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The Empty Kitchen


“Something terrible’s happened,” Remus said thickly.

“What do you mean something terrible’s happened?” Sirius demanded, looking around, “Where’s Peter gone?”

Remus drew a deep breath. “His mum’s dead.”

Sirius felt sick.

“His mum?” asked James.

Remus nodded, tears coming to his eyes, “McGonagall came and collected him, took him away to bring him home. He - he fell apart, he - I’ve never heard anyone cry like that.” Except myself, that is,, Remus thought. He could still feel the gutting cries he’d shed when he’d emerged from his woflish form the day he found out that Hope had died. He stared at the spot on the carpet where Peter Pettigrew had collapsed, knees gone from beneath him.

“What happened?” breathed James as Sirius stared numbly ahead.

“Murdered,” Remus said, “In Diagon Alley. Whoever’s done it left her body in one of the alleys. Peter’s sister Maggie found her… it wasn’t good… Maggie’s been detained by the aurors.” Remus’s voice faded off.

“Bloody hell,” James whispered. “Why?”

Remus shook his head, “Dunno the details beyond that. Only that Peter’s gone home.”

Sirius turned away, his eyes hot with tears that threatened to fall.




Peter Pettigrew sat alone in the kitchen of his home. For the first time in his entire life, the house didn’t smell like something cooking. His knuckles were white as he clasped onto the handles of the kitchen chair, staring at the wood surface of the table top. Down the hallway, he could hear his father bidding goodbye to the aurors that had returned Maggie home from St. Mungo’s, where they’d thoroughly checked and rechecked her to be sure she was okay. She still hadn’t spoken a word, and she sat across from him at the table, looking just as numb as he felt inside.

Bad joke, he thought, It’s a bad joke and mum’s going to pop out any moment and make up some roast pork sandwiches and chips. Mum’s going to laugh when we tell her what we thought, and she’ll tell us we ought have known better… Ought have known it was a bad joke…

When the aurors were gone, Cecil Pettigrew walked into the kitchen, his face was still pale, his eyes still damp, his gait heavy. He stood in the doorway, looking at the two children at the empty table, at the cold stove and the still pans, hanging from the rafters along with bushes of basil and lavender. He walked slowly to the table and sat, too, only one seat left vacant. All three of them looked at the chair at the end of the table.

“Merlin help us,” Cecil whispered and he covered his eyes, his shoulders shaking as he began to sob.

Maggie’s lips were the thinnest line possible.

“Da, it’s alright,” Peter said weakly. He looked at Maggie, but she was no help, and he thought of what Sirius Black might’ve done if he were faced with someone he loved crying the way his Dad was and Peter got up and went over and hugged Cecil ‘round the shoulders, pressing his face against his blonde hair.

“We didn’t join the resistance,” sobbed Cecil, “For this very purpose, we stayed out. We didn’t fight him so that he wouldn’t fight us.”

Peter closed his eyes and he recalled the words that Voldemort said said in the forest less than a month ago. He’d been seeking him, Peter, because of something somebody called the Blind Seer had said. And Peter shivered as the sound of Voldemort’s voice echoed through his mind. He squeezed his father all the harder, and felt a sickening twist deep within his belly. It was his fault his mum was dead - if he’d just let Voldemort have him then, that night, then she’d still be alive. Of course he, Peter, would be dead in her place… He shook that thought out of his mind.

“It wasn’t supposed to end this way!” Cecil moaned, and he collapsed so that his forehead leaned against the crook of his elbow, his sobs shuddering through his body.

Peter rubbed his back.

Maggie just sat and stared ahead, her eyes wide and unseeing as she breathed unsteadily.

Peter felt terrible for her, couldn’t imagine how she felt. He wondered how much of it she’d seen, how much of it she’d have been able to stop had she not been a squib… if only it had been him there with his mum… he set his jaw and looked bitterly away from Maggie, his heart seizing up in him. What was he thinking? He couldn’t blame Maggie for it - it wasn’t her fault, she wasn’t the one that murdered their mother. It was some Death Eater, some masked fiend working for Lord Voldemort.

Peter himself had more to do with why she was killed than Maggie did.

The thought brought chills to his spine once more.

Peter clumsily made dinner that night. Just as much ended up burned on the stove as was suitable for eating, and the Pettigrew family sat in silence, the only sound in the room as they ate was their chewing and the clinking of their silverware against their platters. Peter wondered how it was that the absence of someone could feel just as tangible as their presence always had.




The Marauders skipped dinner. They were all so thick with depression that Sirius decided they needed something to take off the edge and in desperation he snuck through the dormitories of all the older year students until he unearthed a flask under one of the sixth year boys’ mattresses. He brought it back to the dormitory and the three of them sat about on Peter’s bed, taking it in turn to pass the flask about between them. “She was a good mum,” Sirius said, “I met her a couple times. Remember that day at King’s Cross, chum?” he asked James, “When she took our photograph?”

“She was so excited Peter had mates at school,” James nodded.

“She loved him a lot,” Sirius said, nodding and taking a sip off the flask. He was feeling lightheaded.

James took the flask and took a mouthful and passed it off to Remus.

“You don’t realize how bloody much you love them back ‘til they’re gone,” Remus said heavily. “It’s like the floor’s gone wobbly and you’ll never walk on solid ground again.” He tossed his head back, pouring firewhiskey down his throat. It burned nearly as much as that salve of Pomfrey’s, but from the inside out. “I miss my mum.” He handed the flask to Sirius and pressed his palms to his eyes.

James squeezed Remus’s knee. The world felt quite wobbly to him at that moment and, as far as he last knew, Dora was okay.

But things change fast in times like these, he thought, and he tried to remember the feeling of laughing but it seemed so damn far away, like a mirage of water on the desert, and he closed his eyes instead.

Sirius swallowed his mouthful of whiskey and looked at James, whose glasses were askew as he laid across the bed, his head at the foot-end opposite Sirius and Remus. He nudged James a couple times. “Jammmmmes,” he murmured, “Jaaaames.” But his mate didn’t budge. “Bloody hell he’s fallen asleep.”

“I can’t blame him,” Remus said thickly, “My head’s heavy, too.”

“Well here, rest it,” Sirius said, grabbing a pillow from behind his back and plopping it down by his knee. Remus obliged, laying across the bed, his head at Sirius’s knee. Sirius took a second pull off the flask. He closed his eyes, feeling the swaying of his equilibrium.

“I don’t think I like being drunk,” Remus murmured from the pillow.

Sirius opened his eyes and looked down at Remus. His pale skin was dark ‘round his eyes, the full moon close. His hair hung in blonde curls at his forehead. Sirius blinked at him, his brain slow and thoughts sort of sticking together.

Remus, too, had his eyes closed. He bad balled his fists ‘round the duvet. “Is the bed moving?” he asked.

“Maybe,” whispered Sirius.

“I feel like we’re on the little boats on the water in first year all over again,” Remus groaned.

Sirius suddenly remembered the thought he’d had in the water earlier that day, following the mermish sentinel, though he wasn’t sure what it had been that had reminded him exactly… “Do you reckon if you were underwater and you turned into a werewolf you’d become the werewolf version of a merman?”

“A wereshark…” murmured Remus.

“You’d have a good deal more teeth to deal with then,” Sirius said. He opened his eyes and somehow managed to take another swig of the firewhiskey. He held out the flask - now empty - and stared at it.

“I doubt weresharks are a thing,” Remus said, “I’ve made them up. Just now.”

Sirius guffawed.

“Bloody hell please stop laughing, you’re making the whole bed shake,” Remus moaned, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “Is there any more of that stuff? I feel like perhaps one more sip will knocker me out like James and I’d rather stop thinking tonight…?”

“I’ve just finished it,” Sirius replied, “If you want more, you’ll have to suck it from my mouth.”

“Don’t tempt me, Black,” murmured Remus.

Sirius cackled. He reached for James’s glasses, which had just fallen off his nose, and put them up on the nightstand so they wouldn’t break. Then he laid back and closed his eyes as he sprawled over the pillows. “Remember the night Derek Bell came back drunk from Hogsmeade?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Remus replied quietly. “Lily Evans had a fit about it.”

“Why are all the good people dying?” Sirius asked solemly.

“Not all of them,” Remus replied.

“Most of them,” Sirius said.

“You’re still here,” Remus said quietly.

Sirius smiled weakly. “So’re you, Rey.”

“Yeah,” he whispered.

Sirius drew a deep breath. They lay there in silence for what felt like always. Then Sirius sat up, his brain swimming and swirling and he looked down at Remus, whose features were slack with sleep. “Night, Moony,” he said thickly.