No Turning Back

“G’night mate!” barked out Sirius before loudly taking off on his flying motorbike.

Peter chuckled to himself at how indiscrete Sirius was in front of Muggles when he was sloshed. As he fumbled with his keys, he remembered how one time, after having a good deal too much Firewhiskey, Sirius had managed to splinch himself and subsequently lost his Apparition license. He supposed this would have been more of a difficulty for Sirius if he hadn’t had the motorbike, or if Sirius had cared in the slightest about the legalities of Apparating without a license.

Peter stumbled into his flat, collapsed onto the musty old chesterfield and promptly began to snore. Had he been able to manage the trip to his bedroom, he may have noticed that something was wrong.

When Peter awoke he couldn’t tell what time it was except that it was very bright outside. Much too bright, it hurt his head. He supposed he’d probably had a bit too much to drink the night before, but Sirius and James had practically dragged him to their favourite pub. He yawned and was somewhat disgusted with how pasty his mouth tasted. Once the room stopped spinning, he managed to stumble into the kitchen for a glass of water and a very strong pot of coffee.

Only after tapping his kettle to get some hot water boiling did Peter notice his kitchen table. It had a note stabbed to it by use of a rather large knife. “Oh great, probably another one of that git Sirius’ practical jokes,” thought Peter, “Or maybe a letter of remonstrance from Remus, about the virtues of not being hung over.” Remus had managed to escape the drunken revelry the night before, some excuse along the lines of going away on a mission for the Order for a few days. “Oh, right, well I suppose it can’t be from Remus then,” Peter corrected himself.

After his second cup of coffee Peter finally decided to see what idiotic thing Sirius had felt was so important to not only write down but also impale upon one of the nicer pieces of furniture that Peter owned. Peter was still grumbling to himself about how Sirius really needed to be more respectful of other people’s things when he actually started reading the note. His face drained of all colour and he was promptly sick in the kitchen sink.

Peter’s head wouldn’t stop spinning and this was no longer entirely due to his hangover. The Death Eaters had captured his mother and were threatening to torture her. Wave after wave of guilt washed over Peter. If he hadn’t gone out drinking the night before, if he had found this note sooner… For that matter, how long had this note been here? He quickly counted on his fingers; the full moon had been two nights ago and he hadn’t come home again until last night… so his mother must have been captured within the last three days. The note also said that if he ever wanted to see her again, then he would go to the Black Dragon in Dublin, Ireland. Peter’s mind was so numb that he managed to wonder how stupid the Death Eater writing the note must think him to be if they felt they had to specify that Dublin was in Ireland. Then the more practical side of his mind caught up. How the bloody hell was he supposed to get to bloody Ireland by midnight? He certainly didn’t know the lay of the land well enough to Apparate such a long distance and the last thing he needed was to splinch himself. How much time did he have anyway? The note hadn’t said midnight of which night so he may have already missed his deadline by two days. How in Merlin’s name was he going to get to Ireland by midnight?

Peter hadn’t even noticed that he was making little squeaking sobs and pulling out his prematurely thinning hair. He tried taking a few steadying breaths. He just needed to come up with a plan. James was always so much better at coming up with plans… That was it! He’d Floo over to James… except James had said that he was going on a trip with Lily today and he hadn’t said where. Peter didn’t know what time it was but he was fairly certain that James had used the words “bright and early” and Lily wouldn’t have accepted James being out drinking late as an excuse to forestall their vacation, it was the first one she’d had since little Harry was born. Peter soundly wished he was better at producing a Patronus, especially since then he could find half the Order, but he’d seldom been able to produce more than a silvery mist under the best of circumstances, he severely doubted that he could manage it now. Nevertheless, Peter screwed up his face and squeaked, “Expecto Patronum, dammit!” Barely a wisp emitted from his wand.

“Think Peter, think!” Remus was still gone on his mission but there was still Sirius! Sirius had that flying motorbike! He immediately rushed over to the fireplace, started a magical fire going and threw half a pot of Floo Powder in while shouting Sirius’ address. After wasting half and hour desperately searching Sirius’ house he realized that Sirius simply wasn’t there. He was near his wits’ end when he noticed the broom cupboard.

Without a second thought, Peter snatched up a broom and started off for Ireland, despite the overall chill he was immensely thankful for the clouds that had rolled in since he had first woken up as they hid him from view fairly effectively. He had a long trip to ponder how alone he was, the horrible things that the Death Eaters were capable of doing, not to mention that he had absolutely no idea how he was going to rescue his mother or if he was even in time to do so. However, no matter how lost the situation seemed he couldn’t stop thinking of how that sweet little woman had raised him all by herself. She’d never been disappointed in his marks at Hogwarts, in fact she’d been proud of him. He remembered how she’d beamed with pride when he first got his letter from Hogwarts. She’d sent him a package of homemade sweets every week. They weren’t the expensive sort of gifts that James always got, but he knew his mother had worked hard and loved her all the more for it. She’d been in Hufflepuff and always had appreciated hard work. He supposed that might have been why she was always happy with his marks as long as he’d tried.

It was nearly midnight by the time Peter finally found the Black Dragon. Dublin hadn’t exactly been easy to find and he was nearly frozen to the broom by the time he’d landed there. The Black Dragon didn’t appear to be a particularly reputable establishment; Peter was strongly reminded of the Hog’s Head as he walked in and was glad that he’d at least had the sense to bring a cloak with a hood. He tried to walk up to the bar as inconspicuously as possible. This wasn’t terribly easy since the pub was all but empty.

“Just a Gillywater for now please,” mumbled Peter as he passed the bartender a few knuts.

“You’d be Pettigrew then?” asked the bartender, as he gave Peter a Gillywater in a very grimy glass.

“Er, yes,” replied Peter, suddenly even more nervous.

“Ah, Mr Pettigrew how nice of you to finally join us,” said a smooth voice from behind Peter, “We were beginning to think you didn’t care for your dear mother at all.”

Before Peter could reply he heard a giggle that he definitely recognized and his blood ran cold. He immediately remembered back when he was in his first year at Hogwarts, back before he’d become friends with James, Sirius and Remus. His toad, Skippy, had gotten away from him and had hopped down towards the dungeons. Peter had chased after Skippy but an older Slytherin boy had found the toad first. Peter had arrived just in time to see Skippy meet his end and hear the older boy laughing that horrible wheezy giggle.

Peter turned slowly, he immediately recognized Amycus Carrow but couldn’t place the older man with him, the one who had first spoken to him. Hands in fists, it was all Peter could do not to shout, “Where’s my mother?”

“Forgive me for not introducing myself, my name is Dolohov. You do realize that you are forty-eight hours late already?”

Peter could feel his heart stop and very slowly start again, as he wondered if they’d already killed his mother. He hadn’t been in time because he’d been out with his friends.

The man named Dolohov interrupted Peter’s spiraling thoughts, “Mr Carrow’s sister is currently supervising your mother’s well being.”

This news wasn’t any better than having his mother being prisoner to Amycus himself. Peter had never met Alecto but some of the older Gryffindors had said that she was crueler than her younger brother. Still, it meant that his mother was still alive, that there was still some hope, however faint.

“We didn’t expect you’d actually be stupid enough to come alone, or so late,” added Amycus, giggling again, “I suppose the bwave Gwyffindor figured he could save his mommy all by his little self.”

Dolohov snapped, “If you can’t speak like an adult then shut up Carrow, it’s bad enough having to listen to that stupid Lestrange woman.”

This statement wasn’t followed by Amycus’ typical giggle.

“Mr Pettigrew,” continued Dolohov, “It is with deepest regret that we inform you of the precarious situation you find yourself in. We had been planning on exchanging your mother’s safety for some trivial information, however that was two days ago. I’m afraid interest does accumulate.”

Dolohov gave Peter a sickening smile, Peter was no longer certain that it was a good thing Amycus wasn’t in charge.

“Wh-what do I have to do?” asked Peter, shakily, while wringing his hands.

Dolohov smiled again, “We wish to know the whereabouts of the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.”

“But I can’t tell you that!” Peter exclaimed in alarm.

“Well unless you want the same sticky end for your dear sweet mum as what happened to your toad…” began Amycus.

“No!” screeched Peter, “You don’t understand, I couldn’t even if I wanted to! Dumbledore has it under a powerful charm! He’s the Secret Keeper, no one can tell you but him!”

Dolohov chuckled, “Well now, that is an interesting tidbit…”

Peter felt sick to his stomach, he hadn’t meant to tell them that and he suspected he was still no closer to his mother’s release.

Dolohov stroked his chin thoughtfully and added, “Perhaps if I had some other interesting information, we could negotiate your mother’s safety…”

“What kind of information?” asked Peter, warily.

“Oh nothing terribly important, just the names of certain Order members.”

“I can’t tell you that!” squealed Peter in alarm.

“Tsk, tsk and what would you poor mother think if she knew that you would let her be tortured simply because you wouldn’t say a few names? Do you know how painful the Cruciatus Curse is Peter?”

An insane grin spread over Amycus’ face. Peter took a deep breath, “How many names do you need?”

*
Six months later, Peter still seemed no closer to negotiating his mother’s release. He’d been sending Dolohov scraps of information on the Order’s movements every week. Every week he received a photograph by owl post in return. It was always a picture of his mother looking frightened and holding up that day’s Daily Prophet. One week when he had been unable to glean anything useful, he was sent a picture of his mother writhing in pain while Amycus aimed his wand at her. Peter always found some bit of information to send after that.

Peter slowly stopped caring when he read in the Daily Prophet that another Order member had been killed, on his information. He simply wanted the war to end quickly so that he could get his mother back, it no longer mattered to him how many people died in the process or which side won.

Then one morning there was a note on the back of Peter’s weekly photograph, ordering him to a meeting with Dolohov. Hoping that he had finally given them enough information for his mother’s freedom, Peter returned to the Black Dragon.

As soon as he walked in the door, he realized that it was a trap. The once empty pub now had roughly a dozen hooded figures. The door locked behind him and he very quickly discovered that anti-Apparition charms had been placed on the building. He was trapped like a rat and had the circumstances been different, he might have found the analogy vaguely amusing.

It turned out that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had taken an interest in him and was willing to make a deal. Lord Voldemort was terrifying to behold and it was all Peter could do to keep himself from shaking as the blood red eyes turned upon him. Lord Voldemort explained that Peter’s information had been most useful and that he was willing to adopt him into his little family. Peter tried not to recoil in revulsion while Voldemort continued, “I reward loyalty very highly. As you may have realized, only I can save your mother.”

Peter weighed his options, repugnant as the thought of being this creature’s servant was, his own death would serve no one, least of all his mother. Slowly and hating himself for it, he knelt.

“Hold out your left arm,” commanded Voldemort.

Peter, confused, did as he was told and screamed from the agony of the burning on his forearm. When he looked he was horrified to see the Dark Mark branded on him.

Looking up, he saw a thin twisted smile on Voldemort’s face as he said, “Peter, I have a task which I require of you, as a reward I will ensure that your mother is set free.”

Too afraid to voice his doubts as to the fulfillment of this new promise, Peter fixed his gaze near the bottom of Voldemort’s cloak.

Voldemort chuckled, “In fact I am so magnanimous that I will give you a taste of your reward now. Amycus, come forward.”

Amycus shuffled towards his master. Peter noted that the insane grin and giggle were entirely absent from his countenance.

“Both of you join hands,” commanded Voldemort. They quickly did as they were told. Peter hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on but was too scared to ask questions.

Voldemort flicked his wand and continued, “Peter, read this. Amycus already knows what to do.”

A bright green ribbon came out of Voldemort’s wand and twisted itself, snakelike, into script. Peter tried to say the words without letting his voice quaver.

“Do you Amycus, promise to release my mother within twelve hours after my task for the Dark Lord is completed?”

“I do.”

A thin flame encircled their hands.

“And do you Amycus, promise to keep my mother safe from harm while I complete this task?”

“I do.”

A second flame twisted its way around their hands, Amycus was trembling, but thus far his grip on Peter remained firm.

“And do you Amycus, promise to never allow anyone to harm her once my task is completed?”

“I do.”

As the third flame enclosed their hands, Peter looked up into his Amycus’ terrified eyes; he remembered Skippy and the photograph of Amycus using the Cruciatus Curse on his mother while laughing. Peter smiled grimly, it had taken over ten years but the balance of power had finally shifted from Amycus to him and it felt good.

The Dark Lord, chuckled as Peter and Amycus released their hands, “Didn’t I tell you that I reward my followers?”

Peter nodded, eyes shining finally meeting the Dark Lord’s red gaze.

“Now Peter, your task is to give me the location of Harry Potter.”