Loyalties Truly Lie Who: Peter Pettigrew, NPC Voldemort, assorted assembled Death Eaters (including Rod and Bella, if they want). Where: DE Cave Headquarters When: Shortly after Voldie's arrival What: (Narrative) Voldemort catches Peter sneaking around the caves
Even as Wormtail, Peter felt it when Voldemort arrived. He skittered into a niche and sat there shivering for what felt like hours. He should have expected this - he had been expecting it, but perhaps a too-big part of him had been hoping that even this village wouldn't - couldn't - go that far.
He had been hiding in the caves for several days now, getting the lay of the land, listening to conversations. He knew enough to gather that all the Death Eaters who had newly arrived were from the same time, where they had all been gathered and gearing up for some kind of big fight. To do with Hogwarts, he thought. They seemed pretty determined not to back down even though they were obviously no longer in the real world. This might have been short-sighted, if there weren't so many of them.
He still didn't know what he was doing, or why. His instinct in a situation like this was to seek safety, but there was no safety for him, not here and not back in the village, where the Prewetts (and by now, surely Sirius) would probably take him out as soon as look at him. He didn't think he was playing both sides for fools either, as Lea seemed to think. He just didn't see the sense in walking up to a cave full of Death Eaters from the future. He didn't know much about his own future, still, but something told him not all of them would be quite willing to welcome him in with open arms. So he watched, and waited, and spied, because it was what he did, and frankly there wasn't much else to do.
But then he came. Peter felt it as a stab of pain in the ghost of his human arm, and a dreadfully familiar weight in his head that said his Master was near. You chose this, his mother's voice snapped at him while he cowered in his mouse-sized hole. He had sat there and shuddered as his Master's challenge echoed over the village.
They would have killed me if I hadn't! he protested, but that argument as usual held no weight with that harpyish voice, that was always there and always, always criticised.
They'll kill you anyway, it said now with a terrible finality. And then they'll kill all your 'friends'. Not that you have any of those, really.
He came back to himself to the sound of moving footsteps in the passage. You should leave, he thought. Go now and warn the village. They're going to be torn to pieces.
But he didn't. Warring instincts echoed in his tiny rat mind even as he crept out of his hole and followed the horde of black cloaks into one of the larger cave spaces. He hesitated at the entrance for a moment only - there was a distinctly snakish taste to the air that add even Wormtail's meagre contribution of terror to the never-ending inner argument - but finally went inside, staying to the edges of the cave away from careless feet.
He found a piece of rock that jutting out from the main wall, and gained some height by scrambling up it. What he saw made him shrink back even further into the shadows. Voldemort was standing, straight and stiff, at the head of the huge gathering, and he looked, even in the dim wandlight, even less human than Peter remembered him.
"My faithful," he said, the high, cold voice sending a shiver up Wormtail's spine. "It seems our plans have been delayed by some... unexpected circumstances."
No one laughed. Not even a chuckle. There was absolute silence in the cave, except for the dripping of some unseen water from somewhere. The Dark Lord did not look amused in the least by his transportation. He looked angry, almost blue-pale, his snake-like eyes narrowed to slits.
"It seems clear to me," Voldemort continued, icily, "that Dumbledore's puppets, led by their pitiful Order of the Phoenix and no doubt the Boy-Who-Perpetually-Irritates-Me, have concocted this -" he waved his hand dismissively at the empty air - "pathetic little scheme to keep us from our goals." There was some obligatory nodding, a few angry murmurs. "I do not feel any flickerings of deterrment," The Dark Lord added, as though his mocking speech earlier had not been enough indication. "Any of you who feel the circumstances warrant a change of plan, may make himself heard now." He surveyed the assembled Death Eaters. Some were robed and masked, others had apparently been pulled through before they could put them on. No one met his eyes, no one spoke. As that gaze neared him, Peter crawled even further back into the shadows, trying to calm the sound of his tiny heart beating several hundred times a minute.
For a moment, the Dark Lord seemed about to speak again. Then his lips curled into a semi-amused sneer. Too curious for his own good, Peter sensed his own danger too late. An arc of blue light shot through the air and hit him like an electric shock to the heart. He was too stunned and disorientated for a moment to realise that had tumbled off his perch in his transformation and was now lying on the cave floor, human once again.
He tried to scramble up, but a dozen hands were already on him, dragging him to his feet with harsh, tugging grips. Someone pulled painfully at his hair and he yelped, much to the amusement of the assembly.
"Wormtail?" the cold, hissing voice had the edge of confusion to it as it came closer. Peter stopped struggling against his captors, frozen with fear even before those terrible red eyes met his own. He bit his lip hard to keep from whimpering as a skeletal hand reached out to touch his face - he could feel his skin spasm with revulsion. "I suppose I should have expected you, sooner or later," hissed that dreadful voice. "But so young... you are looking well, Wormtail."
"It is as we told you, Master," a hesitant voice from the crowd put in. "The people here are not all at the stage of life that we know them."
"Stage of death, in Pettigrew's case," someone else volunteered. This time, there was laughter.
"Enough," the Dark Lord murmured softly, and all merriment ceased immediately. "Let him go," he ordered, still tracing the edge of Peter's face with a long, curved fingernail. "You won't go anywhere, will you, Wormtail?"
"Master..." someone protested even as Peter shook his head. He was too afraid to move. Those red eyes could see right through his head, see all his fears and doubts. "We can't trust him, surely?"
"He was spying on us!" a deep voice from the corner.
"Wormtail is a spy," Voldemort hissed. "It's only in his nature."
"M-Master," Peter croaked, but the long finger slid then over his lips, and he had to close them to keep from retching. The hands reluctantly disentangled from his hair and his clothes, and he was free, except for the single finger keeping him in place.
"So young," Voldemort sing-songed. "A boy, again. I am envious of you, Wormtail... something I never thought I would say." The finger lifted. Peter swallowed, but before he could say anything, his right wrist had been gripped as though in a vice. The Dark Lord lifted Peter's hand to his face, inspecting it with extreme interest, particularly the missing finger. "This I haven't seen for some time," he crooned, a statement baffling to Peter in every way. "I expect you know by now what the future holds for you, Wormtail?"
Slowly, reluctantly, Peter shook his head. There was no point in lying. The Dark Lord always knew.
His stomach twisted and his face grew white with horror as Voldemort, sneering with pleasure, described the fate that awaited him, with relish. "I gave you a new hand," he said, after the gory tale of the amputation that made Peter choke. He remembered with fresh horror his words to Lea of only a few weeks ago. Self mutilation is apparently my answer to all problems. "Of great value. Of course you used it only to achieve the most menial of tasks. I should perhaps have entrusted its power to one more given to crushing skulls." There was a titter from behind the sea of white masks. Voldemort sighed. "But it killed you, of course, in the end," he said, all trace of humour gone from his voice now. "I imagine because you ceased to be faithful to me. Rather poor form, Wormtail, after all those years. Years you are yet to see, of course, but still..."
"M-Master," Peter tried, forcing the words out through the terror that made his tongue seem heavy and irresponsive. "P-please, I... I would not betray you, I am your loyal -"
"Don't lie," came the sharp, hissing response. "I sense the uncertainty in you, stronger than ever. This place has been hardly good for you." The red eyes bore into his own, seeing everything, knowing everything. "You think you have a chance with them, with the people you once called friends. That eventually, if you manage to pull out of the air some truly Gryffindor values, you might be forgiven, your little transgression forgotten?"
Peter shuddered. He couldn't say anything, anything that would not be a lie.
"I should kill you now," Voldemort hissed. Peter flinched. "But perhaps..." He reached out a hand and dragged Peter towards him. "I shall give you a choice. You can die now, perhaps as a little warm-up exercise..." he smiled terribly. Sounds of agreement and enthusiasm echoed around the cave. Peter thought he might faint. He had no doubt of what the others would do to him if he was handed over. He had seen it happen before. "Or..." his former Master continued. "You can earn back my trust. Your service."
Peter fell to his knees, shaking, and kissed the dark robe. "Master, you are merciful," he recited, the words like ashes in his mouth. "I am unworthy, but I will serve you."
He's going to make me spy on them, he thought, helplessly. Voldemort would surely send him back to the village to bring back reports on the movements of everyone. All he could hope for was that someone would notice and put a stop to him before he did too much damage. There would be no question of disobedience.
"Good," Voldemort said, stretching out the word so that it sounded almost like a sigh; goooooood. "You will come and stand beside me on the battlefield."
Peter looked up at him in shock, forgetting for a moment that he wasn't meant to raise his eyes while in supplication. Confused and angry murmurs were circulating the room now - Wormtail to stand beside their Master? What had he done to deserve that honour?
"You have told me time and time again that you are no fighter," Voldemort said, a knowing smile on his thin lips. "And it is true, your other skills are considerably more useful than your pitiful attempts at duelling. But I know you have killed."
Peter felt his heart sink deep into the pit of his stomach. Twelve bodies in the street. Will they ever stop haunting me?
"You will serve me in this wise," Voldemort ended, grasping Peter's shoulder until he thought he could feel the bones crunch beneath that grip. "When we are ready. And then we shall see where your loyalties truly lie. We shall see."