Two: All Hope Fades
That had only been the beginning. Day after day and night after night, it
continued, until even his students started to notice the exhaustion etched into
Snape’s features. Most of them, of
course, guessed at the cause—the attacks made headlines, and even the most
foolish of the children knew where their Potions Master went at night. But, in truth, it wasn’t so much the lack of
sleep as it was the nightmares.
He was living one all over again.
It had stared on October 17th, the
day after Voldemort learned that Black had disappeared from Avalon. The Aurors had succeeded in keeping the news
quiet for almost a week, but when it broke, the newspapers went crazy. And, if reports were right (and Bella usually
was where the Dark Lord was concerned), Voldemort had lost his temper.
Snape still felt sick thinking about it, and
had felt even more sick the next morning, when he’d
accompanied the other Hogwarts professors to help bury the dead. Usually, he cared not for what they thought
of him, but the betrayed looks had started eating at his soul. Sinistra was the worst; the two of them had
worked together for years, and though they’d never been especially friendly, her remarks had hurt. So had her coldness, after
her tears had dried.
“I had thought even you would not stoop so
low,” Auriga had hissed, then walked away without giving him a chance to reply.
He couldn’t have, anyway, but that didn’t keep
him from wanting to. She didn’t
understand that it wasn’t his choice, and that he would have given anything to
break away from the vicious cycle of darkness.
None of them understood—even Remus had looked at him with horrified eyes
before turning away. Never had Severus
missed Dumbledore so badly. Nor had he
ever felt so alone.
present five days later for Stephen Hoppner’s death,
watched the former Auror turned famous historian die like a mythical hero of
old. He had watched the choice offered
and rejected, and then had watched the public ignore the courage shown by a
not reconsider, Stephen?” Lucius asked quietly, so quietly. Was there a message in the fact that
Voldemort had sent only the senior members of other ancient families to
persuade this man? A
Black—though Malfoy by marriage, still of the oldest by blood. But no Bellatrix. She was not reasonable.
was oh so reasonable.
did not bother to reply. He bore the
pain well, but then again, he had borne Azkaban well. Compared to that, this was nothing.
Hour after hour. Stephen’s wife and young daughter were
unconscious in a corner, mostly by Snape’s doing. But he had not spared them through
compassion. That pair was permitted to
live because the Dark Lord had other plans for them. The son was grown, barely out of Hogwarts,
but not at home. He would be dealt with
Dawn came, and still the senior of the Hoppners
had not cracked. He would not, and they
knew it, so instead they made him scream.
Rodolphus was not his wife’s equal in the art of torture, but together, the four Death Eaters coated the floor in
blood. Old and pure
like this had been what had turned Snape away from darkness in the first place.
Hoppner had remained defiant to the last, fighting back the pain to laugh at
his tormentors and ask if that was the best they could do. Brave man. Foolish man.
others, he died, though more nobly than most.
And with far less purpose.
He had also been present the day that Stephen Hoppner’s young son, Gnaeus, had taken the Mark to save his
mother and sister. Both still languished
in Azkaban, but neither was harmed. They
were even permitted to be together, though that did not help against the
Dementors. He remembered the looks on their
faces when he had brought them there.
Oh, he remembered.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” Severus
whispered raggedly, forcibly pulling his head out of his hands. His elbows were sore after resting on his
desk for so long.
He sighed and shook his head, wishing that he
could clear it. But there was no real
answer. No reason why. Only an inability to sleep and nightmares
that haunted him as nothing had done for years.
The Dark Lord was winning, and he wanted to be sick. You’re
already sick, Severus, he reminded himself harshly. Twisted
and cruel, remember?
Even his own anger could no longer sting, and
he rose once more, trying to head for bed again. Perhaps he might sleep a few hours before the
nightmares returned, before he saw the faces of those he had killed. Odd how Hoppner did not haunt him so much as the others, but Hoppner had not exactly been
innocent. He had made his choice long
And yet… Out of the
corner of his eye, Snape caught the headline on the front page of the Daily Prophet, and he cringed.
ABANDONED, read the title of the most prominent article, written by Keith
Lindsay. It was merely the sequel to an
earlier piece by Charles Li, which had been more creatively titled LAST AND NO HOPE, but for some reason,
the article made him feel empty inside.
Twenty-nine days since the news had
broken. Thirty-six since the event had
happened, according to Remus, who would know.
Had it been something else, Severus would have been surprised to find
that the papers were still fixated on the same subject, but this was
different. This was tragic.
He had watched as the papers tore Sirius Black
to shreds, first protesting his actions with grief and later with anger. The public reaction was much the same—a loss
of hope that bordered on fury, and an emptiness that the war only amplified
each day. Once, Severus would have felt
vindicated, savagely satisfied. Now,
though, he was torn between rejoicing and terror. Does he
not know what he has done? But a
small corner of Severus’ mind could understand, and he remembered the look in
Black’s eyes when he had asked for those three dangerous potions.
Many wondered if Black would return, having
sided with Voldemort and forever lost to the light. Looking in those eyes, though, had told
Severus that he never would. This was a
man who would fight or die trying.
But heroes were of no use when they ran away.
The war effort was plunging into darkness.
November 12th. It would have been a beautiful day had the
Ministry of Magic not been burning.
Months of work had gone into reconstructing the
Ministry, into making it as impregnable as possible. Careful construction and wards had been put
into place in order to protect the hundreds of workers inside, and even the
depressing Daily Prophet had good
things to say about the new Ministry’s chances against future attack. The new building had opened, with much
fanfare, only a week beforehand, complete and ready to be a symbol of the
continuing fight against darkness. James
Potter had spoken well, of hopes, of dreams, and of new beginnings.
Snape stood with the others and laughed as the
Ministry burned. Stood and watched
innocents attempt to dive out of the way.
Some succeeded, and some did not.
In that first attack, they captured Marcy Basil. In the second, less than two weeks later,
they captured Mafalda Hopkirk. Minor functionaries died in both, but Basil
was a department head and one of James’ staunchest supporters. Snape knew her loss was a blow to the Ministry,
knew James needed her, especially in the aftermath of Black’s disappearance and
Dung Fletcher’s death—Fudge was not the only one who claimed that Potter was
losing his grip. Basil’s presence held
the department heads in balance, kept power narrowly on James’ side. That, of course, had not stopped him from
Even life in Azkaban beat death.
So he fought, and he killed, and he captured,
even though Snape—unlike the fools that he led—understood that this strike was
not meant to take the Ministry. The goal
was simple: kill a dozen or so, snipe at any Aurors who dared to show their
faces, and laugh. Laugh as the Ministry
fell all over itself in a failure.
Fail they did.
Even Alice Longbottom couldn’t straighten out that mess, try though she
was missing. But three Aurors could
not stand up to a dozen and a half Death Eaters, especially with Ministry
employees getting in the way. And they
could not succeed like this.
And those innocent bystanders were good at getting in the way. Snape killed one when trying to hit Alice
Longbottom with a Bone Breaker—he’d been aiming for her leg, but the idiot had managed to fall on his face right in the
curse’s path, and his skull had exploded.
hadn’t even yelped when the fragments had sprayed her in the face. She’d only targeted Snape with an Imperius
Curse that almost took him down.
Sometimes, he wondered which side he was really on.
He almost lit her on fire without meaning to—which
quite neatly proved the point he was always trying to make to his students: pay attention!—and dove aside when Alice’s pesky student
aimed some mild curse his way. That was
the problem with former Hogwarts students.
Unless they turned out to be Death Eaters, they were inevitably trying
to kill him.
Even as Snape rolled to his feet, an explosion
rocked the ground out from under him and sent him face down once more. He swore and hauled himself to his feet.
“Let’s go,” he ordered the others, and got some
mutinous glares in response, especially from Osborne Blackwood, who had somehow
acquired delusions of grandeur about his position in the Death Eater
hierarchy. But a meaningful gesture with
his wand drove Osborne on—the other did not doubt that Snape would hex him on
the spot and drag him twitching from the Ministry.
Besides, the last explosion had been the
conclusion of their raid. The Ministry’s
shiny new gates—donated, he suspected, by Salamander’s—were burning brightly, despite
the idiots’ best efforts to put them out.
Fools. The fires would burn for hours.
By then, the Death Eaters would be on Azkaban,
listening again to the screams.
“Where are they?” James asked softly.
Snape threw him a sideways look. “On Azkaban, of course,” the other replied. “I
thought you knew.”
“Maybe I did.”
James sighed and glanced at the old and ornate calendar that hung on his
office wall—another object inherited from Dumbledore, but one that he actually
liked. November 14th. Two days after the attack on the Ministry and
almost a month after Voldemort’s strike on Hogsmeade. A month and four days since Sirius had
disappeared. “It’s just…” He never
bothered to say the words: they’re
children. Snape was aware of that
fact, and could not afford to show whatever—if anything—he felt on the
subject. “We need Sirius.”
“Tell that to him,” Snape retorted.
James felt his shoulders slump. “I would if I could find him.”
“Don’t say that,” James snapped.
Two black eyebrows rose. “Is it not true?”
“You have no right to judge him!” It was hard not to shout, impossible not to
snarl. He knew he was getting angry for
little reason, but James could not help himself. His nerves were frayed, and the pressure was
“Don’t I?” Snape countered coldly. “I have seen what he is doing. I have seen the road he is walking. And I, for one, would be surprised if he dares to return.” His eyes flashed. “Do not delude yourself, Potter. If he does, he will not be the man you
“You can’t know that. You can’t be sure,” James
retorted, fighting back the nausea that rose in his stomach. “You don’t know him.”
The answer was cold. “Neither will you.”
Two pieces of news broke on November 22nd,
each worse than the last. The first was
that blinded Auror Gabriel Binns had finally checked out of St. Mungo’s on the
evening of the 21st, heading for home with his sister. A short battle had broken out on the streets
of Muggle London, but a blind Auror had not fared well against a half dozen
Death Eaters—especially when his twin sister was slain by Bellatrix
Lestrange. Evidence suggested that
Samantha Binns had fought well—but not well enough.
Her obituary had screamed for Sirius Black’s
return, and had blamed him for the world’s sudden shift to darkness. Heroes, Charles Li pointed out, did not turn
their back upon those who needed them most.
Sirius Black had walked away, but he owed the Wizarding world more than
that. They needed his help, and who was
he to refuse them? Wasn’t the world
worth more than whatever he was
doing? It was his fault that Samantha
Binns had turned into just another innocent with another wasted life.
And her brother was just another Auror, rotting
in Azkaban. His arrival brought the estimated
total of prisoners up to one hundred and twenty-seven, including one hundred
and twenty-two children, all between the ages of four and eleven. Children who had no
families left to fight for them.
So the Prophet
tried, and ended up pinning the blame—and the responsibility—on Sirius
Worse still, was Laçenne.
Rarely had Voldemort struck at mainland Europe,
but France’s alliance with England
seemed to end that amnesty. Only minutes
after Bellatrix Lestrange and her companions captured Gabriel Binns, yet
another strike took place—this one the oldest purely Wizarding town in the world.
Many modern-day magical traditions could be traced to Laçenne, and almost every important Wizarding family had
relatives there. Laçenne
was even the ancestral home of the Montagues, fifth
of the Fourteen. It was the oldest town
in their world, and everyone who was anyone had been there. Few were those who did not love
it—beautifully perched at the mouth of the Seine,
Laçenne was everything a Wizarding town should have
Most of Laçenne’s
residents expected that to keep them safe, even though the town had firmly
declared for Eugène Legarde. They were
proud to say that their president hailed from the oldest of all Wizarding
towns, and they were prouder still to say that he was right. Darkness had to be fought.
Within an hour, the town was empty save for the
bodies. Voldemort and his followers did
not touch a single one of the ancient and famous buildings—the Dark Lord simply
ordered the extermination of the entire population. Two thousand year old buildings he left
alone. Three thousand five hundred
witches and wizards he slew—most in their sleep, but some fighting. Within sixty short minutes, Laçenne had become a ghost town in the truest sense of the
All except five. Five Aurors Voldemort hauled off to Azkaban: Christophe Montague, Thierry Moreau, Charlotte Fournier, Josette Simon, and Marie Roux. All had fought. All went down.
Five more to Azkaban.
Prisoner number one hundred and thirty-three
was Sam Ackerly.
A former Auror and father of the late Edward Ackerly
(slain in the Riddle House Raid), he had been inexplicably pulled from his
home, after watching his wife and nine year old son tortured to death. What Voldemort wanted with a man who had
already broken was beyond the magical community’s comprehension, but to Azkaban
Next was Mafalda Hopkirk, captured during that second attack upon the
Ministry. Although less damaging than
the first—physically speaking—the death toll reached twenty-seven Ministry
workers, over three-quarters of which were killed during that second
attack. Fudge screamed bloody murder and
James vowed revenge, but no amount of pretty speeches could heal the damage
Then it grew more complicated.
Avalon. 25 November 1992. With the year coming to a close and a new
Auror class (4905) due on the first of January, French and British Aurors were
working at a feverish pace to standardize tactics, procedure, and—most
importantly—to learn from one another.
The French had not been embroiled in a war for almost a century, and
their last major threat had been a rather weak dark wizard, especially when
compared to Voldemort or Grindelwald, both of whom Britain had faced alone. But while the British had experience, the
French had the advantage of numbers.
They hadn’t had an Azkaban raid, a destroyed Ministry, or a Diagon
Alley. They were still strong.
“Jean…?” Bill Weasley walked into Avalon’s main
hall, hating what he had to do. The head
of all French Aurors looked up from his coffee and quirked an eyebrow.
He couldn’t help liking Jean—although the
Frenchman was a bit prickly at times, he had a lively sense of humor and his
president’s ear. Due to Jean’s
intervention, there were now nine French Aurors on Avalon…and the plans were to
bring the newest class of French Aurors there as well. This, of course, was a secret that none of
the Aurors had shared with their respective governments; Alice had just nodded grimly and said that
they could find out when they found out.
But finding out was not always a good thing.
Slowly, Bill lowered himself into the chair
across from Jean, and watched the older wizard’s face tighten ominously. Bill was usually good at hiding his emotions,
but in this case, he was certain that he wore the truth on his face. Unable to stop himself, he swallowed hard.
“What is wrong, Bill?” Jean asked quietly, as
if afraid of his own voice.
He had to take a deep breath before
speaking. “There was…an attack.” Get it
over with, Weasley! he ordered himself. Don’t’
make him suffer! “Death
Eaters, last night. Your wife—”
Jean did not speak, but his face went white the
moment the word left Bill’s mouth. Ever
so slowly, his hands rose to cover his mouth and his eyes went wide.
“I am so sorry,” Bill whispered, feeling the
inadequacies of the remark immediately.
But what else was there to say?
“Is…” Jean sucked in a deep breath, struggled
for self control. “Is she—”
“Yes,” Bill replied as gently as he could. But Aurors would not lie to each other, even
when a gulf of nationalities and age lay between them. “Here.”
The small piece of paper hung in the air
between them for several moments before Jean accepted it, his hands
shaking. It wasn’t much—just a scrap of
a note handed from one Auror to the other through a fireplace when they didn’t
feel that even owl post could be trusted.
Bill had already read it because he hadn’t known who it was for; unsealed,
the note bore no address and his counterpart had disappeared too quickly to
tell the English Auror who to give it to.
Now, though, it made him feel like a peeping tom.
Jean unfolded the note slowly and read the few
lines. Bill watched his eyes shut for a
moment, and then open again, clear and focused.
The French Auror swallowed.
“I need to go,” he said softly. “For now. I must tell her family…They’re Muggles, you
know. They won’t understand.”
A partially sheepish, partially forced smile
crossed his face, and Bill rose with him.
“Would you like some company?” he asked before
even considering the words. He had duties on Avalon, but they could wait.
“No.” Jean shook his head calmly. “I will go alone.”
“Do anything foolish?” Jean finished for him,
shaking his head. “My friend, I would
not. Not yet. And”—finally, his voice cracked—“there is too
much yet to be done.”
Bill didn’t quite know what to say to that; he could
only stand and watch as Jean walked out of the hall, calm and collected but
missing something that had been there
only minutes before. The charismatic and
cheerful Frenchman had gone quiet, and his steps were no longer so
certain. It was the same for everyone
when they lost family members, but Jean had the distinction of being the first
in a new category. Voldemort was now
targeting French Aurors, too.
“It feels like a betrayal, meeting here,” Peter
said quietly. Remus nodded in silence,
sitting next to the fire and poking it ever so often with an actual
poker—heaven only knew where he got one of those in the ancient Black
household. Perhaps it had been there all
“How do you think I feel every day?” James
asked glumly. “I live here.”
“Why don’t you just rebuild Godric’s Hollow?”
Peter asked sensibly.
James shrugged. “Easier said
than done. But we will. Eventually.”
“Anyway,” Remus interjected when no one else
wanted to speak. His chest felt
heavy. “About Sirius.”
“Yeah.” Peter winced.
“We need to find him.” There were times that Remus hated being the
voice of reason, even if it was his natural role. And he hated stating the obvious.
“I’m running out of ideas,” James admitted,
scrubbing his hands over his face and shoving his glasses aside irritably to
rub his eyes. “He’s not responding to
letters—they all come back without even being opened. And we’ve looked everywhere… the Shrieking
Shack, Avalon, his old flat, the caves outside Hogsmeade, every Muggle and
Magical park between here and the Channel...”
“I’m starting to wonder if he’s in Britain
at all,” Remus said when James trailed off.
“If the lost dog fliers didn’t find him, he’s
not hiding as Padfoot,” Peter added. “I
peppered the whole island with them. And France.”
“He doesn’t want to be found.”
“Do we care?” James retorted, and Remus
shrugged. Yes, they did care…but only so much.
They cared for their friend, but they all had shouldered
responsibilities that should have
meant more than mere friendship—and did not.
Sirius’ disappearance stung. He’d
been gone a month and a half.
“You ought to know, James, how hard it is to
find an Auror who doesn’t want to be found,” Peter put in quietly.
“But not impossible,” the former Auror replied
quietly, and then deflated. “At least we
know that Alice and the others are as lost as we are. They sent Bill Weasley and Nymphadora Tonks
to look for him a couple of weeks ago, but nothing came up. Both are back on Avalon, now.”
Peter groaned, and Remus could not help
agreeing. Often, he tried not to think
about Sirius, tried not to worry about where their friend might be and what
trouble he might be in—but with James and Peter, that was impossible, and the
pain welled up again. The
pain and the visions.
One figure, striding across a windswept plain. Dark
robes whipped out behind him, dancing as the sky grew black.
not even a wand in his hand, and Remus could not see his face. But Remus did not need to.
He blinked as James’ hand landed on his
arm. “You alright,
Even the nickname hurt. “I’ll be fine. It was just another vision.”
“Bad?” Peter asked softly.
Remus nodded mutely. He had told the others about the Font after Sirius
had left, realizing that secrets could only divide them in a time they needed
nothing less than to stand
apart. Thankfully, Peter and James had
understood, and they did not blame him.
Sirius’ long-kept secrets, however, would be harder to explain…whatever
they turned out to be.
“We’ve got to find him,” James said decisively.
“How?” Remus hated to sound so hopeless, but between
the facts and his vision…everything they had fought for was dying, and all
because of one man’s choice to run away.
“You said yourself that we’ve looked everywhere.”
choice can change it all.
James started to answer, then
stopped himself with a helpless shrug.
For a long moment, he and Remus stared at each other, trying to think of
something—but only aware of how empty the
room felt without Sirius there. It was
as if they were living those dreadful ten years all over again, back when they
had thought Sirius dead and gone forever.
Is that how it works? Remus
thought heartbrokenly. We get him back for barely over a year, and
then he is gone again? He could see
the same bitterness reflected in James’ hazel eyes.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be the ones looking, then,”
Peter said suddenly.
“What?” Both Remus and James turned to stare at
him, and Peter tried to smile. The
effort failed, though, because he was feeling as heartsick as the other two.
“Well, we know him best. Sirius knows that…so he’ll hide from us. Right?”
Remus nodded slowly. “Right…”
“So let’s get someone else. Someone
who has been finding things for years.”
“Huh?” James looked at him blankly.
Peter smiled. “Don’t worry, Prongs. I’ve got an
Darkness and darkness.
He no longer counted the days as they passed;
he simply worked, grew, bled, and remembered.
Reality and dreams were growing harder to tell apart. Everything felt the same.
And the only shreds of normalcy lay between the
pages of an old leather journal. It was
the only sense of sanity that remained—a purpose. Purpose. He thought the word over and over again in
the dark, though he did not think he spoke aloud. He had a purpose.
Step by step.
Day by day.
“Not again!” she snarled to herself, pausing to
cast an angry glance at Cleopatra, her fat, lazy, and orange cat. Pattie, of course, ignored the incessant
knocking—it used to frighten her, but after the three times a day (as regular
as meals) pounding, the poor creature had given up. Now she just lay on the counter and yawned.
Julia paused to knock Pattie off the counter on
her way to the door—as much as she loved the cat, Pattie had to get out of that habit of lying on the counter. Julia could not abide cat hair in her food.
Pattie screeched at Julia as her owner flew by,
snarling and spitting as she bounced off the wall and landed on her feet. Julia, however, ignored the cat. Again.
“Ce qui vous veulent?” she shouted,
knowing exactly who it was and wishing that her parents hadn’t raised her to be
polite and never leave someone standing on the doorstep. Why
don’t I just pretend I’m not home? she asked
herself for the hundredth time, dodging around a pile of books on her way to
the door. I need to clean. Again. She always
needed to clean. Her flat might not have
been dirty, but it sure was cluttered.
Her mother would not have been proud.
Then again, her parents would have rolled over
in their graves had they known that she was working in a Muggle city as a Muggle librarian. It was boring work, for the most part, but it
helped her blend in, and Julia had never stopped loving books. At least it gave her something to do—and it
might have even been amusing had Jerry, her erstwhile would-be suitor, not had
a job in the café next door.
Muttering came from the other side of the door;
at least he wasn’t trying to romance her in his horrendous French. Julia spoke the French of the Fourteen,
taught to her by her mother, a Montague and native of France. Jerry, on the other hand…Jerry Silverman was
from New York City. And he liked to pretend that he knew French.
qui vous veulent maintenant?” Julia repeated, pulling the peephole
away so that she could look outside. It
was Jerry, of course, but she still wanted to see who she was shouting at.
“Umm…English?” Peter Pettigrew replied
sheepishly, glancing up at her through the hole.
“Peter!” Julia threw the door open in surprise,
then remembered to glance down the hall. Fortunately, it was still empty. “Come in, please.”
“I’m alone, if that’s what you’re worried
about,” the small man said quietly, stepping inside and allowing Julia to shut
(and lock) the door behind him.
She smiled. “Sorry. I’ve learned to be
Peter looked so uneasy that she almost asked
why, but Julia stopped herself just in time.
It wasn’t her business of course—but why was Peter here? Montreal wasn’t
exactly a stone’s throw from his flat in London,
even when you were a wizard. Again, she
started to ask, then stopped herself. Mum
would kill me for forgetting my manners like this.
“Sit down, please,” she finally said, shoving
Pattie off the couch. “May I offer you a
“No, thanks,” Peter replied, sitting and
glancing around curiously. “I can’t stay
long, and you’re probably wondering why I’m here, anyway.”
“Yeah,” she admitted, dropping into the
armchair across from him. “I was just a little surprised to see you here.”
Peter nodded, fidgeting a bit. “Well…how much do you know
about what is happening back home?”
“A little.” Julia
shrugged. “Not much,
really. I don’t get the Prophet here—it’d be far too easy to
find me, and owls don’t make ocean travel very well, anyway. I don’t get a Canadian Wizarding paper for
the same reason. Besides, they mostly
ignore what’s going on in Europe unless it’s
“So you haven’t heard?”
“Sirius disappeared a month and a half ago.”
“What?” Suddenly, she was short of breath and
her head started spinning. “Dissa—dead?”
She was not quite sure how the word came out at
“No.” Peter shook his head quickly. “Or at least we don’t think so—and he’s not
been captured, either.” Julia started
breathing again. “It’s just…he walked
away. Left Avalon without telling anyone, and we don’t know where he went.”
“Walked away?” she echoed.
Peter nodded wearily. “We—me, James, and Remus—have been looking
ever since he left. We’ve run out of
“And you want my help.” Her mind was still having problems catching
up with what Peter was saying, but Julia grasped that much. Sirius
is gone? Gone? She felt cold. Why would he run away?
“I know that it’s dangerous for you,” he
replied hesitantly. “And I wouldn’t have
come if I thought there was another way…but things are getting bad, Julia. Really bad, and we need Sirius.”
“How bad?” she whispered, trying to imagine
what could have brought Peter across an ocean to find her.
“Bad enough that I don’t think we’ll last
another month.” He swallowed. “We’ve got to find him, Julia, and you’re the
only chance we’ve got.”
She stood quickly, reading sincerity in his
face and knowing that Peter was a horrible liar. Had the Dark Lord wanted to trap her, Julia
knew, he would never have used Pettigrew—especially since Peter had turned his
back on Voldemort forever, and Julia knew he would rather die than betray his
friends. Little Peter Pettigrew was far
stronger than met the eye.
“Let me pack.”