t have to content themselves with staring into shop windows. He smiled until his bruised cheek hurt and said, "Where’s this bloody club, Peter?"

But, Peter had nothing at all to say on the subject. He clutched James’s arm the way that a child clings to his mother on the first visit to Honeydukes Sweet Shop. His mouth hung slack, eyes glazed over and reflecting the pulsating light without any sign of life. Inside his head, though, shiny things and scraps of bright colors were doing a manic can-can right on top of his cerebellum. Outside, light bounced off mirrors behind the milling crowd, making sight treacherous and unreliable. His other senses weren’t all that useful, either. He never did well in crowded places… maybe that explained what happened last Hallowe’en. It wasn’t his fault, not really.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

"Three, I said, three pints!" Peter shouted at the overworked bartender. He glanced nervously at the other patrons crowded near the bar, feeling too conspicuous. The pub was more crowded than usual, though, and shouting seemed the only way to make himself heard. Harley Baddock, looking harried and unhappy, was busy pouring drinks for other wizards and witches and he didn’t appear to hear Peter.

The bartender’s face looked as grim as one of the carved pumpkins that floated above the bar. Peter didn’t care for the Hallowe’en decorations at the Golden Apple. The flickering candles inside the dozens of floating jack o’lanterns were menacing eyes that followed his every movement. The pub was so different from the Great Hall at Hogwarts, claustrophobic and sinister where the Hallowe’en Feasts at school had been almost cheerful, at least in hindsight.

Peter felt anything but cheerful as he waited impatiently among the clamoring throng at the bar. Why had he stopped by for a drink when he’d promised to be at James’s party by now? But Harley had been talking for weeks about the Hallowe’en decorations at the Golden Apple and how Peter must see them. Well, here he was, and none too pleased.

"Oy, Pettigrew! What’ll it be?" Harley’s voice boomed through the thinning crowd.

"Three pints," Peter said as made his way to the bar like a shipwrecked sailor trying to reach a bit of flotsam, "and I’m in a bit of a hurry, so if you could..."

Harley smirked at him and made a big production of slowly pouring out each pint. "Got a date?" he said as he pushed three full glasses toward Peter.

"And I suppose you do?" said Peter shortly. He’d heard too much about Harley’s Muggle girlfriend over the past month. The bartender had adopted him as a sympathetic confidant and Peter had been too timid to tell him to stop.

"Yup," Harley said smugly. "Peter, this girl is hot, hot, hot, know what I mean? Why, she--"

Peter made a grab for the three pints sitting on the bar and said irritably, "Look, I don’t sodding care about your Mug--"

"All right, Pettigrew," Harley said loudly with nervous sideways glances up and down the bar. "Get on with you, then. I don’t have all night, y’know."

Peter struggled to pick up all three pints and managed to slop a fair amount of beer down the sides in the process. His fingers stretched just enough to keep from dropping the glasses. He was so intent on maintaining his grip as he turned away from the bar that he didn’t see the witch barreling toward him until it was too late. He bumped into her, lost his tenuous grip, and the glasses went flying. One shattered and the other two bounced the floor, soaking Peter’s shoes and the hem of his robes.

"For heaven’s sake. Look what you’ve done!" said the witch angrily, glaring down at Peter with her hands on her hips. Her robes were adorned with twinkling stars and tiny comets that zoomed across a midnight-blue background. Now they were also sodden and covered with the foam from three pints of pumpkin lager, making it seem as if the starry heavens had just given a large and nasty belch.

"Er, sorry, sorry," Peter chanted as he fumbled for his wand and then stuttered his way through a spell to clean her robes as best he could.

"Merlin save us," Harley Baddock exclaimed as he came around the bar brandishing a broom and dustpan. "You’re a bleeding menace, you are." He magicked the glasses into the dustpan and said to Peter, "Go on back to your table. I’ll bring you your sodding beers."

"I wonder that they even serve such…people," said the witch angrily, staring at Peter as if he were mentally incompetent.

"It’s charity, like," Harley said, whisking the puddle of beer away into nothingness with his wand. The witch gave a sour look in reply and turned away pointedly.

Peter, his face burning, turned tail and scurried off toward the table where he’d been sitting with Jack Travers and Robbie Nott. Stopping by the pub had been a stupid idea. James and the others would never treat him this way. Sure, they’d tease him, but never in such a humiliating way, never in public. Seeing James earlier that afternoon had reminded him of how much he missed his school friends.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Fishbone, Mullions, and Pettigrew, earlier that day

He had been looking for a deed down in the law firm’s basement where the records for the last four hundred years were kept. They had to depend on the ghosts for anything older, owing to the great fire of 1545.

"Peter!" a muffled voice leaked through the tall shelves crammed with books and magical lockboxes that claustrophobically packed the basement. Peter cringed upon hearing his name. It was horrid enough that Mr. Bartelby and the other clerks in D&B treated him like a house-elf without other people ordering him around too.

"Peter? Where the hell--"

Further inquiry was cut off by a loud crash, followed by the sound of boxes tumbling to the ground. Peter, who now recognized the voice, hurried through the maze of bookshelves, clutching the deed book he’d been searching. As he rounded the corner and came in sight of the accident, he heard a mixture of curses and sneezes, accompanied by ghostly laughter. Peter grimaced and wondered why his great-grandfather’s ghost always turned up at the worst possible moment.

On the floor, a hazy figure struggled under a pile of magical lockboxes that had tumbled off a nearby shelf, which was still rocking ominously. The dust cloud raised by the crash made the torches on the wall flicker and hiss.

"James!" Peter cried. His friend was almost unrecognizable, black hair turned a mottled gray color and glasses covered in dust.

"It bit me!" James said as he got to his feet. "Just reached out and--"

"Moreton," cackled Pontius Pettigrew, a nattily dressed ghost with thick mutton-chop sideburns and a bushy mustache. "It will not do--no, not at all--to walk too close to the Moreton box. Clerks have lost fingers. Pure carelessness," said the ghost, gliding over to James while wagging a translucent finger. "See that it does not happen again!"

"Er, right," James said as he took off his glasses and blew on them, dislodging a cloud of dust. "Thank you…sir."

"Hmph," sniffed the ghost with a dubious shake of its head. It glided away, muttering, "Such careless clerks these days. This does not bode well for this future of this firm. No, indeed…"

"Who or what was that?" James said as he tried to brush the dust off his robes. He quickly gave up, though, as this brought on a large fit of sneezing.

"Great-grandfather," said Peter tersely. The ghost had a nasty habit of eavesdropping on conversations so he didn’t want to say what he really thought. Instead he took out his wand, pointed it at James, and muttered, "Exos Lavanum."

The cleaning spell removed the dust from James’s robes, leaving him blinking owlishly from behind his black horn-rimmed spectacles

"Thanks, Peter. I probably look a fright," James said as he ruffled his hair, which was even more untidy than usual, in an attempt to dislodge the dust. "Can I give you a hand with this mess?"

Peter nodded sheepishly and they both fell to working at organizing the pile of lockboxes, watching carefully for the biting ones, and putting them back on the shelves.

James sneezed violently again, and then said, "Work been going well?"

"It’s a job, y’know," Peter mumbled as he concentrated on levitating a particularly heavy box to the top shelf, grateful for an excuse not to elaborate.

"They working you hard, then?" James said, handing him another dusty magical lockbox. "We haven’t seen you in ages."

Peter gripped the box tightly and pretended to decipher the label, reminded suddenly that "we" meant James and Lily, where once it had meant the four of them. James refused to see the folly--no, the danger--of marrying a Mudblood. And Peter was expected to be happy for him.

But how could he?

Peter could think of half a dozen girls, all purebloods, who would have jumped at the chance to go out with James Potter when he was at school. Instead, he’d become infatuated with Lily Evans in their seventh year. That was a bit of a scandal, the Head Boy and the Head Girl dating. And Evans had been the first Mudblood in years to be chosen as Head Girl, which was gossip-worthy all by itself.

"Dumbledore’s been asking about you," James said quietly, breaking the silence between them.

"Me?" squeaked Peter and dropped the box he’d been holding.

"He’s a bit worried about… all of us. And we miss you, too. Sirius was just saying that--"

"He misses having a punching bag. I can believe that," Peter said, as he bent down to retrieve the box from the floor.

"Come on, Peter, you know what I mean," James said lightly.

Peter looked away hastily from his friend and hunted for the box’s proper spot on the shelf. When he turned around, wiping dusty hands on his robes, James was staring at him curiously.

"We all have to stick together, especially now," he said carefully and handed Peter another of the magical strongboxes. "Dumbledore’s stopping by tonight. He rarely leaves Hogwarts these days--he’s got enough on his mind as it is--but he wants to talk to a few of us about…" James paused and fiddled with the frame of his glasses. "That is, you’d best come along and hear for yourself."

"Tonight?"

"Hallowe’en, you know," chuckled James kindly. "I thought I’d come round and remind you in person since you ignored my owl."

"Remind me of--oh, yes, I remember now. I--sorry," Peter said, suddenly very interested in finding the right spot on the shelf for the box he’d been given. "It has been rather busy round here."

"Too busy for old friends?" said James and put a hand gently on Peter’s shoulder. "We do miss you, Peter, and times being what they are..."

Peter turned to face James and was rewarded by the familiar, open face of his friend, a friend who had been willing over the years to include him on numerous adventures, who had rescued him more than once, who had defended him from attacks by snarky Slytherins and much more.

"Of course," said Peter with a tentative smile, "I wouldn’t miss it."

"Eight o’clock at my place, then," James said, his face breaking into a wide grin. "Stop by earlier, if you like. Lots of the old crowd will be there."

"Sure," Peter said slowly, aware that he’d been standing with his mouth open for too long. "I have a few things to, er, attend to first, but I’ll be there."

"Great," said James with a grin. "I’ll let you get back to work."

Peter watched his friend’s back recede along the torchlit path leading to the stairs and then went back to work, whistling off-key and feeling strangely buoyant.

His good mood hadn’t lasted all that long. By the time evening came around, he was back in the haze of uncertainty that seemed to haunt him these days.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"You’re cracked! The Wasps deserved it," Jack Travers was saying loudly as Peter approached the table, with no drinks to show for his trip to the bar. Jack drummed his fingers on the table and looked irritated behind his ever-present smile, but not at Peter.

Peter hesitated for a moment before taking his seat, unnoticed by Robbie Nott or by Jack, who had that deadly serious look on his face reserved for defending his Quidditch team, the Montrose Magpies. Peter slipped into a chair and hoped that neither of them would ask about his soggy robes, which clung to his calves and ankles like a pair of clammy hands.

"Didja see all that blagging? How could you miss it? Not that the referee saw it!" Robby Nott was practically screaming, his round, freckled face redder than usual, spit gathering at the corners of his mouth. "Angus McArdle must be a hundred and ten and if he’s a day, and blind as a bat. He’s not fit to ref!"

Peter looked away, hoping that this argument wouldn’t come to curses, as so many others had. Jack was only slightly more rabid about his Quidditch team than he was about pure-blooded wizards and Peter had been his second more than once for an impromptu wizard’s duel outside the pub after some clueless soul maligned the Magpies.

"You can’t blame it on the referee, Nott," Jack replied coolly, staring at Robbie and rapping his knuckles on the table in an ominous tattoo. "The Magpies are a better team and you know it."

Peter glanced down at his watch and grimaced, noting the time. Jack and Robbie had been arguing Quidditch for half an hour already and showed no signs of stopping. Peter had figured that if he went to the bar and got drinks, he could make a quick exit without getting too much grief. He looked up, craning his neck to see if he could spot Harley at the bar or anywhere else in the room. The bartender was mad at him, that was plain, and was taking his time about bringing the drinks, if he was going to bring them at all. The pub was full, over-full maybe, with knots of witches and wizards clutching glasses or tankards, chattering madly while overhead the carved pumpkins floated in the smoky air, adding another layer to the Hallowe’en revels.

"Hey, isn’t that Ludo Bagman?" Peter said suddenly, pointing toward the pub’s front door.

Robbie stopped arguing, much to Peter’s relief, and half-rose out of his seat to peer at the crowd forming around a fair-haired man in the familiar yellow and black-striped robes of the Wimbourne Wasps. Without another word, he got to his feet and headed for the door.

"Where’re you going, you big coward?" Jack chuckled at Robbie’s departing back. He noticed Peter and said, "Look who’s back. Hey, I thought we sent you off to get--"

"Shouldn’t send a boy to do a man’s job," Harley interrupted gruffly. He appeared suddenly and set down three pints of foamy, orange beer on the table between Peter and Jack, saying with a smirk, "Notice how I didn’t spill a drop."

Jack looked perplexed while Peter’s face grew red with embarrassment. Harley gloated and was about to say something else, no doubt another put-down of Peter who’d finally had enough.

"Don’t you have better things to do," he taunted with uncharacteristic bravado, "like getting ready for that big date?"

Harley shot him a murderous glance, muttered something under his breath and retreated quickly to the bar.

"What’s gotten into him?" Jack said. "I thought you were friends. Usually he wants to talk your ear off."

"There was a little accident that…" Peter felt himself reddening further and said quickly, "He’s just mad ‘cause he’s got a ‘hot’ date after work and doesn’t want to go to any extra trouble to help…er, do his job properly."

Jack laughed and took a sip of beer, his eyes on the crowd at the door where witches were screaming for autographs and throwing themselves at Ludo Bagman.

"Though why he wastes his time with a Mug--" muttered Peter, checking his watch and wondering how he soon he could leave. He stopped, realizing he’d said too much, and became very interested in one of the unclaimed pints.

"A what?" Jack turned toward him with raised eyebrows. "Are you serious? No, I can’t believe it. That great git has a taste for Muggles?"

"Yes, well, that’s what he says anyway," Peter spluttered, choking on the beer that he’d been attempting to gulp down. He set the glass on the table and pushed it away from him. "Of course, you can never tell with him. He’s so full of it." He glanced at his watch again. "Look, I’ve got to run. Sorry I can’t stay, but there’s another party that I--"

"Rushes off to meet a Muggle tart after work, does he? Christ, I’d like to see that," mused Jack, ignoring what Peter was saying. "It’s just too funny."

"Yeah, isn’t it? G’night, then," said Peter absently as he stood up, eyes already fixed on the door.

"Leaving so soon? You’re going to miss all the fun, Peter."

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

"Wake up, Wormtail." Sirius leaned over, reached around James, and gave Peter a sharp poke in the ribs. "We’re on a mission here and you’re supposed to be Leader."

"Mission?" Peter bit his tongue in a moment of confused panic. The pain cleared his head. He forced more calmness into his voice than he actually felt and chuckled weakly, "Oh, the club."

"Oh, the club," parroted Sirius. "Care to enlighten us as to where it’s hiding?"

"I’m not actually certain that I--you see, Paul didn’t give me directions or anything. I just thought it would be obvious and, y’know, easy to find."

Peter was saved from another assault Sirius Black-style by the approach of a hazy cloud of red lights, which had been hovering near the fountain, and now headed in their direction accompanied by high-pitched buzzing. The quartet found themselves swathed in a blur of scarlet fairy wings. Wisps of white paper fluttered in the air as the creatures let loose what they’d been carrying in their tiny hands.

"Your outstanding qualities will win you many new friends," James read on the piece of paper he’d snatched from the air. The letters were cheaply printed in uneven scarlet ink. He turned the paper over and saw in larger, bold letters "Ye Olde Sex Shoppe ~ Visit us first! You’ll be glad you did."

Remus growled suggestively, an I’ll-eat-you-if-you dare sort of growl, which provoked angry humming from a half-dozen fairies, but they left him alone. Peter jumped as a one of the creatures tugged at his hair and artfully deposited a slip of paper on his nose. He snatched at it while shooing away the annoying fairy.

"Magic Hour Polyjuice Parlour ~ Don’t Dream It. Be It." He sounded out each word like a five year-old reading Dr. Seuss, and then looked up in confusion. "Huh? I don’t get it. Why would anyone want to--"

"If you have to ask, Peter, old sod…" Sirius laughed as he snatched the paper away. "Here, now, what’s yours say? Let’s hope it’s got directions. Hmmm. ‘To bear with fools in kindliness brings good fortune.’ Bleeding inscrutable, that is, and not much help," he snorted and let it fall.

James watched the white paper, buffeted by the gale of light blowing in from the plaza, change color ten or twenty times as it fluttered down and finally nestled amongst filthy, cracked cobblestones. The mishmash of colors coming from too many directions at once threw confusing shadows on those strolling by or lounging in doorways. Were they really dressed in such fantastic costumes or were those wild colors merely a product of the non-stop light show at Seven Shoe Alley?

And, people weren’t the only creatures on parade. An Afghan hound with long silky hair that shifted hue by the second seemed very interested in Sirius until its owner, a lanky blonde woman wearing little more than a fur jacket and knee-length leather boots, yanked the dog away with a haughty tug of the leash. The roar of a lion echoed suddenly from the depths of some club, followed by loud, raucous laughter. No one on the street paid any attention, although Peter shook at James’s side and then gingerly stepped behind him.

"Hey, toots," warbled a pair of women as they sidled up to Sirius. They had deep smoky voices that wrapped around the listener’s gonads and squeezed-and none too gently, either.

"Lend us your boyfriend for a bit, love?" crooned one of the pair, a tall, broad-shouldered brunette wearing the briefest of leather miniskirts and amply filling out an overstretched tube top. She waved a three-inch long purple fingernail at Sirius, but her eyes traveled suggestively in Remus’s direction.

James looked perplexed, while Remus folded his arms and eyed the two women suspiciously, his lips curved in what was either a grimace or a secret smile.

"Hey, some other time." Sirius shook his head, thus missing the opportunity for a snappy comeback. Even he wasn’t prepared for this frontal assault.

"Ooooh. What’d I say? Can’t I always pick ‘em?" purred the second, a blonde who had masses of seemingly artificial curls spilling over her back and shoulders and who was squeezed into a sleeveless hot pink dress about that size of a dinner napkin. "Be a nice boy and share, then. Teach you both a few new tricks, love."

"Sorry, got somewhere to be," replied Sirius stiffly, his arms folded in an unconscious imitation of Remus. The women giggled.

"Like hell you do, mate," retorted the brunette in a different and decidedly masculine tone. Both women (if that term was accurate) turned away and tottered off on tiny spike heels whilst wagging their hips provocatively.

Remus, who had been trying to keep from laughing throughout most of this encounter, could hold it in no longer and began to snigger quietly, which only increased Sirius’s apparent discomfort.

"Was that what I thought it was?" asked James in a bewildered tone.

Sirius glowered at Remus, but recovered enough of his composure to reply, "Things are not always what they seem, eh? Never know who--or what--you’ll meet here."

James nodded his head, then had the bizarre and painful sensation of getting his neck stuck in mid-nod. He twisted his shoulders trying to make the muscles work again and felt the pain lance down his back.

Despite the disturbingly odd sensation of being propositioned by drag queens and the rather warm-in-the-loins thrill at the prospect of visiting this Tigerseye club, he had misgivings. Of course, blokes in his situation were supposed to go out on the town for a--and this made his spasmed shoulders tighten even more--stag night. What would Lily say if she found out, though? Could he look her in the eye at the wedding tomorrow if he--if he… he couldn’t even bring himself to think about what came after the "if".

"Sirius, you don’t think we’ll meet someone we--especially someone who’ll be at the…." James stumbled over the words in a rather un-Jameslike fashion.

"They can bloody well find their own spot of fun," Sirius snorted.

"Ah, you boys looking to have some fun?"

James started as a short, swarthy wizard clad in voluminous, mustard-yellow robes filled the spot where Peter had stood moments before.

"Got some lovely tommies ‘ere, mind. Girls what work on their backs. Know what I mean?" the newcomer grinned evilly. His sallow skin and pointy ears suggested he had more than a little goblin blood.

Sirius regarded him with mild interest, which the stranger took as an invitation to continue.

"Can set you up with some toms, I can, but you blokes ought to get yourselves fixed up first so’s you can have some real fun," said the little man, his thick accent made even more garbled as he poked a long, crooked nose inside his cloak. After a few satisfied grunts, he drew back his arm with a flourish, giving them a view of an assortment of rubber, leather and metal objects that were difficult to recognize, perhaps because of the uncertain light.

"What’s he saying?" James whispered to Sirius. "Is he speaking English?"

"Piss off," was Sirius’s brusque reply to the peddler.

"Don’t be so hasty, lad." He grinned and narrowed his dark, beady eyes as if to size them up anew. With a nod to himself, the little wizard caused the huge collection of accessories to vanish and drew forth a long narrow velvet bag from another dark recess of his cloak.

"You might be wanting one or two of these," he said in a lower, more cautious tone. "Wands," he whispered as he glanced to either side, making sure that no one was observing them, and drew the bag open just enough to let them see the contents.

"What do you take us for?" said James incredulously, "Here now, we’re looking for a club called Tigerseye. I presume you know where it is."

"Course I know where it is," he cackled in response. The bag (and whatever it contained) vanished and he pulled his cloak shut, while continuing to chortle. "No secret --just a ways down the alley to the other side of the Lion’s Den--only they won’t waste time with the likes of you. Turn you right out on your arses, they will."

James, who had finally gained an ear for the peddler’s peculiar speech, glanced quickly at his two friends. "Look here--" he began, only to be cut off by Sirius.

"Oy. Shove off. We know where we’re going and we don’t need any of your rubbish."

"A bleedin’ miracle, that’s what you need," muttered the little wizard as he gave them a disgusted look and stomped away, dingy yellow cloak flapping in his wake.

"And I suppose you know where we’re going?" James addressed Sirius crossly.

"I do now," he said cheerfully, and then looked past James to the empty spot where the peddler had been. "Except that we’re missing Peter. Did you see him, Remus?"

"Not my turn to watch him," Remus answered as he scanned the nearby clumps of people. "Peter’s just too easily distracted for this bloody place."

"Great. Just great," grumbled James. "Now we’ve lost him again. Honestly, Sirius, we ought to give up on this whole--"

"Afraid of a little sport, Prongs?" goaded Sirius.

"What?" An exasperated James raised his voice half an octave. "I am not…"

Remus concluded that he ought to go and find Peter. James and Sirius could bicker for hours without actually accomplishing anything, and this seemed like one of those times. With some reluctance, he headed for the crowded heart of the plaza, taking slow measured steps as he peered into the shadowy places on the fringe. It would be just like Peter to be drawn into a dark alley by some over-friendly tart. He needed a bit of looking after normally, but in Seven Shoe Alley, Wormtail needed a full-time nanny (just as Padfoot needed a leash). Where could Peter be?

Part 6: Dark Passage

Peter had not meant to wander so far, of course, but he’d got scared--that’s how he always seemed to get into trouble. He had only wanted to get away for a moment, just to clear his head and get his bearings.

In Peter’s world, there were scary things and then there were scary things. That is, there were some things you could run away from and others that… He tried not to think about the latter category, but when those two tall women had accosted them, he’d felt a strong desire to put as much distance between them and himself as he could. The tarts had focused on Sirius, naturally, as Peter had seen from his vantage point behind James. Sirius could handle it; once he’d even bragged that two girls at once would be a ripping good time. Remus had scowled darkly at that suggestion, but Peter had said nothing because his stomach had been doing flip-flops as if, in the blink of an eye, a stranger had replaced the Sirius he knew. Why hadn’t James been there to make him stop? Why couldn’t James have been there more often?

Hiding behind James had given him a shred of security while those women were leering at Sirius. He felt better as soon as they’d left. But, when the squat, sallow-faced wizard appeared out of nowhere, Peter recoiled and stepped away from James and the others so as not to get too close to the ugly creature, whose demeanor put him sharply in mind of those sorry cases who begged in Diagon Alley, who pawed at him every day when he went to work, who asked -- no, demanded - that he give them money. And he always did, feeling vaguely unclean about flinging the coins down on the pavement as he bolted for the security of his desk.

But these days there wasn’t any place to hide.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

"…the worst in years, the worst that I can remember. Don’t leave the door open, Peter! The draft is killing us."

Eurydice Featherfoil looked down her nose at him through her batwing-shaped spectacles. She was huddled next to the small fireplace in the clerks’ room with Persephone Toadflax, engaged in the morning ritual of gossip.

"Sorry," muttered Peter. He wished that he could think up a snappy comeback as he wrestled with the heavy door. A combination of too much drink and too little sleep had robbed him of both strength and wit this morning.

"Worst, eh?" Persephone sniffed. She was plump and round where Eurydice was angular and gaunt, but they shared a passion for gossip. No rumor was too far-fetched for them to hash and rehash. "Only seven, that’s what I heard. Last year’s count was ten."

Peter shuffled over to the table in the corner that held the tea things. Tea wasn’t going to fix his pounding head, but it wouldn’t make it worse either, and it meant a delay in beginning the day’s work of staring at pointless black squiggles marching across pointless pieces of parchment.

"Ooooh, Peter. We’d love a cuppa, wouldn’t we?" Persephone called out. "There’s a love."

"Seven?" Eurydice shook her head. "Eleven. The Daily Prophet only reported seven, it’s true, but my sister told me…"

Peter stopped listening and concentrated on opening the tin of tea. His hand shook as he ladled leaves into the teapot. He’d had too much to drink last night at James’s Hallowe’en party, but that wasn’t the only thing making his stomach churn this morning.

Dumbledore’s words and the memory of those sharp, blue eyes troubled him as much as the hangover. The old wizard, his face more grave than Peter could remember, had told the assembled crowd of witches and wizards how the Ministry struggled to gain the upper hand against the Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort. Had he meant that the Ministry was losing the war? Peter had never considered the possibility before and the thought of it drove sharp quills of panic deep into his gut. Dumbledore had gone on to tell them that their help was needed, not in an official capacity but as a sort of irregular corps. Peter wasn’t clear on the details. The others had listened intently, but he hadn’t been able to focus on the words after a while, the roaring in his ears so loud that he found it nearly impossible to make sense of what Dumbledore was saying.

Most of the dozen or so wizards and witches seated in James’s parlor had remained silent, although Mundungus Fletcher had been as daft as ever, interrupting ten or twenty times with shouts of, "Hear, hear!" and, "Smack ‘em, I say!" Sirius had jumped up and begun pacing the room as if he were ready to battle You-Know-Who single-handedly then and there. James had kept to his seat, holding Lily’s hand and occasionally whispering to her intently.

All the talk had been confusing to Peter. In the end, he hadn’t been able to figure out what was being asked of them, though the others seemed to understand. All Peter knew was that he wanted to get good and drunk in hopes of quieting the feelings that gnawed at him like wild dogs chewing away at the carcass of a dead cow.

And he had gotten drunk, very drunk (surprising even Sirius), which was why he felt so rotten this morning. He managed to boil water and steep tea, major accomplishments both. Shakily, he poured the tea into three of the department’s mismatched cups. Persephone and Eurydice paid no attention to him as they continued their morning tête-à-tête. No item was too trivial for the two of them to pick apart.

"...and that couple over in Little Horsted makes eleven," pronounced Eurydice triumphantly. "Oh and such a tragedy, too. Star-crossed lovers, snuffed out-- " She lowered her voice dramatically. "--by You-Know-Who."

"Are you sure?" said Persephone as Eurydice dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

"The Dark Mark was seen," she whispered, "plain as anything."

Peter strained to hear the details as he conjured a bit of milk. He picked up two of the full teacups and, mustering all the concentration that his pounding head would allow, teetered across the room.

"Well," said Eurydice huffily, "my sister’s husband works in Magical Law Enforcement, as you know, and he said that those two were found in a very compromising position..."

"But I heard from Mrs. Witherspoon, my neighbor, whose daughter works for the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad," replied Persephone archly, playing a hidden trump card, "that the girl was actually a Muggle."

"I don’t see wha--" began Eurydice, but she was interrupted by a loud crash as one of the cups that Peter had been holding fell to the floor and shattered. She looked at him disapprovingly and said, "Peter, do be more careful! There’s only so many times that a mending charm can be applied to our poor cups."

"Sorry," Peter mumbled. He thrust the surviving teacup at the clerks and scurried back across the room to retrieve the third cup. As he handed it to Eurydice, he said, "Here...I didn’t want any. Erm, by any chance do you know the name of this wizard that got…that was, you know, at Little Horsted?"

"Braddock, wasn’t it?" said Eurydice sipping her tea. She made a face. "Sugar?"

Peter, unable to say or do anything coherent, pointed vaguely at the table behind him. Eurydice raised her wand and used a summoning charm to make three sugar cubes shoot through the air and plop themselves into her cup.

"No, no," said Persephone. "It was Baddock. Mrs. Witherspoon’s daughter told me herself."

On hearing the name--the name he’d suspected, the name he’d dreaded--Peter stumbled backward. His feet crunched on fragments of the broken cup and he slipped on the puddle of tea.

"So," said Persephone with a satisfied smirk, "that girl was a Muggle and that means only ten wizards killed at Hallowe’en and not eleven."

He managed to grasp a chair and steady himself to avoid meeting the same fate as the teacup. The women shook their heads and tut-tutted him, but immediately resumed their gossip. Peter, however, had to get out. He dragged himself to the door and pulled it open.

"Oh, honestly--" Eurydice broke off, annoyed. "Peter? Where are you going?"

"Got some filing to do down in the basement," Peter stammered, standing in the doorway and clutching the door for support. "Been meaning to get to it for weeks and there’s no time…like the present."

"And I suppose you expect us to clean up your mess for you! Come back--"

Peter crept down to the basement, where he managed to stay holed up for the next week. There were several decades’ worth of deeds and wills that needed filing and Mr. Bartelby did get most upset when a record couldn’t be found.

He couldn’t hide forever, though. He knew that. He met up with the dreaded aftermath of Hallowe’en one evening as he emerged furtively from the law firm’s basement and crept up the stairs. The little-used back door led directly up into a narrow passageway between two buildings. A single ever-burning candle shone from a wall bracket above the stairwell, casting a small circle of light at his feet. He raised his wand and mentally prepared to Apparate.

"Peter! Where’ve you been hiding?"

A dark form melted out of the shadows, coalescing into Jack Travers. He sauntered casually towards Peter, a smile on his face and hands stuck into his pockets. In the dim light of the little alley his eyes appeared empty and his face grimmer than usual.

"Hiding? Me?" said Peter and dropped his wand in surprise.

Jack reached the wand in two long strides, picked it up and put it in his pocket. "I haven’t seen you in a week," he said in a calm voice that Peter did not find reassuring. "Every time I stopped by the office, the girls told me you were off somewhere and couldn’t be found."

"Been really, really busy," said Peter, backing away until he could feel himself teetering on the edge of the top stair. "We’re so behind on all our filing that I…"

"Oh?" said Jack, stepping closer. "Too busy for your friends? You haven’t stopped by the pub since Hallowe’en. I was afraid you were ill."

"Ill, yes. Actually, er, my mum’s been sick," stammered Peter, "and I’ve been looking after her, y’know."

"Sorry to hear that," said Jack knowingly, a glint in his ice-blue eyes. "She getting better?"

"I suppose you could say…I mean…" Peter replied, too caught up in his lie to know how to answer.

"Good. Then I’m sure she can do without you for a bit," said Jack and wrapped his fingers tightly around Peter’s upper arm.

Peter gave a strangled squeak. Jack ignored his obvious distress and pulled him toward Diagon Alley, not relaxing his grip as they squeezed through the narrow passageway.

I’m dead, Peter thought, because Jack Travers is a Death Eater and he’s going to kill me next.

The inescapable conclusion had settled on him painfully the morning after Hallowe’en like a dragon landing on a spindly-legged chair, which is to say that the certainty of how and why Harley Baddock had been killed was crushing him, making it hard for him to breathe every hour of the day and keeping him awake at night with visions of black-cloaked demons looming over his bed. In the mornings he’d wake up drenched in sweat, unrefreshed and fearful.

As they emerged into the brighter lights of Diagon Alley, Jack relaxed his grip for an instant and then linked arms with Peter casually in the way that schoolboys might do, though his grip was firm and anything but casual. Around them witches and wizards strolled, some alone and some in little knots heading home or to the pub. Late shoppers bustled about finishing errands before the close of business. Peter, his face slick with sweat, his limbs going numb, was sure that no one else on the street felt the same gut-wrenching panic that he felt.

"I expect you’ve heard about Harley," said Jack nonchalantly. His eyes roamed over the street and he occasionally smiled or said a word to an acquaintance as they slipped through the crowds.

"Too bad," Jack went on. "A senseless waste, wouldn’t you say?"

Peter got as far as a choked gurgle, but terror had rendered his tongue as stiff as a board. Jack turned to him, smiling, and said, "I’m sure you tried to warn him. Didn’t you? You tried to tell him what a mistake he was making…of course."

"Wh--well," said Peter thickly, "I might have, y’know, said something like that, yes."

"Obviously, he didn’t listen," Jack said with a shrug, turning his attention back to the street. "Not your fault, though."

"I s’pose when you--when you put it like that--" Peter broke off because they were just outside the Golden Apple. His heart pounded as if it were trying to punch through his ribs and he laughed shrilly. "You might have said that you wanted me to come for a drink without being so mysterious about it."

"No time for that now," said Jack curtly, not smiling anymore. "Perhaps later..."

By this time, he’d steered Peter around the corner from the pub, away from the lights of Diagon Alley and down a short set of worn stone steps that were poorly lit by a pair of sputtering torches. They turned another corner and entered Knockturn Alley. Peter’s heart hammered as the emotional roller coaster crawled to the top of one final high that was certain to be followed by a dizzying descent into death.

"Where?" was all Peter managed to croak. He had no thought of struggling or of trying to escape. If Jack Travers was a Death Eater and Peter was marked for death, what would be the point of running away? Could his old friends--even Dumbledore, if it came to that--save him?

"Three…four…"

Jack had taken out his wand and was counting the doorways on their left, oblivious to the glares and mutterings of some of the wizards on the street. Others simply ignored them, brushing by with faces averted or hoods pulled down.

"Seven…eight…"

The street was irregular and dirty, as were the buildings that housed shops selling potion ingredients, books, and other things that Peter couldn’t or didn’t want to identify. They passed Hengis’s Herparium where Peter couldn’t seem to take his eyes away from the large display window that was filled top to bottom with snakes. Peter faltered. He was hypnotized by the seething mass of reptiles that looked like an alien monster composed of hundreds of tails and heads and forked tongues all bound together in a mysterious and repellant way. The eyes were the most horribly fascinating part; the black slits opened and closed, like doors to--

"Ten…Looking for a pet?" Jack said, giving Peter a sharp tug to get him moving again. "I don’t think those are right for you. Come on. We’re almost there."

"Almost where?" whispered Peter.

"Eleven…twelve…"

Jack slowed down and then stopped, pulling Peter close so that they both stood a handsbreadth away from a piece of wall adorned only with peeling paint and torn handbills.

"This should be it." Jack tapped his wand on the wall in three different places while murmuring an incantation. In the blink of an eye, a door appeared before them, a door no less faded and scarred than the wall had been. Swiftly, Jack opened the door and gave Peter a shove. He landed on a flight of wooden stairs opposite the door, clawing at the steps in an attempt to scramble to his feet. He looked up to see Jack close the door and then his world went dark.

"Lumos," whispered Jack hoarsely.

In the light from the wand, Peter first saw the tense line of Jack’s jaw, and then he saw that the door had vanished, replaced by a blank wall. They stood in an alcove barely two meters on a side, a landing at the bottom of an unlit stairway, a dark passage to…where? Peter’s brain had frozen and refused to churn out any more thoughts.

"Up," Jack said and pointed his wand toward the shadowy staircase.

Slowly, Peter’s feet found the stairs, his steps oddly light; soon he’d be dead, he reckoned, and free from the terrible, gut-wrenching anxiety of the past week.

At the top of the stairs, he expected to find a crowd of Death Eaters, like the ones that haunted his nightmares, but there was only a large, empty room with a high ceiling, bricked-up windows and peeling wallpaper. He stumbled into the center and stared up at a formerly elegant embossed tin ceiling and the huge chandelier that hung from its center. In wandlight, the many arms were like those of a frozen squid casting tangled shadows on the ceiling.

"Nox," said Jack, and the world went dark again.

Before Peter had time to blink, Jack spoke again in a harsh voice that echoed off the walls.

"Morsmordre!"

The words were unfamiliar, but there could be no doubt that this was a powerful spell. A sickening green light exploded into the room. Peter looked up and gasped; his frantically beating heart almost stopped right then as he beheld the image of a giant skull nearly two meters across that floated overhead, swallowing up the chandelier and obscuring the ceiling. A skull with a snake emerging from its mouth. The Dark Mark.

Peter fell to his knees and closed his eyes, more certain than before that the end was near. He never knew how long he knelt there on the dusty floor as the green light washed over him, head down and clutching his knees, gasping each breath as if it were his last and waiting for death, or worse.

Suddenly the light was gone. He knew it without opening his eyes, just as he knew that he and Jack were no longer alone.

A presence. He felt the arrival of someone or something else, though he didn’t hear a sound other than his own labored breathing.

"Leave us, Travers," said a cold, high-pitched voice, a voice that might have been childlike and comical in another time and place.

"Master," was all Jack said in a peculiar tone that Peter barely recognized. He knew that the word wasn’t meant for him, but for the newcomer.

"Return when we are finished," the voice continued, this time coming from a different spot than before.

Peter turned his head slowly, straining to hear some hint as to the location of the voice. But all he heard were heavy footfalls as Jack slowly descended the stairs. He sniffed, but smelled nothing except the faint sweetness of mold and ancient dust. He scanned the surrounding darkness in hopes of seeing something. Once or twice he thought he saw glimmers of light. But were they eyes in the dark or just tricks of the mind?

"Peter Pettigrew."

The words came from everywhere and nowhere, bypassing Peter’s senses and planting themselves directly into his head. Each syllable was drawn out, as if the presence were dissecting him, peeling back layers of skin and muscle, worming into every organ and bone.

"Incendio!"

Light flared from the chandelier above and Peter stifled a cry of surprise. He opened his eyes cautiously, but dared not look up. He concentrated on the dusty wooden floor before him. There were bloodstains on it.

"Good of you to come…" said Lord Voldemort as if Peter has just dropped by for tea and cucumber sandwiches.

"Please--please--" said Peter breathlessly, raising his eyes enough to see the hem of a black robe a mere arm’s length in front of him. "If it’s about Jack and--and what happened on Hallowe’en, I haven’t told anyone--I won’t tell…I swear it."

Peter caught movement at the edge of his vision and couldn’t help but look up to see long ghostly white fingers moving fluidly, pointing a wand in his direction. Something dragged his gaze further upward until he was trapped by a pair of red, slitted eyes like a rat about to be swallowed by a snake, knowing it will be eaten but not able to do a damned thing to free itself as long as the unblinking eyes hold it fast. The Dark Lord lowered his wand. Peter dared to breathe and felt himself lose control; his trousers and robe suddenly hot and wet as a result of his bladder giving up in fright.

"You think you were summoned for punishment?" said Lord Voldemort, the cold voice tinged with amusement, as he moved behind Peter. The heavy black cloak swished softly across the floor, but otherwise the Dark Lord was a silent as an anaconda gliding up a tree.

Peter didn’t want to end then and there in a soggy heap of tears, sweat and piss. Perhaps it was being out of the terrible gaze of You-Know-Who or perhaps there was wildness inside Peter that had lain hidden, but something prompted him to whisper fiercely, "I don’t want to--deserve to… die."

A cold, shrill laugh erupted from behind him and echoed off the ceiling and walls. Peter ducked his head and clapped his hands over his ears. It did no good, though; the sound had wormed its way inside him so that he would hear that laughter forever after.

"Oh, do get up. Had you been marked for death," said the Dark Lord casually, completing his circle and standing once more before the trembling heap of Pettigrew, "your life would have been over by now. No, Lord Voldemort merely wanted to meet you after all that Travers has said."

Pop! The Dark wizard conjured a chair that winked into existence so suddenly that Peter gave a start.

"Sit."

"Said? About me?" stammered Peter squeakily as he scrambled to his feet, grasping the chair for support. He sat down gingerly; his pants were still wet, adding to the bubbling cauldron of new sensations that were overwhelming his brain. "Erm, whatever it was, well…I…"

"--deserve to be commended, naturally," the Dark Lord said smoothly.

"Ple--excuse me?" said Peter incredulously.

"Yes," hissed the other, the eyes leaving Peter’s face for a moment and traveling upward to stare at something beyond the chandelier above, beyond the room itself.

Without those fiery red eyes fixed on him, Peter had the chance to appraise the pale face. The white skin and slit-like nostrils were more reminiscent of a china-white snake than anything human. The flat planes of the face seemed sculpted, not the product of some sordid coupling of human parents but of the deliberate hand of an alien craftsman. At that moment, it seemed to Peter a majestic face. Later, he would come to see it as a monstrosity, a cruel joke, but that first time it held him in awe.

The eyes blinked and were upon him again, the black slits enlarging suddenly and then contracting, drawing Peter into the inky blackness inside.

"So few wizards have the wisdom to see the immediate danger to our kind…as you do, Peter Pettigrew."

The sound of his name uttered by the Dark Lord once again sent a jolt up Peter’s spine.

"Well, I…" whispered Peter hesitantly, trying to discount what he’d heard, indeed the evidence from all his senses. "Me?" He swallowed painfully. "You can’t think that I’ve done…anything, can you?"

"Do you think it strange that Lord Voldemort should want to reward those who are useful?" Another shrill laugh reverberated in the cavernous room. "No doubt you have heard all the usual lies from that Muggle-loving Albus Dumbledore and his misguided followers." After a snort of contempt, he continued, "Do not believe what you hear. Lord Voldemort is trying to save the wizarding world."

Peter gasped, having realized all of a sudden that he’d been holding his breath. The sound of that name, the name that was never spoken, the rightful name of the terrible and awesome presence that loomed over him, still rang in his ears.

"Does that surprise you? Wizards are in great danger, more than in centuries past. Can you guess what threatens us?"

The pregnant silence had struck Peter dumb. Curiously, he found himself longing for the voice to continue.

"Muggles," came a venomous hiss from above his left ear, so close that he flinched and ducked his head as if dodging a blow. From behind him, the Dark Lord continued.

"They are killing us…slowly, so slowly that many foolish people cannot see. The idiots at the Ministry make rules to ‘protect’ Muggles. Hah! Mere folly that weakens us all. Why, you would think that wizards were pitiful, helpless creatures hiding in places like this, afraid to venture out into the world, afraid to take their rightful places."

The Dark Lord stopped abruptly and then reappeared in front of Peter, who did not have the ability to look away from the scarlet eyes as the black slits opened and closed, like doors to--

"I, Lord Voldemort, am trying to save wizards from slow and shameful extinction at the hands of Muggles," raged the Dark wizard. Abruptly, he looked up toward the chandelier and pointed his wand at some unseen enemy. "Those misguided, Muggle-loving wizards must be stopped. But Lord Voldemort cannot do this alone. No. I have gathered together those who will listen, my loyal friends. Of course, those who do not join us will eventually be crushed." He waved a hand dismissively and then fixed his gaze on Peter once more, saying more softly, "Ah, someone with your talents and… connections could be very…valuable."

"M-me?" Peter whispered, "You must be mistaken. I’m not anything--that is, I’d prefer a rather quiet life, you know, away from the--out of the--"

"There can be no hiding, Pettigrew. You will find that Lord Voldemort offers protection and rewards to his loyal servants."

"Rewards?" Peter blurted out. "But, what can I--Wh-what do you want?"

"Information, merely information that will help our cause. And in return…"

Part 7: Dark Victory

Peter felt tremendously relieved to get farther from the loathsome peddler in Seven Shoe Alley who was trying to sell something to Sirius. Once he’d moved away from the others, the relief vanished and was replaced by a feeling of nakedness, of being an easy target. He inched over to a shop and adopted a sudden interest in the menacing strips of black leather that dangled in the window and in the leather and iron bracelets that seemed awfully thick and plain to be jewelry. He was just having an argument with himself about the wisdom of leaving James, even briefly, when a thick hand slapped him on the back. He jumped and turned around, nerves raw and jangling, to get away if he could.

"You like doze little toys, no?" The speaker had a gap-toothed grin that split his face and caused an explosion of crinkles around the corners of his eyes when he spoke. All the rest of his features were buried in thick black hair that curled indiscriminately around the man’s head and chin. "We got all dat stuff back home, in da Vieux Caché. Can' say dis English merde is much better."

Peter gaped at the tall broad-shouldered wizard, dressed in brown robes that were cut a little oddly about the neck and sleeves. The man looked like a foreigner, although Peter couldn’t quite decide where he was from. The accent--and Peter had never been very good with accents--was thick and lisping.

"Buddy Devereaux, from Granbouche Parish, Louisiana, USA," the man boomed as he stuck out a broad, thick-fingered hand. "Jes flew into town and lookin’ for somebody to show me aroun’. You look like a real swinger, cher," he went on, heedless of the blank stare that covered Peter’s face. "Dos some cool t’reads you got dere. I ain't seen one of dem Muggle jackets in the States since da sixties, but you English wizards set you own styles, I reckon. This my first trip crossin' the Pond--that's what y'all call it, right?--and I aim to find me a good time, me. How 'bout you--I dint get you name, cher."

"Paul," stuttered Peter, too stunned to turn away. "Paul, um, St. Mungo."

"Well, Paul, I heared tell about that ol' House of Mirrors that you got here. Ever been? No? Hey, dis here's your lucky night," Buddy the American wizard guffawed as he threw a beefy arm around Peter's shoulder. "A swingin' guy like you gonna dig dis."

"I don’t--my friends will be--" Peter answered as the big man dragged him away from the shop window. He glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw Sirius still haggling with the nasty trinket-seller.

"I s’pose I could have a look. No harm in that," he said with a faint grin.

"You my kind of swinger, T.Paul," the big man announced proudly, taking him farther away from where he ought to be, while the dull throb of the Dark Mark on his arm reminded him of his desertion.

"Don’ look like much, do she?" Buddy said after they stood in front of a rather nondescript redbrick building. He scratched his beard vigorously, as if hunting for small vermin. "You jes’ wait a minute, though…"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Oh, no you don’t!" A rough voice, accompanied by an even rougher shove, sent Remus flying. He turned around, momentarily confused, to find that he had wandered into the middle of a group of men queued up in front of a club.

"Watch it!" grumbled a short, burly wizard who folded his thick arms and glared up at Remus. "Bastard’s trying to get ahead of the queue."

"Look, I’m trying to find a friend who--"

"And I’d like to find an end to this bloody wait," laughed a tall wizard wearing a pinstriped cloak. He had the easy, imperious manner of one of the Ministry bureaucrats whom Remus had recently been begging for jobs. "Been here for two hours, but they say it’s worth it."

Remus finally noticed the sign on the outside of the building, partially obscured by a large and trollish bouncer who guarded a solidly closed door. Best Veela Review in Britain! All Veela, All the time! Tiny print underneath read, One-hour limit. The Management reserve the right to refuse entrance to anyone whose behaviour is deemed unacceptable.

"I’ll settle for a peek inside," said the shorter wizard with a wink. His anger had departed now that his place in the queue was secure once more. He gave an appreciative whistle and went on, "I seen the looks on the faces of the blokes coming out of the last show."

Many of his fellow loiterers chuckled and shuffled their feet involuntarily; the mere mention of the delights waiting inside propelled them forward another inch or two. Remus felt the crowd closing in on him, as if the sluggish glacier of men might engulf him and carry him off the way that boulders are gradually transported from the tops of mountains down into the valleys. He quickly scanned the queue, but could see no sign of Peter. He stepped away from the close-packed ranks, and immediately felt a queer and liberating lightheadedness.

As he peered through other crowds in front of other clubs, Remus tried to picture Peter’s mismatched Muggle clothing: the forest green turtleneck shirt, stretched tight across Peter’s ample belly, and the flowered Nehru jacket that had been Sirius’s idea. He struggled to keep his balance amid the treacherous light and the crush of people that pressed in on him and cut off every opportunity for a clear view.

Where had Wormtail gone? At school, Peter had always been the boy most likely to get beaten up or cursed by Slytherins looking for revenge and he’d stuck to James and Sirius like a leech. Lately, though, he had developed a tendency to wander off or to turn up late for appointments, which caused James to fuss like a mother hen over a lost chick. Were those worries justified? Some of those school bullies were now undoubtedly working for Voldemort, though none would declare so openly.

Peter wasn’t at the fountain, nor was he in any of the shops that Remus tried to search by squinting through the windows with his hand over his eyes to block out the glaring lights behind him. He’d just concluded that a more thorough scouring of out-of-the-way side alleys was in order when he caught a glimpse of the hot pink and yellow flowers that blatantly announced Peter’s jacket. At least, he thought he did, and he moved closer to a group of wizards assembled around the ground floor of a building. The building itself had no eye-catching sign or luridly painted exterior; it was a rather drab two-story brick building, a plain stepsister next to its more showy neighbors. Vague shapes of taller buildings looked down from a distance, but they were indistinct, the result of whatever Charm it was that kept the magical district out of sight of Muggles.

Peter’s brown knob of a head was clearly visible atop the God-awful jacket. Remus gingerly squeezed past a couple of men who put up no resistance; in fact they didn’t appear to notice as they stared slack-jawed and vacant at the windows on the ground floor of the building. Peter didn’t respond when Remus tapped him on the shoulder. He, too, seemed mesmerized.

"Peter?" Remus shook his friend gently by the shoulder. "Can you hear me, Peter?"

"Please. Pleeeease," Peter moaned, eyes fixed on a large square window not five feet away. He tensed his shoulders suddenly and clutched at his left arm, holding it as if in pain.

Remus glanced from the sweaty face of his friend to the window. Or was it a window? It reflected Peter’s twitching form, but failed to show Remus, whose hand was on Peter’s shoulder, nor any of the carnival-like scenes behind them.

An enchanted mirror, that seemed obvious. But, what did Peter see in it? Remus squinted, and he imagined the dim outlines of a room and of a woman who melted into the shadows, leaving him confused and uncertain as to whether he’d seen anything at all.

"Peter," Remus called more urgently. He gripped Peter’s shoulders with both hands and spun him around. "Peter, what have you got yourself into?"

"Hey, why’d you--I was just…about to…Remus!" he yelped, his pupils rimmed in white as recognition jolted him like a stray bolt of lightning. "How did you--I mean, how did I--Oh, yeah, I remember…"

Peter forgets the shabbiness of the building and the jabbering of his newfound American friend when a reflection in one of many windows catches his eye. He sees himself, but not exactly… and that makes him stare all the harder.

The other Peter Pettigrew looks different somehow, alone and more peaceful, more confident. For another thing, the reflection is free from the eye-straining lights and dizzying colors of the street. Peter (no, the person in the mirror--but that’s him, too) is standing in a dark room, and he’s not alone.

Unconsciously, he steps closer and aches to see more, to make out the details that he knows are there. Suddenly (and he almost turns to look over his shoulder) there’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. She’s right there behind him, smiling, motioning for him to come closer.

He doesn’t think it’s strange, not in the least, when his reflection, the serene and confident Peter, turns to the girl as she opens her arms. He is near her now and he feels her short silk dress sliding against him as she runs her fingers over his chest. She kisses him (the other him, the one in the mirror) while he looks on, yet at the same time he feels her lips, warm and moist, as they melt into his. She tugs his arm, pulling him deeper into…

Oh, and he wants to go with her so badly. She’s waiting for him. Now. He’s got to go now--

--and then someone is shaking him and his arm is on fire, as if the Master’s mark will soon ignite his clothing and burn it all away.

"What on earth happened to you, Peter?"

Peter shivered, unable to find any words to explain the phantom girl, the long free-fall into a promised land of… of a dream (was it a dream?) that had felt more real than real. He turned back toward the ground floor and gestured weakly, one hand still clamped over his left arm, toward a man who shambled up to one of the mirrors like a sleepwalker and pressed his hand against the glass. A door opened inward exactly at the spot where the mirror stood, and the man vanished. The door closed, its mirror gone dark.

"Ah, advertising. So that’s how it is," Remus said softly. He gave Peter a reassuring pat on the back. "We don’t need to get tangled up in that mess, do we?"

"Please," Peter pleaded. "You won’t tell the others, will you?"

But, before he could answer, they heard Sirius’s voice, loud but indistinct, through a wall of people as he and James appeared by parting the partying crowd.

"Bloody hell, Peter. You didn’t get sucked into the funhouse, did you?" Sirius’s mirth increased the apparent misery on Peter’s sorry face. "They promise a lot, eh?" He absently rubbed his bruised cheek as he spoke. "I tell you, though, they can get rather nasty in there if it turns out you don’t have enough money on you."

"The voice of experience, perhaps?" Remus suggested dryly.

Sirius ignored the remark, and instead playfully boxed Peter’s ears, which had swiftly turned the color of boiled lobster. Before he could paint Peter’s shortcomings in an even more humiliating light, James stepped in.

"Alright, alright. Peter’s been found," he said brusquely, "and doesn’t seem the worse for wear. Now can we--Ow!"

James received a sharp shove from behind as a wizard pushed past him, eager to get a prime spot in front of the alluring mirrors.

"Come on, lads," Sirius chuckled as James nursed his aching neck. "Let’s get moving. We don’t want to interfere with this here enterprise, and we’ve got bigger fish to fry."

With Sirius leading the way, the four wove through the jostling masses of witches, wizards, and beings of all kinds. Crowds were dense in front of popular pubs like the Cauldron and Broomhandle, but thinner as they passed by the Museum of Abstinence (where admission was always free). After they found the club called the Lion’s Den ("Lions! Tigers! Hippogriffs! Live show every hour!"), Sirius called a halt to the march. They stood in a relatively quiet, dark spot around the corner from the noisy open door of the club (from whence they heard roaring mingled with shouts and jeers).

"Should be around here somewhere," Sirius drawled casually, as if he actually knew where he was going.

"I believe that’s what we’re looking for," Remus said. A small brass plate glimmered faintly from eye-level on one corner of the building and bore the same intricate, serpentine design as the key. The gap between two buildings made a small, dark passageway, barely an alley. Nonetheless, it appeared to be the gateway to Tigerseye.

"Aha!" cried Peter and disappeared into the darkness, like a rat vanishing down a hole.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The walls wobbled and Peter wavered, confused about where he was, and about where he was going. He’d been so sure of himself when he started ahead of the others, eager to find Tigerseye, eager to prove to his friends that he was still their loyal Peter.

Now that he was alone, threading a path through a tight little alley that grew darker with every step, each breath took more effort than the one before, as if there might not be enough air to last until the end of the tunnel. But this wasn’t a tunnel. No, he mustn’t think about that other--

Passageway, that’s what this was, just a narrow, unlit passageway in the heart of wizarding London.

The high walls let in little light from above and the mind-numbing brilliance of Seven Shoe Alley had faded. Sounds had grown fainter, too. He couldn’t tell if the buzzing in his ears was an echo of the jeers and laughter and music or the sound of blood hammering inside him like a swarm of angry hornets trapped in a bottle.

The passageway kept changing direction, each straight leg no more than three or four meters long. Reckless to reach the end of the maze, he kept bumping into walls. The rough bricks and chunks of mortar scraped his hands and tugged at his jacket.

He stopped short, catching his breath and listening. He fancied he heard Sirius’s laughter, and then it was gone.

The passageway must be enchanted. How else could he explain the loss of light and sound? Like all Hogwarts students, he had experienced the frustration (and occasional delight) of the enchanted corridors in the castle, corridors that never went the same place twice, passageways that wouldn’t take you back to where you started.

He whirled around, thrusting his neck forward in one direction and then another to catch a snatch of familiar voices. What if the others weren’t actually behind him? What if this dark little alley had led his friends someplace else?

"…and mind the rats. Wormtail might…"

Sirius’s voice sounded close. They were there after all!

Peter started to run in the direction of the voice, but his foot landed square on a bottle and he lost his balance.

"Augh!" he cried as he skidded face-first into a wall. He flailed blindly and managed to push away before his forehead smashed into a brick. The momentum sent him flying backward across the narrow gap. The back of his head struck a sharp corner. His legs buckled and he slid to the ground, moaning softly as he cradled his bleeding head. He felt dizzy and the burden of the long evening of drinking, from watered-down drinks at the Muggle clubs to the strong beer served at the Leaky Cauldron, came painfully home to roost.

Now he heard nothing, no voices or distant music, nothing except his loud and labored breathing. Warm blood trickled down his cheek and along his jaw.

But he wasn’t alone.

He forced his head up and opened his eyes. A pack of London’s finest rats, faintly outlined in the dim light, stared up at him with shiny black eyes and noses twitching furiously.

"Go ‘way," he groaned weakly and closed his eyes. Of course, the smell of blood drew them, but he was too big to attack, and yet too interesting to ignore. Peter could almost hear the inner workings of their little rat brains.

Some might think it rather pathetic, consorting with rats in the sewers and alleys of London as he often did, but there were benefits. Peter Pettigrew knew he wasn’t the most talented wizard in Britain. Oh, but he did have his gifts, and one of those was a knack for nosing out other people’s secrets. As a small child he’d learned that the right information revealed at the right moment could get him out of a beating from his older brothers or from the bigger kids in the neighborhood.

Secrets were the coin that Peter used to preserve his hide.

Once at Hogwarts, he had friends who delighted in the things that he found out. James and Sirius loved those secrets that could be turned into a good prank or a spot of revenge. They protected him and he was always the member of their little gang who could come up with juicy information in a pinch.

The shame and disappointment that he’d felt when he finally mastered the Animagus charm--no large and powerful animal for Peter--gradually faded as the increased opportunities for finding things out became apparent.

Hogwarts Castle was not without its dangers for an inquisitive rat. Some of the students owned cats and this made the dormitory risky. In the castle at large there was the caretaker’s sly and crafty feline, which knew a thousand places to hide, and Professor McGonagall occasionally prowled the halls late at night, too.

Cats weren’t the only danger. Other students kept magical rats that were a hundred times more annoying than any of the cats, which merely wanted to eat him. Peter never got on with those large, sleek animals, so quick to look down their twitchy noses at him as a clearly inferior rat. Just because they could appear and disappear at will or change color, they felt superior to their non-magical brethren. Magical rats could always tell that Peter wasn’t an ordinary castle-rat when they met him sneaking into the common room or up the dormitory stairs. If he wasn’t quick enough, they’d pounce and Peter-as-rat might find that his tail had been tied around a table leg or worse. And Sirius complained about dogs being territorial!

In spite of the dangers from cats and swotty magical rats, a resourceful rat like Peter could learn a lot by creeping about the castle: the password to the Slytherin common room, for example, or where Phileas Garfinkel kept the bottle of Firewhisky he’d smuggled into the dormitory, or where Severus Snape went on Wednesday afternoons.

After leaving school, he’d used his ability as an Animagus to nose about the law firm, to slip under the doors of rooms that he wasn’t supposed to enter and that were protected by Anti-Apparition spells or to eavesdrop on conversations that he wasn’t supposed to hear.

Lately, he’d become all too familiar with sewer rats as he crawled through some of wizarding London’s most secret places--not by choice, not because he wanted to experience the slimy, sunless tunnels half full of the most foul-smelling muck imaginable, not because he enjoyed exploring rubbish heaps and dustbins, but because there were certain requests that he couldn’t refuse.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

Click. Click… Click.

The sound of his heels striking the floor echoed sharply in the large empty room. He stopped, waiting for the sound to die away.

That wouldn’t do. The silence made him more nervous and he resumed pacing around the perimeter, passing by without really noticing the tall, bricked-up windows framed with tattered velvet hangings. His boots raised the dust that lay thickest near the walls of the long-abandoned room. He avoided the bloodstained floor in the center. He now knew many ways that those stains might have gotten there. In the past six months since his initial encounter with the Dark Lord, he had twice been in this room when fresh blood had been spilled: once when an Auror had been brought before the Dark Lord already dazed and near death so that it was a wonder he still had so much blood left in him; and once just last month when one of their number, a Death Eater that he didn’t know, had been… made an example to the rest.

The rest. The inner circle of You-Know-Who. The shadowy black-cloaked figures universally feared by wizards. The Death Eaters.

Peter Pettigrew now counted himself as one of that lot. Was it inescapable fate or random chance that had brought him here, had caused him to be pacing the cavernous ex-ballroom off a door that didn’t exist on a street that most sensible wizards avoided? He couldn’t have said--or didn’t want to.

Information. That’s all that had been asked of him, just as the Dark Lord had said at their first meeting. He reported on the comings and goings of this wizard or that witch, not really secrets but merely when Agatha Bones left work at the Ministry every day or who Sebastian Quirke met at the pub.

And there were rewards. In this very room he had learnt the Cruciatus Curse, which proved surprisingly easy. After what they’d told him at school, he thought it would be a difficult spell to master. Dead easy, that one was, even for Peter. And the thrill he’d felt as the power flowed out of him was indescribable.

Peter absently rubbed his left forearm, still tingling slightly from the Dark Lord’s summons. The Master will be pleased with the information, he thought as he took the list from his pocket, turning the parchment over in his fingers.

This assignment had cut a little close to the bone, though. From the start, he’d told himself that he wouldn’t endanger his friends; maybe he could even persuade them to give up their foolhardy ties to Dumbledore, or at least protect them when the inevitable happened. Protect? Peter Pettigrew protect them? That would be quite a turnabout, wouldn’t it?

He pushed aside the unease that he felt about it and tried to concentrate on what reward might be his; perhaps he would finally learn the Imperius Curse, as promised.

"What have you brought me?" hissed a voice behind him.

Peter dropped the piece of parchment, startled by the silent arrival of You-Know-Who. He fell to his knees and scrambled on the dusty floor to retrieve the list.

"This, Master," he said kneeling before the Dark Lord and holding out the folded piece of parchment. His arm trembled, causing the parchment to flutter and dance like a moth seeking a flame. "The list of guests for Ja--for Potter’s wedding."

"Ah," came the reply as the Dark Lord took the parchment and unfolded it. "Most impressive guest list…interesting that so many of our foes will be there," he murmured as he read. "This is complete?" He refolded the parchment and tucked it away in a pocket, then gave Peter an appraising stare.

"Yes, my Lord." Peter said, still on his knees. "I volunteered to help write the invitations, you see, and that gave me the opportunity to--"

The Dark Lord called for silence with an impatient wave of his hand. "And where will the wedding take place?"

Peter could feel the sweat trickling down his shoulder blades, pooling at the bottom of his spine. He looked down at his trembling hands, unable to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze.

"I…still don’t know, my Lord," he whispered.

"You saw the invitations, yet do not know where the wedding will be?" said the Dark Lord sharply.

Peter raised his eyes enough to see that the Master was fingering his wand. Jolts of phantom pain tingled in his arms and legs as he knew that the Dark Lord wasn’t going to like his answer.

"The invitations don’t say. They were going to be Portkeys, you see, charmed to work on the twenty-first of June. And I did volunteer to help write out the invitations, but they haven’t got approval for all the Portkeys yet or something… " whined Peter.

"Who does know?" the Dark Lord said impatiently.

"Er, James and Lily. Dumbledore, I suppose, as they’ve been talking with him a lot…and Sirius, I think," Peter said, looking down at his hands again, trying to avoid the terrible red eyes of the Master for as long as possible. "Oh, and Moody, too. He’s been doing something about… about security."

"Alastor Moody? What a prize. How I should like to catch him after all he has done."

The Dark Lord was silent for a moment and Peter dared to look up, only to be snared by the scarlet eyes.

"You must find the location!" spat the Dark Lord, the black slits in those terrible eyes widening ominously. "Surely these friends of yours will tell you, Pettigrew."

"I’ve tried, my Lord, really I have. I even offered to help Lily with the Portkey charm, but she didn’t seem to… and James and Sirius, we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. They seem very busy with all of this and--"

"But you will find out. You will not fail," hissed the Dark Lord, raising his wand. "Perhaps you need reminding about what awaits those who fail Lord Voldemort?"

"No. No, my Lord," whispered Peter.

Too late. The Master flicked his wand almost casually in Peter’s direction and intoned, "Crucio!"

Peter gasped as his head hit the floor. The twin tastes of blood and dust mixed on his tongue, becoming a third, indescribably sharp taste. The pain that chewed through him, ravaging his insides and setting every nerve to singing, transformed into something else. Perhaps it could be called pleasure, this white-hot throbbing that had become the focus of his consciousness.

If there was pleasure for the prey in having its flesh ripped out by the victorious predator, tasting in the blood-victory while crying out in helpless agony, then that was close to what Peter felt. The pain bought him a taste of the Dark Lord’s ultimate triumph, which would surely come.

And Peter Pettigrew would be part of that victory.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

"No, please," Peter sobbed, darkness swirling around him. He struggled to get up. Blindly, he threw his arms out. Someone pushed him back.

"What the devil happened to you?" A face swam into focus, hovering overhead.

Peter tasted the bitter metallic tang of his own blood and shivered with cold. Was this some cruel trick of the Dark Lord’s to torture him even further? He forced himself to breathe, forced himself to think.

"Fell down, I guess," he croaked weakly and clutched the outstretched arm. Peter felt a sharp lance of fear that cleared his head and allowed him to focus on the puzzled face of James Potter, now kneeling beside him. In the alley. He wasn’t in that other place. The alley was real. James was real.

"Hardly showing leadership here, are we?" said James lightly, though his eyes were filled with concern as he appraised Peter critically. "We can’t have you checking out before the main event, eh?"

"No. Sorry, but I guess I got… carried away. I was afraid--I mean, I thought that I’d lost you, all of you, and I got turned around and…" said Peter, aware that he was babbling.

"Can you stand? Here, let me help," said James as he gripped Peter’s arms and pulled him up gently. "We’ve got to stick together, right? You were the one who said that, I think. Speaking of which, where have Remus and Sirius got to? We can’t seem to keep our little band together for more than a few minutes. P’raps we ought to call it a night after all."

"No!" cried Peter, louder than he intended. "I’ll be fine, really. I am fine. Let’s carry on, eh? The night is still young and there’s so much to find out…er, I mean, so much to do."

PArt 8: Predator

"And mind the rats," Sirius called after James’s disappearing back. "Wormtail might have some friends around here and it wouldn’t do to go stepping on any of them."

"We don’t have to worry about James eating any rats along the way," Remus said dryly as the light from James’s wand faded away as their friend turned a corner, and they were left in darkness.

"Christ, leave off about the rats, all right? It was only the one time and… dogs do that sort of thing, don’t they?" Sirius said, stopping so abruptly that Remus nearly collided with his back. "You’ve probably eaten worse things, even if you don’t remember."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Remus snapped back. His headache had gotten worse since leaving Seven Shoe Alley, where the noise and glare had masked the blackness that had been nibbling at the edges of his consciousness all evening.

"You bloody well know what I--Ow! Watch the elbows, Remus! It’s pitch dark and I can’t bloody see a thing."

"Werewolves see perfectly well in the dark. Use your wand, if you want to see." Remus just wanted Sirius to stop talking, to leave him in peace so he could work out why his head hurt, why he felt so slow-witted, why he’d been chasing a shadow that danced just out of view in the murky limbo between memory and nightmare.

"Nothing worse than a werewolf with a bad attitude," Sirius grumbled good-naturedly. "Bloody James goes charging off to rescue Peter and I’m stuck you." With an exaggerated shrug, he pulled out his own wand

"Lumos," he cried loudly, although the close walls robbed the sound of an echo, making his voice seem thick and ineffectual.

The spell worked, however, and beam of light shot from the tip of his wand. The narrow passageway was suddenly alive with their shadows, alien black figures dancing on the walls that rose up on either side of them, the mortar haphazardly oozing out between the worn red bricks like icing on a badly-made cake. The charm didn’t usually produce bright light, but they had been in the darkness for long enough so that even dim light was startling, appearing as it did.

As his eyes adjusted, Sirius took in their surroundings; at his feet, the floor of the alley was strewn with the expected collection of odd bottles, scraps of paper and food wrappers, as well as a white tangle of fabric, some discarded item of clothing perhaps; a few stars twinkled weakly in a tiny patch of night sky visible in the narrow opening overhead.

"Do you think those are buildings up there or just walls meant to keep us from poking about?" he wondered as he squinted into the dim reaches above them. His attempt to engage Remus in conversation having failed, Sirius looked down again and sighed, "Never mind. Let’s catch up with the others. James might need rescuing next."

Remus still wasn’t listening.

"Anything wrong? Not getting cold feet, are you?"

"No--nothing," Remus mumbled. He was staring intently at the ground, his back against a wall.

"Come on, then," Sirius snapped after studying his friend’s pale face for a moment, unconvinced by the denial. He turned and followed the path that James had taken a minute earlier.

Remus detached himself from the wall and began walking slowly. He didn’t try to keep up with Sirius and stumbled as the light failed.

A crumpled white heap lying on the ground--the sight of it was a white-hot poker in the gut that left him breathing hard, blindly hugging the wall as he drifted down the alley.

I’m sure I’ll be much safer on holiday than you are at work, he’d carelessly told Sirius only a fortnight ago, at the start of his holiday.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

On the final day of his holiday, he sat with the open journal balanced on his knees and chewed on bread and cheese, thinking about the past fortnight, about all the creatures he’d seen and about those he hadn’t seen.

The days-old bread, courtesy of the Muggle farmer on the other side of Bodmin Moor, was practically inedible. With a sigh, he realized that a sandwich had been a bad idea. There had to be some animal that would be able to nibble or gnaw through the hard crust, he mused as he picked out the cheese and tossed the bread away.

The cheese had been courtesy of a witch he’d met that morning. Remus had rid her little farm of an annoying bunch of Pixies as well as reversed a hex on her cow that caused the beast to give green milk. His reward had been a half round of green cheese and the hint that Keitynys Wood, which bordered on her little farm, might have at its heart a hidden place.

Long before wizards had figured out how to make areas Unplottable or hide the likes of Diagon Alley from prying eyes, there were places deep in forests or high atop mountains with a natural magic of their own, a magic that made such spots impenetrable to Muggles and difficult for magical folk to find. And, these places often sheltered magical creatures not found elsewhere. Legend said that ancient witches and wizards had devised the charms for Unplotting by studying the natural magic of these hidden places. He was puzzled as to why his map hadn’t made particular mention of Keitynys Wood. The mapmakers might have been ignorant or deliberately obscure. He would trust the word of a local more than the Magical Tourist’s Guide to the West Country any day.

Remus had set off from the farm with the intention of following a small stream into the forest, knowing that running water had a magic of its own. As he went deeper into the wood, he wondered with every step if he had crossed into the hidden place that wasn’t on the map. When his stomach grumbled for lack of both breakfast and lunch, he stopped at a mossy spot next to the stream.

After finishing the cheese, which was quite good despite the color, Remus took out a quill and a bottle of ink, poised to begin writing, but his mind was blank. Any funny stuff and I want to hear about it, right? He smiled to himself as he remembered Sirius fussing at him like a fearful grandmother.

He hadn’t been in much real danger, hadn’t met any actual Dark wizards, for example, although he had conversed with a demon beneath the ruins of Redcliff Castle. He had learned quite a bit about wards and defensive spells from studying the old magic that still clung to barrows and castles, and he’d seen plenty of magical creatures.

Each day of the trip, he had faithfully recorded every sighting--every Gwyllion, or Red Cap, or Nokk--with sketches and notes on diet and the effectiveness of countermeasures. The latter came from direct experience in getting himself out of some of those encounters. None of his experiences had been particularly terrifying; yet most wizards wouldn’t want to fight off an assault by Red Caps or face down a Nuckelavee. Of course, simply being prepared to meet Dark creatures helped. It was common sense to have at hand a bottle of spring water that was usually effective against water demons and a steel knife, often useful for repelling the nastier sort of fairies.

Although he’d seen quite a few creatures on this trip, Remus couldn’t ignore the disappointment that he felt at missing out on the larger and more dangerous sort. No dragons, for one. Not so much as a tooth, or a bone, or a claw. And then there was the tantalizing Beast of Bodmin Moor. If it existed at all, he should have liked to bring back a report on it. Next time he would bring Sirius with him. If anyone could find a large black beast, it would be Padfoot.

Next time.

Of course, if he got a job, such freedom would become rare. A job? Was that why he had declared himself on holiday, to improve his chances of getting a job?

Remus put the journal and the writing things back into his rucksack, and then set it behind him on the ground. He lay back, fingers laced behind his head, and stared overhead where the world seemed to be composed entirely of shades of green and gold, from the greenish yellows of sunshine behind new leaves to the deeper greens of the shadows.

What was the point of taking such meticulous notes if no one would ever see them? He had so many ideas and he suspected--no, he knew--that he had much to contribute to the wizarding world.

If only he could find a place.

Since finishing school, he had considered going abroad, perhaps slipping into the great bubbling cauldron of Muggles in Europe or even in America. But, that would mean turning his back on an increasingly desperate situation at home as Lord Voldemort attempted to take control of the British wizarding world. No place would be safe, if that came to pass. He still nurtured a vague hope that he’d find a way to join in the fight; he couldn’t quit England until he’d exhausted all possibilities. But, would anyone take seriously the proposition that a creature of Darkness, an officially registered beast, would want to fight against Dark forces? Lately, he was beginning to wonder if even his best friends believed him.

The ever-changing dance of sunlight and leaves hypnotized him as he stared into the trees above. He might have fallen asleep but for a flash of white out of the corner of his eye.

He felt an itchy curiosity to look, but knew somehow that he mustn’t make any sudden movement. Slowly, not blinking and holding his breath, he turned his head.

An infinity of colors hung just out of reach; all colors were united under its mantle of iridescent white.

He dared to breathe, conscious that this was his first breath since he’d seen it, and wondered if he would count each breath he took from now on. Somehow it didn’t seem too fantastic to say, "Three hundred and sixty-nine times I breathed while I was in its presence."

Such madness is not uncommon when one is in the presence of a unicorn.

The creature was a few meters away, separated from him by a scraggly hedge of undergrowth. He rolled over on his side, trying to make as little noise as possible. It was facing away from him, its head not visible as it bent down to drink. But, he didn’t have to see the pearly white horn to be sure because there was something about the way its coat shone as if it took the ordinary light from the sun and turned it into…magic.

Remus had never seen a unicorn before. According to their teacher in Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts, unicorns had become scarce since the rise of Lord Voldemort and could rarely be found in the Forbidden Forest; that was why they hadn’t studied them directly. From the little he knew, he didn’t think he was particularly qualified to approach a unicorn: he wasn’t a female; he wasn’t a virgin; he wasn’t even fully human.

When it lifted its head from the stream and arched its neck with a fluid grace that brought tears to his eyes, he forgot his unworthiness.

When it turned its head, he found himself staring directly into its eye--pale, lustrous and rimmed in black--shimmering like an abalone shell, swirling like a perfectly made Euphoria Potion in a cauldron, but with no center, no pupil to fix upon, so that to look into the unicorn’s eye was to dive into a pearly universe of ever-changing hues.

When it flicked its tail, kicked its hind legs and disappeared into the trees, he followed.

The hunt--if you could call it that--was unplanned. He certainly hadn’t been expecting to find such a creature during the fortnight he’d spent tramping through Cornwall. Quite the reverse; he’d been poking about ruins that were either formerly inhabited by Dark wizards or destroyed by terrible magic and searching the marshes, rivers and rocky hollows for as many Dark creatures as he could find.

He chased the unicorn for the better part of the afternoon. The sun was setting when he finally caught up with it. By that time, it was too late.

The unicorn never let him get closer than twenty or thirty feet. He walked the forest paths as silently as any four-legged predator, but he knew from the start that the creature could sense him trailing behind it. Why did he follow? He couldn’t come up with any good reason, then or later.

Several times, he thought he had lost the unicorn; each time, he was seized by a strange panic that drove him to find it again. Over several hours, he developed a sense of where and when it would reappear in a flash of white, dazzling against the brown and green background like an exploding firework. He would stealthily inch forward, getting as close as he dared, until he caught glimpses of the exquisitely delicate legs, flashing golden hooves and iridescent coat.

At some point, he must have crossed into the magical heart of Keitynys Wood where the trees around him loomed enormous and regal, and the forest had the feeling of a hushed, green cathedral far older than the work of humans. But, the thrill of the hunt sang in his blood and he no longer cared whether or not he was off the map.

As shadows lengthened, it took longer and longer to find the unicorn each time he lost it. When he did come upon the creature, it bolted quickly and no longer lingered to drink at pools or streams.

He’d been searching unsuccessfully for three-quarters of an hour when he reluctantly concluded that he had lost the unicorn for good. He was chasing a dream. What’s more, he wasn’t sure it was wise to be in the hidden part of the forest when night fell. There may have been good reasons why the witch he’d met that morning had fingered her amulet so nervously.

Snap. He heard a sharp sound off to his left. He moved closer and heard branches rustling as well as a hissing sound that might have been voices, and then silence. He went faster, threading his way through thick tree trunks and scraggly undergrowth. A mantle of grim panic settled over him.

He found the unicorn, but couldn’t save it. In the end, he wondered if he could even save himself.

A startling flash of white through a tangle of leaves and then a glimpse of black. Remus stopped short and drew his wand before continuing. He approached as stealthily as he could, and was grateful for a clump of bushes that screened him from the open space in which a little stream threaded its way between venerable old trees.

A crumpled white heap lying on the ground. Something was wrong. In a wild moment of panic, his mind refused to believe it, racing through all the other white things that might be found lying motionless in an isolated forest clearing. The list was short.

Two figures in black standing over the motionless unicorn. Something was very wrong. His stomach jolted violently. Still hidden in the brush, he steadied himself against a tree trunk and felt his wand grow slick with sweat.

They were cloaked in black and wore black masks that covered everything but their eyes. At their feet lay the unicorn, dead or stunned; its legs were bound with magical cords. Its stillness was an abomination, a monstrous crime against nature.

One of the men held his wand out, standing guard with a heavyset swagger about him. The other man bent down over the fallen animal and gingerly placed a black-gloved hand on the creature’s neck Remus knew they were men because he heard their voices muffled through their masks. They were having an argument.

"You’re a fool, Mulciber," hissed the second one, taller and leaner than his companion. The muted voice seemed familiar to Remus, but he couldn’t quite remember where he’d heard it. "Time is critical for potency. I must begin now."

"But the Master said to--"

"Go if you must. You’re of no use to me," he muttered and turned his attention to the body.

The first Death Eater Disapparated; the second one paid no notice.

Oh, there was no mistaking that the two men were Death Eaters, Lord Voldemort’s black-clad followers who filled witches and wizards with so much terror that no one--no sane person, leastwise--in the wizarding world would even think of wearing a black cloak in a public place. Just as people didn’t speak the name of Lord Voldemort for fear of inadvertently conjuring up the fearsome Dark wizard, The Daily Prophet never showed a picture of a Death Eater nor of the luminous green Dark Mark that blazed cruelly in the sky so often these days. Yet everyone knew. The looks, the deeds, the words of those terrorists in black were whispered in pubs, in shops and even in the Hogwarts corridors.

He had never seen one, only heard jumbled and confused tales from people at school like Neldon McShane whose parents had been killed by Death Eaters while he huddled, terrified, in a dustbin. The Dark Mark had shone over the village on the night of his father’s murder, though he had not been there to see it. At home, his mother never spoke the name of Lord Voldemort, and Remus never pressed her. But in his nightmares, he saw the hateful sign blazing in the nighttime sky; in dreams he saw too the black-cloaked wraiths and attacked them, tearing the hated cloaks to shreds. They always turned up empty.

Remus wished desperately that he were dreaming now, that the entire afternoon had been a vivid hallucination brought about by eating the peculiar green cheese and that the scene before his eyes would vanish--if only he could remember how to wake up.

The tall Death Eater knelt next to the fallen unicorn. With his companion gone, he seemed less sure of himself as he fumbled with the drawstring of a leather bag. Glass clinked inside the bag; the sound was startling--so ordinary, so reminiscent of a far-away world. The man carefully removed two vials wrapped in cloth. After spreading the cloth on the ground, he set the glass down. His movements regained a careful precision as he took off the stoppers and delicately placed them next to the vials.

Remus thought he heard a sigh as the Death Eater reached into the bag again and removed another object wrapped in cloth. He didn’t have to see what was inside the cloth; he could feel its power even from a distance.

"Danger!" screamed nerves and muscles and bones. His first instinct was to flee, but he didn’t move. If he left now, he would never be free of the death that he did nothing to prevent, never remove the burden of this outrage from his conscience.

The cloth fluttered to the ground. Remus unfroze as the Death Eater raised the silver knife.

"No!" he roared, stumbling through the bushes with his wand pointed at the kneeling figure.

The man scrambled to his feet, his hard, dark eyes glittering through the mask. "You--" he choked back words, and then dropped the knife in favor of his wand, crying hoarsely, "Expelliarmus!"

Remus--his reflexes slowed by horror and revulsion, and by the proximity to silver--felt the wand slip through his sweaty fingers. The Death Eater deftly caught it, tossing it to the ground disdainfully before pointing his own wand. Remus roared again and charged, knowing that he must attack even if all he had was his bare hands.

The curse hit him hard in the gut; he doubled over in pain as he flew backwards. His back slammed into a tree and he fell to the ground, tasting dirt and leaves and rot as his face hit the forest floor.

Before the Death Eater could curse him again, there was a rush of air followed by the arrival of another black-clad figure. Remus, numb and barely able to move, looked up feebly and saw a black cloak swirl menacingly in front of the fallen unicorn. He raised his eyes, expecting to see the short, heavyset Death Eater, but the one who stared down at the stricken animal was taller than the one who had cursed him.

"What is this? What has happened?" came a cold hiss.

Remus had never heard the voice before, yet there could be no doubt as to who had spoken. Who else would be behind such a monstrous act?

He struggled to get up, but couldn’t move.

Focus on the curse; figure it out from the inside, he thought, amazed at his detachment. They would notice him soon enough; he’d be at their mercy, and it wouldn’t be a fair fight, far from it. His fingers were leaden, as if plunged into arctic waters and sheathed in ice; his insides twisted painfully like a wet towel being wrung out; his legs were numb and unresponsive.

That was it, a Petrificus Minor curse, meant to partially paralyze rather than to stun. How many times had he let Sirius practice on him, honing his skills for dueling with Slytherins? Remus felt a bizarre pride at figuring this out and at the thought that his opponent had not cast the spell properly. He should have been completely immobile from the neck down, but instead his fingers twitched and with great effort he managed to make his arms move. A major triumph, that. He might be able to expel enough of the hex to reach his wand, which lay on the ground less than a meter from his nose, though it seemed like three thousand miles at this point. He hoped there would be enough time to work free before he was noticed by either of the figures in black.

As he struggled to move, he watched Voldemort step nimbly over the body of the fallen creature. The hem of the cloak brushed over the unicorn’s white coat like dark storm clouds whipping across a plain.

"You blame it on Mulciber, of course." The hiss remained controlled, malevolent power gliding beneath the surface like a shark hunting unsuspecting swimmers. "Ah, yes. Your job is merely to collect the goods, not to notice that you are being followed, no doubt trailed through the forest by--"

"Master, I swear that we were careful. No one could have followed us." The Death Eater fell to his knees as the words spilled out, the voice no longer confident or recognizable.

"You deserve punishment, do you not?" Lord Voldemort sneered and lazily stretched out an arm. Long, inhumanly pale fingers wrapped around the wand that he pointed at the Death Eater, who fell silent and held himself rigid.

To Remus, the words seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The voice worked its way into his head, like a maggot burrowing into a flesh wound. He couldn’t see the face, only the back of the tall thin figure, cloaked and hooded. Was it true that anyone who had looked on that face was marked for death? He hoped not.

"Punishment will come later when we have determined the full impact of your blunder," laughed Voldemort coldly in a high-pitched voice that didn’t fit the hard words or the imposing presence. "Now, however, you have a task to complete. Do not fail me on this, or your life will be forfeit."

Lord Voldemort stepped aside, his face still hidden by the hood of his cloak, and looked down as the groveling man crawled on his hands and knees to reach the fallen knife.

"Ennervate!" rasped Voldemort with a malicious note of triumph in his voice.

The unicorn stirred slightly and blinked once. The creature didn’t lift its head, but its eye--once iridescent, now opaque and gray--searched blindly. Remus wondered if the unicorn could see him. His throat tightened and he blinked back tears at the sight of the creature’s dull, unseeing eye.

He rocked his shoulders, pushed his chin against the ground and twisted his abdomen, fighting against pain like jagged pieces of glass ripping through his gut each time he moved. He managed to shove himself back and up, swaying into a rough sitting position, but could get no further. His arms barely functioned and his legs might as well have been lumps of clay anchoring his unsteady torso.

"I’m here." His lips formed the words soundlessly. Tears stung his eyes and he wanted to shut them tightly, but if he did, he would miss the end that was coming, the end that he could do nothing to prevent.

The Death Eater rose to a kneeling position. He raised the knife to chest-level.

Remus shuddered. A wave of revulsion swept through him, threatening to knock him down like a swollen river jumping its banks and flattening everything in its path. He felt dizzy and, in his delirium, imagined that the Death Eater paused, knife suspended over the unicorn’s neck, and stared at him for a long time. Hours, minutes, seconds? He couldn’t be sure as they had all of them become unstuck in time.

"What are you waiting for?" shrieked Voldemort, breaking the silence.

Voldemort swiftly bent over, knocked the Death Eater aside and pried the knife from his gloved hand. And then he laughed--shrill, cold, triumphant--as the knife came down.

The unicorn shuddered as the knife plunged in to the hilt. Silver rivulets, like liquid metal, trickled across the once lustrous coat, the tendrils of blood oozing around the buried blade. Lord Voldemort wrenched the knife out and the trickles became a torrent, flowing freely, gathering speed as the knife went in again and again.

Each blow of the knife sent echoes pulsing thought Remus, amplifying the churning black queasiness inside. He fought off the spasms in his gut, clenched his teeth and tried to keep from toppling over. His eyes were locked on the abomination; nothing else existed in his world.

The knife came out a final time. Voldemort tossed it aside and thrust one hand into the bloody wound. Long, spidery fingers the color of bleached bone disappeared, only to reappear an instant later, coated in shimmering silver unicorn blood.

Remus couldn’t hold back his disgust any longer. He retched, spilling his guts as if he too had been ripped open. He lost his balance, pitched forward, and slammed his head into the ground, face-first in his own vomit.

Part 9: Prey

"The others will be here in a minute," said James after making sure that Peter could stand up on his own.

He frowned slightly as he noted the cut on his friend’s forehead and his shallow, uneven breathing. Peter had wandered off without anyone to look after him and the result was predictable. I should’ve been watching out for Peter, he thought as he absently rubbed his sore neck, and I shouldn’t have had so much to drink.

"I’m fine. I told you. Fine." Peter’s voice cracked in a shaky falsetto. "I just slipped and there was this wall. Yeah, the wall, and I hit it and the rats--"

Peter stopped abruptly, clamping his jaw tightly. His head felt remarkably clear, perhaps owing to the fear pumping through his veins, the fear that he’d already babbled too much. He smiled in a way that he hoped was disarming.

"James, are you--" Sirius rounded a corner and then skidded to a stop, avoiding a collision with both of them by barely a wand’s breadth. "What happened? Peter, good Lord! You’re hurt."

"Just a scratch," said Peter quickly. He flicked his hand across his mouth to wet his fingers and then pawed at his forehead in an attempt to erase the gash above his eyebrow.

"Who did that? Did you run into someone?" Sirius said suspiciously as he moved off, throwing light from his wand into this corner and then that corner of the narrow, dingy alley.

"No, no, I fell. Clumsy of me," Peter chuckled weakly. "You know how clumsy I am sometimes, but I’m fine, really fine." He scrambled to reach Sirius, as if to stop his investigation, but James held him back with an arm extended across his chest.

"Hang on, Peter--" he started and then froze. The effort to restrain Peter threw his neck and shoulders into a sudden spasm.

"For Merlin’s sake, James," said Sirius irritably, stepping toward the pair of them, "you ought to let me fix you up. A simple charm and it’ll be--"

"No. I’m not going to have you putting any spells on me the day before my wedding," grumbled James as he moved his head from side to side, trying to work his neck into a position that wasn’t excruciatingly painful. His neck cracked with each movement like a malfunctioning metronome. "I remember the Shrinking Spell that you put on Auggie McKinnon last year at his wedding reception."

"That? Well, he’s still speaking to me, isn’t he? And Viola thought it was funny, too."

"Forget it," James said dismissively, although he was grinning as he straightened up and turned his attention to Peter. "Now, let’s take a look at this. Bit of dirt in here. You don’t happen to have a… Thanks," he said as Peter produced a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed the cut while Peter--never brave in the face of any sort of pain--cried out, thrashing his arms in a way that did nothing except make James cross.

Sirius, meanwhile, had gone back to scouring the area for evildoers. After he’d satisfied himself that their little patch of alley was safe, he turned around to see a squirming and yelping Peter almost hidden behind James’s taller frame. He smiled at the sight of Peter’s flailing arms, splashed with the acid-pink and yellow flowers of the patterned Nehru jacket. He wondered if he’d gone a bit overboard insisting that Peter wear the gaudy thing. James could have pulled it off, of course. In spite of his upbringing in an old wizarding family, James managed to wear everything--even Muggle clothing--with a certain style. But Peter needed a bit more guidance; finding the right outfit for him was a challenge. Remus, like Sirius, had grown up in a village that was mostly Muggle and had no trouble blending in.

"Where the hell is Remus?" Sirius muttered impatiently into the darkness behind them. There was no answer and he growled restively.

"I hope Remus hasn’t got hurt as well," James remarked as he peered at Peter’s gashed forehead by the light of his wand. "Hold still, Peter! Yes. Got it. Now just another minute or two and we’ll be done."

With a flick of his wrist he extinguished the blue light and then passed his wand over the cut, murmuring the words of the healing spell.

"Aw, Moony’s too tough," concluded Sirius with a small shake of his head. "I’ll bet he spent his whole holiday looking for bloody trouble, Dark trouble, and he came out of it okay. Well, perhaps a bit more cross than usual."

"Mmm. Have you--Oh! Do hold still, Peter," said James as he inspected the result of the healing spell. "There you go. Let’s see...one minute and no moving that head, all right?" He stepped back from Peter and waved his wand at eye level, conjuring a glowing hourglass containing blobs of white light that trickled through the narrow waist while the luminous timer floated in front of Peter’s face.

"Are you sure he’s okay?" James asked, turning from his reluctant patient to Sirius. "He’s been awfully quiet tonight, even for Remus. I haven’t been able to get him to talk much about his holiday. Have you? He seems--Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s nothing."

"What?" Sirius’s face hardened and his eyes narrowed.

James shook his head, reluctant to give voice to what was troubling him. Sirius, however, grabbed the bone and ran with it.

"Bloody Remus and his bloody poking about in things he shouldn’t," he said, pacing the little bit of alley between one corner and the next with his hands clasped behind his back like a teacher giving someone a dressing-down. "Used to be he’d just sneak books out of the restricted section at school, remember? Now, it’s not just books. He spends a lot of time, too much time, going off in search of stuff they don’t put in books. Come on, James, you know what I mean."

"I hadn’t noticed," said James slowly, trying to work out the implications. "But, of course, he’s always been good at that sort of thing. Let’s not jump to conclusions, Sirius."

"Fine. Don’t jump to any conclusions, then. But moths that fly too close to flames sometimes get burnt," said Sirius darkly. "And if he is acting a little odd, well, there are a lot of different explanations. I suppose it’s possible that he ran into something or even that someone might have--that he might not even know--"

"Do you mean--No, of course not!" said James quickly. "Besides I don’t think there’s a wizard alive who could do that."

"Yeah," said Sirius, rubbing his chin pensively, "you’re right. You wouldn’t think it would work, but--"

"Remember seventh year?"

"Hell, yes." Sirius nodded emphatically. "He was one of the only ones, at least on first try."

They stared at one another as an uneasy silence settled between them like an uninvited guest, only taking flight after the floating hourglass vanished with a loud pop.

"What? What wouldn’t work? What first try?" Peter blurted out, his eyes darting between James and Sirius.

"Imperius," James answered quietly.

"Imperius," Sirius said more forcefully. "It happens more often than most people realize."

"Oh, but that’s ridiculous, er, assuming it could work at all, ‘cause Remus is, y’know, Remus," said Peter, unconsciously scratching his left arm. "I mean, it could …it does work from a distance. That is, once you cast it and all, but not for that long. Depends on who casts it, doesn’t it? But anywhere from a couple of hours to all day, then it wears off and…" He stopped, noticing that Sirius and James were both staring at him.

"How do you come to know so much about an Unforgivable, Peter?" said Sirius suspiciously.

"Er, well, I hear people talking at work, you know," Peter replied, his tongue tripping over the words. "All sorts of people--clients, that is--come in and I try not to…but the other clerks, though, they will go on. And why would someone want to put the Imperius Curse on Remus?"

"The wedding, for starters." Sirius turned to scan the dark places in the alley once again. "Oy! Remus! Where the hell are you?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Oy! Remus! Where the hell are you?"

The words came to him from far off, as if someone stood on a moving train and shouted whilst receding into the distance. He’d somehow managed to fall off the train and become ensnared in a stinging thicket of memories.

He stumbled around another turn and the dim, narrow alley brightened. He ought to use his wand, but he was afraid of what the next bit of light would bring. Somewhere ahead of him, he heard the voices of James and Sirius and choked sobs that he didn’t at first recognize as Peter’s.

He wasn’t ready to face them. Not yet.

Although it seemed like several years ago, it was only this morning that he’d awoken alone in the forest, lying next to the body of the fallen unicorn. He had gotten unsteadily to his feet, absently brushing away leaves and dirt. His clothes were otherwise clean. That hadn’t been right, though. He’d remembered how he had retched at the sight of the abominable murder, soiling himself in his half-paralyzed and helpless state. After the unicorn had been killed, he’d passed out.

Why was he still alive?

All day the question had dogged him like a vengeful ghost bent on driving him mad. He was the only witness to the murder of a unicorn, by itself a heinous crime, carried out by Lord Voldemort. Why hadn’t he been killed?

He shook his head, amazed at his own thick-headedness. Oh, it was obvious, painfully so, as the floodgates burst open and he struggled to keep his head above the rising torrent of memories.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

"Kill him? That is for me to decide," Lord Voldemort laughed to the Death Eater at his side.

The black-cloaked figures stood with their backs to Remus. He was glad that from where he lay on the ground he couldn’t see the dead unicorn, limp and motionless with its neck ripped open, first by the inhuman fingers of Lord Voldemort and then by the more fastidious gloved hands of the Death Eater, who had filled his glass vials with the silvery blood.

When Lord Voldemort turned around, all thoughts of the unicorn evaporated in a heartbeat.

Skin like sun-bleached bone.

Nose like a snake…flat with slits where nostrils should be.

Eyes like a cat…or a reptile, a travesty of any living snake with those blazing scarlet orbs and slits for pupils.

The monstrose face was grotesque, a mockery of all that was human, perverted with a conscious and twisted purpose that he knew was beyond his understanding.

The Death Eater turned and whispered something to his master, causing Voldemort to eye Remus carefully. Then, the servant whispered more urgently, his gaunt frame shaking, but Remus couldn’t make out the words.

"Interesting… but no concern of yours," came the hissed response. "Your work here is finished. Go and prepare the rest of the ingredients," he commanded, not taking his livid eyes away from Remus. "I shall make the potion at midnight tonight and it must be...perfect."

The Death Eater gave Remus a final frigid stare, and then Disapparated.

They were alone and Lord Voldemort smiled at him. It was not a pleasant thing to see.

"And what shall become of you, werewolf?"

As Remus lay partially paralyzed on the ground, the cold question pierced him like an icicle. He wanted to find his wand and flee, but only managed a feeble effort to twist onto his side. He retched again for his labors, painful dry heaves because there was nothing left inside him.

"Filth," spat the dark wizard. With a well-placed kick in the ribs, he pushed Remus onto his back like a small boy tormenting a tortoise.

He felt the impact, although owing to the effects of the hex, which caused numbing and paralysis, he was spared the full quota of pain. On the other hand, he could do nothing to protect himself. If he survived, he could expect a very large bruise and maybe a few broken ribs.

"Dirty animal. Barely human. Look at you--rolling in it, covered in your own filth. That is how your kind always ends."

Remus thought that his life might end rather soon as he lay staring at the dim remnant of twilight overhead, his eyes watering while Lord Voldemort circled like an enormous black carrion bird and spouted caustic bile, wounding him in ways that were not as easily healed as bruises or cuts.

"I find it disgusting," laughed Lord Voldemort viciously, "but you frighten most wizards too much to disgust them. You are a mindless, savage beast as far as they are concerned. You kill without conscience. You steal away their children, perverting them if you get the chance. You consort with Darkness."

The dark wizard stopped pacing and leaned over Remus, crimson eyes flashing as the pupils widened.

"You are Darkness."

Remus closed his eyes tightly, blocking sight and feverishly hoping that this would somehow block sound as well. His hands twitched uselessly at his side when he wanted to use them to cover his ears so he couldn’t hear the torrent of words that rained down on the shadowy places in his head and gave form to thoughts that he tried hard not to think.

"And they are right to fear you, are they not?" crooned Lord Voldemort in a softer voice that was about as sweet as rat poison. "You are strong, much stronger than anyone suspects. Even now, you are fighting the curse that my servant gave you. Is that not so?"

Voldemort chuckled at the sight of Remus’s feeble twitching, and then casually raised his wand.

"Finite Incantatum."

The curse retreated like the tide going out. Remus felt beached; his arms and legs flailed uselessly. To steady himself, he rolled over and got up on his hands and knees. He was still shaking, but the earth beneath him damped the spastic twitching.

After what seemed like an eternity of staring at the ground, he struggled to his feet awkwardly and with much labored breathing. He’d be damned in whatever hell was reserved for half-human monsters before he’d let himself be killed while on his hands and knees. Miraculously, he was still alive when he stood erect, face to face with the most powerful Dark wizard of the century.

Lord Voldemort watched him, the expression in those scarlet catlike eyes incomprehensible.

Remus stared back, though it took great effort to look upon the twisted, once human face. An ominous silence blanketed the darkening forest and his hand traveled to his cheek, crusted with vomit, leaves and dirt. He wiped it off, slowly and deliberately.

Voldemort raised his wand slightly and Remus braced for the killing curse that did not come.

"Exos Lavanum."

In the blink of an eye, Remus was clean, purged of the dirt-encrusted filth that had been the focus of so much abuse moments earlier.

"That is better." Lord Voldemort smiled like a snake that had just swallowed its first meal in half a year. "Ah, you do not tell others of your strength, do you?" he continued. "But, Lord Voldemort knows. Within you there is much power, power that you dare not use. Why not? They--" He gave a particularly nasty sneer. "--tell you that your power is uncontrollable, as if you were a mere beast, a slobbering, drooling, mindless creature. But that is not so. Lord Voldemort knows…and has many werewolves in his service. Many others are ready to join when the time is right. Not here, though. The Ministry keeps English werewolves weak; they tie you up with ridiculous laws and fill your heads full of lies and half-truths. But they are fools to think this will be enough. You can control what is inside. You will learn this, werewolf, and you will be glad of it..."

The words had a seductive flavor that made Remus giddy, reminding him suddenly of a particular Defense Against the Dark Arts class in his seventh year, the day that the lot of them, laughing and boisterous as usual, had arrived to find their teacher gone. In the place of Professor Spinoza stood a nondescript-looking man in tattered robes and a dark brown traveling cloak. He did not introduce himself. Instead, he began telling them about the Unforgivable curses that they must prepare themselves to face soon.

"He’s an Auror," whispered Columbine Rookwood, whose father worked for the Ministry. Once the news diffused through the class, the silence was absolute. All stared with rapt attention as the Auror--who never said his name--described the effects of two of the Unforgivables: the killing curse and the Cruciatus curse. They all wondered, though none would say it out loud, if this mousy little man whom they would likely ignore if they met on the street had ever used these forbidden spells to catch Dark wizards.

The third Unforgivable curse he not only described but demonstrated on each of them. The class continued after the bell rang; no one wanted to leave, even though the Auror was harsh with them, berating the seventh years until each could detect, if not defeat, the Imperius curse.

Watching his classmates one after another grow slack-jawed and glassy-eyed as they were made to carry out ridiculous tasks, Remus had assumed that the curse would make him feel thick-witted and fuzzy. He was not prepared for the clarity of thought and the dizzy feeling of freedom that suffused his mind when the curse was laid upon him. He was happy, so deliriously happy to be free from all his cares that he did not notice at first that he had started to climb up the curtains that flanked one of the tall narrow windows in the classroom. Why bother with what his body was doing, after all, when he felt detached, bobbing in a sea of contentment?

Even as he submitted to the blissful feeling in his head, he felt the currents of the curse surge at a deeper level. Once he knew that a polluted stream was feeding the happy waters on which he so carelessly floated, he could see the lines of the spell in his mind and almost trace the seeping poison back to its source. With this knowledge came pain. The harder he resisted, the more intense the fire that tore through his mind. He fell from his high perch as the struggle in his head weakened the curse. Then came the physical pain as he hit the stone floor of the classroom and shattered his wrist. Thus ended his one and only exposure to the Imperius curse.

"…You will learn this, werewolf, and you will be glad of it." Lord Voldemort’s words echoed in his mind almost as if the voice alone could conjure up the Imperius curse without the use of wand or word of power. And like that curse, nasty black threads lurked beneath the silky voice, trying to trap him.

"The night my father was murdered," Remus said through clenched teeth, half-expecting to feel a stab of searing pain as he struggled to speak, "the Dark Mark could be seen for miles around the village."

Did he detect surprise or anger in the inhuman expression on Voldemort’s leering face? He could not be sure.

"Perhaps you’ve killed so many that you don’t remember," Remus went on, the coldness growing in his voice, "but I cannot forget."

"Lord Voldemort knows everything, Remus Lupin," came the reply, a soft hiss with a hint of malice underneath. The dark wizard laid a long bony finger thoughtfully along his cheek. "I cannot forget that your father wrote lies about me, clever lies that would have been misunderstood by weak-minded witches and wizards. This angered my faithful servants. They only sought to correct the obvious mistruths, my Death Eaters."

The forest was fully dark now. There would be no moon and the vaulted ceiling of trees hid the sky in any case. In spite of the darkness around them, Remus could see clearly the bleached white face and red eyes that leered at him. Perhaps the hidden heart of the forest wove its own spell or else Lord Voldemort glowed with a terrible magic all his own.

"Yes…your father and his nasty, bothersome lies. When the wizarding press refused to print them (and my friends were most insistent on that score), he printed them himself, as if Lord Voldemort could be defeated by mere paper and ink."

High-pitched shrieking laughter filled the little clearing. With a swirl of his cloak, he stepped behind Remus where he continued in a low, angry hiss, "Your father was a Muggle, was he not? It is a… perversion for Muggles to marry witches. It must not be allowed."

Relief at not seeing the snake-like face mingled with the fear at having the dark wizard at his back. Remus looked down at the ground, unable to avoid the still luminous body of the unicorn, and drew a deep, steadying breath.

"This Muggle father of yours," said Lord Voldemort in a calmer voice as he completed his circuit and reappeared before Remus, "do you think he ever understood you?"

It occurred to Remus that he could have fled at any point, but instead he stood paralyzed--not by a spell, but by feelings of confusion and outrage. Reminded by Voldemort’s taunting, he remembered keenly the burden of guilt that his mother still bore for ruining his father’s life; she seemed to believe that, merely by being a witch, she had saddled her husband with a monster for a son. But his father--dead for two years--had always regarded his son’s condition as just another challenge and had borne the inconvenience and injury with his usual calm detachment. Or had he?

"You cannot be sure, can you?" Voldemort echoed Remus’s thoughts; his nostrils flared as if he could smell the uncertainty in the air. "Your family and your friends will eventually give you up for lost; you know that. There is no refuge, no place to go in the wizarding world--a world full of misguided weaklings who do not have the courage to value real power. They will turn on you sooner or later and you will die like a cornered animal."

Remus sprang, not at the leering face, but toward the wand that lay on the ground. He scrambled to stand again as the other wizard, eyes widening in what might have been surprise, raised his wand and laughed.

"Only Lord Voldemort knows how to value you, werewolf. In my service you will find power and more, much more."

The dark wizard swiftly stepped closer as Remus tried to calm him mind enough to call forth even a simple spell.

"Expect my emissary to call upon you…soon," hissed Lord Voldemort. "You will have much to discuss."

Remus recovered enough to tense, ready to spring, but the Dark wizard was quicker.

"Stupef--"

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

Remus slumped against a wall and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. The alley was lit just ahead and occasional snatches of his friends’ conversation drifted toward him, but he didn’t appear to notice. He let his hands fall, cupping them over his mouth and exhaling as if trying to warm himself on a frigid winter day. Oddly enough for a muggy summer evening, he was shivering.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"C’mon," sighed James dispiritedly. "He can’t be far behind us."

He gave Sirius a half-hearted punch in the arm and pointed his wand toward the passageway that led back to Seven Shoe Alley.

"Lumos," he muttered and shuffled stiffly past Peter and Sirius.

"I’m sure he’s okay--Remus, I mean," said Peter in the silence that followed James’s departure. He peered after the disappearing light from James’s wand and went on, "And I’m sure we’re not far from this place. It’s probably just around the corner. Really. Won’t be long…"

Peter’s voice trailed off, the words evaporating without an echo, gobbled up by the rough alley walls. For a few minutes there was only silence, and then Sirius began snoring.

"Huh?" Peter turned around in surprise to find Sirius leaning against a wall with his eyes closed and his mouth hanging slackly open. His wand had fallen to his side, still glowing weakly, and in the feeble light the lack of sleep was splashed across his face like paint on the canvas of an abstract painting: dark circles under the eyes, ashen skin that lacked the usual ready-for-anything ruddiness, and a pinched expression that refused to be gone even in sleep.

"Sirius? Eh, you’re not… Wake up," Peter said hesitantly, prodding Sirius gingerly. When that didn’t work, he tried taking his friend by the arm and shaking him, lightly at first and then harder.

Sirius tensed and his eyes flew open, as if he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning. Peter cried out in surprise and tried to get away. He wasn’t fast enough. Sirius reached for his throat even as the wandlight failed and they were left in darkness.

"It’s me! It’s Peter! Don’t you rec--" Peter spluttered as Sirius’s hand closed around his windpipe, wand poking menacingly at his heart.

"Wha--Oh! Shit, Peter, you shouldn’t sneak up on me like that," said Sirius. He dropped his wand and let go of Peter’s neck. Then he murmured, "Lumos" and inspected the other man in the light of the glowing wand, just to make certain that he really was Peter.

"I wasn’t! I wasn’t sneaking up on you! You sort of… closed your eyes for a bit and you didn’t seem to be listening, so I., er, tried to wake you up," said Peter with a ghost of a smile.

"Sorry," mumbled Sirius and ran a hand through his hair, tugging on it as if the pain might help wake him up. "I am a little tired, but only a little. And mind you don’t go mentioning this to James either. How about a Fatigue Banishing spell, eh? That should do the trick."

"Oh, I don’t--I’m not sure that…" Peter backed away, shaking his head. "You know that spell doesn’t work well if you’re too tired and you’ve had a lot to drink. That is, I don’t know how long--"

"Come on," snapped Sirius and grabbed the sleeve of Peter’s jacket. "Just a couple of hours, that’s all I need."

"All right, all right." Peter raised his wand and coughed nervously before beginning. "Vanquo!" he cried in the firmest voice he could muster and waved his wand across Sirius’s face.

In the blink of an eye, the color came back into Sirius’s face and the dark circles were erased from under his eyes. The bruise across his cheek still lingered menacingly. The spell hadn’t done a thing to vanquish that.

"Hey, thanks. I feel great! Should’ve done this hours ago." Sirius bounced on the balls of his feet and then launched himself in the direction that James had taken, grabbing Peter by the arm and dragging him along in his wake. "And your wand technique has really improved, Peter. Have you been practicing?"

"Remus has been acting funny tonight, hasn’t he?" Peter said hastily, struggling to keep up with Sirius’s long strides.

"Something’s up with him, I could swear it," rumbled Sirius as they followed the twisting of the alley, first to the right, and then to the left.

"When you and James were talking you…you didn’t mean like what happened to Annie Abbott’s brother?" Peter was sweating again, trying desperately to deflect the conversation away from the question of why his wand technique had improved recently.

Sirius stopped and gave Peter a penetrating stare.

"Of course, he killed those Muggles and then confessed that he wasn’t in his right mind and maybe he wasn’t, I mean, we don’t know, do we?" Peter babbled on, knowing very well that Julius Abbott was innocent, a victim of the Imperius curse that one of the Death Eaters--Peter thought his name was Mulciber--had placed on him.

"It happens more often than people realize," Sirius went on, "and it’s damned hard to catch. Makes it bloody tricky for the Aurors, I can tell you."

"We only have his word on it," said Peter hastily, not wanting the conversation to take a turn toward those Dark wizard catchers either, "but it looks like… never mind, the thing is that--"

"It looks like he couldn’t resist Dark forces," Sirius interrupted irritably, "so who’s going to trust him now?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Remus?" whispered James. "You all right there?"

In the light of his wand, Remus did not, in fact, look anywhere close to all right; his face had that washed-out color usually reserved for the day after the full moon and his arms were wrapped around his chest as if he were trying to keep warm on a winter’s night.

"Hey, is there something that I--"

Remus shuddered and his eyes opened suddenly, the pupils large, black and feral. He raised his arms and crossed them over his face to shield himself from the light.

"Oh, gods…it’s you…James." He dropped his arms and squinted, recognition trickling onto his face.

"Not up to our usual standards tonight, are we?" said James, trying to sound casual. The response from Remus was a puzzled expression, so he continued hastily, "I mean, here we are, the little band that mapped all of Hogwarts castle and most of the Forbidden Forest, and we can’t seem to find our way down a poky little alley. We’re not as young as we used to be, I guess."

Remus shook his head and detached himself from the wall. He took a hesitant step and then stopped.

"James? Can I ask you something? I’m no bloody good at Potions, but … if someone were going to make a potion with unicorn blood, what do you think it would be for?"

"What? Whatever made you think of that?"

"Just something I saw… recently made me wonder. It’s noth--No, I shouldn’t say that."

"Well, unicorn blood isn’t something you can buy on the street, is it? Not even in Knockturn Alley," said James in an even tone, as if they were discussing a homework problem. "And it’d have to be a Dark potion to need that. Did something happen on your holiday that made you think of this?"

Remus opened his mouth as if to speak, but didn’t make a sound. He met James’s eyes for an instant, but then turned and started to walk away

"What did you see? " James caught hold of his arm lightly. "Come on. You can tell me. If it’s a puzzle, we’ll work it out together."

The alley was silent for a moment. Remus halted. The scuffling of his boots stopped abruptly and James was left staring at the tense set of his shoulders for a minute’s worth of heartbeats. And then something changed. Remus shrugged and turned around.

"I don’t know how to…" he began with the familiar half-smile that ran through the spectrum of emotions, from fear to bitterness to wry amusement.

James waited. He knew Remus well enough to understand that more questions wouldn’t help, that Remus would answer in his own time, if he was going to answer at all.

Quite suddenly they weren’t alone.

"… never mind, the thing is that--" came a snatch of Peter’s voice, heralding the reunion of the little band of adventurers.

"It looks like he couldn’t resist Dark forces, so who’s going to trust him now?" was Sirius’s gruff reply. From the sound of it, the other two were just around the corner.

Remus gave a quick glance down the alley. When he looked back, James saw something he’d never seen on his friend’s face, or maybe he hadn’t understood it so fully before, that look of mingled rage and fright, a hint of the wolf, like the ripples on the surface of a lake marking the passage of some Leviathan of the watery deep, unseen and perhaps all the more frightening because of its shadowy uncertainty.

"About bloody time!" Sirius appeared from around the corner, doubling the amount of light in the narrow alley and doubling the number of great, hulking shadows splashed on the walls.

In the aftermath of the explosion that was Sirius, Remus’s face altered--a door closed, a book snapped shut, the wolf vanished. James scarcely had time to take in the change before he was hit by the sudden claustrophobia of the four of them together. The reek of an evening of drinking mingled with sweat--each could pick out the smell of the others like neon signs in a dark room--had become an almost physical presence. Add to that the lack of any kind of breeze and you probably could have cut the atmosphere with a knife, wrapped it in brown paper and sold it in a cheese shop.

"Remus, you all right?" Sirius held his wand high and looked his friend over from head to toe. "Peter bashed his head up and James is still a near-cripple, though he won’t admit it. You sure you don’t have some injury you’ve forgotten to mention? Broken bone? Internal bleeding? Hangnail?"

The glare on Sirius’s face was not lighthearted, despite his words. Remus met his eyes for a moment, and then looked down, mumbling something that sounded like, "Don’t worry about me."

When the silence went on too long for James’s comfort, he cleared his throat and tried to say something only to be cut off by Sirius.

"And I am feeling great, just bloody marvelous in fact, did I mention that?" Sirius said with a grin that seemed a little too large to be genuine. He continued to stare at Remus even as he reached over and gave Peter a shove, saying, "Let’s get moving, Wormtail. You’re in charge. Ha! But we won’t let you get lost this time."

Peter stumbled hesitantly, but James gave him a reassuring pat on the back and said, "Come on, then."

The two of them squeezed through the narrow alley side-by-side and disappeared around the corner. Peter’s voice could still be heard, now chattering to James: "Thanks for fixing me up. I’m feeling loads better. Oh, how’s your neck? Is it still bothering you? You’re walking a bit better. I’m sure we’ll be there soon…"

"And we’re not losing you again," Sirius said shortly. He grabbed Remus’s arm and tugged, intending to drag him along behind James and Peter, if it came to that.

"I said I’m fine," Remus answered softly, still not meeting Sirius’s eyes. He twisted out from under the hand gripping his arm and made to follow the other two, pushing roughly past Sirius.

"You expect me to believe that?" Sirius said to Remus’s disappearing back. "Too fucking noble for your own good, aren’t you?"

He had to dash a few steps to catch up, giving Remus a shove from behind when he did. By that time, the passageway, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast before, had become narrower and he couldn’t get a look at his friend’s face nor get him to say more.

After another few twists and turns, light from a source other than their wands began to seep into the alley, a yellow glow that reflected dully off the bricks and grew steadily stronger. And there were sounds, faint at first but becoming louder and more coherent.

James stopped answering Peter’s questions and then tuned out his friend’s words entirely. He was listening. At first, he didn’t know what he was listening to, something ticking, and maybe the occasional musical note? Music? What did he think lay ahead, after all, a brass band?

"--so clever about the Portkeys," Peter was saying. But even Peter was capable of being silent on occasion. The sight that greeted them around the final corner made him stop in mid-sentence. "Now that the wedding’s almost here, d’you mind letting me in on--"

If they had expected to find a smaller Seven Shoe Alley, or a classier version of a Soho strip club, or a hidden house of magical mirrors, they were wrong. What they saw was not like any of those.

James and Peter stopped, causing Remus and Sirius to bump into them. For several moments, the foursome was a tangle of arms, legs and curses, until they sorted themselves out and looked around at where they’d landed: a square courtyard four meters on a side ringed with the same high brick walls that had had defined their journey thus far, had scratched and bitten them and had looked down on them with an almost sinister regard.

Two lamps mounted on one of the walls threw off the warm yellow light that oozed over the ever-present brick walls like melting butter on a haphazardly stacked pile of hotcakes. Between the two lamps crouched a stone tiger, most realistic for all that it was carved from pale marble. Its fur seemed to ripple; its teeth gleamed in the yellow light; its mouth was frozen in mid-roar with fangs seemingly ready to tear apart whatever came near.

If the tiger were to spring and leap into the air, it would have landed in a round pool a little more than a meter in diameter that took up most of the rest of the courtyard. A fountain bubbled in the center of the dark water--not a garish fountain filled with foam or fireworks, just a simple jet that plinked and splashed rather cheerfully. A set of chimes in the fountain played brief snatches of unidentifiable tunes whenever the water hit them, five or six measures that were almost recognizable, if only there were a bit more…

Around the margins of the pool, hanging over the surface of the water, grew large, pale flowers that looked as if they only bloomed at night, creamy white, mysterious cousins to lilies with deep, shadowy centers. The little courtyard was awash in their sickly sweet smell.

James looked around, confused. He had the feeling that if he stood still for too long, the light might wrap itself around him, cocoon-like, lulling him into closing his eyes and floating away. The heavily perfumed air crept under his clothes, down his neck and around his chest, worming its way into his heart. Yes, his heart. For in spite of all the jokes and innuendo and winking that went on when thinking about a place like Tigerseye, wasn’t it really a matter of the heart? And he found that his heart was pounding.

Peter freed himself first from the tangle of his friends and stumbled into the center of the courtyard where he froze, transfixed in front of the stone tiger, unable to tear his eyes away from the petrified snarl and the softly gleaming teeth. The others, meanwhile, stood framed by the walls of the passageway that had brought them to such an abrupt end, a trio of confusion against a brick backdrop.

"Augh!"

In the act of backing away from the beast, Peter smacked up against the wide stone lip around the pool and lost his balance, sprawling forward. Sirius laughed and the sound cut the thick atmosphere like an oar attacking the still water of a lake. Ripples of Sirius’s laughter splashed James and dispelled the lethargy that had been lulling him into stupidity and thick-witted confusion.

"Up you get," chuckled Sirius, extending a hand toward Peter who was sprawled on the stone floor. "Not hurt, are you? Good. Now, let’s find the door or gate or…"

Sirius turned around slowly, wand out, and inspected the little brick-walled courtyard. There was no door, no bell to ring, no gong to strike, just the tiger, the fountain, and those stultifying flowers. When Sirius tapped the stone beast impatiently with his wand, the eyes opened, yellow gems with a starburst pattern in the center that made them come alive in the lamplight.

"I don’t suppose that your brother told you how to find the entrance to the bloody place?"

Peter stared sheepishly at his feet, afraid to look up at the menacing yellow eyes.

"Great. Marvelous. Ruddy fabulous. Mind if we toss you to the tiger, Peter?"

Part 10: Impoundment

"No entrance?" James said in a startled voice, as if waking up from an unexpected nap, the kind often taken surreptitiously in History of Magic class and cruelly ended by a prickly question from Professor Binns.

"Do you see anything even vaguely resembling a door, window, grate, keyhole--" Sirius raised his arms and gestured to the brick walls. He let his arms fall to his sides with a pointed slap. "No? I didn’t think so."

"But I’m sure this is the place," Peter said quickly with an imploring look to James. "I mean, there’s the tiger and…and--"

"And are you sure we didn’t take the wrong turn in the dark?" Sirius advanced on Peter, poking him in the chest for emphasis as he spoke so that Peter was backed up against the wall and crowded against the rear haunches of the crouching stone tiger. "We were in a fucking maze back there. We had to go chasing after you and then got separated. Who’s to say that there wasn’t another passage that we missed?"

"Leave him alone, will you? I don’t remember any other passage. Let me see that key." James frowned and held out his hand.

Sirius turned away from the cowering Peter. With an exaggerated shrug, he thrust a hand into one of the pockets of his jeans and extracted the key. The gold glinted seductively in the candlelight. He waved it in James’s direction, saying, "Come and get it, Prongs."

"Sirius," cried an exasperated and stiff-necked James, "you don’t expect me to wrestle you for it, do you?"

"Mr. Potter really wants this key, does he?" Sirius taunted, just out of reach of James’s outstretched arm. "Why, Mr. Potter, you seem awfully…excited about this. Of course, I understand how someone in your position would--Uh-uh!" He laughed and jumped back as James tried a weak lunge. "--would want to get laid. Does the future Mrs. Potter know you have such a one-track mind?"

"Evil bastard," muttered James as he took another swipe at his grinning friend, but came away empty-handed. "I’ve heard that sex is the only thing that can make Mr. Black shut up and I, for one, want to see that."

"Who’s been talking? Not you, was it, Remus?" Sirius gave Remus a nudge with his boot. "I’m not taking you on any more double dates, if you tell on me."

"Mmm. What?" Remus, sitting on the stone bench that ran around the edge of the pool, looked up in confusion.

"Mandy Barnes!" said James triumphantly and snatched the key away from a momentarily distracted Sirius.

"Really? Bugger." Sirius rubbed his chin in mock thoughtfulness. "I have got to stop dating the friends of the future Mrs. Potter."

Peter giggled nervously and then latched onto James. "What’s with the key, d’you think? Is it charmed?"

"Let’s check it for spells, shall we?" James took out his wand. With his best "Head Boy" stance, given his misbehaving neck and shoulders, he tapped the key several times. It glowed weakly in his palm for a few seconds. "It’s marked by magic, but only in a minor way, for identification more than anything else. That probably means there’s something else here..." He paused and looked around the little courtyard. "…a lock of some sort that fits the key. What do you think, Sirius?"

James had forgotten Sirius’s previous taunts, now that a problem presented itself. Secretly, he was glad for the distraction. It stopped him from dwelling on just what would happen if they succeeding in unlocking the secret to Tigerseye.

"Mmm. Good point," Sirius answered as he looked carefully around them. He and James knew a lot of spells, more than were officially taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And he had learned considerably more lately about spells for concealment and protection as he worked with that infuriating Auror on the preparation of the wedding site. In fact, the last seven weeks had been more instructive than seven years of Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons at school. The knowledge had come with a price: nothing came free from Alastor Moody.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

The sky was dazzlingly overcast. The glare came from all directions at once, defying anyone to detect the true position of the sun.

Sirius was glad for the sunglasses, part of the disguise as an elderly Scottish tourist that Moody had decreed for today’s reconnaissance. He wouldn’t want to be seen by anyone he knew, disguised as he was, but whom could he possibly know here in this landscape of sheep and Muggle tourists? His own mother wouldn’t recognize him wearing these large plastic sunglasses, the sort favored by old Muggles, which fit with the gray hair, the baggy pants and the godawful plaid Tam o’ Shanter.

They stood in a large field, a flat expanse of bright green turf bounded by the village on one side and by clumps of dark green trees on the others. A narrow country lane bisected the field. The fences running alongside the little track kept sheep on one side of the lane and tourists on the other. On this Saturday afternoon in May, the tourists had come not to see the sheep, which were quite ordinary, but to see the standing stones, remnants of ancient Britain and of an ancient magic, although the lingering magic in the stones was not evident to all. Scattered about the field, the lumpy gray pillars of rock stood upright like great troll-like shepherds. Some tourists picnicked; others, like the two disguised wizards, strolled. One energetic young Muggle, wearing a flowing, multi-colored robe, had climbed on top of one of the stones and sat cross-legged, playing a guitar and singing off-key.

Moody too was dressed as an elderly Scottish gentleman, complete with a bright green and red kilt and a scraggly white beard that would have looked better on a goat. The disguised Auror shuffled along slowly, leaning heavily on a battered black cane in a convincing imitation of an octogenarian. The hollow cane was not only part of the disguise, but also held Moody’s wand. Public use of magic amongst so many Muggles was not legal, of course. However, the Auror, ever fearful of Dark wizards, wanted to be ready for trouble.

"Aye, there’s the heart of it," a white-haired Moody said softly. As part of his disguise, he had abandoned his slight, but unmistakable, Geordie accent in favor of a Scottish brogue.

He held the hand-drawn map close to his face, pretending to be near-sighted so that no casual stroller could see the symbols covering the piece of parchment. Those symbols would have looked exceedingly odd to any of Muggles around them, though perfectly understandable to most wizards. The map was needed because Moody was concerned about where to place the wards and Muggle-repelling charms to take full advantage of the native magic, while James wanted the ceremony itself, which would need a certain amount of magical energy, to be right at the center of the old magic.

Sirius and James had worked together for two weeks on the map, an hour or two after dark on most days when they could inconspicuously survey the patterns of magical energy that still resided in the ancient stones. Although the task wasn’t as challenging as creating the Marauder’s Map, Sirius had enjoyed it for the fun of working with James. Almost as if they could read each other’s minds, they’d often come to the same conclusion at lightning-fast speed. That made the mapmaking seem less like work than play.

But where was James today? Off with Lily picking out cake decorations for the wedding, or something equally stupid, leaving Sirius to deal with the fake Scotsman.

"Too many people here," Sirius said in a low voice audible only to Moody. "I don’t see why we need to do this in broad daylight."

"Accent, boy, you’re forgetting your accent," Moody whispered harshly.

"Fuckingridiculous," Sirius muttered to himself. He’d been talked into wearing the disguise and into spraying some weird Muggle stuff on his hair to turn it gray, but he wasn’t going to put on an accent as well. Not that he couldn’t do it. When he was up north, Sirius could get along tolerably well in most Scottish dialects, except perhaps Glaswegian. Given the kind of pubs that he liked to visit, he didn’t fancy being called a "focking English wanker" by the Scottish locals.

"Magic’s not the same at night as it is under full sun. You’ve got to know these things, else the wards and charms won’t work properly," Moody said, shaking head slightly, as if talking to a slow child. "Ah, here we are." He stopped and pointed his cane at a nondescript patch of turf. "Time for lunch."

They had come to the magical nexus, a patch of short springy turf that had no stone or other marking. There was nothing to see because the invisible magic from the surrounding standing stones converged at that point. Sirius stared at him sullenly, then reluctantly laid out the red and green tartan blanket that Moody had handed to him when they’d first met up earlier in the day.

The field was quiet except for the occasional swell of conversation from one group of tourists or another, the incessant buzzing of flies, and the cracked and reedy voice of the guitar-playing Muggle. Moody made a big show of sitting down, as befitted his elderly persona. Once seated, he surveyed the surrounding field unhurriedly. Satisfied, he nodded to himself and then shoved the wicker picnic basket that he’d brought toward Sirius. He spread the map on the blanket and concentrated on its multicolored lines and symbols.

Sirius realized how hungry he’d become when he dug into the basket, which contained a roasted chicken, several apples and a wedge of Cheddar, all wrapped in an assortment of mismatched napkins. There had been no time for a bite to eat this morning when he’d woken early--too early for his pounding head and unsettled stomach, the result of a bit too much to drink on Friday night--and then met Moody in Norwich, after which they’d taken a long, complicated path, Apparating and Disapparating through five different places and then finishing with a three-mile walk across the countryside.

Paranoid bastard, Sirius thought as he tore off a chicken leg. He was about to take a bite, but he stopped himself.

"Here," he said, handing the piece of chicken to Moody.

The Auror looked up from the map. "Thank you, lad. Nice to see a bit of respect for your elders."

Just making sure you’re not trying to poison me, old man. Constant vigilance.

Respect and fear, Sirius had learned, were really two sides of the same coin. Only after Moody had taken a bite and was chewing away contentedly, did Sirius attack the rest of the chicken.

"Nicely done, this map," Moody said, pointing the chicken leg down at the parchment. "Potter’s work mostly, is it?"

Sirius bristled at the obvious insult. The ghost of a smile on Moody’s face angered him even more, but he swallowed his outrage along with the chicken and smiled back. "James and I make a good team."

"So I’ve heard from Dumbledore," Moody chuckled. "The headmaster says you’re both top-notch wizards."

Moody tossed the chicken bone into the wicker basket and wiped his hands on the moth-eaten woolen waistcoat he wore. He took out the silver flask from the pocket of his shirt, uncapped it and took a long drink before continuing.

"That temper of yours, boy, I’ve heard about quite a lot about it, too. Yes, I’ve read your file at the Ministry and it’s got quite a lot to say about your doings. You’re a powerful wizard and smart, sometimes too smart, if I read between the lines. Your mistakes have cost you, though. Some people reckon you’re insane, but I don’t think that puts you out of the running for a Ministry job. Humph. Like that time with the werewolf--"

"That’s not sup--" Sirius began.

"Yeah, I know. It’s not supposed to be in your file, and I’m not saying it is there officially, but these things get around."

"For Merlin’s sake," Sirius said in what he hoped was a restrained tone, "Snape wasn’t entirely innocent. That nasty little sneak was trying to get us into trouble and we thought, that is--"

Moody stared at him, his face more inscrutable than usual behind dark sunglasses. Sirius grabbed the cheese from the basket and tore it in half, just to have something to do with his hands.

"--I thought it would be funny to…it was a sort of a joke."

Snape had started it, after all.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hogwarts, 1977

James sees him first. Sirius and Peter are fighting over the trading card from the Chocolate Frog that Peter has just stuffed into his mouth. They are, all three of them, hiding in the bushes near the Whomping Willow, waiting for the moon to rise after Remus has been escorted by Madam Pomfrey down into the secret tunnel.

"That dirty Slytherin bastard!" James hisses and tugs at Sirius’s robes.

"Where?" Sirius forgets about the card and scans the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He sees a dark shape flitting between tree trunks, coming closer. He too recognizes the hooked nose and long greasy black hair.

James is first to step out from behind their cover. He and Snape had had it in for each other -- on and off the Quidditch pitch -- for years.

"You’d better get back to your dungeon, Snape," James says, his wand pointed at the Slytherin standing a few meters away.

"Gryffindors out of bounds," Snape hisses, drawing his own wand. A familiar curl of the lip replaces the initial look of surprise. "Three…or is it four?"

Sirius doesn’t see who throws the first hex. By the time he can get his wand into action, James and Snape have already traded curses. James briefly sets Snape’s hair on fire. This enrages the Slytherin, who lets loose a bolt of green from his wand.

James falls to the ground ungracefully in a haze of green light.

"You’re in big trouble," Peter stammers. "Dueling is against the rules!"

"Merely trying to defend myself," pants Snape. As he catches his breath, a smile of pure triumph blossoms on his face. "Unauthorized dueling--Potter started it, you know. And covering up for Lupin, no doubt. Where’s he got to, I wonder?"

"Go tell the headmaster, then," Sirius growls. He’s shaking James. Why won’t James wake up? What has the slimy bastard done to him?

"The whole school would like to know, don’t you think?" Snape crows. His wand is still pointed at the three of them.

Sirius glares venomously up at Snape. He is holding James, whose head lolls heavily against his chest.

"You want to know where Remus is, you fucking piece of Slytherin shit?" Sirius laughs that crazy laugh that makes Peter and Remus nervous and sometimes worries James.

But James, who is in no condition to stop him, only moans and his eyelids flutter open.

"Sirius, no!" Peter cries and tugs at Sirius’s sleeve, as if that could stop him.

Sirius shoves the smaller boy away. His world is going dark, collapsing around him. Suddenly it’s all so simple.

Even before they’d figured out how to join Remus under the full moon, they had all hated Snape. "Oh, the look on his face if he could see those bloody great fangs," Sirius would say and everyone, even Remus, would laugh because it was just a joke, a way to blow off steam when those Slytherins had done something and there was no paying them back, at least not right away.

Just a joke.

"You want to know where Remus is?" Sirius says hoarsely. "Take that long stick, the one over there near the Whomping Willow, and poke at the big knot on the trunk. Go on, you bastard, you might as well give us all detention."

As soon as he says this, Sirius forgets about Snape. His world is shrinking until there is only one bright, flickering light in danger of going out.

Peter jumps up and runs after Snape, who is striding toward the Whomping Willow.

"Don’t listen to him! Don’t! You ca--"

Snape, an evil grin on his face, pushes Peter aside, knocking him to the ground.

"Ennervate," Sirius half-chants, half-pleads. He’s shaking James, not paying attention to anything else.

James opens his eyes to the seeing world, the world of the living. He clutches Sirius’s arms and tries to speak. Sirius is tongue-tied for a moment at the sight of the spark that’s back in James’s eyes.

"Sirius! James!" Peter sobs as he crawls across the grass toward them. "He’s done it. He’s going down there and--look!"

Overhead, the sky darkens and in the west, the sun is dying. Peter points at the light suffusing the eastern horizon.

"What-what’s he saying? Who is? Where’s Snape?" James looks around in confusion. Peter points, first to the pregnant eastern sky, and then to the still branches of the Whomping Willow.

James flushes, expelling the last of the hex with a rush of heart-pounding adrenaline. He looks from Peter’s panicked face to Sirius’s stony grimace. And then he knows.

"No, oh, no, oh no. Sirius, you didn’t, did you--" James struggles to his feet. He’s shaky, but his steps become firmer, purposeful, as he runs toward the Whomping Willow. He uses the stick just as Snape has already done and disappears into the shadowy depths.

From deep within the earth, Sirius hears the faint howl of a wolf.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"That was no joke, son," Moody said quietly, "not the way I heard it."

For a moment, there was complete silence: no other conversation, no guitar-playing Muggle, not even the drone of a fly. Or, perhaps Sirius had gone temporarily deaf.

"No," Sirius whispered just as a dissonant guitar-chord was struck in the distance. He looked down at his lap, where the cheese with which he’d been playing had been reduced to a thousand tiny crumbs, about the right size for an army of ants to carry away.

"Slimy bastard!" Sirius angrily swept the crumbled cheese from his lap, scattering the bits widely on the blanket and surrounding grass. He glanced up at Moody, whose impassive face told him nothing. "James was hurt; he wouldn’t come around and I--I went a bit out of my mind. I can’t remember what I said, but I must have... Well, I guess you know."

"I know the black rage that boils up inside you--it can be worse than a well-placed hex from your worst enemy. You let that anger control you, and you do stupid things, things that’ll get you killed."

"Or get your friends killed," said Sirius bitterly. He had taken a knife from the picnic basket and was jabbing it into the rest of the cheese.

"Control, boy, control," Moody growled, though not in an unkindly way, as he reached across the wicker basket and took the knife away from Sirius. "You’ll learn. Aye, you will."

Sirius put the remains of the cheese out of sight and bit into an apple instead, while Moody began to explain the complex web of spells for confusion and misdirection that would be wrapped around the wedding party during the ceremony.

"Let’s start with the outer layer," Moody said, "like an onion, you see? Muggle-repelling charms should do the trick as far as the village is concerned. I’ve an idea as to how to hide the whole bleeding wedding party from the Muggles. Those spells will start here." He pointed a gnarled finger to the map. "You think you’re up to that, lad?"

Sirius, surprised by the question, hastily finished the apple he’d been eating and said, "Me? Do the charms?"

"I’m not talking to the bleeding sheep, am I? Yes, you." Moody laughed dryly. "You did a decent Muggle-repelling charm on that bike of yours, so I reckon you can do it here. The spell’s got to cover a bigger area, but it’s pretty much the same otherwise."

"Oh, yeah, sure," replied Sirius quickly, as if Moody really would give the job away to the nearest sheep if he didn’t answer right away.

"Keeping Muggles away is only part of it," Moody continued. "Stopping wizards, that’s a bigger problem. And why would a wizard want to gatecrash this here wedding? There’s only one reason that I can see, and it’s a Dark reason, if you follow me. So, the next couple of layers are going to be warding spells; that’s what I’ll be working on. There’s the anchor for the Portkey. Potter and Evans will set that up, though we’ll have to get approval from Magical Transportation, or they’ll pitch a fit about it. And then whatever Evans wants to do in the way of decorations. I’ll leave that to her. Our job is going to be making sure that no one, wizard or Muggle, gets in without an invitation, right?"

"Right. So, where do we start?" Sirius tried to sound confident about all this, although he hadn’t ever tried such large-scale magic. The threat was real enough, if they didn’t do it right, lending a sense of gravity and urgency to the whole project.

"I reckon we can get the spells in place in about a week." Moody pulled on his fake beard thoughtfully. "It’s getting the damned paperwork sorted out that’ll take time. You’ve got to fill out a stack of forms about as high as one of these stones here to use this many charms near a Muggle village. But we won’t be doing that this time. No, because there are too many eyes and ears at the Ministry that report to Lord Voldemort. Avoiding as much of the paperwork, that’s what we need to do and that’ll take even more time. There’ll be some favors to call in and a spot of bullying to be done in order to cover this up. Dumbledore should be able to help."

Moody frowned and then paused for a drink from his silver flask. "Time and luck are what we need, laddie."

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

"Let’s get down to work." Sirius took off his jacket, threw it down, and then rolled up his sleeves.

"Maybe there’s something like the spells you’ve been working for the wedding?" said Peter breathlessly. "You know, concealing things and… I mean, it must be a big job to hide a whole wedding out of doors. It is going to be out of doors, right?"

Sirius ignored Peter’s prattle as he turned around with wand raised and cried, "Revelare!"

"Oh, look at that!" Peter pointed at the stone tiger, which was momentarily swathed in a blanket of orange-red light, making the tiger seem more alive than before. Peter squeaked and stumbled backward. He crashed into Remus just as the dark pool of water lit up in a rainbow of colors that flashed in a brief imitation of the famous fountain in Seven Shoe Alley.

Remus helped Peter to his feet and, unnoticed by the others while Peter pestered James with more questions, he took out his wand to investigate the spells contained in the courtyard. There was, he discovered, quite a lot of magic in the small space, a tightly woven tapestry of overlapping spells; some he recognized, some he did not. The others didn’t seem interested in another opinion, though, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

His attention wandered upward, where the high brick walls towered and allowed room for only a tiny patch of sky. Those little points of light that glimmered faintly in the darkness might have been stars; it was hard to tell. The hard angles of the encircling walls framed the piece of nighttime sky so artfully that it put him in mind of a Muggle postage stamp, one that commemorated the passage of an entire way of life: a dead poet, a royal dynasty, the Industrial Revolution. Take your pick.

Had they wandered into some magical labyrinth? The night sky, not always so friendly to him, gave proof that they hadn’t left the planet entirely to enter some netherworld cut off from sun, moon, and stars. Not yet.

He stared until his eyes watered, until he wanted to leap up and join the stars and escape the cloying perfume of the claustrophobic courtyard, not to mention his three more decidedly nervous friends. Peter squeaked when he got nervous, James and Sirius argued, and Remus… he just turned to stone.

Mr. Cool. That’s what Sirius had called him. Although he could be the most animal of the four at times, Remus was practiced at walling off his emotions. Now, standing in the dead end of an alley, part of a quartet of clueless lads looking for what was alleged to be the most exclusive brothel in wizarding London, he wondered whether he should be feeling something more. Anticipation? Fear? Curiosity? He felt relief more than anything else, relief at the opportunity to stop thinking about Dark wizards and dead unicorns.

In general, he tried not to think about the opposite sex …girls… women. What would be the point? Any witch who got to know him intimately would figure out sooner or later that he was different. Put it another way: she’d be scared shitless to be dating a werewolf. Of course, there were plenty of one-night stands out there, as Sirius ably demonstrated. "A dedicated hobbyist," Sirius’d quip with a deadpan stare as he recounted yet another one of his conquests. Were they all real? It was hard to tell.

But, what else was there for a young, single werewolf? Settle down someday and…? That was about as far away as those tiny points of light overhead.

Oh, he didn’t begrudge James his happiness, his Lily. James deserved to be happy. He seemed to have the knack for it, in a way that Remus suspected he did not. All of that was right up there with other unachievable desires like holding down a full-time job or seeing an end to Lord Voldemort’s insane oppression.

Not that he was entirely without feelings, feelings that crept up on him at odd moments: watching a couple on the Underground, heads together, arms organically entwined, or seeing a girl striding across a busy street, arms and legs exploding with energy, or even on holiday, lying on hard ground at his lonely campsite while listening to the booming sound of waves crashing on the rocky coast below.

The smell of the flowers in the courtyard was making him dizzy, or maybe it was a lingering effect of too many drinks, though it seemed ages ago that they were all sitting in the Leaky Cauldron. Was it his imagination, or did the fountain seem to be getting louder?

Part 11: Dogfight

"The spell on the tiger’s pretty elementary," James pointed to the stone beast with his wand as if he were lecturing a class, "and not all that different from the one on the gargoyle outside Dumbledore’s office."

"Well, we got it to sing Christmas carols one year," Peter said brightly.

"But we never did figure out how to get past it into Dumbledore’s office," retorted Sirius. He walked around the tiger, staring at the stone plinth upon which the enormous paws rested. "Hmmm. There could be a door underneath, I suppose. Maybe there’s a password, except then, what’s the key for? And it’s no bloody good asking you," Sirius gave Peter an offhanded shove, "because you didn’t think to ask your idiot of a brother, not that he’s smart enough to remember the odd password here and there."

"The fountain’s more interesting," said James and all three turned toward the round pool of dark water, just a meter in diameter, with the fountain bubbling quietly in the center and occasionally playing little tunes when the water splashed onto unseen chimes.

"At least it has a lot more spells on it. That’s promising," concluded Sirius. "I wonder if the water’s real. Go on, Peter, stick your hand in and tell us."

"Um, okay," stammered Peter. He was always the one who got "volunteered" for this sort of thing. It wasn’t really fair. Except that tonight he wanted to stop all the squabbling in the hopes that a calmer environment would make it easier to chat with James or Sirius about the wedding. So, he bit back his irritation and leaned over the surface of the water.

"No reflection," James murmured.

"It just means he’s a vampire," said Sirius shortly. "Get on with it,"

Peter’s fingertips vanished utterly when he slid them into the blackness. Limitless blackness. It was numbingly cold and decidedly unwet. Ceaseless night. The more he pushed, the harder it became. Things moving unseen in the dark, closer, closer. And the ice turned to fire. Hidden eyes, gaping jaws. The pain was real. He had to get out, had to--

Sirius grabbed Peter’s trembling shoulders and yanked him back from the pool. Peter was sweating heavily as he gripped his trembling wrist with the other hand.

"Wh-whatever that is, it isn’t water," Peter gulped, while trying not to hyperventilate.

"A hex? Let’s see that hand, Peter." James waved a wand over Peter’s useless hand. "Doesn’t look like Dark magic. You’d almost think there was a Transfiguration spell here, but it’s not quite right. Sirius?"

Before Sirius could answer, Remus said quietly, "The Transfiguration spell looks odd because it’s a three-way… at least. Evidently the whatever-it-is has been transfigured and can take on more than one form. And then there’s another spell overlaid on top of that, the one that got Peter."

"Oh, it’s alive," said Sirius sarcastically. "I thought you’d bloody turned to stone. You might give us a hand here."

"I didn’t think you needed any help from me." Remus shrugged.

Sirius glared at him. He didn’t understand Remus sometimes. It hadn’t been like that before, when they were all at school. Sure, they’d have fights, especially the poundings that James gave him (or he gave James), but those were easy to resolve and over things that he understood. Should they explore the Forbidden Forest or the caves on the mountain past Hogsmeade? Should they plant dungbombs outside the Slytherin common room before or after dinner?

Easy questions--and Sirius had understood where his friends stood on the answers.

Since they’d left school, James and Peter were much the same as before; jobs and life outside Hogwarts castle hadn’t changed them much. But Remus was another matter. He got harder to fathom with his long absences and his reluctance to tell Sirius where he had been and whom he had seen. Remus’s life was no bed of roses, Sirius knew that, but most of the wizarding world wasn’t in such great shape either because of the killings and the disappearances. Remus would never show it, though, not old Mr. Cool himself. On this holiday of his, for example, Sirius was certain that something had happened.

"And why are you so sure there’s no Dark Magic?" Sirius growled in response. "For all we know, we could have stumbled into the wrong entrance to Tigerseye, the one that turns clueless blokes like us into turnips."

"Oh, I forgot. You’re an expert on Dark Magic, almost an Auror, right? Or maybe it just runs in the family." Remus gave a dry cough, which almost sounded like a laugh, and carefully put his wand back into his jacket.

Sirius fumed. Remus knew better than to remind him about the Blacks. Of course, Sirius wanted to be an Auror. Remus just had to bring that up, too, couldn’t give it a rest, even tonight. He got angry all over again every time he thought about the letter, the letter that he’d twice torn up and twice magically mended. He kept it stuffed inside a book on Disfiguring Charms at his flat, but he didn’t need to see it to remember the words.

Dear Mr Black:

We regret to inform you that your application for the position of Auror, received in this office on 17 May 1978, will not be considered at this time. If we have need of someone with your talents and background in the future, we shall not hesitate to contact you. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement commends you on your public-spirited enthusiasm and support for the Ministry’s efforts to maintain law and order in our community.

Most sincerely yours,
Bartemius Crouch, Sr.
Head of Department, Magical Law Enforcement

The letter, the fucking idiotic letter from that fucking idiotic head of department, told him nothing. According to discreet inquiries that James had made at the Ministry, Sirius was thought to be a security risk and too "precipitous". Sirius almost took off James’s head when he heard this. The Ministry had heard about the incident with Snape and the Whomping Willow, of course, and there was the matter of the Death Eater with whom Sirius had had a brief and nearly fatal affair. Perhaps he should have suspected from the outset that someone who looked that good in black leather had to be a Death Eater. Anyone could make that sort of mistake.

A word from Alastor Moody might open doors at the Ministry, though. The old Auror seemed to think that Sirius was all right, after their first meeting, at least. Not that working closely with Moody was any picnic, but they had come to an understanding of sorts, especially after the adventure of the paperwork. Who’d have thought that paperwork could be so perilous?

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

Midnight: a time when all decent folk were in bed.

If decent folk are all in bed, what does that make us? Sirius thought darkly as they turned off the thinly populated street and into a dark side alley.

The local pubs were still full, spilling light and noise out into the night, but the shops in the threadbare commercial district were closed and shuttered. Street lamps threw pools of buttery yellow onto the cobblestones and the shadows of fluttering moths winked on and off like raindrops on hot pavement. Outside the light was a land of silence and shadows.

"Oh, I really don’t think this is necessary," Perkins said for about the tenth time. "I’ll finish the paperwork in the morning, really, and you’ll have it first thing. It’s just so late and…"

"Tonight," Moody said curtly.

Sirius stifled a yawn. He tended to agree with Perkins, since he had to show up for work in a few hours. Moody was not to be budged on this point, however.

The Auror had managed somehow to get the approval for the charms and wards they’d use for the wedding from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement without the normal paperwork, which would be "like giving the rats the keys to the cheese cupboard," Moody had said. Sirius didn’t know all the strings that had been pulled, but the head of department, Crouch, had finally been convinced. Dumbledore had had a hand in it, according to James, who’d sat in on a few meetings. In the end, Dumbledore and Moody together had vouched for the safety of the wedding guests and Crouch had been willing to accept their word.

The Department of Magical Transportation was another matter. Creating a Portkey hub required first filing a Portkey Terminus Request form, and then having the specific location inspected. Without final approval, the wedding invitations would still work, but the Ministry would levy a stiff fine or maybe even shut down the ceremony. They’d been cracking down on unauthorized Portkeys lately because of several well-publicized kidnapping cases.

Moody didn’t trust Ebenezer Nott, head of Magical Transportation, so he had waited to file the paperwork until three days before the wedding, after Nott had left for a fortnight’s holiday. James, meanwhile, had grown angrier with each passing day, worried that the lack of that final approval would ruin things. And even once they did get approval, distributing all the Portkeys to the guests at the last minute would be difficult. Sirius wondered whether the Auror’s paranoia had been justified. Of course, paranoia was to be expected when dealing with Alastor Moody, but had it really been necessary?

Thus Perkins, the head of the Portkey Office in the Department of Magical Transportation hadn’t been happy when Moody and Sirius had appeared in his office at twelve minutes to five asking him to process the Portkey form. He hadn’t been happy about the "quick trip" to visit the wedding site, which involved Apparating to several pubs in succession (to be fair, there was a bite to eat and a pint thrown in along the way) followed by a ride on a Sirius’s motorbike down many miles of narrow country roads followed by an hour’s walk through fields, ditches and brambles.

"Achoo!"

Perkins got out a handkerchief and loudly blew his raw, red nose. Although it was June, he wore a bright blue woolen scarf wrapped around his neck. He was a middle-aged wizard, already slightly hunched in the shoulders with thinning brown hair combed over a bald spot on the top of his head. He had probably looked middle-aged from about twenty onward and was rapidly moving toward looking positively ancient.

"Tramping about fields in the night," said Perkins with a shiver. "This will bode ill for my rheumatism. Nothing good is going to come of this, mark my words."

"’Twill do you good to get out of the office now and then for a bit of fresh air," Moody said with an off-handed and manic cheerfulness.

"Humph." Perkins loudly blew his nose again. "I’m allergic to hay. Did I mention that? And all the sheep dung, not to mention to mention those inconveniently placed standing st--"

"Hush!" Moody said sharply. "The less you say about tonight’s little excursion, the healthier it’ll be for you. Ah, here we are."

"Here" was apparently supposed to be Chow Lee’s Laundry, from the fading sign in both English and Chinese that hung above the door. From the outside, the shop looked closed, but when Moody opened the door, light flooded the street and a wave of steamy air and noise hit them. Stepping into the shop, they saw people laboring at inscrutable machines that groaned and hissed and gave off clouds of steam. Above this din, voices carried on conversations in Chinese. Perkins halted just inside the door, eyes wide and nose wrinkled in distaste, and began to sneeze violently.

"Come on, then," Moody yelled and grabbed the man roughly by the front of his cloak. No one in the close room paid them any attention as Moody led the way through a battered swinging door, into a room filled with pale lumpy shapes, bags of laundry stacked from the dingy floor up to the low ceiling. The door swung shut behind them and the relative coolness and silence was a welcome relief. Moody stumped across the room to a battered metal door that was about shoulder-high and tapped it with his wand.

"In you go," he said with gruff cheer. He pulled Perkins toward the door with one hand and then pushed him in from behind with the other.

"Wait! You can’t do this! Where are--" Perkins wailed as Moody shoved him through the metal door and into the darkness beyond.

"We’re going into the Ministry by way of one of the maintenance entrances," Moody said to Sirius. "You next, lad."

Sirius scrambled through the door before he too got a shove from behind. It was completely dark and he found himself closed in by walls on a sloping metal surface, a chute of some kind. Ahead in the darkness he thought he heard a crash and a cry from Perkins. Marveling at the paranoia of the Auror, he propelled himself forward, down and into darkness. Moody was right behind him and Sirius scrambled to get out of the way at the bottom of the chute, once he felt the floor disappear. He landed on his feet, still in darkness, and pulled out his wand.

"Lumos!" cried Sirius and Moody almost simultaneously.

The light from their wands revealed that Perkins had run afoul of a mop and bucket and was sprawled on the floor, struggling ineffectually to untangle himself. Sirius cleared away the evil mop and helped Perkins to his feet. They appeared to be in a small storeroom for cleaning supplies.

"There are other entrances to the Ministry," Perkins sniffed as he brushed dust from his robes. This brought on a fit of sneezing.

"Let’s get a move on," Moody growled at Perkins, who was taking his time dabbing his nose with the handkerchief. "No one wants to finish up with this more than me."

"Oh, all right!" snapped the bureaucrat. "Do you mind telling me where we are?"

Moody didn’t answer. Instead he opened the only other door and cautiously peered outside. He was a few minutes at it; he’d taken out that mysterious magical eye that he kept close to him at all times and consulted it. Sirius was still trying to understand how the thing worked and where Moody’d gotten it.

"It’s clear here," Moody concluded and motioned for the other two to exit, "but let’s be quiet about getting downstairs."

"It was so much better when they let us Apparate inside the building," Perkins sniffed as he stood looking around the corridor. "But with all the troubles, I suppose we can’t allow that any more. Still, one does get lost so frequently…."

"We’re on the second floor now and, yes, I know where your bleeding office is," Moody grunted and gave the man a gentle poke with his wand.

Perkins gave a long-suffering sigh and followed Moody down the corridor. Sirius brought up the rear with his wand out, staring into shadowy corners and through the windows of darkened offices. As they walked along the corridor, the candles set in wall sconces burst into flame, only to extinguish themselves once the men passed by. The effect was that of darkness constantly nipping at their heels as the candles behind them winked out. They went down a flight of stairs, along a corridor with four or five jogs that confused Sirius’s sense of direction, then went down three more flights of stairs, and then took several more turns along a corridor on the sixth floor.

"Aha! Here we are," said Perkins triumphantly, as if Moody had been leading them astray up until this point.

"Shhhh."

Moody stopped and motioned for the others to halt as well. After a long pause, which he slowly turned around, looking and listening intently, he said, "Something doesn’t feel right."

"Nonsense," said Perkins loudly and he marched to a door at the end of the corridor. Lights flared on the walls around him as he unlocked the office door.

Sirius barely had time to read Portkey Office in gold letters on the door’s opaque window before something came at them fast, two dark streaks that shot out of a side passageway like Dobermans chasing their prey.

And Perkins was the prey.

Sirius dived toward Perkins just as a curse hit him, causing the man to crumple next to the door. Sirius dragged him into the office and kicked the door shut. Behind him, he heard the crackling of more curses in the air.

"Oooooooh. My legs! I can’t f--Oh, somebody do something!" Perkins moaned.

The candles in the office lit themselves, showing the bureaucrat sitting in a heap on the floor, whimpering and clutching his legs.

"Stay here," Sirius growled as he scrambled to his feet. "Hide under a desk or something."

"But my legs!" Perkins wailed

"Jellylegs Jinx. Get out of sight or you’ll be in for worse."

Perkins gave Sirius a single terrified glance before dragging himself under a nearby desk. Once he was satisfied that the frightened man would be out of the line of fire, Sirius opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. He used a quick locking spell, hoping it would hold up the fight didn’t go well.

The air crackled with hellish intensity and smoke filled the corridor as curses flew back and forth. The walls were scorched with hex-marks. Through the murk, Sirius made out the Auror’s dragonhide boots. With that point of reference, he figured out where Moody was sending his curses and launched one of his own in the direction of their attackers. A strangled cry of pain told him that he hadn’t missed.

"Two of them!" Sirius heard an unfamiliar voice yell. He ran through a cloud of acrid smoke and nearly collided with Moody who was breathing heavily, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

"Took your bleeding time, boy. I’m knee-deep in shite here and--"

Black cloaks billowed as two forms burst out of the haze and raced away from them, the candles on the walls coming to life in their wake. Sirius and Moody gave chase. They slowed down only when the corridor turned to the right. One of their attackers -- they could hear his labored breathing as they approached -- flung open a stairwell door to the left and disappeared, leaving a bloody streak behind.

"Go! Take that one!" Moody didn't wait for answer. Instead he hurled a hex at the other black figure pelting down the corridor and gave chase.

The stairwell was pitch black after the door to the corridor closed with a loud bang. Either there were no magical candles or the man had disabled them. Sirius hesitated for a moment, itching to transform. Padfoot was much better suited to hunting in the dark, but he dared not let Moody, or anyone else, see a large black dog running through the corridors of the Ministry. So, he listened with his imperfect human ears.

There. Below. A snatch of hoarse breathing. Then silence.

They seemed to be playing a game of cat-and-mouse, but Sirius couldn’t allow his prey to use the stairwell to enter one of the other floors. Finding him would be nearly impossible, once he got back into the labyrinthine corridors. Sirius shifted the wand to his left hand and felt for the railing with his right. He recalled from the trip down to the sixth floor that the stairs spiraled and had broad marble handrails. The mouse had to be caught soon, but Sirius was no cat. There’d be no silent stalking of the prey for this dog.

With a violent cry that echoed above and below, Sirius swung onto the top of the rail and launched himself downward, feet first. Light flared from the landing below as the door opened and the black-cloaked figure staggered into the corridor. The landing was fast approaching. Sirius leapt from the railing, not thinking about how he was going to land. His concern was the door that was closing and the man on the other side of it.

"Stupefy!" he cried and let loose a stunning spell through the partly open door.

His boots skidded when they hit the polished marble of the landing. He pulled in his legs and rolled, pushing the door open with his shoulder. He tumbled onto the floor of the corridor and on top of the figure in black, who lay sprawled on the floor face-down and struggled weakly beneath him. The stunning spell had not been completely effective, but enough so that the other wizard didn’t get up immediately when Sirius stood, wand pointed down at him.

"Expelliarmus!" Sirius panted. He’d had lots of practice with this particular spell and had learned to make it work no matter how tired or injured he might be. The other wand flew up and Sirius caught it.

The Dark wizard was slow to get up. By this time, Sirius knew in his gut that Moody was not being overly paranoid and that the two attackers were servants of Lord Voldemort. The fallen man turned over and shakily got to his feet, swaying drunkenly. There was a small gash on his cheek and a larger wound on one of his shoulders. Underneath his cloak, the black robes were torn at the shoulder; blood seeped into the fabric, making a wet circle around the wound. Beneath a layer of soot mixed with blood, the face was young and fair, framed by a head of blond curls.

He can’t be much older than I am, Sirius thought. Somehow it would have been better to stand before a veteran opponent, one who had chosen Darkness long ago, who had hardened himself to murder and torture over many years.

"Can you walk?"

"I’m not walking for you, fooker," came the reply in a guttural Irish accent. Hard blue eyes -- old eyes full of hate -- stared back at him.

"If that’s the way you want it," Sirius shrugged, then added, "fucker."

Thin cords shot out from the end of Sirius’s wand and wrapped themselves around the man’s ankles. The prisoner winced in pain as more cords bound his arms tightly against his chest, but he didn’t speak. He continued to glare silently as Sirius levitated him into the stairwell and up one flight of stairs.

At the door to the fourth floor, Sirius hesitated. He ended the levitation spell. The other wizard dropped to the landing with a heavy thud and groaned softly. Ignoring him, Sirius cracked open the door but heard no sounds and saw no hints of magical energy being released. Whether those were good signs, he knew not.

"Declan, get him!" shouted the bound man suddenly as Sirius opened the door further.

Sirius had time for the briefest of glances down the corridor before he pulled the door closed. In that time, he’d seen two figures about ten meters from the stairs, one lying on the floor and the other standing. Which was which?

"You want to get out there with your mate? Suits me fine." He levitated the man once again and pushed him toward the door. This time the other man wasn’t going to go quietly. He squirmed against his bonds and began shouting hoarsely as the door swung open.

"Well, well. We really want to get out, don’t we?" Alastor Moody stood grinning like a triumphant Kneazle that had just caught a tasty morsel. Sirius let out a long breath of gratitude. Moody gave a perfunctory nod and turned around.

"I don’t think you’ll be so joyful when you see the state your mate’s in," he called over his shoulder as he limped slowly down the corridor toward the motionless body that lay on the floor.

"You made quick work of it, lad," Moody said thickly as Sirius approached with his floating prisoner. He clapped Sirius on the shoulder, but didn’t let go.

"Are you all right?" Sirius said. Moody was leaning heavily on him. Sirius noticed then that the Auror’s robes were tattered from the knees on down and that one of his boots was ripped to shreds. Blood oozed out from between the slashed leather.

Moody ignored the question, pointing to the bound wizard. "And who might you be, boyo?"

The young man didn’t answer. He still floated upright because of the levitation spell. His eyes darted from Moody to the motionless man lying on the floor. Stunned? Dead? Sirius couldn’t tell.

"There’s no hope for your friend, but--"

"Go ahead and kill me too, you bastard! You can kill a hundred of us, a thousand of us, and it won’t make any difference. It won’t stop the Dark Lord from taking you all!" The man’s face contorted and he spat, hitting Moody on the shoulder.

"Stun him," Moody said as he wiped the spit from his robes.

Sirius let the man drop to the floor and then called out, "Stupefy." His hand shook as he carried out the Auror’s instructions.

"Death Eaters, both of them," Moody said, still leaning on Sirius. "Not local boys, though. I reckon they were brought over because they’re not known in these parts. Someone figured it’d be easier to get them into the Ministry that way. And they were obviously watching Magical Transportation, waiting for us. An inside job, I’d say. Ah, here comes the cavalry."

Three cloaked wizards had burst from the stairwell, each yelling out something different. In the momentary confusion, Sirius asked, "You didn’t--Is he--Is that one… dead?"

"What?" Moody chortled, although the laughter seemed to cost him something. He grimaced and put more of his weight on Sirius. "No, just a Deep Sleep spell. Now, me, I don’t think we ought to sink to their level, though my fellow Aurors," he gave a slight nod toward the three newcomers who now clustered around them, "don’t always agree. The boyo didn’t have to know that, though, did he?"

They found Perkins hiding under the desk as he’d been ordered. After helping him into a chair and reversing the jinx that had turned his legs to gelatin, Moody insisted that he complete the Portkey form. The Auror’s face was drained of its normal color and he had to prop himself up on the desk for support. Sirius wondered how long the man could go on without passing out, but Moody seemed to have a single-minded determination to finish with Perkins.

"There. Done. Three copies signed." Perkins’s shaking hand laid down the quill. He took one copy of the form and put it into a drawer, snapping the drawer shut with a show of irritation. "I have had quite enough for one evening, thank you very much, and I should like to go home now."

"Think that’s wise, do you?" Moody said as he pocketed the other two copies of the precious form. "You might consider a little holiday… like your boss."

"What do you mean?" Perkins said suspiciously as he stood, eyeing the door.

"Well, someplace warm and dry might be… better for your health, at least until this wedding’s over. I wouldn’t want to see a repeat of tonight’s events, would you?"

Perkins squeaked in terror and sat down again. Meanwhile Moody was rummaging through the pockets of his robe.

"Spain," he said, taking out a clinking leather sack and shoving it toward Perkins. "North Africa, even. Yes… ever been to Morocco?"

"All secure, Alastor." Frank Longbottom entered. He was one of the three Aurors that had belatedly responded to the alarms set off by the magical dueling in the corridors.

"Mr. Perkins needs an escort home, Frank. Help him pack for his holiday and see that he gets off safely." Moody sighed and motioned Sirius to his side. "Ah, there’s a good lad. I’ll need some help getting to St. Mungo’s."

"About bloody time," Sirius muttered as he threw an arm around Moody’s waist and helped him out the door. The Auror could barely stand up by himself.

"All in a night’s work," grunted Moody.

They didn’t speak again until they had made it into the lift; Moody did not insist on taking the stairs this time. "You still think you want to be an Auror, son?" he said, fighting to catch his breath. A sheen of sweat coated his face, which was deathly white.

Sirius thought about the blond Irishman, about the dead eyes, about the face full of hatred. "More than anything," he said softly.

"Well, I haven’t cashed in all my chips yet. People still owe me a few favors hereabouts. Perhaps there’s something that can be done about it." The old Auror paused, and Sirius himself felt the spasm of pain pass through him. "Now get me to hospital before I bleed to death."

Part 12: Refuge

`

"Oh, I forgot. You’re an expert on Dark Magic, almost an Auror, right? Or maybe it just runs in the family." Remus choked on the bitter words as he fumbled with his jacket, trying to put his wand away. Why wouldn’t Sirius just give it a rest? And where did he get off being so self-righteous?

"I’m no fucking expert on Dark-fucking-Magic," Sirius said sharply to Remus, "but I’m beginning to wonder about you, about why you’re so sure you’re right."

Remus turned away from him and toward the wall, rubbing his temple, trying to make his head stop pounding. Perhaps Voldemort had been right: perhaps the Dark was the only refuge for a werewolf. Lord Voldemort’s words from the night before echoed in his head:

"Your family and your friends will eventually give you up for lost... There is no refuge, no place to go in the wizarding world… They will turn on you sooner or later and you will die like a cornered animal."

"Oy! I’m asking you a question!" Sirius gave Remus a shove from behind. "Why don’t you let us in on your secret?"

"What do you mean?" Remus said in a low voice as he whirled around, coming face to face with Sirius. His jaw twitched and his eyes, pupils engorged, narrowed dangerously.

"What he means is--" James began, but Remus cut him off.

"No, James," Remus said slowly without taking his eyes away from Sirius, "I want to hear what Sirius has to say. I want to hear him tell me what he’s been telling all of you. Face to face. Like a man."

Sirius threw down his wand and drew even closer to Remus, mouth open, unable to speak. He held his hands stiffly at his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists. "You watch what you’re saying, Moony," he hissed.

Remus, pushed to the breaking point by a pounding head full of confusion, snarled and launched himself at Sirius, knocking him to the ground. James and Peter waded in, trying to pull them apart. James had the harder job as he tried to hook Remus’s arms and drag him off Sirius. Peter flailed ineffectually and merely succeeded in tangling his arms with the others’, making it hard to get anything sorted out.

"Ow! He bit me! Remus bit me!" Peter cried. He scrambled to his feet, nursing his hand. "What do I do?"

Remus stopped struggling and looked up, blinking as if coming awake after a particularly vivid dream. James, who had been tugging at Remus, overbalanced and fell backwards. Sirius pushed Remus away and laughed. Once again, his laughter seemed to break the spell that had robbed them, all four of them, of their good sense.

"For Merlin’s sake, Peter, I bit you," Sirius said, getting to his feet. "And for the zillionth time, have you forgotten that getting bit by a werewolf when it’s not the full moon doesn’t do a goddamned thing?"

"If you were bitten by Padfoot, you might need a rabies shot," Remus said as he slowly got to his feet. "Er, that’s a Muggle thing. Anyways, let’s see the teeth marks. Nope. That was definitely me."

"You want to argue about that?" Sirius said lightly, but there was an edge to his voice that hinted of worry beneath the surface.

"No." Remus shook his head. "And I’m sorry, Sirius, sorry for jumping to conclusions. It’s been a long day, a long night, and I… "

"You think you’ve had it bad?" Sirius punched Remus lightly in the arm. "I’m the one that needs to apologize. The combination of James Potter and Alastor Moody has obviously driven me stark raving mad. I haven’t been in my right mind for days, weeks maybe."

"Alright, alright. Blame it all on James. Sure, why not?" James groaned loudly as Peter helped him to his feet.

Maybe we won’t find a way in and we can all go home, James thought. He liked the idea of this "last night of freedom" his friends had arranged, but… he did and he didn’t. Very soon Lily and he would be joined. "Join"--there was nothing wrong with him; he was a normal bloke--but with Lily. Would she think this evening’s expected climax--he winced inwardly at his poor choice of word--disloyal, an infidelity? She knew that he’d had a certain amount of experience before they had begun dating, but since then he had been faithful to her--not that he hadn’t been tempted, but there was something about Lily that had stopped him.

Lily was different from the other girls he’d dated, though he didn’t understand this at the beginning. In fact, he’d started first term of seventh year with no thought of dating anyone; Head Boy and Quidditch Captain were enough of a challenge for his last year at Hogwarts, he reckoned. But the Head Boy had to spend a lot of time with the Head Girl, of necessity, and something had happened, unplanned and unforeseen by James Potter.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

"The meeting’s over, in case you hadn’t noticed." James appraised the tiny prefects’ office, now empty save for Evans and himself.

"I guess we should head back to Gryffindor," she said. She rose from her seat but didn’t seem ready to leave. Instead, she stood behind the "desk", a battered oak table that had served generations of Head Girls and Head Boys, and fiddled with a half-dozen quills, rearranging them several different ways, none of which seemed to suit her.

He smiled at her quizzically, and then sat down on the old sofa that stretched along one wall like a dead dragon. No one knew for sure whether the green velvet monstrosity, with its dark lumpy upholstery and wooden claws for feet, was a cast-off from the staff room or a charitable contribution from someone’s parents, but legend had it that the sofa had been there at least since the turn of the century. The prefects’ office was a hodgepodge of old furniture and, since it functioned as a Lost Articles office, books, clothing, broomsticks and assorted miscellany as well. It was barely large enough to hold the entire group of prefects for the weekly meetings; most of the time it served as a place for the Head Boy and Head Girl to write out notices, meet with individual prefects or give warnings to students in danger of running afoul of the teachers or of the much-feared Hogwarts caretaker, Apollyon Pringle.

"What’s up?" he said casually. His arms were sprawled across the back of the sofa and he looked at her with mild interest.

"I don’t know what you mean," she said peevishly. She finally finished with the quills and began straightening the neat stacks of parchment on the desk.

"Something …or someone is bothering you. A certain Slytherin prefect?"

With a curse softly muttered under her breath, she stepped around the table to face James, hands on her hips. In the light of the candles that illuminated the room, her red hair might have been a crown of flames. When she spoke, her words were fiery.

"Snape was at his nastiest tonight, wasn’t he? Honestly, I can’t figure out why they made him a prefect. Why does he bother, when all he can do is complain that most of the students are beneath his concern? It’s barely October and I’m sure I’m going to kill him before school’s out. He’s such a bastard sometimes."

"Watch the language, Evans." James looked up at her and chuckled softly. "I tend to agree with you, though. He had no right to say what he did to you. Shall I have a word with him?"

"I should fight my own battles, don’t you think?" She sighed and sat next to him on the sofa, the springs creaking softly. The fire that burned in her previous words had gone out, or maybe it smoldered beneath the puzzled look on her face, as she went on, "I just didn’t think it would be this hard, that I’d have to prove myself over and over--even to the prefects."

"But you have proved yourself, you know, with the exception of our dear friend Severus. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but some of the other prefects did have some, er, reservations at the beginning of term."

"Oh?’

"But not any longer," said James quickly, trying to erase the pain in her eyes. "Yesterday, for example, I overhead Simmons taking points from a sixth year Ravenclaw in the library when he made a rather rude remark about you. And you know how much Simmons wants Ravenclaw to win the Cup; she’s not going to take points away from her own house lightly."

"Did she? Well, I suppose that’s something." She sighed and stared at her lap. When she looked up at him a few moments later, she’d adopted a lighter tone. "Perhaps I’ll do all right even without your correspondence course."

"My what? Oh, striking fear in the hearts of…" said James with a laugh. "Right. I’d forgotten about that one."

"So how do you keep yourself from killing Snape? You two haven’t been at each other’s throats yet this term--not a single hex that I’ve seen anyway--and people are starting to talk." A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

"People have noticed? What do you mean by that?" James sat up stiffly. The sofa rasped like a rusty door hinge as he shifted his weight.

"Er, nothing," she answered, frowning in confusion. "That is, it was just a joke because you two always used to…you know."

"So you haven’t heard anything about…" James ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. "You might hear something from someone else. If you do, I wouldn’t want you to…"

She stared at him, mouth slightly open, as he paused, struggling to find the right words. The thought of her hearing rumors of what happened at the Whomping Willow or, worse, Snape’s version, made him uncomfortable. He realized that it mattered to him a great deal that Lily know the truth--as much of it as he could tell her.

"At the end of last year there was--and this is not to be spread around, all right? But as Head Girl, you should know." But that was a lie. All that mattered to him was that Lily Evans--not the Head Girl--know. He took a deep breath and scanned her puzzled face, looking for something, though he hadn’t a clue what. "We dueled, Snape and I, though I can’t remember who started it. I don’t suppose that matters." He gave a bitter laugh. "It was outside the castle at night, just my friends there, so no one else saw what happened. It’s a bit hazy, but one of us did something that would have been--that could have… It wasn’t exactly an accident, more like the heat of the moment and…"

James sighed and buried his head in his hands, elbows digging into his knees; his head felt very heavy. This is useless, he thought. I shouldn’t try to tell her. She laid a hand on his shoulder and he sat up, eyes open, but couldn’t face her, so he stared at one of the flickering candles on the wall.

"We…did something that--that could have gotten Snape killed, something stupid--we should have had better sense, but…." He turned and scanned her face, still looking for that elusive something in her eyes or the set of her mouth.

"Well, Snape is obviously much alive, so…" she said, puzzled and concerned at the same time.

"And he hates me for it," James said, thinking of the anger that had burned in Snape’s eyes every time they passed in the corridors, "because I pulled him out of--can’t say what because it involves someone else who…that is, it’s not my secret to tell. It’s one thing to throw hexes and jinxes, knowing that they can be reversed with the right potion or countercurse, but quite another to… Well, I couldn’t let him be snuffed because of…us. And he would have been, no question about it." James paused. Lily took her hand from his shoulder, but continued to stare at him.

"I’ve noticed that you and he have both been acting a bit odd this term, and Sirius, too." She gave James a shrewd glance. "It’s almost as if he--Snape, I mean--can’t touch you because he owes you too much. Oh, that must be hard--on both of you.."

James let out a long breath. She shifted slightly and the creaking of the sofa reminded him of how close they were sitting to one another. Her presence clamored for his attention, like a jigsaw puzzle in which there are finally enough pieces to see the beginnings of a pattern, but not enough to make out the final design.

"Er, well, I just thought you should know, in case you heard something…" James muttered, aware that he was repeating himself. He needed time to sort things out, to put all the pieces of the puzzle together, but she was so close--too close all of a sudden--that he couldn’t begin to put into words what he wanted to say. He’d sat next to her plenty of times since the start of term, often on this very sofa, but something had changed. He smiled tightly and said, "Yeah, thanks for listening. You know, you’ve really put up with a lot since term started, been great working with you and--"

He felt her move away from him slightly and sit up, back straight and arms stiff at her sides.

"--that is, don’t misunderstand me, I mean that--" he said quickly, not really understanding what he did mean to say, but knowing that it was very important to say it nonetheless.

Her face, in profile, had become impassive and unreadable. She stood up, leaving a huge divot in the green velvet sofa, which had decades ago lost whatever springiness it had originally possessed.

"Wait! You didn’t let me finish!" James scrambled to his feet, confused as to why she was walking away from him, why she seemed suddenly closed and distant.

She stopped and regarded him with a hard set to her face: jaw tense and eyes narrowed. James had seen that look before when she dealt with name-calling Slytherins and habitual liars.

"You say, ’It’s been great working with you…’ and then there’ll be a ‘but’: ‘but we’ve been spending a little too much time together;’ ‘but you don’t fit in with my friends;’ ‘but you have to understand that my family won’t be pleased.’ Which is it going to be? I’ve heard this all before and you’ll forgive me if I don’t want to hear it again," she said and turned for the door.

"No!" said James rather more forcefully than he intended. He caught up with her and managed to wedge himself between her and the door. "That wasn’t what I was going to say at all."

She crossed her arms and nodded for him to continue, although she seemed ready to disbelieve anything he said.

"How this, then?" said James. He exhaled slowly and then took a deep breath before continuing. "It’s been great working with you and…"

What did he want to say? His mind was filled with possibilities, more pieces of the heretofore-unrecognized jigsaw puzzle.

…and I think about you--too much: how you look at me when you think I’m not watching, the way you smell, how your face melts into shadow by firelight, the curve of your neck, the hollow beneath your ear…and how it might taste.

Words fled and he gave up trying. He leaned over quickly and kissed her--on the cheek, fearing that this might be his only chance--and it was probably the most chaste kiss that a girl ever got from James Potter. He could charm any girl once he made up his mind, there was no question about it, but now he felt uncharacteristically afraid. He touched her cheek, hoping to make her stay, not knowing how to do it exactly, and whispered, "Yes, I did want to tell you something. I think that was it."

She looked at him severely--it seemed to take hours for those green eyes to bore into him, laying bare secret places that he didn’t know he had--but answered in the space of a heartbeat.

"Tell me again," she whispered back.

So he obliged her with another kiss that was far less chaste. She didn’t seem to mind.

After that evening, if the Head Boy and Head Girl spent more time together, most students didn’t notice at first. Of course, there was no hiding anything from Sirius, Remus and Peter. Even though Peter was sworn to secrecy on pain of many horrible hexes, word got out somehow that Potter and Evans were an item. As a result, there were more nasty owls, more impromptu duels, more snide comments in the corridors, and by the end of Christmas term, more points had been taken away from Slytherin house than in any year in memory. But the Head Boy and Head Girl were up to the task.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Five long strides, that’s how far it was from one end of the prefects’ office to the other, from the wall with the scarred wardrobe, containing a whole term’s worth of lost robes and confiscated toys, to the tiny window on the opposite wall. James fiddled with the little box in his pocket as he paced, looping his fingers through the bow and tugging at the ribbon.

"Sorry, sorry! I hope I’m not too late!"

She burst in, calling out to him breathlessly, her cheeks flushed, her unbound hair disheveled in chaotic red streamers. Lily could light up a room for him, often dazzling him like a spring day when the sun arrives after what seems like years of feeble winter light. This, as with so many other things about Lily, astonished James. His previous girlfriends had played more games with him, keeping him waiting just for the fun of it, for example, or, alternately, hounding him about why he couldn’t be on time. But Lily didn’t make a big deal out of such things, one way or the other, just like she didn’t fawn all over him when Gryffindor won a Quidditch game or didn’t give him any quarter when they argued, which happened.

She held something large and shiny behind her back and she struggled to keep it out of his sight as she closed the door with one foot. She had a sort of artless grace and James couldn’t help but be affected. He laughed and lunged for her.

"Oh, no, you don’t!" She chuckled and danced away, holding the gold package up over her head.

"Haven’t I been good?" said James as he chased her around the desk. "Good enough for a Christmas present?"

"You are very good." She stepped in front of him and gave him a push so that he landed on the sofa. Still chuckling, she sat down beside him. "As to whether you’ve been good enough to deserve this, only time will tell. Here, then."

James took the shiny gold package with the scarlet ribbon that she offered to him. Although bulky, it was light. He made a big show of shaking it before pulling off the ribbon and tearing through the paper. Gold Gryffindor lions on a scarlet background spilled out of the paper and onto his lap.

"This is great, just brilliant," said James as he held out a knit wool scarf. And it was. The lions seemed regal and proud, no less so than the ones on the house banner in the Great Hall; the scarf felt soft and inviting beneath his fingers.

"I knit it myself--well, I used a knitting spell, you know, to speed things up--and the thing’s been enchanted to repel water because I just hate it when my scarf gets wet," Lily said, her eyes shining and fixed on James.

"I shan’t take it off," he replied as he wound the scarf around his neck once, letting one end trail down his chest. "Not for the entire holiday."

She smiled and looked a little confused, as if she wasn’t sure whether or not he was making fun of her gift. James let her know how he felt in the best way he could: he pulled her close and kissed her. It was some time before either of them spoke.

"I’ve got a little something…" James murmured, his head happily buried in a cascade of red hair. He gave her a kiss on the neck and then sat back, enough so that he could find the little box in his pocket and pull it out.

"Here. This is just a little something--been in the family for ages and I thought it might--thought that you…" He found himself tripping over the words as he thrust the box into her hands. "Not much really..."

She bent her head over the box as she tugged at the ribbon, while James cursed himself for tying such a complicated knot. Finally she opened it and gasped as she pulled the gold chain from the box and held it up, letting the pendant dangle in the space between them. The emeralds in the pendant, small but perfectly matched in size and color, were set in a circle. It had been his grandmother’s and he’d arranged to have it sent from the family vault.

"Oh, James, it’s…" She looked up at him, frowning even as she tried to smile. "Do you really mean for me to have this? It’s lovely, I mean, but, well, if it’s your family’s..."

"No, no, it’s mine to give," he answered impatiently. Then he checked himself. After taking a deep breath, he smiled and took the chain from her fingers. He undid the clasp and fastened the chain around her neck. She smiled back hesitantly and fingered the emerald circle.

"And I want you to have it. The stones are the same color as your eyes, you know, that’s what made me think of you and… You like it, don’t you?" He waited, feeling nervous.

She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. When she finally did look at him again, she said quietly, "It is beautiful, James. Thank you."

"I’m going to miss you," he whispered. There was a rough edge to his voice, a hoarseness that gave away more of his desire than he’d intended.

She didn’t reply. Instead she kissed him lightly on the cheek, and then stood. "It’s getting late. Don’t you think we should…?"

They didn’t speak on the way back to Gryffindor tower and the few students they encountered, didn’t acknowledge them either, but scurried off to their common rooms, as if they could remain invisible to the school if only they didn’t speak to the Head Boy and Head Girl.

James went through the portrait hole into the common room first, turned and gave Lily his hand. She hesitated, and then took it. He didn’t let go as they walked across the dimly lit common room toward the entrance to the girls’ dormitory. At this hour the candles had been extinguished and only the fire cast light across the deserted landscape of tables and chairs.

She halted in front of the arch that led to the stairs and she looked down at her hand, the one James was holding, biting her lip. With her other hand she fingered the circle of emeralds hanging from the chain around her neck.

James searched her face, trying to decipher the hieroglyphics written into her frown. With his other hand he pushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, his fingers hovering indecisively near her cheek for a moment.

"Thanks again…it’s..." She shook off his hand, sighed and then undid the necklace's clasp. After she’d taken off the necklace, she held it in her cupped palm, switching her gaze between James and the pendant. With a shake of her head she dropped her hand, but then seemed uncertain as to what to do with it.

"It matches your eyes. Yeah, that’s the least original line on the planet, but in this case it’s true. It’s been in the family for ages, you know, just gathering dust, and I thought you’d like it, and it’s Christmas and all that," said James as he tried to read her face. He gave a tug to the hand-knit wool scarf around his neck, a red and gold parade of Gryffindor lions. "…and the scarf is great. I’ll need it when I go home. It gets cold there, so, yeah, thanks and Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas," she echoed softly. She glanced away for a moment, as if she was about to say more. When she looked up at him again, whatever riddle had been written on her face was gone, withdrawn to the shadows to wait for another time and place. She put the necklace in a pocket and said brusquely, "Speaking of Christmas, we’ve got to see everyone onto the train in the morning, so I’d better be heading off to… sleep." Lip-gnawing was back. "Good night."

"See you…in the morning," James said softly to her departing back. He stood for a moment watching the light of the fire glint on her red hair as she ran up the stairs. Then she was gone.

With a sigh, he turned toward the great fireplace, its mantle decorated with garlands of holly, and ambled toward one of the high-backed chairs near the hearth. He was so mesmerized by the fire as he sat that he failed to notice that the chair next to his was occupied.

"You don’t look like a happy man, Prongs. Here I thought you were in love."

"What? Oh, ‘lo, Sirius." James got over his initial surprise at seeing his best friend and went back to staring into the fire. The light flickered on his glasses, multiplying the fire kaleidoscopically.

"Women," Sirius snorted with a scowl in James’s direction. He held a pinecone in his hands, restlessly turning it over and over between his fingers. It glinted in the firelight and James recognized it as one of the batch that some of the girls had decorated with fake snow. When the girls weren’t around, the boys would levitate them, turning the common room into a battlefield of flying pinecone missiles.

James looked at his friend’s profile. Outlined in the firelight, Sirius’s face was all hard angles and planes of dark and light.

"Let me guess: you had another fight with Maggie."

"Not a fight exactly. You can’t really fight when--" Sirius lobbed the pinecone into the fire and gave a satisfied grunt when it exploded. He grabbed another pinecone from a basket on the floor. "That girl is either on or off, hot or cold, and tonight was bloody arctic."

"Freeze your balls off, did she?"

"Fuck," was Sirius’s terse reply as he hurled the pinecone into the fire; sparks flew when it collided with the logs.

"Apparently not," said James with considerable amusement. He took a pinecone from the basket. This one had pink snow as decoration and squeaked "Merry Christmas!" when he picked it up. Definitely a candidate for fiery death.

"I don’t expect you have to worry about such things," Sirius drawled. He scooped up another pinecone--this one squeaked "Greetings of the season!"--and tossed it back and forth from one hand to the other. "Not with the amount of time you’ve been spending with Evans since the start of term."

"Yeah, I suppose," said James vaguely, tossing the pink pinecone into the fire. It managed to emit "Mer--" before popping and crackling in the flames.

"What? Oh, don’t tell me that she won’t--Oh, this is too much," Sirius chortled, seeing James’s obvious discomfort. "What happened to the old Potter charm? I thought you said she really liked you."

"I think she does…I’m pretty sure she does, but she’s not… ready, or something," said James lamely.

"There are other girls, you know. Lots of other girls want to go out with you." Sirius threw the pinecone hard, straight at James’s face. "Fifty points if you can put it between the two big logs."

James, with his Chaser’s reflexes, caught it easily, almost lazily. He was silent for a while. The fire roared and the pinecone squeaked out its holiday greeting as he rolled it between his palms.

How could he have been such an idiot, giving her a present like that? To him, the necklace was truly just another pretty thing gathering dust in the family vault, something that would make her happy, a trifle of a Christmas gift. But the look on her face when she’d opened his gift earlier in the evening had told him that all these assumptions were wrong. Right now he wanted to turn back time and erase the hurt and the fear that he’d seen in her eyes.

"I know," James answered at last, staring into the fire, "there are other girls, but they’re not…."

"Merlin’s balls! Have you gone soft on us?"

"I don’t know, Sirius," sighed James and flung the pinecone in the direction of the fire. He missed and it bounced out onto the floor. "I don’t seem to understand myself any more. I certainly don’t understand her."

"Full points to me!" Sirius said, after he’d scooped up the pinecone and hurled it back into the fire. "Hey, I’ve got it now. If she won’t sleep with you, ask her to marry you. That worked for one of my cousins."

"What? Are you crazy?" James, roused from his torpor, sat up straight and looked sharply at Sirius.

"Yeah, it worked for my cousin, but I think it only worked once for him, though," said Sirius with a casual shrug. "Last time I saw him, he was married and his wife was expecting."

"Bloody hell, you’re a fountain of great advice tonight, you know that? " James slumped once more into the chair and resumed staring into the fire. After a few moments, he went on, almost to himself, "We won’t be students forever, though, will we?"

"I was only joking!" cried Sirius and aimed a pinecone right at the top of James’s head. It bounced off, leaving a dusting of glittery powder.

James ignored the assault. "I mean, only two more terms at school and then what? Don’t you wonder about that? About getting out and finding a job and… and all that."

"You’re scaring me, mate," Sirius concluded with a scowl and a dark shake of his head.

"Yeah, well, sorry. I scare myself sometimes."

Another pinecone was procured from basket. This one didn’t make noise. James began picking it apart, showering his lap with little bits of brown dusted with faux green snow.

"Hey, how soon do you think we can get down to London?" Sirius decided to steer the conversation away from such uncomfortable subjects. "Do you think your parents will mind if we go down on Boxing Day? What do you say?"

"Sure. Whatever you want to do," answered James as he continued to reduce the pinecone to shreds.

"Try to contain your enthusiasm," Sirius said sarcastically. He stood up, stretching. "Let’s get a couple of hours of sleep before chaos descends. I haven’t even packed yet, have you?"

"Mmm?" James was lost in thought and didn’t stir from his chair. "I’ll be up in a minute."

But he stayed for a long time, staring into the fire.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Ah, Mr. Potter and Mr. Black, come in." The headmaster beamed "How delightful to see you both. Do sit down." Dumbledore gestured toward the chairs in front of his fireplace. "Can I tempt you with a sweet? Though perhaps you’ve had enough over the holidays."

James and Sirius made their way to the chairs he indicated. There was a large bowl of taffy on the little table in front of the fireplace. Next to the bowl lay a week-old Daily Prophet, folded in such a way that a picture on the front page was displayed prominently. The two sat down without taking off their traveling cloaks, a quick glance exchanged between them. Both had seen the picture in the newspaper of a snarling man being restrained by Ministry wizards and knew that Dumbledore hadn’t left it there by accident.

"You sent for us, Headmaster," James said as soon as Dumbledore had settled into another chair and popped a piece of taffy in his mouth.

"Mmph," replied the headmaster, occupied with a chewing a moment. "Yes, of course. I hoped that Hagrid would find you when you arrived and send you up. You two have been rather busy over the holidays." Dumbledore peered over his half-moon glasses, a combative twinkle in his eyes.

James folded his hands in his lap and stared at his knees. Sirius appeared to be studying a portrait on the wall.

"While I cannot discipline you for what you do outside the school," said the headmaster slowly, drawing out each word, "I can remind you that dueling with Lucius Malfoy is hardly wise. I expect better of you, particularly our Head Boy."

"Hang on! James didn’t--James wasn’t involved at all. It was all my--" Sirius jabbed an angry finger at the newspaper; the snarling picture of Sirius Black shook his fist in return.

"That is what the Prophet said, yes, and somehow you convinced the Ministry of that as well. However, judging by the injuries suffered by Mr. Malfoy, not to mention Mr. Potter’s injuries, I should guess that he had a hand in it." Dumbledore steepled his fingers, the tips pushing against his long nose. "Of course, Mr. Potter is still underage--as I wish you were, Mr. Black--and if he had been involved in dueling, the consequences would have been severe. As it was, I would guess that there were extenuating circumstances that caused Mr. Malfoy not to press charges."

Sirius started to speak, but James laid a hand on his friend’s arm. Dumbledore’s guesses were, as usual, very shrewd and very correct. Sirius shot James a dark look and shook off the restraining hand.

"You weren’t there!" Sirius cried, jumping out of his seat. "You didn’t hear him, didn’t see what--"

"Sit down!" yelled James and the headmaster simultaneously. James grabbed a handful of Sirius’s cloak and pulled him back to the chair. Sirius glared at Dumbledore while James glared at Sirius.

When the headmaster spoke again, his voice was quiet, but forceful. "Sirius, James, you are two of the most powerful wizards I know, and you will be formidable weapons in the fight against Lord Voldemort. I fully expect you to join in that fight after you have left school. We shall have need of your strength, your courage, and your brains."

In the silence that followed, the fire popped and crackled in the grate; the curious instruments that Dumbledore kept in his office hummed and whirred; some of the portraits of Hogwarts headmasters and mistresses snored in the pretence of sleep. Sirius took a piece of taffy from the table and bit down on it. His jaw clenched rhythmically as he chewed.

"Headmaster," James began earnestly, "I--"

"I am going to personally see that James Potter grows more brains," Sirius interrupted. "He hasn’t enough, clearly. I know of a potion that should do the trick." Dumbledore raised his eyebrows questioningly. Sirius finished, mumbling, "I’ll try the potion on myself first."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"That was a close call," Sirius said, once they’d regained the freedom of the corridor and were heading toward Gryffindor tower.

"He could have expelled us," said James soberly. "He guessed a lot more than he said."

"Wouldn’t have to take our N.E.W.T.s if we got expelled. What’s so bad about that?" Sirius replied cheerfully, hands in his pockets.

"Bugger the exams." James scowled at Sirius. "What Dumbledore said is more important: we’re not going to get the chance to help him fight Voldemort if we do stupid things like dueling in public with prominent wizards who are--" James lowered his voice. "--most likely Death Eaters, even if they do call you names--"

"Git," said Sirius and pushed James to the side, causing him to break stride in mid-rant.

"Prat," countered James with a shove that was perfectly matched in strength.

"Idiot."

"Useless lump."

"Hopeless twit."

The escalation of name-calling was cut off by their arrival at the portrait of the Fat Lady, the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. Inside, the room was packed with students eager to show off Christmas swag: new clothing, new books, and new toys. Some of the latter were responsible for the occasional explosion or puff of smoke in the crowded room.

Sirius shed his cloak and melted into the sea of Gryffindors. James stood next to the door with his cloak half off. He craned his neck, looking over the heads of the crowd.

"She’s not here." Remus appeared at his side and had to raise his normally soft voice to be heard over the din.

"Who?" James said distractedly, still scanning the faces in the common room.

"The girl with whom you were obsessed on the train, remember?"

"Not obsessed," said James quickly. He took off his cloak and threw it across the back of a chair. "It’s just…just that we didn’t see her on the train and she should have been on the train and, if she wasn’t on the train, she should have owled me. As Head Boy, I need to know."

"Right," said Remus dryly. "Fortunately for you, I’ve been doing a bit of investigating while you and Sirius were being caned by the headmaster and--"

"We weren’t--"

"Oh?" Remus arched an eyebrow and chuckled. "You can tell me about it later, as I’m sure you will. Now, on to business." He held up a finger. "One: Evans got on the train with Mandy Barnes, according to several witnesses." He held up another finger. "Two: Evans was seen escorting a student who looked ill off the train at Hogsmeade Station by Violet Hopkirk (she’d left a bag of sweets on the train and had to go back for them). Three: Evans has not turned up in the common room yet, nor is she in the girls’ dormitory."

"You make a fair spy, you do." James shook his head, not believing his ears.

"I had help from Peter." Remus grinned, pleased with the praise. "Well, what are you waiting for? I reckon it’s the Hospital Wing or the prefects’ office."

"Right," said James, smiling as he thumped Remus on the back. "See you--and thanks."

There weren’t any other students in the prefects’ office when James hesitantly opened the door. Lily sat at the desk writing, her back to him so that all he could see was a familiar knot of red hair, pulled tight against her neck as she bent over a piece of parchment.

"Yes?" she called out at the sound of the door opening. Her voice was curt and had that tone that said "this had better be important business" but it made his heart pound nonetheless.

James found himself robbed of speech and a little dizzy, as if the solid stones of the castle had suddenly shifted beneath his feet in the prelude to some geologic catastrophe. He fumbled behind his back and pulled the door closed, unable to take his eyes from the back of her head as she laid down her quill. She pushed the chair away from the desk, turned and then stood. It all seemed to take place at less-than-normal speed like a Quidditch play seen through Omnioculars.

"I missed you…on the train. Where were you?"

"In the loo," she said tersely.

"Not sick, were you? You don’t look ill."

Lily gnawed on her lip. James couldn’t decode the emotion in her narrowed eyes.

"No. Sioban O’Malley, a sixth year Hufflepuff, tried to commit suicide--in the loo. A bit upset, she was," Lily said grimly. "I spent the entire trip trying to calm her down. Every time I tried to leave, she’d either grab onto me, crying hysterically, or try to do herself in again. I doubt that she’d have been successful with the spells that she tried, but she could have disfigured herself pretty badly. I finally coaxed her off the train, after all the other students had gotten off."

"Is she…?"

"In the Hospital Wing now, sleeping. I’m writing notes to her head of house and to the headmaster." Lily sighed and paced restlessly around the writing table. As she paced, her hand went up to her neck where she played with a necklace, twisting a pendant back and forth on a gold chain.

James’s heart caught in his throat; he was mesmerized by the winking of the emeralds in the candlelight, by the circle of jewels that she held between her fingers. "Bad marks or did her boyfriend dump her?" he asked offhandedly, not paying attention to much except the fact that she was wearing the necklace he’d given her.

"No," she answered sharply, dropping her hand to her side, "and it took me a long time to coax it out of her. Her parents were murdered...on Christmas Day."

"Oh, I’m sorry, so sorry," breathed James, taking a step toward her.

"She was there when they…" Lily’s voice cracked and she paused for a moment, fixing her eyes behind James at a distant place outside the room. "Her grandparents wanted her to come back to school because they thought it would be safer, but she--" Lily wrapped her arms around her chest, swaying slightly as she spoke, choking back tears. "--she didn’t think anywhere would be safe."

James quickly closed the distance between them and put his arms around her, encircling her shoulders, one hand cupped around her neck. She shuddered in his embrace and cried until his shoulder was soggy. He stroked her back and murmured half-words and nonsense, unsure what he could say that would make her feel better. After a while, she stopped crying and pulled away enough to look up at him.

"And you, dueling over the holidays!" she hiccupped, green eyes swimming with tears, her face red and blotchy. "You and Sirius could have been killed! How could you be so stupid?"

A fresh wave of tears fractured her speech. James closed his eyes and pulled her closer. He felt rather than heard her choked words, sobbed into his shoulder. "I was afraid…afraid something would happen…and I couldn’t…"

James held her for a long time, unable to speak, unable to tell her of the fears of losing her that haunted him. All he could do was hold her, and so he did. He didn’t want her to let go. Ever.

-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-

When Easter term started seventh year, James had had no further thoughts about being unfaithful to Lily. Of course, the night before your wedding, a night out with your best mates, that didn’t count, did it? It was tradition, after all. Fortunately for James, who was getting rather distracted and in danger of becoming paralyzed from the neck up, Peter chose that moment to pester him. Unfortunately for James, Peter echoed his thoughts too closely.

"We’ll figure this out and… this’ll be great, you’ll see, James. I mean, not anything that you won’t… not the same as--" Peter’s face reddened when James stopped and turned around to stare at him. "Well, it’s not as if Lily is in the same class… She’s, er, you know, different than--"

"Thanks, Peter." James cut him off, not wanting to hear comparisons of any sort. "No need to go on, eh?" As he massaged his stiff neck with one hand, he took the key that he’d been holding and irritably tossed it into the tiger’s mouth.

"Oh, no! Why’d you do that? I need that key! What if we can’t get it back?" Peter squeaked.

Suddenly the stone tiger roared, a deep rumble that passed through all of them like a tidal wave on its way to shore. The little courtyard echoed so much that Peter crouched down with his hands over his ears.

"Trouble? That’s all you can think of?" Sirius said as they all turned toward the tiger, now sitting on its haunches. "What about James? What about spoiling the night for him? Now we’ve got no key and no clue."

James was first to notice the long shadows that they were casting at the tiger’s paws. He turned in amazement to see that the pool had vanished. In its place was a large circular opening in which a set of worn stone steps led down into a warmly lit passage.

"Ha! About time! Come on, you bloody cowards," Sirius said in a husky sort of voice, "where’s your sense of adventure?" He pushed James forward, not giving him the opportunity to turn back.

James stopped Sirius and took Remus by the arm. "Are you going to be all right?"

"I’m fine," Remus replied with a half-hearted attempt at a smile. He nodded toward the opening that beckoned. "Shall we?"

And so they descended into Tigerseye.

Part 13: Tigerseye

Down, down, down. Shallow depressions in the centers of the marble steps told the tale of many, many feet that had trod the stairs before them. Candles burned in brass sconces, throwing shadows on the walls like the outlines of dancers writhing on stage but seen through the curtain in outline only so that all the eye saw were the lithe and flowing limbs, not the individuals.

James led, although he hadn’t a clue as to where they were going and half-wished they wouldn’t find anything. As the wall curved gently, the stairs continued down without giving a hint as to where they were leading. They didn’t speak as they descended, each lost in his own thoughts. After some minutes--keeping track of time was difficult when each turn of the spiral staircase yielded only more steps and the same soft candlelight--they stopped going down and began to zigzag upward through a series of short flights and landings.

"What’s Lily up to?" Peter wheezed as he tried to keep up with James’s longer strides. Never in good shape, the evening had taken its toll on him.

"Mmm?" James had been hypnotized by the rhythm of one stair after another and by the flickering candles that marched along beside them. He shook his head as if that could make him focus on the here and now. And that made his neck go into spasm again. Considering how little sleep he was going to get tonight--it must be nearly midnight by now--he wondered what sort of shape he’d be in tomorrow.

"Lily?" said James as he slowed down to let Peter catch up. He noticed shiny beads of sweat rolling down Peter’s forehead. "I don’t know. She and her friends were going to meet at my place and do whatever brides do before a wedding."

"Try on clothes, talk about size…" quipped Sirius from behind, "…of the bridegroom, that is."

"Thanks for that, mate," James said with a short laugh. "Lily’s far more sensible than we are, so I suspect she’s already gone to bed. Busy day tomorrow and all that."

"Early start, I suppose." Peter caught at James’s sleeve as he spoke, laboring to catch his breath even as he forced a weak smile. "Are you sure you don’t need some help in the morning? Or maybe Lily does? I could show up early and, you know, help."

Sirius caught up to the pair and gave Peter a shove on the back as he passed, saying, "No worries--all taken care of. Let’s just find this bloody club. Merlin’s beard, we’ve been at it long enough."

"Sirius is right--about the wedding, that is," James said. He halted on a landing and looked Peter over critically. "Besides, you need some rest; you don’t look well."

"Fine, I’m fine," stammered Peter, shaking his head. "Don’t worry about me I’ll--No, I’m just thinking of you."

Peter’s small, dark eyes were locked on James’s; the warm candlelight that bathed his sweaty face failed to soften the pale, unnatural color. James thought Peter had overdone it a bit. He’d taken a genuine liking to Lily (and this pleased James) and had helped with a lot of the wedding details, but perhaps he was trying too hard. Peter always wanted to please people, but sometimes he hurt himself by doing so.

Remus halted to stare thoughtfully at Peter, too, and wondered why his friend seemed so distraught about this whole venture. Of course, Peter probably wanted to make sure that he got proper credit with James for the evening’s ‘entertainment’ (and they should find out soon enough just how entertaining it would be). Peter had always looked up to James, had tried to please him most of all. Perhaps that was his only motive. Remus almost believed it, but something about Peter’s distressed, nearly maniacal determination didn’t seem quite right.

"Ho, lads!" called Sirius from above. "I think we’re here!"

James and Remus quickly mounted the last two flights of stairs to find Sirius standing in front of a set of double doors flanked by two torches set atop tall, wrought iron stands. The warm light reflected off the doors’ dark polished wood and highlighted the familiar tracery of the Tigerseye pattern worked into the large gold door handles.

"Hey, wait up! Wha--" Peter cried out breathlessly, the last to arrive. Remus put out an arm to keep him from falling forward as he stumbled on the final step.

"Shall we knock or just walk right in?" Sirius smirked at his friends, his hand half-raised as he approached the door.

Before his fist could connect with wood, however, the doors swung slowly and silently outward, forcing Sirius to step backward. An enormous man filled the doorway, standing almost two-and-a-half meters tall and wearing a flowing purple robe. His short white hair and small pink eyes, deeply set in a lumpy face, reminded James of an albino rabbit from his childhood.

"Hullo," said Sirius. "We’re here to--that is, we’d like to--" He looked over his shoulder at the others and, with a quick lunge, seized a trembling Peter and dragged him forward so that they both stood in front of the giant doorman. "This is Mr. Pettigrew."

The albino doorman bowed slightly and, stepping aside, motioned for them to enter. They never figured out whether "Mr. Pettigrew" was the key to gaining entrance. All such questions were soon forgotten. Tigerseye at last!

They found themselves in a spacious anteroom. Thick, red tapestries hung on the walls to either side. Above these hangings, just below the ceiling, were frescoes painted in a Classical style: pictures of persons in gaudy colors with a geometric border at top and bottom--the same design as on the Tigerseye key. Another set of doors, with the same golden handles and dark, polished wood, was closed. What lay beyond had to be left to the imagination, for the moment.

"Shoes. Coats," said the doorman in a thick foreign accent. He motioned to a marble bench that ran along one wall. Perplexed, they sat down while the albino drew aside the red curtain on the wall opposite the bench to reveal a shadowy alcove that contained cubbyholes of different shapes and sizes. The large man had to duck to get inside.

Resigned to whatever came next, Remus set to work taking off his boots; anticipation mingled with curiosity and a leaden sense of dread.

"Merlin’s great bloody balls!" chortled Sirius, who had been studying the artwork instead of taking off his boots. "I haven’t seen that one before, didn’t think it was possible, but..."

"Whatever are you--" James looked more closely, as did Remus and Peter, at the frescoes just below the ceiling. James coughed and Peter giggled.

How had they failed to take note of the scenes of naked men and women engaged in various acts up there on the wall? They should have expected such things perhaps; but everyone except Sirius appeared startled.

"All right, Sirius," said James calmly, although he was somewhat red in the face, "would you care to give us your score? I mean, how many have you attempted?"

"Not nearly enough, mate," Sirius said as he shoved sideways into James, who was sitting next to him.

Remus suddenly recalled where he’d seen similar pictures. He had been nine when his parents had dragged him all over the ruins of Pompeii on a summer holiday. Long afterward, he wondered whether his parents had believed that his curse would be a terminal illness that would cut his life short. In any case, they had been convinced that he should have a good education, part of which consisted of traipsing through ruins in medieval abbeys and castles, Moorish palaces, and Greek and Roman ruins.

Sirius reached around James and poked Peter, then pointed at one particular painting. "Now, you’d do well to start with that one over there. Don’t try any of that advanced stuff first, right?"

Peter squeaked, even more nervous than before, and suddenly become very, very interested in taking off his boots.

When the albino emerged from the closet, he carried a large, open box. He knelt down in front of them, setting the box on the stone floor, and took out four pairs of black leather slippers. He set a pair in front of each of them.

"Ugh, Sirius," groaned James, "when’s the last time you took off those boots? Last week?"

"I’ll have you know I put on clean socks this morning," retorted Sirius as he tossed his boots into the box and stuck his feet into a pair of slippers. "Nothing’s too good for our James."

James, who’d been putting off the question of his own boots, couldn’t actually reach far enough to pull them off. He could only stretch his arms part of the way before agony set in and his shoulders froze.

"Here, let me," Remus said, taking note of his friend’s distress. He knelt in front of James and pulled his boots off.

James mumbled "Thanks" and massaged his neck.

Sirius and Remus took off their coats: Sirius’s black leather, which was absurdly hot to wear in the London summer, but too ‘cool’ not to wear; and Remus’s mud-splattered wool. Peter clutched protectively at his Nehru jacket with the pink and yellow flowers as if he wasn’t up to taking any clothes off just yet.

Remus stood a little apart from the others seated on the bench. He watched the doorman silently fold the coats and lay them in the box with their boots. Time slowed to a crawl, and he wondered if his friends felt this, too. The albino put the box into the closet and re-emerged carrying a long, thin black lacquer box. A curious box.

"Here. Wands," grunted the enormous doorman. He opened the box and held it out in front of James, Peter and Sirius. Cradled in his large thick fingers, the box looked small, but it did seem to be of a length for wands.

As the others stared, puzzled, at the box and at the albino’s impassive face, Remus felt a slight breeze at his back and caught a whiff of that sweet scent of flowers from the mysterious pool they’d encountered earlier, along with other smells, tantalizing this time instead of sickening. The other set of double doors had silently opened partway and a woman stood on the doorstep. No giantess, she was of normal height with long, thick red hair that had a white streak rippling down one side. It didn’t make her look old (her age was hard to determine)--rather, decidedly exotic. She had warm, liquid eyes that hovered between blue and green, set in a round face. Her mouth curved into a mischievous smile that hinted of things pleasurable and mysterious. She nodded to him and held his eyes for a moment, as if the two of them were suddenly the only people in the room. Remus found that his breath quickened in a novel and not unpleasant way.

"Our wands? In there? What is this?" said Sirius hotly to the stolid albino, who continued to hold the box in front of the three of them without saying another word.

"There is no problem, I trust?"

Sirius, James, and Peter stood as one at the sound of her voice, as smooth as water cascading over well-worn pebbles.

She wore a sleeveless dress that fell to her ankles, loose and cinched at the waist with a gold belt. The fabric shimmered and the color shifted from white to purple to green as she glided into the room and signaled to the doorman with an almost imperceptible nod. He gave her the box, then bowed and backed out through the double doors, closing them before they could catch a glimpse of what lay beyond.

"Welcome, guests." She smiled warmly as her gaze rested on each of them in turn. Remus regarded her coolly, James blushed, Peter looked at his feet, and Sirius seemed to calm down, curiosity overwhelming his irritation.

"Yeah, about the wands. I didn’t mean to cause trouble, but I thought that at a place like this, which isn’t exactly like…" Sirius began.

"--like one of those sleazy houses in Seven Shoe Alley? Here, as there, the Ministry makes the rules and we must abide by them," she said with a world-weary smile, her eyes fixed on Sirius. "You shan’t need your wands while you’re here and they will be safe, I promise."

"I reckon a bloke could have a good time without a wand." Sirius winked at James and, with a shrug, put his wand in the box. The others did the same.

She replaced the lid on the box and directed her attention to Sirius. "How shall I call you?"

"Sirius, er, just that, I suppose." Like a schoolboy called upon to recite something for the teacher, he shuffled on his feet, then stuck his hands defiantly in his pockets.

"Place your hand on the top, Sirius."

He slapped the box and it turned from black to green to blue; in the end, it resembled a peacock feather. She tried to open the box, but it wouldn’t yield to her fingers.

"Sealed, you see? And unsealed only at your touch. Does that satisfy you?"

After Sirius had nodded in agreement, she put the box away in the closet and swept the heavy red curtain closed. Her movements were as fluid as a dancer’s. Watching her, Remus felt that time still moved at a slower than normal pace, but he didn’t mind.

"You may call me Madam." She turned back to them, her arms held out invitingly. "And how should I call the rest of you?"

Sirius gave Peter a significant look and, after Peter failed to speak, said, "This here’s Peter."

"Of course," she said, shifting her gaze to a rapidly coloring Peter, who looked as if he might choke. "I trust your father is well?"

He recovered enough to splutter, "Father’s out of--that is, I borrowed the key for… for our friend here." Peter clutched James’s arm like a life preserver in a choppy sea. "He’s getting married tomorrow, so I thought--we thought we’d show him a good time, you know? Father wouldn’t mind about the key, I don’t think…so, erm, here we are."

"Ah, friendship is a lovely thing," she replied with a calculating glance at James, "and we shall do our best not to disappoint."

"You don’t suppose I could have that key back, do you?" Peter said. "Because that stone tiger swallowed it and I need to…that is, Father will be expecting it."

"How thoughtful of you. No doubt you will want to return it straight away, as if it had never been borrowed," she answered solemnly, but laughter danced in her eyes. "Don’t worry. The key will be returned to you before you leave."

Peter was pacified, or at least less likely to dissolve into a quivering lump of jelly. Remus folded his arms and watched the scene, wondering when his turn would come. It seemed so obvious to him, although his friends couldn’t or didn’t see what she was doing. So obvious, and yet his stomach churned and something smoldered inside him, even as his limbs grew icy cold.

"And the bridegroom. How shall I call you?"

"James," he replied and offered his hand, thrusting it forward with an awkward jerk that made him wince. "Sorry, bit of a kink in my neck at the moment."

"We shall see what we can do," she replied confidently. Instead of taking James’s outstretched hand, she twined her arm around his and drew him forward, toward the doors that led inside to delights only hinted by the smooth purr in her voice. "You might find a bath relaxing. Tigerseye is known for its Roman baths; they’ve been in continuous use by wizards for sixteen centuries."

"I suppose that would be relaxing--a bath, I mean," said James.

"Bloody hell!" roared Sirius and glared at James. "We didn’t drag you all this way for a bloody relaxing bath. Come on, then, James. Peter here is going to catch it from his old man for this, not to mention having got injured in the line of duty. You owe it to him."

"Yes, and Sirius is too modest to mention his own efforts on my behalf, the great personal injuries he’s suffered and so forth," said James with considerable amusement.

"Being Best Man is quite a responsibility," said Madam. Sirius smirked triumphantly in response. "We offer all manner of relaxation and… entertainment, as you shall see."

She had stopped in front of the doors, still leading James by the arm, and now turned her gaze toward Remus, the only one who hadn’t yet introduced himself.

"Remus," Sirius prompted, noticing both the woman’s attention and his friend’s impassive face. "This is Remus. He doesn’t say much--probably working on notes for a travel guide, you know, a walking tour of underground London at night or something."

"Tigerseye would be a rather sensational entry in a tourist guide, for more than one reason. What you see around you was originally built by a wealthy Roman merchant about 300 A.D.; wizards have been operating this establishment ever since. Quite an archeological find, don’t you think?"

"Looks Roman enough, I suppose," Remus conceded, with a glance up at the painted figures on the walls. In fact, he did remember such frescoes from his childhood, although those had been murky and hard to interpret, with faded paint and a background of chipped stone. His parents hadn’t explained them and when he’d tried to ask questions ("Why is that man spanking the lady?"), they had quickly moved on to the next stop on the tour.

"To be sure," he said stiffly, "the paintings, in particular, seem rather characteristic of a certain quarter in Pompeii."

"And a scholar, too, I see." She rewarded him with another mischievous smile. "You will find that Tigerseye is a bit more spacious than the lupanaria of Pompeii where the lupae, or ‘she-wolves’, plied their trade." Remus flinched slightly. The mysterious woman regarded him shrewdly; her gaze seemed capable of taking in much more than he wanted to reveal. "Did you not know that? We do like to think that a visit to Tigerseye will be… educational."

The awkward silence dissolved as Sirius roared with laughter. Remus laughed, too, although out of unease rather than amusement. He didn’t like the way she stared at him, totting up his reaction and those of the others on some unseen abacus.

"You didn’t know that?" said Sirius, giving Remus a pointed nudge. "No? I’d have thought if anyone--"

"Please excuse my friends," James interjected with a dark glance toward Sirius direction. "It’s been a long night and some of us are tired."

"Don’t give me any of this ‘tired’ shit," said Sirius thickly. "Sure, I may be a little short on sleep--and whose bloody fault is that, eh?--but at least I don’t have a fucking broomstick up my--"

"I’m sure that could be arranged," Remus said hastily. He wondered if there was any club in London that wouldn’t want to throw Sirius out in his current sleep-deprived and belligerent state.

"Let us go inside where such things can be discussed," the woman purred as she took Sirius’s arm, linking it with hers. She inclined her head toward Remus, who opened the large double doors leading inside. She swept through with James and Sirius on either arm. Remus and Peter followed in her wake.

The soft glow of a fading, summer twilight. The tinkling of a fountain. The sweet smell of flowers. The sharp smell of burning candles.

Simple things, when novel and unexpected, can overwhelm the senses. What did they expect to see? A repeat of the mind-numbing scene in Seven Shoe Alley? A club, posh but stodgy, suitable for lawyers? What they did see wasn’t close to either of those extremes, but something else entirely.

The soft glow of a fading, summer twilight.

Remus took in the most detail; he compared the architecture to what he remembered from his childhood holidays and wondered at the antiquity of the place. The enchanted ceiling, unlike the Great Hall at Hogwarts, didn’t reflect the true sky outside, but an evening sky just after sunset. Soft clouds, lit by a faint glow that suggested the last lingering rays of the sun, rolled across a deep blue background. A sliver of a moon, a ghostly white flower petal, wove in and out of the clouds. Marble pillars ran along both sides of the long room, as if they might be holding up the sky, and ended in carved tendrils that caressed the gentle curve of the vaulted ceiling.

The tinkling of a fountain.

Beneath the ceiling lay a paved floor with a rectangular pool in its center, reminiscent of the smaller pool they’d encountered at the end of the alley leading to this place. A small fountain bubbled and splashed in the pool--no music this time, just the plinking of water into a copper bowl. The same white flowers ringed this larger pool, luminescent lilies with the same sweet aroma.

Beyond the pool, an enormous white tiger sprawled lazily on the stones. Not another statue, this tiger flicked its ears and its eyes followed their every movement.

Peter gasped and then stifled a nervous laugh. He pulled on Remus’s sleeve and pointed to the far end of the hall. Was it the lounging tiger that upset Peter? No. It became obvious that it was the marble statue at the end of the hall. Soft candelight fell on the curves of two forms: a male figure stood and a female figure knelt in front of him, long hair cascading down her back. Both were naked, the man had his mouth open and his head thrown back, one hand twined in the woman’s hair. Even from a distance, it was clear what was going on.

The sweet smell of flowers.

"Like to get some of that, would you?" Sirius chuckled, noticing Peter’s agitation. He breathed deeply. Here, where the cloying scent of the ghost-flowers mingled with other, more earthy scents, he didn’t feel trapped and claustrophobic as he had in that little courtyard they’d come to earlier. The other scents, musky and spicy, tickled his nose, made him excited, banished his fatigue more effectively than any spell--at least for a time.

The woman smiled at him. She knew what he was thinking. That was her job, wasn’t it? Sirius wondered if all the women at this place were as beautiful.

"This all right with you, James?"

The sharp smell of burning candles.

"It’s… lovely," James murmured. Beyond aesthetics, the place had a solid, comfortable feeling, not like home or Hogwarts castle, to be sure. Even though the ceiling was high--how high was difficult to tell because of the ever-changing sky scene--and the hall was long, the scale felt comfortably close, like a walk under a night sky in a sheltered, wooded glen. Candles flickered in iron candelabra atop metal stands in the four corners of the hall. Marble pillars glowed with a soft patina of yellow-orange, but the porticoes behind them were deep in shadow.

"Welcome to Tigerseye," the woman said. She detached herself from James and Sirius and glided toward the edge of the pool; the many-hued fabric of her dress swirled around her as if blown by a summer breeze.

On cue, the white tiger rose and gave a low rumbling growl that startled the four visitors--Peter most of all. He clung to James and cowered while the enormous beast padded placidly along the length of the pool toward Madam, the mistress of ceremonies in a show that was about to begin.

"This is Shambhalananda, but you may call her Shambles," she said. The tiger purred happily when she grabbed a handful of fur from its enormous neck and playfully shook it. "And now, if you’ll follow me, we shall provide you with refreshments and… entertainment."

And they followed her like baby ducklings imprinted on a mother of an unknown and exotic species.

Partt 14: Limericks and Liniment

Beyond the marble pillars lay a dark portico, lit only by the glow of candles in wall sconces, one by each of three doors. Madam opened one of the doors and motioned for them to enter. The white tiger sat back on its haunches and rumbled ominously as they passed, and then padded in after them

"The Victorian parlor is generally reserved for the bearer of Mr. Pettigrew’s key," she said as she closed the door. "Had I met you gentlemen first, I would have chosen a different parlor, more modern, or perhaps in a Classical motif." She gave Remus a glimmer of a smile.

Pop! A silver bucket containing a bottle of champagne appeared on a table near the back of the room. Pop! A house-elf, wearing what looked like a toga, winked into existence on a chair next to the table.

"A moment, please," she said and swept past them to the table where the house-elf bounced on the chair.

Remus couldn’t make out her low words amid the squeaking of the house-elf. What was she saying about them? he wondered. Disgusted by his curiosity, he surveyed the room, a shrine to Victorian excess. The wallpaper’s garish red roses, splashed on a purple background, pulsated if the eye lingered too long. A spinet piano topped with a lacy shawl was playing softly all by itself. The rest of the furniture consisted of overstuffed sofas upholstered in floral fabric and little lace-covered tables bearing silver candelabra.

"Yes, Madam!" squeaked the house-elf loudly with much bowing and then--Pop!--it disappeared.

James started at the sound, aroused from his study of the objects d’art crowded on the fireplace mantle. He cleared his throat in the short silence that followed, but the former Head Boy couldn’t seem to find a proper speech for the occasion.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable," said Madam, filling the silence with a practiced turn of phrase while she filled four champagne glasses. She held one out invitingly. Four more flutes stood empty on the table. "You shall have company shortly."

Sirius brushed past James and took the glass. He smiled at her and bowed formally. Then he sat on the piano bench and stretched his legs out in front of him as if he were settling down comfortably in the Gryffindor common room back at school. "It wasn’t easy finding this place, you know. Makes a man thirsty, that kind of work."

"I’ve never known Sirius to turn down a drink, no matter what the circumstance," said James. He walked stiffly to the table, but didn’t take a glass until she offered it.

"Thank you," he murmured and extended his neck awkwardly to take a small sip. "This is quite a room. It’s, er, well-decorated."

"Here, James, let me take that for you," said Peter. "Wouldn’t want you to spill, after all. Have a seat, eh? Yes, just here." He ushered James toward one of the sofas and clucked at him like a nursemaid over an invalid. After James sat down, careful to keep his back straight, Peter settled himself close by.

"Great gods, Peter!" chortled Sirius. "Don’t you want to taste James’s drink, too? You never know; it might be poisoned." He downed half his champagne in one gulp, obviously not concerned about coming to harm.

Remus watched her watching them. Madam smiled and laughed along with James and Sirius, though he found her glance too calculating. He had taken the seat vacated by the house-elf and toyed with a champagne glass, but didn’t drink. The tiger eyed him warily. Was it purring or growling? He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think the big cat liked him.

"James is getting married tomorrow," Peter piped up, "and the location is a big secret." He laughed and licked his lips nervously. "Since it’s almost here--in just a few hours, you know--you can let us in on it, eh? No harm in that, is there, James?"

"Give it a rest, Peter. Have a drink and forget about it," said Sirius and drained his glass.

"Look, Peter--" James began, but he stopped as a door at the back of the room swung open.

Although it opened silently, as did all the doors in that house, all four noticed immediately. A woman stood framed in the doorway.

"Ah, here are the ladies," said Madam with a graceful wave of her hand and the woman entered, followed by three more.

Sirius raised his empty champagne glass in salute. "Last call, Prongs."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"A silly young witch from Khartoum--"

"--Had a mix-up twixt boyfriend and broom
’Long and hard though you be,
It’s your Clean Sweep,’ cried she,
’That will fuck me from morning til noon!’"

"No fair!" said James. "That last rhyme was a cheat!"

"It’s a game, you see," Remus explained to Mai, the woman sitting next to him. "James throws out the first line and then Sirius has to make up a limerick."

"Go on, then. Give me another!" shouted Sirius with a laugh. "Hang on, though, this is thirsty work. How ‘bout another drink first?"

His last words were muffled as he nuzzled Lydia, a leggy blonde with whom he was sharing the piano bench. She murmured something that only Sirius could hear and pushed away from him. Her tight gown outlined every curve from shoulder to hip when she rose and then undulated toward the table with the champagne. Sirius howled in appreciation.

"Funny game," Mai said to Remus and eyed him suggestively. She was a petite Oriental woman with cascades of dark hair and spangly earrings, although she spoke with a flawless upper class accent. "What sort of games do you like to play?"

"I’m not very good at poetry," Remus mumbled into his champagne glass. He stared at the bubbles breaking on the surface for a moment and then took a drink. It tickled his tongue, but tasted good, much better than the champagne at Auggie McKinnon’s wedding last year, which had been the first and only time he’d got drunk on the stuff. Tigerseye could obviously afford the best-- the best champagne, the best women--and Peter’s law firm was paying.

Madam had departed after introducing them to their dates. Now what were they supposed to do? For the moment, James ignored his and tossed out opening lines to limericks instead, while Sirius got drunker. Peter hadn’t left James’s side and acted more nervous than the bridegroom-to-be. At least the tiger had gone.

Remus glanced quickly up at Mai. She parted her lips in an inviting smile. Gods, she was beautiful, tempting… and very determined.

"Let’s have another, James!" said Remus hoarsely.

"Another, eh? Erm, let me see…" James smiled weakly and looked grateful for the distraction.

"Oi! Peter!" Sirius yelled. "Leave the man alone!"

Peter eyes darted guiltily between Sirius and James. He still occupied a spot on the sofa next to James and had been whispering in his ear, which didn’t please Peter’s date Kitty, who crawled into Peter’s lap and did her best to distract him. He flushed in embarrassment

"There once was a--" James stopped and winced.

"You must relax," said Elsa, the large and amply endowed blonde who sat on James’s other side. With her German accent, braids and broad smile, she looked like a cheerful Valkyrie about to vanquish a foe on the battlefield. She got up, crossed behind the sofa and began to knead James’s shoulders like so much bread dough.

"I’m fine," he protested. "You don’t have to--"

"Not to worry. I relax you."

James moaned and sank deeper into the sofa. After a minute, though, he murmured, "Not half bad. How’d you do that? Where was I? Oh, yeah." He cleared his throat importantly and then began.

"There once was a wizard named Stokes--"

Sirius didn’t miss a beat.

"--Who thought himself luckiest of blokes.
With twin sisters he’d dally
’Cause both Nancy and Sally
Would do him for double the strokes."

The women laughed. Sirius raised his glass in salute and then noisily drained it with one slurp.

"Alright, that’s it," laughed James. "Enough limericks for one night."

"What a sodding barrel of laughs you turned out to be," Sirius said to James. Then, addressing Lydia, he growled, "You want to hear more, don’t you? Or how about The Wizard’s Wand? I know fifty-seven verses, none of them clean."

"Oh, go on, then," she giggled. "You don’t."

"Oh, I was a lad of seven and ten," he sang in an enthusiastic baritone. "When a pretty young--"

James and Peter joined in catcalls, drowning out Sirius. They’d heard all fifty-seven verses many times before and weren’t keen to hear them again

"More champagne!" Sirius called. He lurched to the table and grabbed the bottle, which magically refilled itself whenever it was empty. "Don’t mind sharing, do you, Remus old sod?" he said with a wink.

Sirius made the rounds, carelessly splashing champagne in everyone’s glass, and then collapsed onto the piano bench. He wrapped one arm around Lydia’s waist and clutched the magnum to his chest with the other. He had done his duty as he saw it and was now determined to enjoy himself fully. And drinking champagne in the company of expensive whores in an exclusive wizarding brothel was a fine old time as far as Sirius was concerned.

"Ach, James," said Elsa as she continued working on his neck and shoulders, "you cannot be in such a state for your wedding. I have something that helps you. Tinktur. I do not know the englischer word. Something to rub in, ja?"

"I’m feeling much better, thanks," said James. "No need to…you know."

"Das Liniment," she murmured to herself, while redoubling her efforts to unknot his neck and shoulders. "Ja, Liniment. You say that in English? The liniment? Good for muscles. My grandmother makes and sends me."

James twisted out from under her fingers and looked up at her. He smiled, but panic crept into his voice as he said, "I’m sure your grandmother makes a good home remedy, but I don’t think..."

"She’s good, that one," commented Remus in a low voice. Conversation seemed to be expected and he’d prefer that the discussion didn’t center on him. "Five minutes ago James could barely move, and now look at him."

"Elsa is very, very good. Your friend is in for a treat." Mai slyly painted a picture of desire and release in the round way she rolled the words on her tongue. She focused on him, eyes narrowed. "Would you like a massage or… something else?"

Remus took another drink instead of answering. He knew how James must feel right about now. Even though his muscle spasms seemed to have improved, that sense of honor and the need to balance out all the world’s rights and wrongs must have made up for the lost pain. James didn’t tell Lily everything. She still didn’t know that one of James’s best friends was a werewolf. But on the subject of this evening’s adventures, James would want to tell her, or at least he wouldn’t want to do anything that he couldn’t tell Lily--eventually.

"The German national Quidditch team uses the liniment of my grandmother," said Elsa with a serene smile. She reached down and began to work over his shoulder blades and lower back

"You don’t play Quidditch, do you?" said James. He tried to twist around again to look at her but was rebuffed as she continued her kneading. "You look familiar…from the World Cup last year?"

She laughed. Her hands stopped moving and came to rest on the back of the sofa. "Ach, nein. My sister Karin plays for Germany."

"Karin Enke? The Chaser?" James bounced excitedly. "Fantastic match against Italy. Such a shame about their Seeker, though," he said warmly.

"The quarterfinal, ja? It gives me much pride. I do not see my family for many years. Only my grandmother, she visits me in England."

"I lost a hell of a bet, but what a match!" Sirius said and downed his champagne with such enthusiasm that he slopped most of it on himself and on Lydia. She took the bottle from him smoothly and poured him another glass.

"Where’s m’wand?" he said, as he tried to jam a hand into his pocket and missed. "I s’pose I ought to clean it up."

"No wands here, darlin’. Besides we adore champagne," Lydia giggled and ran a hand over his sodden chest. "We’d bathe in it if we could, wouldn’t we, ladies?"

Sirius laughed heartily and made short work of the newly filled glass. After he finished, Lydia prised the empty flute from his fingers and set it down alongside the magnum. He protested, but she wiggled into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. That kept him too busy to wonder about the next drink.

Meanwhile Peter tried to tear James’s attention away from an animated discussion of last year’s World Cup. Elsa appeared to be an enthusiastic Quidditch fan and knew the teams in the English league almost as well as James did. She hinted that some of the top players had visited Tigerseye, though she didn’t name any names.

"Peter," Kitty whined petulantly. The little redhead, who didn’t look much older than sixteen, ran her fingers through his hair and nibbled at an earlobe. "Forget about your friends for a bit. Let’s go...."

"What about James? He might need--that is, I have to make sure that he’s…having a good time," Peter whispered to her. Beads of sweat danced on his forehead and his face was very red.

"Oooh. You’re burning up, you are. Here, this’ll help." She tugged Peter to his feet and took off his jacket, over his weakening protests.

"That’s a good boy," she said in a sing-song voice as she led him to small sofa that was about as far away from James as possible. After sitting him down, she brought a champagne glass to his lips and tipped it up. "Have a nice drink for Kitty. There, isn’t that better?"

Peter spluttered and coughed; a good deal of the champagne ended up in his lap, but he gave her a bewildered smile. That seemed to be enough encouragement for Kitty; she took Peter’s furiously blushing face in her hands and gave him a very thorough kiss.

This is a fantasy come to life for Peter, Remus mused, but he acts as if it’s a bad dream. Sirius is in his element and even James seems relaxed at last. Remus glanced sideways at Mai, surreptitiously watching her watch him.

It’s just a job for them, he told himself. But even "professionals" might not tolerate a werewolf. Not many would in the wizarding world.

Do they have to know?

Most witches probably wouldn’t recognize that scar of his, distinctive though it was, but there was always the chance... Because of that fear of discovery, his few "romantic" encounters thus far had been with Muggle women. To a Muggle, a werewolf was just an actor on the telly stumbling around in bad make-up and a laughably fake mask. But not to a witch. What would the ladies of Tigerseye think if they knew that he was not only a werewolf, but also sought after by the darkest of the Dark, Lord Voldemort?

What would his friends think? That question had been gnawing at him since he’d remembered fully the dead unicorn and his encounter in the woods.

James would tell him to go to the Aurors. Remus had never spoken to an Auror, but he was familiar with the Werewolf Registry and their tactics. Someone had informed the Ministry about the incident with Snape and the Whomping Willow, though Dumbledore had forbidden any talk about it. Those bastards from the Registry had turned up at Hogwarts for an "interview" that consisted of four hours of ridicule, abuse and just plain torture. Remus learned later that they had wanted him expelled, but Dumbledore had adamantly refused. No, Remus didn’t put much trust in the Ministry.

What would Sirius say about his encounter with Lord Voldemort? Sirius wouldn’t have been so stupid as to have been cursed in the first place. He’d have been quicker and thrown off a few curses of his own. He would be concerned and would offer to check Remus over for any lingering effects of the curse. But would he understand how it felt to be face-to-face with Lord Voldemort? Would he understand how painfully confusing it had been to have that voice inside his head? And would he wonder if Remus had succumbed?

These days all wizards had to wonder about their fellows. Not a week went by without news of another witch or wizard having been under the Imperius Curse without family or friends ever knowing. But it was absurd that Sirius or James would ever think that about him. Wasn’t it?

A growl brought Remus back to the present. He looked around in confusion, only half-remembering where he was, and found himself staring into a pair of golden eyes. Gods, the tiger was enormous. Its massive head nearly came up to his shoulder. He could feel its warm breath on his leg and there was no mistaking the low-pitched rumble this time.

"Mai, dear, why don’t you help Lydia make Sirius more comfortable?"

Remus caught the look that passed between Mai and Madam. How long had she been there? He watched Mai rise and leave the table without looking at him. She whispered something to Lydia and both women glanced briefly back in his direction, not at him but seeking some sort of confirmation from the mistress of the house, who stood behind him.

"I don’t think your tiger likes me," Remus said with a glance at the beast.

Madam laughed softly and took the seat next to him. "Shambles is mostly harmless, though a bit funny sometimes in her likes and dislikes."

The tiger gave him another warning rumble and moved away, closer to its mistress. He felt relieved. He understood the mind of a predator and didn’t like the feeling of being prey.

"James is enjoying himself," he commented. "He can talk about sport for hours, comes to that. And he does seem to have…relaxed."

He glanced toward his friend, who was waving his arms about freely to illustrate a Quidditch play to Elsa. James noticed him and paused for a moment with a bemused shrug. Peter, Remus noted, had stopped pestering James and was firmly under thrall to Kitty. In fact, it was a wonder that Peter was able to breathe at all, given the non-stop snogging going between those two.

"Here we go, darlin’," Lydia said cheerfully.

"What’s this, then? Am I going somewhere?" said Sirius thickly. "Don’t want to go. Like it here."

"Come on, then," Mai teased. "There’s no room for me. Let’s find a better spot, shall we?"

The two women coaxed Sirius to stand with some difficulty. He was very, very drunk and couldn’t keep from stumbling as they led him to a sofa. He sat heavily, or rather the women let him fall. His initial confusion dissolved into delight as Mai and Lydia settled themselves on either side of him. He put an arm around each woman and seemed to be the happiest of men.

"And you?"

Reluctantly, Remus turned his attention away from Sirius. He flushed and toyed with his half-empty glass, but thought better of drinking any more.

"What can we find to tempt the scholar?" Madam’s soft tone teased.

"Don’t," he said, more sharply than he’d intended. After a moment’s pause, he looked up at her and wished he hadn’t. "Don’t worry about me. As long as James is--as long as he enjoys himself, I really don’t care."

"Oh, but you do," said Madam knowingly. She had the round face of a saint in a Renaissance painting, imbued with secret knowledge whose depth can only be guessed by the viewer. "As for your friend," she glanced toward James and gave a small nod, "he’ll do all right."

A signal must have been passed, for Elsa whispered something to James, and then got him to his feet. He continued to chat easily with her as she led him toward the door.

"P’raps I’ll try a bath," James addressed Madam rather sheepishly as he passed the table, "and Elsa recommends a, er, massage. Tell the others that…" He glanced back at the room. Neither Peter nor Sirius, so solicitous a few minutes earlier, had noticed his departure. Remus bet himself that the ladies were distracting them on purpose.

"They can draw their own conclusions," said Remus with a shrug. "Have fun, mate."

James winced slightly at the word "fun" and his grin slipped down a notch.

"Don’t worry about it," Remus continued with a wry smile. "Just clear out before Peter notices or we’ll be here all night."

"Right," chuckled James. "See you, then."

And he was gone.

Remus sighed and poured himself more champagne, aware that Madam watched and waited, as careful as any tiger on the hunt. He envied the bubbles, squeezed on all sides down at the bottom of the glass and then shooting up through the wine to escape at the surface. Were they happy to be free?

His headache was back. He shouldn’t have drunk any champagne; and he certainly shouldn’t drink any more. But he took another sip anyway and wished he could get as blissfully pissed as Sirius.

Pop!

More champagne? No, something else had arrived. Under the table, the bony and knobby something bumped into his shins.

"Madam!" came a frantic whisper. A frightened house-elf poked its long nose out from under the table, caught sight of Remus and vanished back under the table with a squeak.

Madam leaned under the table and tried to calm the semi-coherent elf. The creature refused to come out, but after a moment it continued in a barely audible whisper: "Madam must come quickly! There is being a wand!"

She frowned, displeased, and dragged the house-elf from under the table. "Excuse me," she said to Remus with a tight, distracted smile.

The tiger wasn’t put off so easily; it nudged her insistently, but she paid it little heed. She had her arms full of a squirming house-elf.

"Stay here, Shambles," she commanded with a backward glance and then she closed the door on the unhappy tiger.

The cat growled and nudged the door with its nose. Remus wasn’t sure that he wanted to stay in the same room with an unhappy tiger. He checked on Sirius and Peter, to see if they’d noticed, but they were too absorbed. When he turned back, the tiger had worked open the door and slithered through. He poked his head outside the room and saw a blur of black and white vanish around a corner.

He followed the tiger, of course. But was he predator or was he prey?

Part 15: Wands and Shards

"Peter…Kitty’s got a surprise for you."

"Whah?" The room was spinning. Peter’d been too nervous to drink much before they came to Tigerseye, but now, sitting on the sofa with Kitty on his lap, he thought that he might’ve had just a bit too much champagne. He couldn’t remember.

"Mmm, yes. More than one surprise," she continued, her warm breath tickling his ear while her fingers tickled more sensitive parts. "Let’s go, then. Someplace more private."

"Have to talk to James first," Peter mumbled. Fear nibbled at the edges of his lust-induced lassitude. How could he have gotten so distracted? He needed to find out the location of the wedding or else…and he didn’t want to think about what "or else" meant.

"Don’t you mind about him," Kitty answered. She slid out of Peter’s lap and stood over him, hands on her hips. "You come along now."

"James? James!" Peter got to his feet and scanned the room. Panic brought him to his senses as quickly as any Sobering Spell. There was Sirius, sprawled on a sofa with Lydia and Mai, but James and that German woman were nowhere to be seen.

Peter got to his feet so fast that he felt dizzy. He stumbled across the room and, over Kitty’s pouting protests, threw himself at Sirius’s feet. His sweaty hands clutched his friend’s knee and his voice cracked as he cried out, "James is gone!"

It took Sirius a moment to turn his attention away from the giggling, whispering women and focus on his panicky friend.

"Peter, my dear sir." Sirius grinned, his head lolling on Lydia’s shoulder. "How the fuck are you? I’m doing fine myself."

"No! James!" Peter said breathlessly.

"Can’t fool me. You’re Peter, not James." Sirius wagged a finger with drunken smugness and then, satisfied with his powers of deduction, he began sloppily kissing Lydia, working his way down from her bare shoulder to the plunging neckline of her gown.

"Your friend’s gone off with Elsa," Mai said to Peter with a sly grin and winked at Kitty, who stood behind Peter.

"Come on, then. Up you get," Kitty said petulantly. She dug her long, iridescent green fingernails into Peter’s shoulder.

"James gone? Is that so?" Sirius lifted his head and looked around the room. "She’s right, you know. This woman is bloody brilliant!" He grinned, pulled Mai closer and kissed her.

James gone? All Peter’s previous good feelings evaporated like water on a hot griddle. How could he have let himself be so… distracted? The Dark Lord expected something from him--soon The Master often dealt as harshly with disobedient Death Eaters as with his enemies.

"Where?" he blurted out and pounded Sirius’s knee in frustration.

"What are you on about?" Sirius gave him a vacant stare that was part irritation and part stupor.

James was gone; Sirius was barely coherent. Peter suddenly thought that he might turn this to his advantage. What did he have to lose? Sirius probably wouldn’t remember this conversation later and, if so, James wouldn’t find out that it had ever taken place.

Peter took a deep breath. "James told me about the wedding, you know, where it is--"

"Bloody hell! He didn’t. That bastard; after all I’ve…" Sirius paused, letting his head fall heavily on Mai’s chest. His neck lolled at a relaxed angle that James would have envied earlier

"Too late for anything to go wrong, eh?" Peter stammered and tried to act jovial. Just a few clues and he could work it out. "So…James told me that it’s to be--that is, in a-a--" Peter faltered, his mind blank. What should he say? In a village? In a church?

"--Avebury!" roared Sirius, finishing Peter’s stuttered sentence for him. "He did tell you, then, that right ruddy bastard! He knows sod all about security!"

"Yes…Avebury," Peter ventured cautiously, realizing that he had just saved his own life -- if Sirius were to be believed.

"Yeah. James was thinking about Stonehenge at first, but Stonehenge has too many tourists and the idiots at the Ministry wouldn’t allow that many Muggle repple- repoll- repelling charms there."

"Isn’t the village right there--in the circle at Avebury, I mean? I would have thought that it would be difficult to secure a place like that. Won’t the Muggles--"

"That’s the beauty of it." Sirius laughed and wrapped his arms tightly about the waists of both women. "Hippies! We’re all going to look like a caravan of fucking flower children to the Muggles. Moody may be a bastard to work with, but he knows his stuff… be patrolling outside the whole time…doesn’t trust anyone."

"Moody’s going to--" Peter checked himself and went on with a laugh. "Doesn’t really matter, as long as we get James there on time." He didn’t want to seem too interested. The location would be enough, he reckoned. And what if the Death Eaters attacked? Peter told himself that he’d look after James, though not necessarily his Mudblood bride. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that, or maybe if Death Eaters did attack, Moody really would protect the wedding party.

Peter got to his feet. Relief washed over him, like a cool rain that finally breaks the heat on a stuffy summer day. He’d done it! He’d tricked Sirius--granted, his friend was so drunk that he was barely conscious--and he felt that sweet exhilaration that springs from getting away with something really clever. In later years the lies would come easier to Peter, but the pleasure would be more elusive. The lies would become so tangled up in one another, so hard to separate from the day-to-day existence that might be called "truth", that he wouldn’t feel this same pleasure, only panic at how the next lie should be framed.

"Any champagne left?" Peter said breathlessly.

"Let’s take it with us, shall we?" Kitty giggled. She plucked the bottle from the table and then dug her long fingernails into Peter’s arm. "If you’re a good boy, I’ll let you have some…"

"Take it with us? Where are…oh, yeah," Peter said with dawning comprehension. The Dark Mark on his arm tingled slightly, but he told himself that it would look too suspicious to the others if he disappeared from Tigerseye now. Best to go through with it--not that he was complaining.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Oy, Peter, need ‘nother little banishing charm-thingie to pick me up." Sirius looked around in confusion. Peter was nowhere to be seen. "Where’d he go?"

"Never mind him, darlin’. He’s got other things to keep him busy," said Lydia.

"Remus? Where’s the bloody Remus?" Sirius scanned the room and then looked from one woman to the other with a laugh. "Just the three of us, eh?"

"Here we go, darlin’," said Lydia as she struggled to stand. Sirius’s arm, wrapped around her waist, weighed her down like an anchor.

"Come on, then. It’s going to take both of us to get you out the door," Mai chimed in. She helped Lydia haul him up to a standing position. He wobbled between them, his head flopping back and forth between the women’s shoulders.

"You girls ready for me?" said Sirius woozily as the pair led him to the door.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Remus had seen the tiger vanish around a corner. He followed it along the narrow, dimly lit corridor past closed doors, lots of them. The doors looked all the same, giving no indication of who was inside, or what was happening. When he came to a point where the passageway branched to the right and to the left, he halted, out of breath and dizzy from too much champagne.

The inside of Tigerseye was as confusing as the mazelike alley leading to it--at least for visitors, who probably weren’t supposed to be wandering about unescorted. Remus didn’t want an escort. It felt good to get out of that room. He didn’t want to be there; he didn’t want to watch his friends slip away from him. But what did he expect? What man wouldn’t be tempted by these women? He especially didn’t want to find out what Madam had in store for him with her probing stares and pointed questions. He vexed her--he figured out that much--and she would try to find another woman who was more "suitable". Suitable? For a werewolf? He didn’t like to think that anyone could read him so easily. No witch would have him, in any case, so it was better not to try.

He glanced down both passages and listened, but heard only his own breathing. Something--a sound just out of conscious hearing or a predator’s intuition--made him decide to turn right. He walked rather than ran down this corridor, passing more doors on either hand. Nearing the next corner, he heard a scratching noise.

Around the corner, the big white tiger stood before a door, alternately pawing at the floor and nudging the handle with its nose. Remus approached the animal slowly, circling from behind so that he could stay as far away from its huge front paws as possible.

"Here now, what’s going on?" he whispered.

The tiger sat back on it haunches and roared. He took a step backward, prepared to flee, but the beast didn’t attack. Instead, it nudged the door with its nose.

"You want in," he said and stepped cautiously toward the door. "A wand would be handy right now. Haven’t got one, have you?"

The tiger nosed the door again in response. Remus eyed it warily and moved closer. He grasped the doorknob, watching the tiger all the while, and felt some resistance before it turned. Score one for primates and opposable thumbs. The beast stuck its huge head under his arm and pushed on the door.

"Persistent bugger. Let’s figure out what’s going on first," Remus said as he grabbed a handful of fur at the animal’s neck the way he’d seen Madam do earlier. He cracked open the door and voices spilled out.

"Bad man!" shrieked a house-elf from inside the room.

Madam murmured to the elf in a low voice. Then she said more distinctly: "That’s not permitted here, as you know. Be reasonable and we’ll be able to set things right."

A gravelly and belligerent voice answered, "Keep your little vermin away from me, then."

Remus was certain he’d heard the voice before, but he couldn’t remember where or when. He listened for more, and forgot about the tiger for a moment. The tiger hadn’t forgotten about getting in and, with a surge of white fur, the big cat shoved the door open. In the chaos that ensued, Remus slipped in, too, and closed the door behind him.

He took in the room like a series of Muggle photographs: Bed. Table. Chair. Chair overturned. Body on rug. Man next to bed. Body on bed. Arms, legs tangled in sheets. Blood.

"She is killed!" cried the house-elf and wriggled out of Madam’s grasp. The creature scampered frantically to the body of another elf that lay motionless in the center of the room.

"Don’t come any closer!" a man barked at the hysterical elf.

Remus blinked as the initial surge of adrenaline ebbed and he was able to think more clearly. The short, powerfully built man next to the bed had the arrogant stance of a bully. In another time and place, it might have been comical to see him, snarling and naked, jabbing his wand at the blubbering house-elf. However, the look of tense concentration on Madam’s face said that this was no joke. A house-elf had been killed or wounded, probably by the man with the wand, undoubtedly a customer--naked men surely did not just Apparate into Tigerseye--who had violated at least one house rule, since wands were not permitted. On the bed, Remus could see an arm and a glimpse of blond hair amidst a tangle of sheets. There was blood on the sheets, a lot of blood.

The tiger snarled. Madam threw her arms around the tiger’s neck while Remus wrapped his arms round the beast’s flanks and threw his weight back. Even with a werewolf’s strength, he strained to keep the tiger from lunging. He exchanged a quick glance with Madam; she looked puzzled but relieved.

"Shambles! No!" she commanded to the tiger. The cat growled at her, but was no longer poised to strike.

"Get that animal out of here!" the man ordered.

In a flash, Remus recognized the voice and put it together with the man’s heavyset swagger. Twenty-four hours ago, though it seemed like days, this man had been wearing the black cloak and mask of a Death Eater, and had brought down the unicorn in Keitynys Wood for his master, Lord Voldemort.

Mulciber.

"You will not come to harm, if you stop threatening my staff," said Madam in a calm, measured voice, though tension sang beneath her words. "Otherwise I cannot be responsible for--"

"You can’t touch me, you pathetic lot of Squibs," spat Mulciber contemptuously; he pointed his wand first at the tiger and then at the house-elf. "Call off your beast and get rid of the vermin."

The body on the bed moved; the woman--no, it was a man--fought the tangled sheets and tried to sit up. The man’s eyes had a dazed, unfocused look. He was bleeding from several long gashes on his chest and abdomen. Knife wounds, or were there ways to make such precise cuts with a wand, Remus wondered, ways a Death Eater might know? Blood was smeared everywhere, but the man on the bed didn’t seem aware of his injuries. Remus had seen that look of placid unconcern before, when he’d watched his schoolmates one by one succumb to the Imperius curse that an Auror had demonstrated to them in seventh year. Death Eaters used Unforgivables. Remus had read about such things in the paper: dry reports, stripped of all connection with the victim or the crime. It was one thing to think about the calculated coldness of a spy and or an unwitting assassin made possible by Imperius, but quite another to consider taking someone against his will and doing… whatever Mulciber had been doing. Was it for pleasure? Could you call it that?

Remus felt as if he’d come upon an entirely different species, like a fish staring at a squirrel and trying to make sense of the absurdity of breathing air and climbing trees. The tiger shuddered, strained to break free of his grasp. At that moment, Remus felt more kinship with the tiger than he did with the human wielding the wand.

"No!" shrieked the house-elf. With a wave of its bony arms, a ceramic bowl and pitcher rose from the bedside table and flew toward Mulciber’s head.

The house-elf’s missiles didn’t reach their target; Mulciber blasted the pottery with his wand, causing shards to rain down on the bed. The bleeding man cried out weakly and tried to protect himself. Mulciber paid no attention to his former victim, but leveled his wand at the elf with a hard expression set on his face.

At the same time, Madam opened her mouth, the tiger snarled and tried to wriggle out of Remus’s grip and the injured man stumbled off the bed, shoving Mulciber from behind. A flash of green sparks shot from the wand, but missed the house-elf. The elf shrieked and launched itself at Mulciber, fastening itself onto his wand arm. The bleeding man lurched forward and Madam caught him before he fell. The tiger finally worked free of Remus’s grip and sprang. Mulciber tried to shake off the elf and dodge the tiger--and the wand slipped out of his hand.

"Stop!" Remus roared, but in the chaos around him, neither man nor beast heeded him. Time slowed to a crawl for Remus as the wand sailed upward in an arc and hung in the air. He leaped forward and caught it.

Mulciber threw the house-elf down and scrambled over the bed. He flung open another door and then slammed it. Remus beat the tiger to the door and managed to get through first. Behind him, Madam called out a sharp command in some language Remus didn’t understand.

Through the door was a larger room with a rectangular pool at its center, one of Tigerseye’s famous baths, unoccupied at the moment. Several other doors led out of the room; Remus wanted to make sure they weren’t used for escape.

"Mulciber!"

The man stopped and turned. "How do you--"

"I know who you are… and what you are," Remus replied hoarsely, fighting to catch his breath and to appear calmer than he felt. He pointed the wand and was pleased that his hand didn’t shake.

"Go ahead and try. I’d like to bloody see that," Mulciber shot back. He stood with his hands on his hips and his feet planted in the wide stance of an overconfident bully.

Remus said nothing, but sent a shower of red sparks dancing toward the other man’s feet. The tiger snarled in the next room. Remus heard snatches of voices, too. He hoped Madam could control the tiger. He didn’t want to deal with a Death Eater and an enraged tiger at the same time.

"No fucking Squib, are you?" Mulciber seemed surprised for a moment, but quickly regained his arrogant bluster. "What do you care about the vermin at a place like this? I have friends, powerful friends, who wouldn’t like to see this… get blown out of proportion. Give me the wand and no one’s the wiser."

"Blown out of proportion?" Remus chuckled dryly, though his face was grim; the situation was anything but funny. "You’ve used a wand illegally, likely killed a house-elf, wounded someone--oh, and used an Unforgiveable curse on top of that. That’s enough to get you sent to Azkaban several times over."

"Not bloody likely." Mulciber laughed harshly. "You want to be on the winning side, don’t you? My friends reward those who are helpful." He took a step toward Remus with one meaty hand held out in front of him, demanding. "Rewards are better than punishment, eh?"

Remus raised the wand and tried to clear his mind. Rewards had been offered by Lord Voldemort, too, with the promise that the Dark would take him in, where the wizarding world had rejected him, the Dark would value his power, where others had feared it. Oh, there was an allure and the Dark Lord’s supporters were powerful--but was this how they used their power?

The tiger’s growls surged to a roar. Remus turned around to a blur of white fur and blue eyes coming at him fast.

Impact. Pain. Voices--far away.

Then nothing.

Part 16: Tea and Tigers

"Dipsy is not dead, Sir! Sir has saved her! Brave Sir!"

A house-elf was pulling on his arm. Pain. Where? Other arm. Left side. A highway of fire ran from elbow to shoulder. More details: he was lying on a sofa; he recognized the house-elf, but he didn’t recognize the room, though he must still be in Tigerseye. He groaned and tried to sit up.

"No!" squeaked the house-elf. "Sir must lie down! Madam orders Netty to watch over Sir."

"Not Sir--Remus. Please call me Remus." He raised himself up slowly on one elbow, swung his legs off the sofa, and then pushed up to a sitting position. His head pounded and he wondered how long he’d been unconscious. Blood oozed from two long scratches that ran from shoulder to elbow. The left sleeve of his Muggle shirt was ripped and soaked with blood. Even in his muddled state, he knew what had scratched him, but how and what had happened afterward were blank.

"Mister Remus Sir must lie down!" Netty the house-elf tugged at Remus’s right arm.

"Or at least elevate that arm."

He turned at the sound of Madam’s voice. She stood in back of him, her hands resting on the sofa. The albino doorman loomed large behind her. Remus couldn’t see the white tiger, but he hoped that it had gone somewhere else.

"Netty, bring tea and a large bowl of water," Madam commanded, though her tone was not harsh.

The house-elf reluctantly dropped Remus’s hand and bowed her head. A tea service winked into existence on the low table in front of the sofa and next to it appeared a large bowl of water. "Would Madam be wanting anything else?" asked Netty, eager to please and reluctant to leave.

"That will be all," Madam replied as she walked around the sofa. She ignored the departure of the house-elf and turned her attention to Remus, her expression momentarily hard and calculating, then shifting to one of kindly concern. "What must you think of Tigerseye? We don’t usually treat our guests so poorly, I assure you."

"Is everything--everyone all right?" Remus said, the pain in his arm momentarily forgotten. If the tiger had done this to him, what about Mulciber? And then there were his victims…

"You got the worst of it, I’m afraid." She sat down next to him, on his left side, and directed her eyes at his bloody arm. "Dipsy was stunned, but came around; house-elves have amazing resilience, you know. I’ve sent Daniel off to St. Mungo’s as he was obviously cursed, though it seems that he’ll recover. As for you…"

The flowing skirt of her dress cascaded like a waterfall in moonlight; her perfume, musky and spicy, assaulted Remus, who realized that he must smell of fear and too much drink. He drew away from her, but she laid a hand on his knee--a gentle, unspoken command.

"Here, let’s get your shirt off and have a look," she said in a businesslike tone, as if patching up wounded guests was an everyday occurrence. She waved at the silent doorman, who lumbered over to stand next to the sofa.

Remus tried to work the buttons of his shirt, but found that he couldn’t manage one-handed--his left arm would not bend properly and the fingers felt thick and uncooperative.

Madam clucked to herself as she efficiently unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off his uninjured arm. He winced as she gently worked the bloody sleeve off his other arm. "Does it hurt much?"

"Yes, a bit," Remus said through clenched teeth. His arm hurt more than he wanted to admit. "What about that man? The tiger didn’t…?"

"Mikkel arrived in time." She nodded to the albino. "He was able to pull Shambles off before anyone else was hurt." She finished taking the shirt off, folded it, and handed it to the impassive servant who towered above her. In return, he handed her a cloth bundle, bowed solemnly, then left the room silently.

"Long scratches, but not particularly deep," she murmured as she examined his arm. "There’s not much muscle damage, but the scars will stand out a bit if it’s not healed." She ran her fingers gently down his arm and then, turning to the bowl on the table, dipped a small towel in the water. As she sponged the bloody arm, she said, "I’m grateful for your help. Things might have turned out very badly."

Remus looked away, uncertain how to reply. The room was smaller and less grand than the Victorian parlor, the furniture mismatched and slightly shabby. A wooden rocking chair with needlepoint cushions stood next to the sofa. A couple of low shelves were filled haphazardly with books; he strained to read the titles, but couldn’t. Framed photographs crowded in front of the books, mostly depicting exotic and unfamiliar places. This seemed to be Madam’s private parlor and Remus guessed he’d been brought there by the giant doorman, though how much time had passed, he couldn’t guess.

When she finished washing his arm, the towel was stained with blood, as were her fingers and the front of her dress. She didn’t appear bothered by this and, with no wasted motion, she wiped her hands on a clean towel. "I’ll cover this for now, but…" she said and took a roll of gauze from the bundle at her feet. "We have a Healer on call. She can heal this--"

"No, please don’t…bother," Remus said quickly. "I get scratched all the time--not by tigers, mind--and I can take care of it later."

"As you wish," she replied. After she wrapped the wound and expertly tucked the end of the gauze into the folds to secure it, she ran her fingers lightly over the bandage. Then she brushed her fingers over the old scar on his forearm and said mildly, "Imagine thinking that a werewolf’s blood is dangerous, especially when the moon’s not full. Yet most people, even some Healers, believe that, don’t they?"

Remus pulled his arm away, panic rising in his throat. "I don’t know what you mean."

"One doesn’t forget that sort of scar." Madam eyed him coolly, with no sign of the fear or the pity that he expected.

"I suppose you get werewolves in here all the time," Remus said harshly. He stood up, swaying as a wave of dizziness hit. He had to get out of there--wherever "there" was. James and the others didn’t need him anymore; he was free to go. Lost in the labyrinth of Tigerseye, he had no idea how to find his way out, but that didn’t matter.

"Not that I know of, although you wouldn’t generally announce to the world, would you?" She rose and put her hand flat against his bare chest. "Sit. You’re not ready to go anywhere just yet." She pushed lightly and he fell backward, grabbing the back of the sofa with his right hand in order to steady himself. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to flee, she reached down to the cloth bundle on the floor.

"This should fit you, though perhaps it’s not your style. Daniel let me have one of his. Although he wasn’t very coherent when he left, he was grateful to you." She handed him a pale blue silk shirt. " I’ll be back in a moment and then let’s have a cup of tea, shall we? We still have things to discuss. In case you’re wondering, I knew a werewolf once, a long time ago." Resignation tinged with bitterness crept into her voice. She shook her head, as if to dislodge an unpleasant memory, and turned toward a door, though not the one through which the albino had exited. "And I spent a good deal of time patching him up," she called over her shoulder as she disappeared.

The lingering warmth where she’d touched him reminded Remus of how chilled he’d become. His arm throbbed and he was grateful for the pain that provided an anchor for his confused mind, in danger of drifting into a whirlpool of half-formed questions and hazy memories. He shivered, whether from cold or fatigue he couldn’t tell.

Remus stared at the closed door. The shirt that she’d given him--lithe, silky and alien--slipped between his fingers. A whore’s shirt, he thought and then, I shouldn’t be surprised. But he was. A club like Tigerseye catered to many different tastes, so why shouldn’t there be men there as well as women? Suddenly he felt very provincial and very young--even though he’d be twenty in a few months.

The room was sucking heat away from him as he fumbled with the slippery shirt. His teeth chattered and a thin layer of sweat covered his back. Lack of sleep and too much to drink were partly responsible, but he was beginning to suspect that he’d lost a lot of blood. The bulky bandage on his left arm kept snagging on the shirtsleeve and the wound was throbbing by the time he pulled the sleeve completely over his shoulder. He coaxed the fingers of his left hand to grasp the front of the shirt so that he could button it with his right. The long sleeves flopped past his wrists and had no buttons so he rolled them up as best he could. It would have to do. Wrapped in the warmth of the shirt--surprising considering how light it had seemed at first--Remus closed his eyes.

"It fits, I see."

Remus blinked. Had he fallen asleep? Madam stood before him. She’d exchanged her blood-spattered gown for one of deepest blue, with long sleeves that flowed over her wrists and swayed as she moved. Shambles stood beside her, an explosion of white and black against the blue.

The big cat rumbled and nuzzled him on the leg. He pushed himself stiffly back into the cushions of the sofa, although this time he had the distinct impression that the tiger was purring. "No hard feelings?" Remus said as he gave the tiger a tentative scratch between the ears.

"Shambles was trying to protect us, I hope you understand."

"And you couldn’t…" There are times when information spontaneously rearranges itself, when chords heard in isolation come together to form a recognizable tune. "…couldn’t use magic to defend them because--He was right, then, when he called you…"

"’A pathetic lot of Squibs?’" she said lightly and sat down in the rocking chair next to the sofa. "It’s not a secret exactly, but one does not talk about it, you understand. While our license from the Ministry clearly states no wands, there’s no formal requirement for us to be… not very adept at magic. But emotions run high in this business and bringing magic into the mix… can cause unpleasant problems. We occasionally get a client like the one tonight. You can see why we’re required to take their wands away. I’m not sure that a wizard would feel safe at Tigerseye any other way, come to think of it."

Remus tried to make sense of all she said. A whole new world, hitherto unseen and uncomprehended, presented itself to him. He had sometimes wondered how those without the ability to do magic survived in the wizarding world, which was not exactly friendly to Squibs. At least those who worked at Tigerseye were well paid.

"Tea?"

Remus started; the fog cleared from his head as if blown by a gust of wind. Madam held a cup out to him. Tea with milk. He took it and sipped. And sugar. Not his preference, but probably not a bad idea considering how shaky he still felt.

"Tell me about my uncooperative guest." She settled back into the rocking chair. Her hands fluttered in front of her, the long sleeves of her gown dancing in their own little wind.

"What?"

"You called him by name, so I assume that you know him."

"Mulciber, that’s his name, though I don’t actually know him."

"Ah, that is not the name he gave me, but that’s not unusual," she said. "He came in this evening with a key from a man who is well known here, a man from a very prominent family, in the same way that you and your friends did. However, Mr. Mulciber’s behavior was illegal and…" She searched for a word, frowning, and then laughed. "…uncivilized to say the least. I shall have to have a talk with the gentleman who gave him the key."

"Be careful what you say," Remus blurted out, then checked himself. Was it really his business to point the finger at Mulciber? Besides, he didn’t expect most people to believe a werewolf when it came to informing on Dark wizards. I have friends, powerful friends, the man had said. Remus’s stomach took a sudden lurch and his chest tightened at the thought of Mulciber’s friends.

"He’s a Death Eater."

Once the words had escaped his lips--clearly, firmly, without hesitation--he knew that the Dark had no claims on him, save in death, and that he would never walk such a path willingly. He’d seen what Voldemort and his supporters were capable of, and it sickened him. Even though most of the wizarding world had no use for him, he’d stick with the few friends that he had rather than surrender to the depravity that he’d seen last night and tonight.

"You’re sure?" she asked calmly, as if she were counting Galleons or inventorying linens, not discussing the scourge of the wizarding world. "That accusation should not be made lightly."

…by a creature of Darkness. Is that what she meant? Remus wondered. He searched her face before answering and saw nothing of the doubt and mistrust that experience told him to expect. "Last night I--I saw him masked and cloaked, in the company of…others like him. I won’t forget his voice or his manner." Her eyes widened at his admission, but she didn’t ask the obvious question of why he had been in the company of Death Eaters. "He as much as admitted it to me when I confronted him. I don’t think he was too thrilled with me," Remus chuckled, pleased to have something to laugh at.

"And perhaps he shall not be too thrilled with Tigerseye," Madam said thoughtfully. "As you said, I should be careful about what I say and to whom I talk. I know someone in the Ministry who will listen to me--off the record, that is."

Madam frowned to herself, lost in thought for a minute, and then smiled at him. "I’m grateful to you twiceover. How should we repay you, mmm?"

"Another cup of tea," Remus answered quickly. Before she could continue, he thrust his half-empty teacup toward her. He watched her graceful orchestration of the teapot and the tea strainer. She concentrated on pouring for a moment, then fussed with resettling the tea cozy precisely on the pot before continuing. She looked up, the shifting color of her eyes solidifying into a green light that shot right through him.

"Ah, you have little faith in us, or is it a matter of trust?" There was a mischievous glint in her eye as she continued, "I should have figured out from the first that when a man called Remus shows up, he might be a werewolf."

"You’d be surprised; most people don’t figure it out." Remus marveled at her coolness. "But the name’s not deliberate--a cruel trick of fate is more like it. And it’s worse than you suppose since my last name is Lupin." She frowned slightly, not understanding, then smiled gently. And laughed. She had a laugh like silk sliding across bare skin and Remus found himself wanting to keep saying amusing things, just to hear her laugh again. "My father was a classics scholar, a Muggle who married a witch. When his only child was bitten by a werewolf, I think that he bore it all rather well." Remus smiled, although the memory of his father nudged him toward a more melancholy country. "At least he didn’t throw me out or pack up and leave. That happens a lot when children get bitten. Parents can’t handle it and…" He shrugged. "There’s an office in the Ministry that tries to find foster homes, but not many are willing to take in a werewolf."

The tiger, sprawled on the floor next to Madam, rumbled and shook its head; Remus couldn’t tell if it was commenting on werewolves or just randomly growling.

"Yes, perhaps Squibs have it easier in that regard. Hush, Shambles." She reached out a hand and ruffled the fur on the tiger’s neck. This seemed to calm the beast. "The boy that I knew, the one who was a werewolf, had been thrown out by his parents when he was twelve. He’d had a hard life by the time I bumped into him at seventeen. It was in Paris. He wasn’t…" She frowned and looked down at her hands, searching for the right word. "He wasn’t always the nicest person, to me especially, but he protected me when I needed it and I--tried to help him."

She looked up and shook her head in confusion, her mind only half in the room with him. He thought that he saw her clearly for the first time, and realized how skilled an actress she was, able to be whomever he might wish her to be. Was this an act, too, or did he glimpse what normally lay beneath a mask? How could he tell… and why did it matter?

He jerked his head away in embarrassment. I’m too tired for this, he thought. I should go. But, he took another sip of tea instead.

"Sybil."

"What?"

"If you want to talk about an unfortunate choice in names," she said. "Sybil is the name my parents gave me. They had high hopes, you see, that I would find a career in Divination. It runs in the family. But, I had no talent for Divination, let alone any other magic. I couldn’t go to school, so I became an embarrassment. When I was fifteen, my mother quite unexpectedly had another child. Oh, their hopes were pinned on that little baby. I left, even before the child was born."

"Premonition or something?" Remus said, realizing at once how stupid he must sound.

But, she didn’t seem displeased; instead she smiled sadly, her face haunted by a faraway expression. "It turns out that I was good at a sort of Divination. I could tell a man’s past and future after only a few minutes of acquaintance. It served me well."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, dear, there aren’t many jobs available to fifteen-year olds who find themselves on the street, with little education or money, are there? And, I was rather… well-developed for my age."

"Oh." Remus understood, suddenly and painfully, and wished he hadn’t asked, nor gotten an answer. He clutched the fragile china teacup as if it could shield him and, over the rim, glanced up at the woman, at Sybil.

"You have to play the hand you’re been dealt." She arched her eyebrows, amused and resigned at the same time. "It does no good, wishing to be something you’re not."

"Or wanting to change the past," Remus added. He set his teacup down and looked away from her, thinking of how he’d berated and tortured himself for so long with a frustrating series of ‘what if’s. "What if I’d never been bitten?" had been the chief of these and had tormented him for years. As he thought about it now, he realized that the hateful question had gradually faded, replaced by "What if I’d never met James and Sirius and Peter?"

"What happened to the werewolf you knew?" Remus asked, fearing the answer, but needing it nonetheless.

"Oh, that was so long ago," she said slowly, frowning at the memory. "I left Paris after a while and drifted here and there; eventually I came back to England. I haven’t tried to find him again--didn’t want to after… all that happened. I shouldn’t suppose that he came to a good end, though. He had quite a temper and didn’t get along well with people." She sighed, then smiled wryly. "That’s what you wanted to hear, though."

"Perhaps not," Remus said, "but I’m not surprised, at any rate."

She started to speak, but halted. There was a tapping noise and Remus turned around. A door behind him opened and there stood the tall albino. Madam rose and beckoned to him. The huge doorman had to stoop to enter the room. He had to bend over, too, to whisper something in Madam’s ear.

"Mikkel reminds me that it’s getting late," she said with a nod to the impassive servant. He handed her the box that contained their wands and something else that glinted gold, Peter’s key maybe. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed him and then turned to Remus. "Your friends are waiting."

Remus rose, feeling bruised and stiff. Madam had once again donned the mask of the pleasant and efficient hostess. He felt vaguely dissatisfied and rushed, and no longer wanted to leave. But he took the arm that she offered him and tried to think practical thoughts about the soon-to-be-married James and whether Sirius would be sober in time for the wedding.

Part 17: Dawn’s Early Light

Where was everyone?

Peter poked into corners and looked behind tapestries, but found little of interest in this new room. The décor was solid and tasteful, nothing as gaudy as the other rooms he’d seen at Tigerseye. Flames crackled and popped in a large fireplace, but there wasn’t much in the way of furnishings, just a central circular table and some benches. There were more of those funny paintings on the walls, like the ones they’d seen on their arrival; at least some of the scenes depicted now made sense to Peter. Sirius’s and Remus’s coats now hung on the wall; their boots, all four pairs, were now lined up neatly on the floor. Obviously, he was the first to be done. Was that bad? Should it have taken longer?

He tried to find his watch to check the time, but remembered that he’d taken his watch off. The Dark Mark on his arm burned; the pain had been increasing steadily. He’d refused to take off his shirt for fear that the mark on his arm would be visible, but the watch… He found it in his jacket pocket. Nearly four o’clock and his report was overdue.

Where were his friends, and where were their wands? With no place else to try, he searched the others’ coats. He was panicking, and he knew it. Would the information that he’d gleaned be enough to satisfy the Dark Lord? Each task he completed only led to an escalation of demands; the next would be that Peter join Dumbledore’s group like all his friends had. Peter had resisted, not willing to admit to himself what he really was, but after this…. The Master had made it clear that Peter had to do more.

"Oy! Get your hands off me bloody jacket!"

Peter turned guiltily, half-choking and half-gasping. Sirius stood grinning at him, a towel casually draped around his neck. His short black hair glistened with water, as if Padfoot had been swimming.

"Oh! It’s you! Where’s everyone else? And why is your hair wet? Are you supposed to get your hair wet?" Peter stammered, wondering if he’d missed out on something.

Sirius laughed and rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel. "How’re you feeling, Peter?"

"Er, fine, I guess," Peter said, not really knowing what the right answer was. "How about you?"

"Great!" Sirius replied, slicing the air with the towel like a scimitar. He snapped it at Peter, who jumped back and bumped into the table. "I haven’t felt this good in days!"

"You were rather… intoxicated back there and I wondered if you…" Peter’s hands gripped the edges of the table behind him. Sirius punched him on the arm and answered the question that Peter was afraid to ask.

"Yeah, I was right pissed, wasn’t I? I wish I remembered more of it." Sirius laughed carelessly, but then went on, concern evident in his tone, "After the limericks, things get a bit hazy. Do you think that James was…was enjoying himself? He didn’t sit around like some bloody old lady, did he?"

"Well, he seemed to be getting along with that woman, so far as I could see." Peter paused. His mouth had gone dry and his tongue seemed to have swelled, making it difficult to speak. "You really don’t remember…?"

"Not much," said Sirius shaking his head. "Why? Did I do something stupid? Stupider than usual?"

"No more than usual." Peter was suddenly attacked by a fit of giggles; the burning, itching pain of the Dark Mark on his arm stopped him just as suddenly. "Right. I think I’ll just get my boots on, okay? I’m sure the others will be here soon."

Sirius followed Peter. As they sat on a bench together and put on their boots, he asked, "So how was she, that little redhead of yours?"

"Fine, I guess," Peter stammered in response and turned as red as only someone with fair skin can do.

"Fine? C’mon, Peter," Sirius said with a scowl, pretending to be irritated for a moment before punching Peter on the arm and laughing heartily. "You can do better than that. Tell Uncle Padfoot all about it."

Peter was saved from the Inquisition when the door that led back to the grand hall opened. He and Sirius both looked up at the sound of James’s voice.

"Thanks for…everything," Sirius heard James say. "Yes, I’ll send you pictures."

Elsa, in a flowery pink dressing gown, came into view through the doorway. She gave James an enthusiastic hug and murmured something in German, just out of Sirius’s hearing. When James finally entered the room, he looked flushed.

"What are you blokes staring at?" said James irritably.

"Pictures? You’re going to send her pictures?" Sirius jumped up and hooted with laughter. "And what’s that you’ve got?"

James looked down at the little parcels he carried, slightly embarrassed. "Just a few things that Elsa gave me: cookies that her grandmother makes and…oh, it’s not important."

"And what? You’re holding out on us, Prongs." Sirius danced around him, feinting punches at his friend.

"Just some, er, salve that she gave me for… Lily." James responded sheepishly, then said more defiantly, "She was very insistent and I didn’t want to disappoint her." He raised his fists in mock defense.

"Hey! You’re not all cramped up anymore," Sirius chortled. "How’d that happen? She must have been good, eh?"

"Had a massage and all that." James mumbled, the color of his face a little redder. He looked around the room, and then fixed on his boots. "Better finish getting…better put on my boots, that is."

"’…and all that’? Care to elaborate about ‘and all that’?" Sirius trailed him, relishing his friend’s discomfort.

"No, I do not," replied James firmly as he yanked his boots up from the floor. He sat on a bench and began to pull on his boots, saying, "How about you then? Had enough to drink last night? I’ll bet you were really ‘up’ for it, weren’t you?"

"I fell right to sleep, can you believe that? They had to pour a bucket of water on my head to wake me up." Sirius exploded with laughter. He was feeling too good to do anything but tell the truth. "The nap was just what I needed."

Sirius danced a jig to show off his newly found energy. James rose, laughing too, and slapped his friend on the back. He could never stay angry with Sirius for long. "You look it, mate. You ready for this wedding? I tell you, I could use a bit of sleep. And how about you, Peter?" James turned to Peter, who’d been watching the two of them, wide-eyed, in silence.

"I’m all right." Peter winced and scratched his left forearm. "I’d really like to go…" He stood and then drifted around the room as he rambled, clutching his left arm protectively. "I’ve looked around and haven’t been able to find our wands, you know, but if they’d give them back, we could get out of here and…get some sleep before the wedding."

All three fell silent, each having said all--or perhaps more--than he wanted to. James felt relieved when a house-elf arrived with coffee and tea, which provided a welcome distraction, at least for Sirius whose fondness for coffee bordered on addiction.

"Mister Remus Sir!" squealed the house-elf when Remus arrived a few moments later accompanied by Madam and the tiger. It scampered across the room and tugged on Remus’ trouserlegs like a dog that’s ready for walkies.

James and Sirius exchanged puzzled glances. Remus was limping slightly and held one of his arms at an odd angle, as if it wouldn’t move properly. He wasn’t wearing the threadbare flannel shirt any more either. The house-elf’s effusive familiarity bore some investigating, James decided, but later and in private.

"About bloody time!" Sirius grumbled loudly, although he grinned, having lost none of his cheerful good will.

"Gentlemen," said Madam, smoothly detaching herself from Remus’s arm, "I trust you’ve all enjoyed yourselves?" Her question was greeted by a chorus of mumbles. She handed the box of wands to Sirius and said with a chuckle, "I’ll take that as a positive response."

Sirius put down his coffee cup and took the box. He turned it over in his hands, making sure that this was the box he’d remembered, then he put his palm down on the top and the color changed from blue to black. Sirius opened the box and took out his own wand, then tossed the others theirs. Remus fumbled his catch, but the house-elf scrambled for it on the floor and gave it to him.

"That will be all, Netty," Madam said to the elf, who vanished with a Pop! She turned her attention to the men. "You may Apparate, if you wish, or take those doors, which lead out to Seven Shoe Alley. If you’re too tired to Apparate--I know it’s late--there’s Floo powder here as well."

"You don’t give out rain checks, do you?" asked Sirius. "What if someone falls asleep, for example, and can’t… "

She laughed merrily and answered, "I am sorry, Sirius, but a key is needed to get back into Tigerseye. We should love to see you again, but I’m afraid you’ll have to prevail on Mr. Pettigrew’s generosity. And speaking of that, here is your key, Peter."

Peter examined the ornate gold key that she gave him suspiciously, as if it might have changed during the time they’d been there. Satisfied that it was unharmed, he put it in the pocket of his trousers. Although he smiled, he didn’t seem much relieved.

"And how is our bridegroom feeling?" she said pleasantly to James. "Did you find Tigerseye as relaxing as promised?"

James eyed Sirius warily, sure that anything he said would be amplified and misinterpreted. "I told Elsa that I’d send photos from the wedding so that you can see how it all turns out. Er, thanks…and all that."

"Your bride is a very lucky woman," said Madam. With that, she leaned close to James and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Off you get now. I’m sure you’ll want to sleep as much as you can."

James stepped toward the fireplace resolutely, but then turned to look at his friends: Peter nervously plucking at the sleeve of his jacket, Sirius grinning and more relaxed than he’d been in weeks, and Remus kneeling down to pet the big white tiger that had mysteriously befriended him. James cleared his throat, smiled at them, and then didn’t quite know where to begin. "I’ve had a few adventures with you, but this one--"

"Aw, Prongs, not a speech! I’m going to go all weepy if you make a speech," Sirius jeered, rocking on the balls of his feet as he often did when he was spoiling for a good row..

"--was one of the best," James continued. "Sirius, I thought I was going to have to muzzle you a couple of times this evening--if Remus didn’t beat me to it. Peter, you’re a man of unsuspected resources, courage and nerve, though I hope your father never finds out just how resourceful you are. And Remus…I don’t know how or why you put up with the lot of us, but I’m glad you do."

Sirius mimed wiping his eyes with larger-than-life gestures and then flung his arms out, as if to give James a hug. James laughed and then took a handful of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantelpiece, threw it into the flames and said, "Godric’s Hollow." James was to meet Lily at the little house he’d recently bought. The flames flared green and he stepped in, calling over his shoulder before he disappeared, "And don’t be late, any of you!"

"Yeah, we can’t afford to have the ushers be late," Sirius said, looking pointedly at Remus.

"Mmm?" Remus looked up from where he’d knelt down to pet the tiger, which was trying give the side of his face a good washing with its rough tongue. "Hey, Shambles," Remus said and playfully pushed the tiger’s head away. "That’s enough of that." He stood up, one hand on the tiger’s back to steady himself. "Are you still going to come back to my mum’s with me?"

Sirius nodded and said, "I think we’d better take Floo powder. You don’t look like you should be Apparating. Now, Peter--" Crack! Sirius turned around, but Peter had vanished. "Hmph. How do you like that? Apparated away right from under our noses." He turned to Madam, uncertain what to say. "We’d better get going, eh?"

She smiled openly and then gave him a light kiss on the cheek, as she had James. "We shan’t forget you, Sirius. You were one of the most entertaining guests we’ve had in a long time. And you…" She turned to Remus, her expression still warm, but more complex.

Remus met her gaze for a moment, then shook his head dismissively and looked down at his feet. She took his hand and held it for a moment, until he glanced up at her again, surprise evident on his face. "You don’t have to…" he said softly.

"We shall see," she said and laughed in a way that said the conversation was at an end. "Come on, Shambles, let’s not keep the gentlemen any longer." With that, she turned for the door, not looking back again. The tiger followed her, its rumbling purr adding the final punctuation before the door closed.

Sirius took a handful of Floo powder and stared at Remus thoughtfully. "Ready?"

"Hang on. We forgot our jackets and I need my boots," Remus said and limped over to the last remaining pair.

"All right, come clean," Sirius said as he plucked their jackets from where they were hanging. He watched Remus struggle to put first one boot and then the other on while leaning against the wall. "Either you were into something really kinky involving a tiger and a house-elf or…"

"Or what? Yes, that certainly is an interesting question, Sirius," Remus drawled with amusement. He jammed one hand into the pocket of trousers and slowly made his way to the fireplace. "Let’s just say that the tiger and I came to an understanding."

Sirius snorted in disbelief. Remus didn’t know what to believe as he fingered the heavy gold key in his pocket, not Peter’s key, but the one that she had pressed into his hand, the key to Tigerseye.

~ Epilogue ~

The Party’s Over

there is a calm I haven't come to yet
I spent half my life figuring what comes next
I telescoped in
I'll finally win
I'll finally win the prize
that now my eyes see
a comic's perfect timing squeezed
I'm headfirst fighting everything
the crushing force of memory
erasing all I've been

~ R.E.M., Disappear

Averbury, 1979

English weather being what it was, "perfect" was hard to achieve. A passing shower had briefly wet the turf early on, but the sun had put in an appearance round noon and thereafter had peeked through the clouds occasionally. Even a downpour wouldn’t have dampened the spirits of the wedding party on that day, however. Just being outside and witness to such an occasion was enough for many of the guests to call it a perfect day.

James Potter and his bride stood underneath an arbor twined with climbing roses, bidding farewell to the guests. James’s parents chatted with Lily’s parents. Dumbledore was having a last word with Lily while Minerva McGonagall dabbed her eyes with a tartan handkerchief. Other guests stood in little knots, their eyes on the couple.

"James thought we already played a prank on him, you see," Peter whispered to Remus, as he glanced over at the newly married couple. "But the thing with the cake was to throw him off. Where is Sirius? He ought to be here for this. They’re about to leave." Peter turned slightly so that his back was to the bride and groom and went on conspiratorially, "I’ve been practicing doing this spell behind my back, so James won’t think it’s me. Except Sirius is supposed to provide a diversion, but where is he?"

A ripple passed through the crowd. Conversations ebbed away as all eyes turned to the newlyweds. James and Lily waved as guests threw rice and birdseed, which transformed into butterflies and tiny golden birds that flitted over the couple’s heads. They dropped their hands and prepared to Disapparate (and no one, not even Dumbledore, knew where the honeymoon was to be). Peter twitched his wand surreptitiously. The crowd gasped as, for an instant, James’s clothes vanished and then reappeared. Peter turned to look over his shoulder as a startled James mouthed the words "I am going to get you" before Disapparating.

"Did you see the look?" Peter choked out the words in between laughter.

"Excellent, Peter, excellent," Remus laughed. "Sirius is going to be sorry he missed it."

"I dare say Professor Flitwick would have given full marks for that charm, Peter." Dumbledore ambled over to the two friends, a twinkle of merriment in his eyes.

"Don’t know what you mean," chortled Peter, pleased by the headmaster’s praise.

Sirius suddenly appeared, darting through the crowd toward them. He was out of breath when he arrived.

"You just missed--"

"Moody. Needs help," Sirius panted. Dumbledore became grave at this, while Peter blanched, all the happiness draining from his face. Sirius caught his breath and went on, "I went to check on him and he wasn’t at his post. I found him outside the security perimeter, wounded. Whoever attacked him retreated into those trees just beyond the circle, I think, but they’ll be back."

"Show me," Dumbledore said.

Peter and Remus trailed behind the long strides of Sirius Black and Albus Dumbledore away from the village and toward a copse of trees. A lonely stone marked the edge of the circle at that point, standing upright like a warning finger. At its base, Alastor Moody lay slumped, almost unrecognizable. The Auror grinned when he saw Dumbledore, though one side of his face ran with blood and his nose didn’t seem to be entirely there. One leg was a bloody mess of blood and bone. Peter winced and clutched Remus’s arm.

"Dumbledore," Moody croaked, and then closed his eyes for a moment as if trying to summon the strength to keep speaking. When he continued, his speech was punctuated by rattling breaths. "Scared them off. Into trees. Be back."

Dumbledore didn’t ask who "they" were. There was no need to speculate.

"Get the Aurors--the Longbottoms may still be here," Dumbledore commanded in a low voice, not taking his eyes off Moody. "And a Healer--"

"I’ll go," Remus said. He turned and loped back toward the knots of wedding guests.

"Bastards." Sirius drew his wand and scanned the darkness under the eaves of the nearby trees.

"No!" called Dumbledore. His eyes flashed. "The Order can’t afford to reveal itself. Only those who are Aurors--"

But Sirius paid no attention. Without another word, he sprinted away, sending off a brief shower of sparks as he passed through Moody’s magical security perimeter.

Dumbledore took out his wand as well, then glanced back at the wedding party, where Remus had disappeared into the crowd.

"Death Eaters did this," Peter said flatly, all the emotion drained from his voice just as the color had drained from his face. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the bloody mess that was Moody.

"Peter." Dumbledore laid a hand on Peter’s shoulder. "Stay with him until the others arrive. I need to find that fool Black."

"Wait!" Peter cried, tugging on Dumbledore’s sleeve, his eyes fixed on Moody. "I want to join the Order…"

"I am glad for that. We need you on our side." A smile flitted briefly across the old wizard’s face. Dumbledore turned and strode away toward the trees, where green sparks had already begun to flash.

Peter stared at the wreckage of Alastor Moody, one hand clenched tightly over his left arm.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

London, 1981

"Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?" the short man wailed loud enough that Muggles on the street stopped to take notice of the two men wearing long robes and facing each other, not ten feet apart. The taller of the two men pointed a stick of some sort at the short man, who was sobbing and wringing his hands. Afterward, before their memories were wiped by wizards from the Department of Magical Catastrophes, none of the surviving Muggles could agree on what that stick was, the one that the tall, black-haired man had been pointing, but it seemed like a weapon.

"How could I?" laughed the tall man harshly. He took a step toward the other man, who quivered but didn’t move. "How could I have been so stupid, you mean? But you won’t get away, Peter."

The short man was shaking violently, his hands now at his sides. His ashen face quivered and his eyes closed for an instant. Then all hell broke loose behind him. An explosion rocked the street. Bodies lay strewn in the rubble. Water gushed from a broken pipe. Flames leapt from the wreckage of a car.

"Look what you did!" gasped the short man.

The tall man appeared not to notice, so intent was he on the quivering man before him. He raised the stick that he carried and pointed it. None of the people panicking in the street noticed that the short man also had a stick, which he now pointed at himself. None of the Muggles remembered that the short man cried out, clutching one of his hands as blood ran down his sleeve. None of the Muggles remembered exactly how the shorter of the two men in the funny dress vanished. But everyone, surviving Muggles and the wizards who’d soon arrive, remembered that the tall man laughed when the short man disappeared--the deranged laugh of a madman, they all said.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Seven Shoe Alley was unusually empty, the main square littered with old newspapers and the colored wrappers left over from fireworks. A cold autumn wind blew trash into the corners. There weren’t many people about on this chilly morning: a few people picking up this and that and one or two sleeping on the sidewalks.

"Bless me, but I don’t think I’ve seen a bigger party in S’en Shoe," croaked the old woman who was picking up trash, using her wand to direct the detritus from the street into a small dustbin that a boy of about twelve was holding. "And all because of him." She intercepted a newspaper in mid-air. "’Baby Potter Lives/Parents Perish’," she read to the boy. "That’s a headline you want to hold on to. Famous it will be, and worth something one day."

A man stumbled into the square, another drunk by the look of him. He had a lean, starved look to his thin frame. His robes were torn and soiled; his brown hair had dirt and leaves in it, as if he’d been sleeping out of doors. He clutched a newspaper in his hand, but he let it fall carelessly as he collapsed on the ground next to the central fountain, its usual display muted in the weak autumn sunlight.

"Do you mind?" snapped the old witch. She looked down at him severely after picking up the newspaper he’d dropped. "There’s enough mess here already without making more. Here now, don’t you have someplace to go?"

The man looked up at her with wild eyes, not the bloodshot eyes of a drunk or the sleepy eyes of the last one to leave the party, but the dark-circled, empty eyes of a madman.

Shaken, the woman turned away and mumbled to the boy, "Another drunk, maybe, but there’s some at the Ministry that’ll want to hear about customers like that." She dismissed him after that and went on in a louder voice, "Here’s another headline what’ll be famous one day: ‘Black Kills Thirteen/Wizard Dies Defending’, though I’ll never understand it, not if I live to be a thousand."

He struggled to his feet after a few minutes because he knew the old witch would be back, perhaps even with someone from the Ministry. He knew he'd scared her and, for once, he didn’t care. There was nothing left inside him to care. Heart, lungs, liver… ripped out of him. A hollow shell was all that remained.

The confusion, the pain, the lurid headlines were pieces of a puzzle that had no solution--not one that made any sense. It would be twelve years until he found the missing pieces to the puzzle, until he found the solace and the friendship that he thought he’d lost forever.

~ ~ ~ fin ~ ~ ~