Week 10 topic - "What do you want on your tombstone - and why?"
The night was chilly and a cutting wind blew through the forest, but the cheap whisky bought courtesy of Bertha Jorkins' wand warmed Peter from the belly out. He grunted as he drove the spade hard into the cold ground, the sharp edge digging into his foot through the worn soles of his shoes as he strained to make an impression.
"'No magic', he says," he muttered rebelliously under his breath. "Not done any harm so far, has it?" He felt another rush of warmth at the memory of rough whisky trickling down his throat, and patted his pockets. He pulled out a flask and allowed himself a small mouthful, savouring every last drop, taking what pleasure he could. It burned as it slipped down, and his face twisted briefly at the strong taste. No, magic had not done him any harm.
He would have found the Dark Lord without magic of course - or without the wand at least. The rats out here hadn't learned to shun him, and didn't seem suspicious of his odd questions. They didn't seem to be able to sense the mark on his forearm either; perhaps it had only been his imagination that some creatures had been able to before. Or maybe these foreign rats were just exceptionally stupid. Either way, magic had certainly made life more comfortable.
He put the flask back in his pocket, resisting the temptation to drink it all down at once. Life, and comfort. It was what he wanted from magic - it was what he wanted from the Dark Lord. The power to take all freedoms, all pleasures - and eternal life to enjoy them, that was the promise. If the Dark Lord thought he could get out of their bargain simply by being defeated - Peter viciously drove the spade into the ground again - then he had reckoned without Peter Pettigrew. He was owed, and he was going to collect.
If his orders didn't kill him first. He winced as the coarse wooden handle rubbed against the raw skin on his hands. They were already cracked and grimy from living rough for weeks on end; developing blisters as well - and for this - was beyond a joke. He pulled the sleeves of his coat down and grasped the handle through the cloth; it was too little too late, but at least he would be able to finish the job. The hole wasn't quite as deep as he'd been instructed to make it, but Peter was past caring tonight. If he caught his death of cold then his Master would be on his own again, and did either of them really think anyone else would be coming to look for him? Not bloody likely.
He grasped the shovel tightly through his coat sleeves and gave it an experimental swing. A dishevelled creature with wild eyes dropped the handful of stony soil she was rubbing over her mouth and looked up vacantly at the movement. The return swing hit her square in the face, tumbling her into the open pit with the force of the blow. She lay doll-like, head twisted at an impossible angle, as earth began to tip slowly back into the hole.
Filling the pit was easier work than digging it, but Peter still rewarded himself with a sip from the flask when it was done. After a brief hesitation he raised the flask in salute over the makeshift grave.
"R.I.P. Bertha," he slurred. His voice dissolved quickly into a childish giggle. "Don't wait up."
Still chuckling, he trudged unsteadily across the disturbed earth and headed back to the village, tucking the flask away regretfully but firmly. After all, with a Dark Lord to take care of, he had a long night still ahead of him.
Muse: Peter Pettigrew
Fandom: Harry Potter
Words: 628
"'No magic', he says," he muttered rebelliously under his breath. "Not done any harm so far, has it?" He felt another rush of warmth at the memory of rough whisky trickling down his throat, and patted his pockets. He pulled out a flask and allowed himself a small mouthful, savouring every last drop, taking what pleasure he could. It burned as it slipped down, and his face twisted briefly at the strong taste. No, magic had not done him any harm.
He would have found the Dark Lord without magic of course - or without the wand at least. The rats out here hadn't learned to shun him, and didn't seem suspicious of his odd questions. They didn't seem to be able to sense the mark on his forearm either; perhaps it had only been his imagination that some creatures had been able to before. Or maybe these foreign rats were just exceptionally stupid. Either way, magic had certainly made life more comfortable.
He put the flask back in his pocket, resisting the temptation to drink it all down at once. Life, and comfort. It was what he wanted from magic - it was what he wanted from the Dark Lord. The power to take all freedoms, all pleasures - and eternal life to enjoy them, that was the promise. If the Dark Lord thought he could get out of their bargain simply by being defeated - Peter viciously drove the spade into the ground again - then he had reckoned without Peter Pettigrew. He was owed, and he was going to collect.
If his orders didn't kill him first. He winced as the coarse wooden handle rubbed against the raw skin on his hands. They were already cracked and grimy from living rough for weeks on end; developing blisters as well - and for this - was beyond a joke. He pulled the sleeves of his coat down and grasped the handle through the cloth; it was too little too late, but at least he would be able to finish the job. The hole wasn't quite as deep as he'd been instructed to make it, but Peter was past caring tonight. If he caught his death of cold then his Master would be on his own again, and did either of them really think anyone else would be coming to look for him? Not bloody likely.
He grasped the shovel tightly through his coat sleeves and gave it an experimental swing. A dishevelled creature with wild eyes dropped the handful of stony soil she was rubbing over her mouth and looked up vacantly at the movement. The return swing hit her square in the face, tumbling her into the open pit with the force of the blow. She lay doll-like, head twisted at an impossible angle, as earth began to tip slowly back into the hole.
Filling the pit was easier work than digging it, but Peter still rewarded himself with a sip from the flask when it was done. After a brief hesitation he raised the flask in salute over the makeshift grave.
"R.I.P. Bertha," he slurred. His voice dissolved quickly into a childish giggle. "Don't wait up."
Still chuckling, he trudged unsteadily across the disturbed earth and headed back to the village, tucking the flask away regretfully but firmly. After all, with a Dark Lord to take care of, he had a long night still ahead of him.
Muse: Peter Pettigrew
Fandom: Harry Potter
Words: 628