The Stag and The Harpy | James Potter

Sacrifice (alternative ending)

{{PLEASE READ: okay so this is probably not the alternative ending you were expecting, but it feels so right to me. I have read so many endings where James and the OC fight off voldemort and while I'd like to believe that James and Phoebe could beat him....realistically he was insanely powerful. Instead, I've had this idea since I got about halfway through writing this story. I love a redemption story, and I think you guys will too. Before you read this, I would recommend going back and reading chapters Red and Irrelevant for some context. This alternative ending takes place after the death of Regulus, but it also means that Gideon and Fabian don't die :) this will be the last kind of "formal" addition to this story, but I have been reading your comments about writing some one shots. I already have a few ideas :) I hope this satisfies the people that are looking forward to it—this way they can defeat Voldemort as they always should have. Together.}}

Peter's father had always believed in the devil.

His mother was a witch, magic to the core. And his father had always said that loving her was a sin. Loving her was a dance with the devil, and being granted permission to love her, to marry her, to have children with her...Peter's father thought it was a gift from the devil. A debt that he would some day repay.

When he'd set the table cloth on fire during supper time at just eight years old, his father had believed that the devil was finally cashing in. Peter found him dead the next day. And so, Peter believed in the devil in the same way his father had. Even though magic never suggested it, even though his mother always scoffed and told him it was a muggle creation made to scare children. His father's death was proof enough. Wasn't it?

It worked, the fear that words of evil inspired. Peter had been waiting his whole life for the devil to whisper in his ear, to tempt him with sin.

He'd heard it for the first time when Mary MacDonald broke up with him.

Though, the devil wasn't nearly as scary as he'd thought. He didn't wear all red and have a pointy tail and horns. No, the devil was the wizards drinking alongside him at the White Wyvern, the wizards cheering and laughing when he threw up in Knockturn alley after too many whiskeys. The wizards telling him that Mary was a filthy mudblood and that he was better off without her. The devil was a person that looked much like him, promising revenge. And it was intriguing enough that Peter listened. He asked questions. The Dark arts had always seemed scary, untouchable. But that night, the dark arts had flirted with Peter. And he found that he had a knack for taming it.

He heard the devil for the second time when he saw Mary holding hands with Benjy Fenwick a few months later. The second whisper, the second taste. And Peter came to a rather important conclusion. The Devil was a feeling. The promise of fame, superiority, the looks of approval. Approval of him, not of his friends that always seemed to eclipse him. The Devil was dark, and the second taste had him addicted to just the thought of sin. Finally, something he could be good at. Power that he could have. Him and him alone. He wouldn't be the fourth marauder, the one that tagged along after his popular friends. No, if he shook the devil's hand, took its mark, he would be famed. Powerful in a way that James and Sirius and Remus never had been. He would be special, and the world would kneel at his feet.

He'd ridden that high for days, weeks. The burn on his forearm felt good, it felt like a promise. And the Dark Lord saw it, how much he craved importance. How he could be everything, just if someone would take an interest. He nurtured the seed of evil in Peter's heart, watered it with encouraging words. It had been a tough potion to swallow, learning the lessons that he needed to garner the things he desired. People tortured, muggles killed in front of his very eyes. And when Peter attended his first meeting with the inner circle, he felt smart. He felt wanted, needed. He felt for the first time since Mary Macdonald ripped out his heart and smeared it across the cobblestones of Diagon Alley.