Eclipsed

The Burke’s summer manor was the kind of place Peter had only read about- grand, old, and dripping with the kind of wealth that came with centuries of pureblood tradition. It was a sunny afternoon, the sky a brilliant blue overhead, and the manicured gardens stretched out before him in every direction: tall hedges, blooming roses, and bubbling fountains, fine wine flowing freely, and house-elves passing around trays of gourmet hors d'oeuvres, each one more elaborate than the last.

Peter tugged at the collar of his finest robes, feeling out of place. He’d grown up fairly well off, and a pureblood as well, but the Burke’s estate was on an entirely different level of wealth and sophistication. He tried to blend into the background, clutching a glass of wine he didn’t particularly feel like drinking, but he couldn’t shake his discomfort. The guests, Slytherin graduates mostly, all purebloods for sure, moved around him, laughing and chatting with an ease Peter could only wish for.

Elle, on the other hand, was absolutely glowing. She drifted from group to group, her soft blonde hair catching the sunlight, a bright smile on her face as she greeted old classmates and family friends. Peter couldn’t help but smile when he saw her like this, so happy and at ease. This was her world—pureblood society, with all its traditions and expectations—and she fit right in.

"Peter!" she called, catching sight of him standing awkwardly by a rosebush. She made her way over to him, slipping her hand into his. "Isn’t it beautiful? Mother let me redesign the gardens the summer after third year… did you notice the golden sunbursts by the porch? I cultivated that strain myself."

“Did you now?” Peter replied, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he felt. “They’re really lovely, darling. This party too… really something, isn’t it?”

Elle laughed, clearly not noticing his unease. She’d never been one to pick up on social cues. “My parents really outdid themselves, didn’t they?”

Before Peter could respond, a sudden shift in the crowd caught his attention. A group of new arrivals had just appeared at the garden’s edge, and Peter’s stomach dropped.

The atmosphere seemed to change as they entered. Even among the blood purists, these were the people who carried the most weight- the self-proclaimed Death Eaters, and those most loyal to Voldemort. The laughter quieted slightly, and heads turned in their direction, acknowledging their presence with deference and respect.

Peter swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously around. He’d been prepared for this kind of environment when he agreed to come, but actually being here, surrounded by these people, felt different. They don’t know, he reminded himself. They don’t know I’m with the Order. They don’t know there IS an Order.

He forced himself to focus on Elle, who floated through the garden at his side, laughing and mingling with her friends, her golden hair shining in the sunlight. She was radiant, her happiness infectious, and for a moment, Peter’s nerves eased. She was in her element, and seeing her so happy made Peter smile despite everything.

But then again, there they were.

Peter felt a knot of tension twist in his stomach as the group strolled across the lawn, their presence turning heads. Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, with their predatory grace, moved through the crowd as though they owned the place. Following them were the Malfoys, Lucius and Narcissa, as striking and cold as ever, and behind them—Walburga Black, the infamous matriarch of the Black family, with her youngest son, Regulus.

The younger Black looked even worse than he had when they were all at Hogwarts. Pale, almost ghostly white, and thin in a way that was alarming. Regulus had always been slight, but now he looked fragile, as though a strong gust of wind might knock him over. His eyes were sunken, dark circles etched beneath them, and even from a distance, Peter could tell how exhausted he was.

Regulus stood by his mother’s side for only a moment before he whispered something in her ear and Walburga led him to a chair in the shade. He lowered himself into the seat, looking nauseous and utterly drained. His mother sauntered off to socialize, leaving him with Narcissa Malfoy, previously Black, and a cluster of women who didn’t seem to mind Regulus’ silent presence in their circle. 

“Peter?” Elle’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned to see her approaching with a radiant smile. She was glowing with happiness, clearly in her element here among her fellow purebloods. “What’s on your mind?”

Peter forced a smile, unable to help but brighten at her happiness. “Just taking it all in,” he said, glancing around the garden. He hesitated, glancing over at Regulus again, who was sitting stiffly in his chair, looking miserably uncomfortable as the women chattered around him. He lowered his voice, leaning closer to Elle. “Do you, uh...do you know what’s going on with Regulus Black?”

For a moment, Elle’s expression faltered, her smile freezing in place. Her green eyes flickered toward Regulus before she quickly looked away. “Oh, he’s always been sickly,” she said lightly, but there was a tension in her tone. “It’s nothing new. He’s just been...getting worse over the past year. He didn’t even attend half his classes this past year- it’s a miracle he graduated. Tobias said he wouldn’t even go to see Pomfrey most of the time- he just laid in bed looking miserable.”

Peter frowned, still watching Regulus. “But why wouldn’t his family just pull him out of school?”

Elle sighed, her smile becoming more strained. “That’s what everyone’s been wondering. Ever since Orion left his Wizengamot seat in January, it’s been all anyone talks about in pureblood circles. People think Walburga’s too proud to admit how bad things really are- either how poorly Orion’s been, or whatever it is Regulus has got.”

“Sounds pretty serious…” Peter’s heart clenched. He knew the Blacks were a cruel, controlling family—he’d heard enough from Sirius—but seeing Regulus left to waste away like this when Peter knew there were treatment options? It didn’t sit right with him.

Elle must have sensed the shift in his mood, because she quickly changed the subject. “Anyway,” she said, her voice brightening again, “my father’s been looking for you.”

Peter blinked, feeling a sudden wave of anxiety. Edmund Burke was an intimidating man, even by pureblood standards. He wasn’t exactly unfriendly to Peter, but the air of superiority was impossible to miss, not to mention the terrifying nature of his politics.

“Right,” Peter said, forcing a weak smile. “I’ll, uh...go find him.”

Elle squeezed his hand, her smile warm and reassuring. “You’ll be fine. He likes you, Peter.”

Peter nodded, but as he made his way toward the manor, his eyes lingered on Regulus once more. He swallowed hard, and forced himself to look away. He felt his nerves spike as he made his way through the manicured gardens, searching for Edmund Burke. Peter wasn’t sure what was worse—mingling with pureblood elites who were likely Death Eaters, or the prospect of facing Elle’s father. 

It wasn’t just Edmund who made him anxious—it was the crowd he kept. A gathering of purebloods like this was never casual, especially not with the looming presence of Death Eaters scattered throughout.

Edmund spotted him, raising an eyebrow in mild surprise before motioning Peter over with a wave of his hand. "Ah, Peter, there you are! Come join us." His voice was booming and confident, always commanding attention without needing to try. “This is my daughter’s boyfriend, Peter Pettigrew.”

Peter smiled, though it felt tight on his face. "Hello, everyone." As he approached, he could see that the group Edmund was talking with included several men Peter instantly recognized from corridor duels at Hogwarts alongside others who were less infamous but unmistakably aligned with Voldemort.

Edmund clapped Peter on the back as he drew closer. "You smoke?" he asked casually, pulling a finely wrapped cigar from a box one of the men was holding.

"Er, yeah," Peter replied, although he’d never smoked a cigar as fancy as the one he was being offered. He took the cigar, fumbling awkwardly with it as one of the men offered him a lighter.

As Peter inhaled, trying his best not to cough up a lung, the men around him resumed their conversation. The tension in Peter’s shoulders was nearly unbearable as they casually talked about politics, bloodlines, and upcoming Ministry regulations. The ease with which they discussed pureblood supremacy made Peter's skin crawl.

"So, Pettigrew, was it?" one of the older men, a heavyset wizard with a gleaming monocle, began, turning toward him. “What house were you in? Not Slytherin, I suppose."

Peter nodded, trying not to fidget. "Yeah, sorry, I was a Gryffindor. But, you know..." He trailed off, trying to come up with something to ease the tension he felt being the odd one out, "I guess every pureblood family needs at least one disappointment."

For a moment, Peter thought the silence would crush him. Then, to his utter shock, the men burst out laughing. Deep, hearty laughter echoed through the garden, and Edmund clapped him on the back once more, harder this time. Even some of his own peers couldn’t help but chuckle at Peter’s poor attempt at a joke. 

"Good one, Peter!" Edmund chuckled, grinning broadly. "Didn’t know you had a sense of humor!"

Peter tried to laugh along, though his pulse pounded in his ears. He was surrounded by Death Eaters and blood purists, making jokes as if he belonged there. The more he spoke, and the more he joked, the more they seemed to like him. It was terrifying and absurd, but all Peter could do was play along.

"So, Pettigrew," another man asked, leaning in conspiratorially, "are you free next Friday? We're having a little gathering at our club. I think your sort of humor would go over well there."

Peter blinked, feeling his heart rate spike. He had no idea how to navigate this situation, but saying no didn’t seem like an option. "Oh, uh, yeah. That sounds... great." His voice wavered just slightly, but no one seemed to notice.

"Excellent," the man said, grinning. "We'll see you there. Burke will give you the details."

Peter nodded, feeling as though he had just signed up for something dangerous and entirely beyond his control. But as they laughed and talked more, his anxiety only grew. Every joke, every quip felt like a tightrope walk, and Peter wasn't sure how long he could balance.

Eventually, the conversation began to break up, and Peter saw his chance to slip away. He found Elle chatting with some friends near the center of the garden, her face lighting up when she saw him approach.

"Peter!" She beamed, stepping away from the group to greet him. "How did it go with my dad?"

Peter plastered on his best smile, though inside, his nerves were still jittery. "Good, I think. I was invited to the club, whatever that is, next Friday."

Elle’s eyes lit up. "Really? That’s amazing! My father and his friends don’t extend invitations like that lightly. He must really like you." She squeezed his hand, beaming with pride. "I’m so glad you two are getting along. It means a lot to me."

Peter nodded, though his mind was spinning. He was pleased that Elle was happy—he wanted to fit into her world, for her sake—but at what cost? The idea of spending more time with the men he'd just been with, men who were loyal to Voldemort, left a sour taste in his mouth.

"Yeah," Peter said, forcing a smile. "I guess it’ll be... fun."

Elle kissed his cheek, her smile warm and sincere. "It will be. You’ll fit right in."

Peter hoped she was right, but as the afternoon sun continued to shine down on the party, a chill of uncertainty lingered in his chest. 

James leaned back in his chair, pushing his glasses up and massaging the bridge of his nose. The soft buzz of quills scratching parchment filled the office, but it did nothing to soothe the discomfort that gnawed at him every time Edmund Burke opened his mouth. James and Dorcas had been working for Burke for months now, both assigned as aides and assistants to his Wizengamot seat after their previous boss had been killed in a terrorist attack on the man’s office. It was a prestigious position, on paper. Burke was a well-respected politician, but that respect came almost entirely from the blood purist elite—a circle neither James nor Dorcas had any love for.

"Did you finish looking into those Ministry stats for Burke's new policy draft?" Dorcas asked, her voice low as she slid into the chair next to him. She glanced up, making sure no one in the office was close enough to overhear. "It’s all about muggleborn restrictions, right?"

James sighed, his fingers drumming nervously on his desk. "Yeah. Something about banning them from working in most Ministry jobs." His stomach turned as he spoke, knowing full well how much this would hurt people like Lily, Mary, and a couple of their other friends from school.

Dorcas raised her eyebrow, giving him a knowing look. "Bite your tongue, James. You know what we’re here for." Dumbledore had asked the two of them to use their internship placements in service of the Order of the Phoenix, to gather information on what the pureblood elites were up to, and how deeply the Death Eaters had infiltrated the ministry. 

James nodded, but the reminder didn’t make it easier. Every day, they listened to Burke and his colleagues spew hate-filled rhetoric about Muggleborns, creatures, and anything that didn’t fit into their narrow view of magical society. As a pureblood, James could at least blend in when he needed to, though it made his skin crawl. Dorcas, a half-blood, often had to stay silent and neutral during the more brutal conversations.

"I don’t know how you do it," James muttered, shaking his head. "I want to hex them every time they open their mouths."

Dorcas smirked, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Practice. Lots of it."

As if on cue, Burke strode through the office, his booming voice commanding everyone's attention. "Potter, Meadows!" he called out, striding over to their desks. "I’ll need the research on existing precedent on my desk by the end of the day."

"Of course, Mr. Burke," Dorcas replied, her tone polite but clipped. She kept her gaze fixed on her notes as Burke hovered.

James straightened up in his chair. He didn’t need to see Burke’s expression to know the man was frowning at him.

"And Potter," Burke continued, "there’s a meeting happening this afternoon- I want you there. A group of us discussing the next steps in dealing with the Muggleborn problem."

Dorcas’s eyes flicked toward James, catching his hesitation.

"Right," James replied carefully. "I’ll be there, sir."

Burke clapped him on the shoulder, though it lacked any warmth. "Good lad. You need to see how things really get done in our world.” Burke paused. “I guess seeing was the wrong choice in words though, eh Potter?" He chuckled, and James did his best to smile at him in return, although he was sure it was more of a grimace. 

As Burke moved away, Dorcas leaned in, her voice a whisper. "Here’s your chance, Potter."

James exhaled, the facade falling away and his frustration bubbling up. "I’m not exactly looking forward to it."

"I know," Dorcas said, her expression serious. "But you need to be in that room. We need intel, especially if they’re discussing new anti-Muggleborn laws. They’ll drop things they won’t say anywhere else."

James grimaced, nodding slowly. "Fine. But if I hex someone, I’m blaming you."

Later that afternoon, James found himself seated in a dimly lit conference room filled with older, wealthy pureblood wizards. The air smelled faintly of cigar smoke and polished wood, and the room was heavy with the aura of old money and outdated ideologies. He recognized their names from high-society events he’d read about in the papers— they were men who spent their lives protecting the interests of pureblood families and building walls to keep Muggleborns and magical creatures from advancing in the wizarding world.

As the meeting began, one of the older wizards cleared his throat and spoke with authority. "Thank you all for coming. We have much to discuss about the Ministry’s future policies, particularly regarding the... issues surrounding Muggleborns." His voice dripped with disdain at the word.

James kept his face carefully neutral, though he could feel the silent rage bubbling up inside him. They dove quickly into their plans, discussing how best to legalize discrimination against Muggleborns. They proposed measures to restrict Muggleborns from high-ranking jobs in the Ministry—specifically in sensitive areas like the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Mysteries. It was all dressed up as "protecting the integrity of magical traditions," but James knew exactly what it was—pureblood supremacy.

"The key," Avery continued, "is to present these policies as practical, not ideological. We need to show the chamber that it's about safeguarding our world, not restricting Muggleborns for the sake of blood purity. Otherwise, we’ll meet too much resistance."

Another wizard across the table, Parkinson, nodded. "Exactly. It is a necessary step to prevent magical instability. It’s not about control, it’s about maintaining order."

James felt sick listening to them. He had to grip his cane tightly under the table just to keep himself grounded. Every fiber of his being wanted to stand up, call them out, and walk out of that room, but Dorcas’s words echoed in his mind: You need to be here. We need the information.

As the meeting wore on, one of the secretaries—a man in his fifties with a balding head and an air of superiority—approached James. His voice was soft, overly careful, like he was addressing a child or someone who couldn’t quite keep up.

"Mr. Potter," the man began slowly, "I trust you're following along? Sometimes these meetings can get a bit... complicated for some people. You know, especially given... your condition."

James blinked, momentarily thrown. He realized with a cold clarity that the man was speaking to him this way because he was blind. The secretary’s tone dripped with condescension, as though blindness somehow equated to stupidity.

James’ fingers tightened around his cane, his knuckles going white. He felt the anger surge within him, but he swallowed it down. Keep your cool, he reminded himself. This isn’t the time.

"I’m managing just fine, thanks," James said, his voice sharp but controlled. He didn’t smile, didn’t offer any warmth.

The secretary gave him a pitying nod. "Good, good," he said, then turned and drifted back to the other side of the room. James exhaled slowly, forcing his temper to settle.

The discussion continued, more talk of how to subtly erode the rights of Muggleborns without drawing too much attention. The pureblood wizards around the table spoke in the calm, detached tones of men who truly believed they were doing what was best for the world—oblivious or uncaring of the harm they were plotting.

Finally, as the meeting wrapped up, Edmund Burke stood and clapped James on the shoulder. "So, Potter," he said with a smile, "what did you think of the meeting? A lot to take in, I imagine."

James glanced up in the direction of Burke’s voice despite the roiling frustration inside. "It was... enlightening," he said carefully. "A lot of valuable insight into the Ministry’s current direction."

Burke grinned, clearly pleased. "Good. I knew you’d see the value in it. Stick around, Potter. There’s a lot you can learn from these men."

James gave a tight nod. "Of course."

As Burke turned away, James allowed himself a small, bitter sigh. He hated every second of it, but Dorcas had been right—being in that room was important. Now he had information the Order could use, even if every fiber of his being wanted to burn the place to the ground.

That evening, James sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed, as he tried to process the day. Lily, having sensed his tension the moment he walked in that afternoon, sat behind him, gently running her fingers through his hair.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said softly. “How did it go?”

“Awful,” James exhaled sharply, his frustration spilling out. “It was a bunch of old men sitting around talking about how they’re going to screw over Muggleborns, and some arsehole asking me if I’m having trouble following along due to my condition.” He shook his head, the memory still stinging. “It was disgusting.”

Lily’s eyes darkened with sympathy. “What happened?”

James said bitterly. “He spoke to me like I needed things explained slowly, like I couldn’t follow along.”

Lily frowned, her hand finding his. “That’s awful, love. I’m so sorry. You know that’s not true, though.”

“I know,” James muttered, feeling the tension in his body slowly begin to ease. “It’s just... hard to sit there and listen to all of their bullshite and then take that sort of treatment. And then act like I’m one of them? Like I belong in that room? It’s sickening.”

Lily paused for a moment, thinking, before she spoke. “You know… you could use that to your advantage.”

James raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if they’re going to underestimate you because of your blindness, why not let them? They’re already making the mistake of thinking you’re not as sharp as you are.” Lily’s voice was soft but insistent. “If they don’t think you’re a threat, they might say things around you they wouldn’t say to anyone else. You could get them to reveal things without them realizing it.”

James leaned back, considering her words. “I don’t know, Lils. I spent so much time at school proving I was just as capable as everyone else. I hate the idea of letting them think I’m… less. I’ve worked too hard for that.”

“I know,” Lily said, her tone gentle. “But it’s not about letting them win or thinking less of you. It’s about using their own ignorance against them. You’re in a position now where you have access to things most people don’t—especially if they think you’re harmless.”

James stayed quiet, his mind racing. The idea had merit, but it rubbed against his pride in a way that made him uncomfortable. He had always fought to be seen as strong and capable, not pitied or looked down upon. But still… if it meant helping the Order, gaining crucial intel…

Lily shifted closer to him, her hand squeezing his gently. “I’m not saying you have to do it if it doesn’t feel right. Just… remember that you’re smart and capable no matter what they think. You’re brilliant, James. You’ve already proved that a thousand times over. So if you choose to use their underestimation to your advantage, it doesn’t take away from who you are or what you’ve done.”

James sighed, leaning his head against hers. “It’s not a bad idea,” he admitted quietly. “I’ll think about it.”

Lily smiled softly. “Good. Just remember, whatever you decide, I’m here for you.”

James closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her words settle into him. For now, at least, he felt a little more grounded, a little more ready to face whatever came next.