Chapter Text
He catches Pettigrew in London, in a sewer of all places.
It is oddly fitting, though Lucius might have held him under the Cruciatus for an extra minute or three for making him wade through sewage. Muggle sewage at that. Battle hardened dragon hide and impervious charms be damned, everything he is wearing is going to have to be incendio’d at the soonest opportunity. Really, it is a miracle that he has not snapped his boot down on Peter’s neck and drowned the miserable rat in the sludge.
And oh, hadn’t that been a surprise.
My rat, Peter, the Dark Lord had called him with a slight turn of his lips that would have been called tender if it hadn’t been so utterly terrifying. Lucius had always assumed it was just because the watery eyed man was one of their spies – a turncoat, a rat in the Order’s midst. He hadn’t ever dreamed that the Dark Lord had meant it literally.
So yes, the surprise of watching (unassuming, simpering, weak) Peter Pettigrew turn himself into a rat after some impressive theatrics and a well-placed bombarda had frozen him to where he stood, watching Sirius Black collapse in hysterics in the middle of the street as Aurors swarmed the scene. He had barely managed to make it home before his polyjuice had worn off.
He had, however, wanted to go after the rat immediately and drag him, kicking and screaming, into a circle of hooded men with bone masks to face what he had done.
He had betrayed the Potters, as was his task, but then something had gone terribly, horribly wrong.
Lucius had watched from field across from the Potter’s house, Peter at his side, as the Dark Lord had walked up the hedge lined path and disappeared inside the house. He had not been worried, strictly speaking, though even he could admit that James Potter was a talented duelist and his wife was a powerful witch, even if she was a mudblood. He had watched as the windows lit up with the flash of the killing curse – once, twice, and then the whole upper side of the house had exploded. Vaguely, he had been aware of screaming, of a baby crying as the pain in his dark mark had taken him to his knees.
By the time he had regained his mind he could hear Black and that half-giant oaf arguing over where Harry, the baby, was supposed to go and Pettigrew… Pettigrew was gone.
Lucius has spent two years waiting for this moment, dreaming of this moment, of the moment when he finally puts his hands on Pettigrew – the rat who led their Master to his destruction. He had to spend two years subjecting every moment of his life to the pathetic ministry, to letting aurors raid his home and hound his every step. He donated positively obscene amounts of money to charities and even larger amounts to the pockets of politicians and other influential people – discreetly, of course. He had sat in a prison cell – not Azkaban, thankfully – and, most galling of all, he had been forced to sit, bound by chains, before the full Wizengamot and testify that he had been forced into Voldemort’s service via the use of the Imperius curse.
Him. Lucius Abraxas Malfoy: the Right Hand of Lord Voldemort.
The idea that he would not submit to his Lord, that he would not relish the opportunity to offer up his magic, his loyalty, and his life had been deeply insulting but he let the insult pass. No, he had done more than that. He had furthered the insult with his own lips, had let them search his mind to find the traces of the Dark Lord’s imperio lingering in his nerve endings.
He had faced the curse willingly, calmly, with a smile on his face as the weight of his Lord’s magic had stolen his own will from him.
“You stand at my right, Lucius. You are my sword, my figurehead, and you will do me no good if you cannot retain your influence,” the Dark Lord had murmured. “I am certain of your loyalties, now let me be certain of your safety.”
But now, two years later, the wizarding world has settled into a new and shiny peace.
And now Lucius has finally caught the rat.
“Hello Pettigrew,” he sneers and the rat squeaks in terror and cowers in the corner of the unbreakable cage. “We have so much to talk about.”
But not here.
He refuses to play with the rat in the sewers. It is too cliché.
“L-L-Lucius, my f-friend…”
Lucius silences him with a sharp slash of his wand and a boot to the man’s face. Two years in hiding has not been kind to Peter Pettigrew. Of course, he hadn’t been much to look at before the sewers either. The chubby man has wasted away, though his form is still soft and rounded with not an angle in sight and his brown hair is limp, dull, and long enough to brush his shoulders. Lucius’ lips curl in a wordless snarl as the rat lets out a high squeak of terror and cowers beneath the blow.
“We have never been friends, Peter.” His voice is surprisingly steady. Cool, calm, and even. He could be talking about the weather in the vaulted halls of the Ministry instead of splashing a man’s blood onto the stone floor of the manor’s dungeons.
“N-no, n-no of c-c-course n-not,” the rat back pedals instantly, watery eyes darting around the room. There’s nothing there, of course. Nothing but a plain wooden table, a single chair, and enough wards to masquerade as a level of Azkaban.
“We are but servants,” Lucius murmurs silkily, letting his voice curl around the room just like his fingers curl around the polished wood of his cane. The amplified hum of his magic is a heady thing, something that even now, a year after they’ve given his wand back to him, that he can’t take for granted. It is incomplete though. It is torn jagged at the edges, shredded and aching, reaching for a power that is no longer there. If his dark mark were not still visible on his forearm it is conceivable that he would simply add a generous dollop of poison to his evening tea and be done with it. But it is still there, gray and sickly, but there all the same.
The rat whimpers.
Lucius strikes like a snake and the whimper turns into a howl as has Pettigrew thrashes on the floor, spine arching until he is nearly bent in two.
“I am a faithful servant,” Lucius murmurs when, after he has cancelled his curse, there is nothing but the sound of Pettigrew’s wet, broken panting and the stench of fresh piss filling the air. “What about you, Peter? Are you still faithful, or is that mark on your arm a lie?”
“M-magic, b-b-body, and s-soul,” the rat stammers, the words a listless, broken sigh.
“And yet he is gone.”
“I-I didn’t… I…”
Lucius holds the next round of cruciatus until Pettigrew’s nose bleeds.
“P-please, Lucius, I- I d-did wh-what he a-a-asked.”
“And that is the only reason you are not dead,” Lucius informs him coldly. “But our Lord is more merciful than I and is willing to offer you a chance at redemption.”
Pettigrew’s watery blue eyes flicker open and stare unsteadily in the direction of his face. “R-redemption? B-but…”
“Are you so stupid that you believe something as meaningless as mere death can stop our Lord?” Peter is silent – silent and staring with his mouth hanging open and his pale faced streaked with tears and blood. “Once chance. I will offer just once…” Lucius pauses and twirls his cane through his fingers and the rat tracks the movement with a flinching uneasiness.
“O-of c-course,” Pettigrew agrees quickly and Lucius smiles.
“Sit,” he orders with a tip of his cane and Pettigrew scrambles unsteadily into the chair. From the pockets of his robes Lucius removes two items, which he sets reverently upon the table. “Write.”
“I d-don’t u-understand.”
Lucius holds back the curse that crowds upon his tongue, barely. “Do not be an imbecile,” he snaps. “I think it should be perfectly obvious. Open it up. Introduce yourself.”
After a long moment of baffled blinking Pettigrew slowly cracks the spine of the small, black book and picks up the blood quill.
Hello, Lucius watches him write, his handwriting cramped, if legible. I am Peter Pettigrew.
For a moment the blood shimmers on the page like dew upon the summer’s grass and then it is gone, sinking down into the paper, vanishing from sight. At first nothing happens and then,
Hello, Peter. My name is Tom Riddle. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?