Who: Peter Pettigrew What: It helps to know when it's futile. When: February 17th Where: The Safehouse
Status: Narrative; COMPLETE Rating: PG
It was like living in a dream. There was so little of the last month that he remembered properly. He had been doing what was expected of him, what had seemed appropriate for him to be doing, but in the end, his heart just hadn't been into it. There was nothing left in him that could understand how the Order could possibly do any good now. Leaflet campaigns. Grass root movements. Helping the poor and oppressed. The idea of doing something rather than nothing might make them all feel as though they were making a difference, but what good was it actually doing? This was the real world, and in the real world, there was no Davids slaying Goliaths. In the real world, there were only Goliaths squashing Davids, locking them up and throwing away the key, or when it was possible, slaughtering them and blaming it on the opposition. It wasn't a fantasy world where good always triumphs over evil even through the worst sort of opposition. Evil triumphs not only when good men do nothing but also when good men try their best to prevent it. They were backed into a corner against a jagged cliff facing the arced outward above them. Peter couldn't see any way forward or any way to scale the problem from another angle. He wished... There was part of him that just wished that they would all admit that it was a futile fight any longer and give it up.
But he knew why they couldn't. He understood, and perhaps that was what made it the most difficult to feel as he did. Lily wasn't welcome in the new world that had been created. Sweet, loving Lily who, while she could be irritating and hypocritical at times, was still a wonderful person who did not deserve to be treated as though she were some sort of disease that was infecting the rest of them. His mother was even less welcome because she lacked magic all together. She was considered a worst blight than anything that Lily could ever be because at least she could pretend that she belonged. His mother was just an intruder, an invader into a world that she shouldn't even be aware of. She was an intruder because his dad had the nerve to do what people who were of the station that he had been weren't allowed to do. He fell in love. He married for emotions rather than duty, money, or title. And really, what would you do to someone that did that other than treat them like they were a criminal of the worst caliber?
But that was how this world was going to be run now. They were all worried about themselves, but honestly, Peter couldn't help but feel sorry for all of the children that were to come who would be restricted in their future, who would have to follow to dictates of society or face the sanctions that were sure to be imposed as soon as their grip was surer as it was definitely going to become. The small and yet vocal minority were always able to undermine the silent and usually apathetic masses. The end game only depended upon which small and yet vocal minority were more willing to do what it took to get what they wanted. And murder? Peter had always hated the idea of them turning into the thing that loathed the most. But perhaps, if they were going to actually win, they had to start taking more extreme measures.
And they weren't going to get themselves anywhere by boarding themselves up into safehouses. He had a flat. He had a flat for a reason. He was dead either way. What would it hurt him to go back home and start living again?