The Marauders: Year Four

All My Friends

All My Friends

Mopsus - dead. Peter wrenched out of Voldemort's grasp, his eyes blinded by tears as he realized he had control of himself again, but he needn't have wrenched so hard, for Voldemort, in his anger, had all but lapsed his grip anyway, and the pull was too much, and Peter fell, sprawling to the ground. Voldemort turned to him, "Colloportus!" and the door clicked locked just as Peter managed to scramble up and to it. His body slammed heavily against the door and he twisted the handle to no result.

Peter turned to look at Voldemort, cramming himself as close to the corner of the room as possible, cowering. "Please... no... I don't want to die... Please..."

Voldemort's wand was raised.

Peter trembled something awful, "I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die."

"Shame," Voldemort whispered, "That we don't always get what we want."

Peter's chubby little hands went up, his palms to the Dark Lord, "Please. I - I'll do anything, I'll do anything. Just don't kill me or my mother. Please. Spare us, your - your Lordship." The words tasted terrible in his mouth, even as he said them. But they gave Voldemort pause, as he stared at Peter with interested eyes.

The Dark Lord chuckled, "Didn't take much, did it?"

Peter looked up at him through the cracks between his fingers, his fat cheeks flushed with fear. "S - S - Sir?"

"To bring you to your knees before me," the Dark Lord whispered. "You'll do anything, you say?"

Peter didn't know how to answer. He'd only been saying words. Empty promises. Anything to make the Dark Lord lower his wand at the present moment. Anything to buy him time for Frank or Dumbledore or somebody - bloody anybody - to save him. He swallowed and nodded fearfully - he had Voldemort's attention, every moment he spent burning the Dark Lord's fancy like this, the longer he had for something to happen to stop this from being the end of it all...

The Dark Lord's face split into a terrible grin. "Oh Peter. You shouldn't make promises you don't intend to keep."

It was as though the Dark Lord could hear his thoughts... knew his intentions...

"Why don't we make one that you will keep?" And the Dark Lord grabbed onto Peter's wrist.

Peter struggled to pull away.

"If I let you go... if I let you live today... then one day, I shall ask something of you... and whatever it is... you will give me what I want. Do you swear it?" He tapped his own wrist with his wand.

"Yes, yes anything," Peter whimpered and tried to pull away. A thick black whisp of smoke wound its way around Voldemort's wrist... around Peter's wrist... like a snake... or a rope that seemed to tie them together.

Voldemort's eyes gleamed evilly. "No matter what it is... no matter when I ask it from you... no matter what threats you face... you will give to me what I want." He leaned closer, "Do you swear it?"

"Please, yes, anything," Peter whimpered, hating having Voldemort leaning so close to him, his body trembling. Please, he thought, Somebody please save me.

A flash of dark red pupil and Voldemort's teeth in a smile that was probably once quite charming... another ghostly black snake or rope or whatever it was spun from Voldemort's wrist and onto Peter's... tightening the bond.

"Anything," Voldemort hissed, "Even if it is something you hold dear? Do you swear it?"

"Yes!" Peter cried sobbing as a third smokey-snake wove its way about their arms.