Archive of Our Own ^beta

And you dig your own grave, yeah, but it's a life you can save, oh
So stop getting fussed, it's not gonna happen

Hogsmeade was always dreary after Christmas, when the snow remained but the fairy lights had been put away.  Once the wreaths were down, the doorways were dark and unwelcoming.  The Christmas displays were over and done with, unsold merchandise half-heartedly placed in the windows.

James had suggested the Hog’s Head, so Peter found himself trudging through the snowdrifts, cursing his boots.  Now that he was back south, he hadn't bothered getting better winter wear and the enchantments had worn off this pair already.

Peter hated soggy socks.

James was all smiles when he caught up.  "Hello there!" he said, jogging up to Peter.  His cheeks were rosy from the cold and his breath hung in the air.

"You're late," Peter said, shivering.  He hated the cold.

"Couldn't help it," James said, not very apologetically.  "I got held up."

He didn't offer an excuse on what had held him up, but then he wouldn't.  James never thought like that.

"Let's get going then," said Peter, starting towards the pub.  "It's too cold to stand about in the streets."

"Blimey, I'd forgotten just how bad Scotland could be," said James.  "How'd we survive seven whole winters at Hogwarts?"

Hogwarts was an old castle, but generations of witches and wizards had layered spells and charms to prevent any drafts.  Other than the potions storage and parts of the kitchens (albeit, parts none of the students were supposed to enter), the whole thing was pleasantly toasty. Whenever James and Sirius got too stir-crazy and started to suggest going out to cause mischief during the winter, all Peter had to do was open a window and they’d come to their senses.

“You’re the one that picked the place,” Peter grumbled.

James nodded.  “Just thought it would—well, it made the most sense.  Diagon Alley has great wards, too, but we just know Hogsmeade better.  If anything—Well, there are more ways out of this town than just Apparating, aren’t there.”

Peter knew that James was trying to be comforting, but he wasn’t.  He shivered again, not sure it was from the cold this time, and looked around the streets for dangers.

His heart picked up as he saw someone he shouldn’t.

James noticed, drawing his wand, also looking about, and Peter knew he had to explain.

It was just so mortifying.

“Relax, it’s nothing it’s—I just saw Flitwick,” Peter admitted.  “And my first thought was we needed to hide because it’s not a Hogsmeade weekend.”

To Peter’s surprise, James laughed.  Or rather, to Peter’s surprise, James’ laugh sounded friendly and not mocking.

“The other day I was talking to McGonagall.  It was for an Order mission and when she asked if I had the explosives on me, I panicked and said no, of course not, who did she think I was.”

Peter looked at him, stunned.  “You did what?”

“I know, right?” James said, still chuckling.  “We were lucky it was milk run.  No chances of Death Eaters, no chances of running into civilians.  We were… well, obviously I can’t tell you details.  Needless to say, she was not amused.”

Peter wasn’t either.  He didn’t know how James could laugh off something so serious.  Dumbledore had lectured them on the importance of always being aware of their surroundings when they’d first been approached to join the Order.  He’d been so concerned about whether they were truly ready, if they knew what they were getting into.  That James had made such a rookie mistake and was laughing about it was inconceivable.

They’d arrived at the pub now, so Peter was saved from saying any of this to James.  The Hog’s Head lacked the pleasant tickling of bells that welcomed visitors into the Three Broomsticks, but any thoughts they had of sneaking in without being noticed were dashed when Aberforth Dumbledore greeted them with the rudest of glares considering they were paying customers.

“I’ll grab the first round,” said James.

“You’re the one that asked me,” agreed Peter, finding a booth while James went up to the counter.  

The cleanest booths were by the windows.  The panes of glass were grimy and only let through the dimmest of light, but still Aberforth put extra effort into wiping the tables there.  The few times they ventured in, Peter stuck to that area, horrified at what might be found in the dank corners of the inn.

Today, Peter compromised, sitting halfway back.  He was in sight of the bar but out of sight of the doorway.  It was far enough away that no one could take them unaware.

James came up not a minute later.  However much Aberforth might have resented them coming in, there weren’t many other paying customers at this hour and there was no reason to delay their order.

Peter winced when he took a sip.  James had forgotten—again—that he liked ciders over a bitter.

James didn’t notice.  He took a drink of his own, tapping his finger and staring off just a bit past Peter’s shoulder.  If Peter hadn’t already scoped the place out, he might have turned around to see what had captured James’ attention.  As it was, he recognized the far-off stare.

Peter tried to outwait James, but had never been a particularly patient person, at least not when his anxiety was up.

“You said there was something we needed to talk about.”

James visibly started, shaking himself out of his reverie.  He didn’t seem to notice he’d shaken his beer while he did so, some of it sloshing over the side and dripping down the back of his hand.

That did nothing for Peter’s nerves.

“Yes.  I supposed I did.”

Peter waited.  James drummed his fingers on the table.

“How are you doing?” he asked.  “It’s been too long.  Why didn’t you come for drinks last week with everyone else?  Lily tried this new spell for waxing the floors and it worked a little too well.  We spent the evening sliding across the floors whenever someone wanted something from the kitchen.”

Peter shrugged, unable to vocalize why he hadn’t gone.  He still wasn’t sure himself, although he offered the same excuse now as he did then: “Just wasn’t feeling well.  The Pepperup potion doesn’t mix well with drinks.”

“We missed you,” said James, nicely.  Last time Peter had arrived late at one of those nights, he had to knock for a full five minutes before someone noticed he was there.

“You’ll have another one,” said Peter, which was true enough. 

“Always an excuse for another drink,” James said, raising his glass.  He held it there, deliberately, until Peter raised his own, and then clinked them together in cheers.

Peter took a rather smaller drink than James, who downed a good quarter of his glass.

“So what have you been up to?” James asked after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

This was a painful conversation.  Peter was still on edge, waiting to see what James was really up to.  He’d been called here for a reason and this genial catchup couldn’t be it.

He was half-tempted to ask for a secret phrase, just like the Ministry always pushed, but he knew how James would react: with plenty of scorn to go around for the idea and Peter both.

“Work, mostly.  Plus, well, you know.”  His eyes darted around the room and his voice dropped before he even dared hint about their work for the Order.  No one had come in since he picked the seats, but you could never be too careful these days.

“Yes, ‘you know’.  That’s been keeping us all busy now, hasn’t it,” James agreed.  He didn’t keep his voice down but he also didn’t roll his eyes like he usually did when Peter was being cautious.

“At least you don’t also have a job.  Do you know how much my boss complains when I almost fall asleep because I was up half the night?”

“Lily insisted on getting a job, too,” said James.  “I don’t know how either of you do it.”

Peter took a drink and didn’t point out that both he and Lily needed a job.  James had moved back in with his parents after school and didn’t worry about money.  Peter moved back in with him mum and still had to scrape and save to help her pay the rent each month.

Maybe he could convince James to pick up the next round as well.

“It’s going well, then?” James asked once it became apparent Peter wasn’t going to brag about needing the money to help his mum scrape together the monthly bills.

“Yeah.  It’s a job.  Err.  There’s not much to say about it.”

He’d tried explaining his job once to Sirius and James, but they’d just hooted and hissed until he stopped complaining.  That had been when they first left Hogwarts.  Peter had been so proud, but it wasn’t anything compared to Lily’s position at the Ministry or even Remus’ stint as an archivist earlier this year before someone had ratted him out as a werewolf and he’d lost his job again.

“There has to be something else to talk about then,” said James.  “Gone on any dates?  Or... Oh!  Did you see the latest Falcons match?  That was some save in the third hour.  Didn’t think Beccles would pull it off.”

“I heard it on the wireless,” said Peter.  He’d been working, but his boss also liked listening to matches.  “It did sound amazing.  The Prophet had some good photographs the next day.”

James slumped again, which Peter didn’t think was fair.  He knew there was a big difference between watching a game in person and catching up on the highlights, but what was he supposed to do?  All he did these days was breath, sleep, work for money and work for the Order.  It was hardly fair that James was mad at him for it.

“Right, right,” James said. 

Peter supposed it was better than an argument, but it still made him feel off-balance.  He hadn’t been able to figure out the conversation all afternoon. 

“Why did you invite me out?” Peter asked, not for the first time.  Maybe if he said it enough James would actually answer.

“I just thought we should catch up,” said James.  “We never talk anymore unless it’s—Well.”

They hadn’t done any official Order missions together, just the two of them, but there was still plenty of overlap in their duties.  Peter still saw James at least twice a month between meetings and other Order events. 

“Isn’t that all anyone talks about?” Peter asked.  He couldn’t turn on the wireless but to hear the latest on the war, interrupting even that Quidditch game James had been so excited about not five minutes earlier.

“It is,” James agreed, but didn’t expound.  “It’s your round, isn’t it?”

Peter still had half his glass left, but he went up to the counter instead of chugging the rest.  Aberforth Dumbledore spent an extra minute rubbing a dirty cloth over a dirtier glass, pretending not to notice Peter. 

He cleared his throat.

“Two more?” Aberforth asked without looking up.  He always sounded a good deal grumpier than his brother, although equally intimidating in his own way.

“A bitter and a cider this time, please,” Peter said.

Aberforth humphed but still pulled the right taps.  Peter paid and went back to the table, where James  was so busy staring at Peter’s last drink he had to visibly shake himself back into awareness when Peter sat down.

His cider was a lot tastier than the bitter James had ordered, so Peter took a deep drink of that while he thought of what to say next.  There was obviously something on James’ mind, but he wouldn’t come out and say what it was.

During fourth year (or maybe third), James had gotten it into his head that they needed to learn a secret language.  He and Sirius had poured over cryptography textbooks, coming up with a brand-new code that they used constantly, both for notes and in real life. Peter and Remus had struggled to keep up, Remus declaring the entire thing silly, but the other two left them with no choice.  If they didn’t try, they couldn’t communicate with James and Sirius at all. 

When they’d first joined the Order, Peter remembered James’ disappointment when he learned Dumbledore didn’t approve of secret codes, neither the spy kind nor the passphrases the Ministry was so enamoured with.

Peter tried to dredge up the memory of some of those old hand-signals now. 

He’d half expected James to at least light up, if he didn’t start responding right away, but the look on his face when he recognized Peter’s clumsy signs for “Is it safe to talk?” (or, more literally, the signs “Filch” “away” “mice” and “play”) was a lot more complicated than that.

James recognized the signals, that was for sure.  But he didn’t respond.  He looked around the pub—at the bar, at his drink, at anything but Peter’s hands.  Peter got the sneaking suspicion that if their drinks weren’t full, James would be haring off to get another round right about now.

Finally, James licked his lips and took out his wand.  “Muffliato,” he said, sounding more defeated than anything else.

“There.  The radius isn’t far, but I don’t want people to get more suspicious if they aren’t already listening in.  Cover your mouth, maybe, if you don’t want anyone reading your lips.  Now what were you saying?”

Peter brought his glass up.  “I was asking if it was safe to talk.”

James did laugh now.  “Oh, is that what that was?  You signed ‘Filch running elephant dance’.  What signs you actually aiming at?”

It didn’t matter and Peter didn’t much feel up to reliving those months in Hogwarts, the humiliation as he mixed up two symbols or too clumsily signed one he did remember only for it to be too close to another.

“Look, Prongs, you asked me here for a reason.  We could’ve got caught up about my job or the latest quidditch standings at the next Order meeting.  What’s wrong?” Peter asked. 

He realized he’d been holding the cider up for an unusually long time now, so he took a drink and set it down again.  Hopefully James would talk and Peter wouldn’t need to find something else to obscure his face.

For a long moment, Peter thought this, too had failed.  Dread battled with bewilderment—was James under a curse?  Could he physically not talk about it?  Was Peter supposed to guess?  But then James sighed, loudly.

He looked up at the ceiling instead of Peter when he finally did answer.  “I just wanted to know how you’re doing, with everything that’s going on.  The war, you know.  The Order.  And not—not the glib answer.  The real answer.  How’s it really going?”

It was as bad as the early conversation attempts, asking about his job or the latest Quidditch standings.

“The war is going.  The war won’t stop going,” Peter said, unable to hold the last part back.

To his surprise, James didn’t call him out on it.  “It doesn’t feel like it’s going to end, does it?”

“No,” said Peter.  “I thought, well…”

James finished for him.  “Yeah, I thought, too.  I know we’ve been hearing about it for years, but it was going to be different, once we finished school, once we could start helping properly.”

“We are helping,” Peter said earnestly.  It didn’t feel like it sometimes, the errands Dumbledore assigning them nothing that would win them medals.  Peter had spent more time distributing pamphlets in the past few months than he had spent writing essays through all of Hogwarts.

“I know we’re helping,” James said.  “But is it enough?”

“Of course it’s enough.  Don’t you remember what Dumbledore said when he first asked us to join?  Every little bit helps.  If Dumbledore needed more, he’d ask for more.”

Their former headmaster been more eloquent, talking about lights in the darkness, but Peter didn’t remember enough of that speech to try to recreate it. 

It was a relief now, knowing where the conversation was going.  It wasn’t the first time he’d heard James or Sirius complain about the lack of importance of the missions they were assigned.  He was well used to assuring them Dumbledore knew what he was doing, that he had a plan.

“Oh, no,” James said, throwing Peter off-balance once again.  “I’m actually—well, I can’t say anything, but that’s not my problem anymore.” 

Peter should have expected that.  Of course James had been advanced to more serious missions already.  He was always everyone’s first choice to take on more responsibility.

“I’m not trying to complain about what Dumbledore’s asking of me.  It’s important.”  James looked up from his drink, suddenly and earnestly adding, “What you’re doing is important, too, Pete.  Every little bit is.”

It was the same speech they’d been given when they first signed up.  It was the same speech Peter started giving James not two minutes earlier.  It didn’t reassure Peter anymore coming from James’ mouth now as it had when Dumbledore first gave it.

“Then why are you asking if it’s enough?” Peter asked before thinking better of it.

Condensation had left a water ring at the bottom of the glass.  This wasn’t a classy enough place to spring for coasters, but Peter could still hear his mum fussing about ruining the wood. 

James didn’t seem to have the same thoughts going through his head.  Instead, he was tipping his pint glass to trace the ring, round and round in circles.

“Do you think?” James asked, then stopped again.  Peter held his breath.  “Do you think what we’re doing is enough?  I mean, not us specifically, but Dumbledore’s side in general.  Do you think we’re making a difference?  Sometimes it just feels like we’re whistling in the dark.”

Peter stopped breathing.  “Of course we’re making a difference,” he said.  He could hear his heart hammering in his chest, the thump-thumping threatening to lodge in his throat and swallow him whole. 

His words were hollow and James’ expression was bleak.  He wasn’t going to make the world a better place today.  “Our pamphlets are laughable.  Barely a step up from the drivel the Ministry produces.  Did you see the last one?

Peter had spent hours Apparating from site to site, using substandard invisibility spells that threatened to fail every time he dropped a new packet of pamphlets.  There were as many informants for the Death Eaters as there were for the Ministry these days and he would never be able to put up as many wards around his flat, shared as it was, as the rest of them could.

Peter had seen the last pamphlet.

“The real missions are scarcely any better.  Half the time, we’re just cleaning up after Death Eaters.  Or the Ministry.  They’re just as bad, in their own way.  Did you know half the people affected by the Ouse Disaster, they weren’t cursed by Death Eaters?  It was the Ministry hit wizards, trying to set things right.  They fucked it up.  They fucked it up good.  The Daily Prophet was there, but they didn’t say anything.  It isn’t good for morale.”

James laughed, harshly.  It sounded more like a cry.

“Where did you—” Peter licked his lips.  They were too dry.  He took a drink of his cider, but his throat was closed and it hurt to swallow it down.  “I don’t think you’re supposed to be telling me this.”

“It’s not good for morale,” James repeated.  He raked his fingers down his face.  “Merlin, no, you’re right.  Don’t listen to me.  I shouldn’t have said anything.  Only, I felt if I could tell anyone, it was you.”

Even against a backdrop of terror, Peter was flattered.  James never thought of him first. 

“Me?”

“Yeah.  I mean, I can’t very well go to Sirius or Lily, could I?”

“Oh.”  Peter’s feelings crashed down again.  He should have known.

“Lil, she just doesn’t get it.  Her uncle fought in some Muggle war and used to tell her stories when her parents weren’t around.  She read about the Whitsuntide Massacre in the Prophet and do you know what she said?  That she wasn’t surprised.”

“She—what?” Peter asked, breath quickening.  He didn’t even remember to cover his mouth in time.  Was there anybody about to read his lips?

James’ eyes widened as he realized what his words sounded like.  “Oh, no, not like that.  She didn’t know the details.  She just claimed it was inevitable.  That she’d been waiting for something like that to happen.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Peter swore.

Peter’s mum hadn’t been able to read the paper for a week after that.  She’d barely let him leave the flat, terrified he was going to get himself killed.  He hadn’t even told her he was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, although she knew he was doing something in the war effort.

“Every time I wonder at the new horrors the Death Eaters come up with, she just asks me what I was expecting.  And I know they’re awful human beings, but is it wrong that I wasn’t expecting that?”

“And Sirius?  Was he also expecting Whitsuntide too?” Peter asked.

“Sirius?  Not exactly.  At least he’s never said anything, not specifically, not like Lily has.  Only…”

“Only what?”

James looked Peter directly in the eyes. “I think there was a lot that went on in the Black household that Sirius didn’t tell us about.”

Peter thought about the stories Sirius had told over the years, both deliberate and otherwise.  It hadn’t seemed possible that there could be more for Sirius to hold back.

“If I start talking about the war—really talking about it, about what’s happening, not what the Order is doing or what our next mission is—he gets so… so… well, you know what Sirius can be like.  He gets like that, just… more.”

Peter nodded.  He did know how Sirius could get when he was on a tear.  The war brought out the worst in him.  Sometimes it felt like Sirius was on a personal mission to destroy the Dark Lord, not because of all the evil he’d brought into the world, but because Sirius had to do something to prove himself, to show that he was different from the rest of his family.

“And Remus?” 

Peter was no longer under any illusions that he was anything but a last resort for this conversation.

James shrugged.  “Remus has his own reasons for fighting.  He thinks he has as much to prove as Sirius does, just not to the same people.  Every time I think about saying something to Remus, he just goes to remind me how much worse he has it.  And I can’t.  I can’t very well complain to him, not when he has everything else to deal with.”

But he could complain to Peter.  He’d long ago come to terms with the fact that none of his friends thought any of his concerns were worth worrying about.

“So what does it all mean?” Peter asked. 

James laughed, harsh and on the edge of hysterics.  “That’s the question, isn’t it?  What does it all mean and what can I do?”

“Are you…” Peter picked his words carefully.  “Are you leaving the Order?”

“Merlin!”  James shouted and slammed the table with his fists.  Peter jumped, only realizing after that he didn’t go for his wand. 

He should have gone for his wand.

“What kind of question is that?” James asked.

“But you said.”  Peter didn’t like how quiet his voice was but couldn’t bring himself to speak up. 

“I know what I said.  But I didn’t mean—that.”

“What did you mean then?” Peter asked.

But James was still stuck on Peter’s original question.  “Of course I’m not leaving the Order.  How would that even work?”

Peter boggled at him.  “You would just tell Dumbledore.  And then not do any more missions.  Wouldn’t you?”

“Tell him what?  That I changed my mind?”

Peter wanted to say yes, but it felt like a trap.  “But didn’t you?”

“Nothing’s changed,” said James.  “Not really.  The only difference is now I know just how bad the other side is.”

“But you knew that before,” said Peter carefully.

“Did I?” James asked, looking him dead in the eye.  “Did any of us?”

Peter’s stomach curled.

Panic was seeping through him although he tried to control it.  He remembered that time just after they left Hogwarts when the others were gunning to do something—anything.  He had been so terrified, but James and Sirius had been so adamant. 

“You said it was worth it.  You said it was the only thing to do,” Peter said, desperate.

“I wasn’t wrong,” James said, slightly hysterical.  “It’s still the only thing to do.  What else is there? Are we supposed to go up to the Death Eaters and tell them it was all a mistake?  That we aren’t really on the other side now?  How do you think that will go.”

Peter tried to picture it. 

He’d never considered it before, but what could they do to leave the Order?  He wasn’t sure Dumbledore would even let him leave.  He’d been so insistent about secrecy, warned them again and again of the dangers they’d face if they joined.

Then there was the Death Eaters, as James said.  They would have no reason to believe Peter if he said he was longer the enemy.  Dumbledore had gathered them all together when Emma Winickus had died, explained what had happened to her, the torture she’d gone through.  Would Peter’s protests be enough or would it be written off as a desperate attempt to save himself?

Dumbledore had warned them.  He had all but told Peter not to join, to take the time to consider, but Peter had leapt in anyway, following the others’ lead.  And now James was here, telling him he’d been wrong, that it had all been a mistake.

Peter wasn’t sure he remembered how to breathe.

What had he done.

James sat back suddenly and smiled.  “Oh, Merlin.  Don’t listen to me.  I’ve had too much to drink.” 

He gestured to his empty glass.  It was only their second of the afternoon.

“What?” Peter asked, stupidly, his mind still racing with all the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’.

“I shouldn’t have said any of this.”  His tone was light, cheerful and the whiplash from his previous mood struck Peter hard, like an unexpected curse.

“But you said—”

“I was just complaining.  Getting some things off my chest.  I didn’t mean any of it, not really.”

He sounded so sure now. 

“But what about—”

James leaned in, too close to Peter even with a table between them.  “Only, I can trust you, right?”

“Of course you can trust me,” Peter said, his lips working independently of his brain. 

“None of this happened.  Okay, Pete?  You don’t have to tell anyone.  You know I didn’t mean any of it.  I just… I just needed to tell someone.”

Peter wasn’t sure James knew just how contradictory he was being, but he smiled and nodded nonetheless.  James shouldn’t have been reassured by it.  He was never fooled by Peter’s acts of bravery.  Peter just felt so hollow now, but he gathered up his coat and his wand and made his way back out of the bar regardless. 

Outside the sun was shining, blinding him where it reflected off the snow drifts.  No one had shovelled and not enough people had walked through the streets already.  Every step was a struggle, his boots crunching down on the glistening crust.

James waved when they split ways, his smile as brilliant as the glare on the snow.

“Next Friday at mine,” he said.  “No excuses this time.”

Peter nodded and mumbled some affirmation.  James disappeared.

A bird sung, nearby, but Peter didn’t notice.

His thoughts were otherwise occupied.