“…it must have been the finest moment of your miserable life, telling Voldermort you could hand him the Potters.”
A cloaked figure stepped through the tall grass, his footsteps swift and his cloak billowing. The man was short, like he hadn’t grown an inch since he was an adolescent, but his face appeared weathered and old before it’s time behind a twisted, skull like mask. He had finally done it. He had finally been trusted with the secret that would take him high above the rest. The secret that would make him the second most feared person in the whole world.
He made his way through the graveyard, shivering every so often as the wind hit him, but it was partly fear as well; he had always hated graveyards. His foot hit a small rock and he stumbled, crashing to his knees. His breath hitched as the small stones cut his knee caps and he dragged himself off the floor, not even bothering to inspect the damage done. He had a destination. A meeting time. A purpose. There was no time for such mediocre things as grazes.
After a while of walking, the man stopped in his tracks and sighed thankfully. He turned left and examined the Gravestone that stood before him, shivering again, but this time in anticipation. He could be the one…
Here lies Tom Marvolo Riddle.
The man shivered again as he stooped down to read the gravestone, the words forming on his lips. The father of his Master…the filthy Muggle father…
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, a tingling feeling running down his spine. He straightened up quickly and checked his watch, to see if his Master might be there yet. Two minutes to twelve. Almost time. He paced the gravestone silently, taking extreme care not to step on the hearth that contained his Master’s father. Oh, why had he chosen to meet here? He knew how much he hated graveyards…
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up again, and he had the inexplicable feeling that he was being watched. He turned in a three hundred and sixty degree angle to examine everywhere. No one was there, but himself. He resumed pacing the Gravestone, wringing his hands violently, staring at his moving feet through his twisted mask. A cold howl of wind blew at him and made him shudder, and he brought his hood up to cover his head. He was covered from head to foot, none of his flesh showing. He was drowning in the black cloak; it was smothering him from head to foot, telling him that he was a traitor, turning on his friends, selling them out to the person he knew in his heart was the wrong one. He could destroy a family; destroy the world, with one simple word. Could he do it?
…There was no could about it. He had to do it. There was no option. His Master would take over eventually, and he was saving himself. He couldn’t let himself be killed. He knew how dishonourable it was, favouring his own life over the lives of his best friends, plus their son. Harry…
Suddenly, a sharp crack sounded from behind him and he knew that it was too late. He couldn’t back out now. He turned as quick as he could and threw himself to his knees, bowing at his Master’s feet.
“Get up,” his Master hissed coldly, moving away from him. Immediately, he obeyed.
“M-Master…couldn’t you have chosen a different m-meeting place? Y-You know how I…I feel about g-graveyards.”
A cruel sort of demented smirk appeared on his Master’s face as he laughed coldly.
“Crucio,” he said almost lazily. Instantly, a thousand white hot knives were piercing the man’s skin; he was shrieking so loud he couldn’t hear himself, falling to the ground, and it stopped.
“Never question me,” he snarled, looking down at the man with contempt. He slowly pulled himself to his feet, his breathing ragged, and looked to the floor. “What did you say was so important you had to meet as soon as you could?”
The man took a long breath, and he prepared himself for what he was about to do.
“I can give you the Potters,” he whispered. His Master’s eyes grew wide.
“You have been made their Secret Keeper,” he deduced after a few seconds, his breathing heavier and his heart beat soaring, his thin, pale lips stretching into a deformed smile.
“I have, Master,” the man whimpered. His Master chuckled in glee, hardly able to restrain his excitement.
“Well, where are they?!” he asked madly, his eyes bulging slightly. The man paused for just a second, before moving his lips.
“You will be honoured above all my other Death Eaters, Wormtail,” Voldermort said with a quivering voice, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder. Peter almost recoiled. Voldermort raised his wand, and apparated away. Peter stood stock still for just a moment, before falling to his knees for the third time that night, and placing his head in his hands violently.
What have I done?
Just a random little fic I thought up whilst reading the third book in my bath. :)
hope you liked it.
Sirius Black, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, The Servant Of Lord Voldermort.