Dark Coil

Prologue: "I Remember, I Remember"

Prologue title from a poem by Thomas Hood

Peter whimpered pitifully as he scrubbed at the magical hand with a cleansing charm. It was becoming harder and harder each time to rub away the stains. The lovely silver skin was now pitted by a rust-hued tarnish that no amount of magic could erase. So many deaths. So many murders.

The body of the young girl had slid awkwardly down the ash slope into the landfill. She had been pretty once, before Peter had brought her before his lord. Now, now she resembled nothing more than a mummified husk in a tacky Muggle mini-skirt. One more unexplained death the for Muggle police to fine away. With her passing, another cancerous scab had appeared on the silver hand, the hand bestowed upon Peter three years ago by Lord Voldemort. When Peter had displayed the blemishes to the evil, dark wizard who owned Peter's soul, Voldemort has chuckled, a sound that withered the very bones of Peter's body. "Why Wormtail," Voldemort had hissed gleefully, "do you not see that each of these marks is a tribute to you devotion to me? Wear them as a general would his medals!"

Peter had cried at the use of his old nickname, a name he had once borne proudly, now spoken with such derision.

At one time, he had been proud to be Wormtail. Wormtail had been the great friend of James Potter, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black. How wonderful were those times when the four of them had taken off on some wild scheme about Hogwarts or into Hogsmead, grabbing Lady Luck by her trailing robes and giving them a yank! For so long in his life, Peter had been the outcast, ridiculed, tormented, but then, THEN, he had found these glorious, dashing friends and they had actually counted him one of their number, a trusted companion.

Oh, oh how far he had fallen from that trust. And now, to hear the name he had once loved dearly spoken by the living embodiment of evil caused what remained of Peter's soul to cringe in pain.

He pulled the ratty Muggle coat closer about his wasted body and headed out of the dump area located near the waterfront, the precious silver hand cradled to his chest. He wept for himself, for what he had become, for the wonderful, prank-filled days he had cast aside for the illusion of power. If he had had possession of his soul, Peter would have killed himself long ago. His greater fear and dark love for Voldemort eclipsed his hatred of what he had become. For Voldemort , Peter would slave. For Voldemort, Peter would kill. Again and again and again.

The tattered figure continued to slink and slither from shade to shadow as it made its way through the grimy streets of London's forgotten underbelly. The denizens of this seamier side of the great city provided fodder in the way of ready Muggle cash, terror filled tidbits for he simmering horror that was Voldemort, and necessary ingredients. For the darkest of all wizards was now brewing a vile, deadly potion in the bowels of a ruined mansion located on the wasted edge of London's borders. Peter had been witness to the blasting away of life from each of the screaming, terror-filled victims. He had run, run, covering his ears as the voices of Hell rose all about him.

Peter finally reached his destination, a rotting mansion occupying a small plot of land covered with decades of refuse and overgrown with vines and weeds. Skittering around to the rear of the building, Peter looked about him fearfully and then lifted the shuddering cellar doors. A pit of vile blackness yawned before him, and he whimpered deep in his throat. He scrubbed at the tears with a rough coat sleeve. He choked and crumpled to his knees as an oily, crawling voice whispered from the blackness. "Wormtail, Wormtail. Why do you linger at the door?" Lovely dark coils of evil wrapped themselves around Peter's mind. "Come down, Wormtail. I have been playing with our new little friend. I have told her all about you. She is dying to make your acquaintance." The voice drifted off into hissing laughter and from when he cowered, Peter could hear faint sobbing from the next resident of London's garbage heap.

"Coming, Master," he moaned. "Coming." Peter stepped into the thick black of the cellar and all sounds of weeping were cut off as he closed the door behind him.

From the street corner where he hid himself in shadow, the paid spy shuddered violently. He wiped the vomit from his lips, but could do nothing about the state of his pants. God! Whatever was in that hole, he wanted nothing to do with it! He had followed the rat-like man fitting the description provided by his employer for several days before finally being able to track him to this place. He would go no further. Not for all the bloody gold in Gringotts! Let the ruddy wizard come and fetch this one himself. The spy felt he had done his part. He would do no more. Tonight, he would write the information he had obtained on a small bit of parchment and tie it to the leg of the first owl he could get his hands on. After that, he would disappear for a while. Life was suddenly too dangerous here in London. The owl would carry the information to another courier who would, in turn, relay it on by another means. It might take days, even weeks for the parchment to arrive at its final destination, but that wasn't his problem. He was finished. He promised himself he would never come back. Never.

Chapter One: The Arrival

The scarlet engine belched gray clouds of steam over the platform outside Hogsmead Station, filling the late summer air with the smell of scorched coal. Only a handful of passengers exited the line of cars stretching out behind the Express. Few people in Great Britian had business in Hogsmead, the only true wizarding village on the island. Fewer still were those who took the last train from London each day for the ride into the hilly countryside.

Dressed in Muggle jeans and tee-shirt, Olivia McGonagall stood out among the other witches and wizards exiting the train as she pushed a cart loaded down with trunks and carpet bags towards the main exit. After living for many years in the Muggle world as a diplomatic attorney from the Ministry of Magic, Olivia simply found the swirling robes and wide hats favored by most of the magic community to be cumbersome and anyway, the long hems were forever making her trip! With brown hair escaping from the bright red chopstick with it's jaunty black tassel she had skewered through the knot at the back of her head and her wide sunglasses reflecting the late afternoon sun, Olivia resembled a young coed heading off to college.

Olivia steered her cart through the rapidly emptying station house and out to the main street of Hogsmead. She gazed up and down the quaint road then pushed her glasses up over her brow, perching them on top of her head. The young woman had seldom been to Hogsmead when she was growing up in the home of Minerva McGonagall. Rarer still, were the visits to Hogswarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Minerva had wanted it that way. "Conflict of interest, my dear." She would say each time Olivia had begged to attend the English school. Raising a hand to shade eyes of emerald green, Olivia allowed her gaze to pass over the shops and offices lining the cobbled street. Surely Minerva had arranged some form of transportation, someone to meet her and take her to Hogwarts? Leaning out from the curb, Olivia peered up the road, but saw no one who looked as if they were late in meeting a train. Several older Hogwarts students, recognizable by their robes, lounged outside a coffee shop. They were sipping from foaming mugs and laughing. Olivia recalled Minerva telling her that many of the older students opted to stay at the magical school durning the long breaks to work on special projects. Past the merry group, Olivia could make out the shape of a very large person strolling easily toward town, a pink umbrella opened to shade him from the glare of the setting sun. Her mis-matched earrings brushed her jaw as she turned her head to inspect the road in the opposite direction. It was the same story. There were only a few people out and they were making their way home to family and food. Most of the shops were closing down for the day. A post office was across the way and Olivia was just about to step across and inquire about hiring transportation, when a tall, slender figure shrouded in black, stepped from the post office entrance. He was engaged in reading a roll of parchment and did not look up as Olivia checked her step and quickly backed into the shadowy doorway of the station.

"No way, that's him!" Olivia told herself before peeking around the scarred wooden doorframe. The tall man was still reading from his parchment, his entire form slightly blurred by the evening shadow cast by the building behind him. If it were the same guy, she mused, life has not been kind. The thin face was sallow, cheek bones standing out sharply, the nose was long and hooked, an eagle's beak, giving the man a predatory air, black hair hanging to his jaw. Surely, he looked a bit like the guy the Ministry of Magic had dragged from the court room seventeen years ago after she and a team of young barristers failed to convince a jury of his innocence, but she couldn't be positive.

Olivia jerked her head back into the station and rested her body against the cool plaster wall. If only she could get closer. Look into his eyes. Perhaps hear his voice. Only then could she be sure.

Olivia would never forget the shards of pure venom shooting from eyes of deepest black, nor would she ever tune from her ears the velvet acid of his voice, poured over the cringing group of young, inexperienced attorneys as he was pulled from the courtroom, "You fools! Not a single brain cell between the lot of you! YOU have condemned me to HELL!"

"Do something, you twit!" Olivia chided herself. "Standing here, held hostage by a memory. You can do this. Just step on out there and stick out your hand. "Hello, could you possibly be the same poor bastard I sent to Azkaban seventeed years ago?" She snorted at her poor attempt at humor.

She continued to stand in anxious confusion, her mind skating over possibilities. She could step out onto the curb and take her chances that the dark figure and the condemned man were not one in the same. Even if he were, what were the chances he would recognize her? After all, she had not had that much contact with the prisoner. She had never taken part in the sloppy interviews that had passed as evidence gathering, never struck out and beat the bushes for information. She had only appeared in court on two occasions: The first to sit burning in shame as their spokesman presented their pathetic arguments in defense of the accused, the last was to hear the judge pass sentence on the condemned man. Life in Azkaban Prison. Her stomach twisted at the memory, just as it had done on that hateful, terrible day when the judge had read the verdict and passed sentence. Convinced as they all were of his guilt, not one of the court appointed team had given their best in trying to see justice done. Instead, they had simply gone through the motions, done just enough to present the thinnest appearance of a defense. No one had expected or wanted the accused to walk free, not after hearing of his terrible crimes. In league with the most horrible monster the world had yet to vomit up, Voldemort! Murder! Using the Dark Arts! Creating Potions to steal the will of others! At the time, the evidence against him was overwhelming. He wore the Dark Mark on his arm, for crying out loud! What more did the jury need? And so, it seemed, justice had been served. But Olivia had been unable to stop the silent tears as she stood with the other members of the defense team when their client was lead from the courtroom. She had kept her eyes glued to his raging face, choking on her own guilt. She knew what awaited him in the basement of the courthouse. Dementors had arrived early in the day, eager to collect their prey. Even believing in his crimes, Olivia could not wish this punishment on anyone.

Her anguish had returned in full force when, eight months later, she discovered her client had been released from that hell of an island. The Ministry was closed mouthed about the situation, but Olivia heard it rumored that Albus Dumbledore was somehow involved. It didn't take long for The Daily Prophet to ferret out the fact that Voldemort's right hand man was now free. They could only postulate that the attorneys for the defense had mucked it up. There was speculation concerning the way the case was handled and that sloppy work had resulted in freedom for a murderer. The young team of barristers had been hounded for weeks afterwards. The editor of the Daily Prophet had even screamed for their disbarrment, an event that almost became a reality.

Many of the young barristers left the field for work in other areas. Some left the country. Olivia had been one of these reluctant immigrants. Minerva had been a support, of course, but it seemed the entire world wanted to hang her up by her knickers. Olivia didn't think she would ever survive the shame of those long ago days.

So, Olivia had traveled to America. She had returned to school and received her doctorate in Widard/Muggle Law. She worked hard to put her failure and shame of the past behind her. Through diligence, hardheaded perseverance, and unerring honesty, Olivia had established a name for herself as a hard hitting, thorough defense attorney. She also developed a reputation as a tough as nails prosecutor; ruthlessly hounding witches and wizards who preyed on the Muggle populations. The Ministry had noticed her hard work and she was given a position defending Witches and Wizards that ran afoul of Muggle law. For many years, Olivia traveled the world working to keep the peace between the magical and non-magical world.

To be continued.