It’s a quiet night between them and the stars, like so many others they’ve had since even their first late-night adventures in Hogwarts, except with vast, deep and free swathes of blue rather than spiralling, grey, cobbled towers and rusted, iron bars that trap windows and tether the moon between their faded colour.
A prisoner, maybe, confined to her place in a slow dance, silvers of her skirt crinkling as varying lengths are illuminated. Locked away from their world, bright, blaring and beautiful in her haunted, incomplete glow. After all, Dorcas’s world has never felt so real, tangible, as when she has him by her side.
Peter Pettigrew is a bridge, a connection lodged to her soul by the apathetic hands of fate in a rare, perhaps unintentional, kindness.
He is an accompanying hand that pulls her through the involuntary silence of her world, trapped within the shadows that he - if speaking truly - first befriended.
Courageously, easily, peter-ly, he sparks a life to such non-living as the inanimate, a pin-prick to pop the bubble that had separated her from the rest of the world with just a flimsy smile to open the floodgates.
They stay quiet sometimes, loud others and oftentimes mild. And yet she never feels as isolated as she had once done, content in herself brimming as the newfound solidarity that has measly walks in dully bemoaned weather become vibrant goes as far to colour the black lake gleaming.
Thus, it shouldn’t be a surprise when he speaks, a comfortable timbre emerging so naturally from a sea of silence that it registers only as concerning after a moments settle, “Would you come to my funeral?”
The shadows inhale with her, teetering at their sudden rise.
“Hah, Pete. What sorta question is that?” Her voice is inquisitive, revealing in a way she normally wouldn’t allow but normal had been chucked from the day she first approached the thought of disobeying Dumbledore, of picking her own side.
In some ways for better, she holds out to believe.
In some ways for worse, the blood that stains her hands, the mornings after as she kisses her boyfriend awake without remorse other than his imagined queasiness at her lack of morality and the darkness that had grown inside her. Born from a seed of potential and blossomed to a flower nurtured by war and usually tucked to her throat, withering to her stomach by sheer force of will only as Peter takes his chin to the cranny of her neck.
”A Yes or No one?” Peter’s voice is strong as he says it, a firm elastic that bounces around playfully.
It almost distracts from the abyss of black below them, ahead of them, and to the sides of them that had seemed to have lit for a brief second, either a trick of the rarely-sighted stars or an apologetic mishap of whichever poor sap behind the window had woken up in the midst of the witching hour.
Whatever the case, it ramps her building anticipation and she turns fully to take hold of the twisting palms that of similarly exposed, reaching drains, kaleidoscopic bricks and scrawled imperfections had singularly managed to call her attention.
They’re sitting face to face, intimately vulnerable with their relaxed, open postures in the dim lighting of the stars and the dark embrace of the shadows licking across their faces as she drawls her next words with uncharacteristic gentleness in her concealed prodding, “Well, what makes you so sure you’re going to die?”
”As far as I’m aware, I’m perfectly mortal.” He’s intent to ignore the problem then, brushing away the shakiness in a relapse of his previous behaviour; dodging the serious discussions until long nights thinking with a silencio on his drawn bed curtain.
He hadn’t needed to, as she had quietly put it together long before, but he confessed a year or two after their first conversation, down-turned, ashamed eyes accompanying the willing prying of his well-kept secret, practically melded to his chest by a well-cast fire judging by its slow removal, stung skin left vulnerable with the consenting reveal.
Only difference, they share a bed now. And while she’s more than willing to whisk him away to it with a quick apparition, to act as his confidant as he has done hers for years and to venture beneath the sheets with him, setting up a fort smoothly to battle his internal demons with whispered words playing with the hairs on the back of his neck, he had started the conversation on the rooftop, the blowing gales their witness.
She’d attempt to breach the surface that way, she decides.
”Only you’d say perfectly.” Dorcas responds evenly, pulling a challenging pout to her features.
He flicks his gaze to her lips for a moment, watching them curve around the words before responding in kind, “That’s what makes you love me.”
”One of many reasons. I’m not that simple-minded.” The retorts come out easy, razed with the speed of a destructive Harry declaring war on dead trees.
”I knew that, Ms Applauded Genius.” Peter says, jokingly put-off with the comment.
His cheeks are rosy as ever, nipped by the nightly cold and yet his smile looks far more painful, tugging at his face in a convincing imitation of the real deal that’d not trick maybe six people in the world.
Fortunately, she can’t help but think fondly, she’s one of them, ”Then why’d you ask me if I’d go to your funeral?”
”Curiosity killed the cat, and my boredom.” It’s mild, lively in the way his every sentence is, fittingly edged in the way he always shapes his words to match her puzzle pieces of an armour, and undeniably an escape.
It’s not them. The white lies, the avoidance, despite how the two had both once anxiously favoured it.
They know each other’s flaws, as ingrained to their minds as scars they had spent countless times in rare domesticity pouring over in painstaking detail, that they had pressed fluttery kisses to in exploration soothing as a balm.
They’ve never hesitated to call each other out on them, as soon as they swung into their flow.
They also know each other’s tells, gazed upon in lovingly drawn stares, in Peter’s carefully curated sketches of her that tuck into her spare pocket, right breast as the left is taken by a photograph of the two by her earnest twin brother, perhaps more eager for the addition to the family than her own, overwhelmingly supportive parents.
They know the tells in her own moments of admiration of his ample physique, quiet admiration of his present, moving or still body and in the many photographs she takes with him as her singular muse, once again carefully curated between the private in her drawer and the ones that line her family’s home.
Mirrors of each other, she had proclaimed softly on a multitude of occasions.
That’s why she lifts a hand to tilt his chin towards her, dark eyes meeting dark eyes as she presses on, ”You can trick everyone but me, ademi. Try it again and I’ll make sure there is sunflowers at your funeral.”
“You’d dare. You’d actually dare, wouldn’t you?” The offence in his tone is palatable, even more so in his eyes, brown blown wide in an accurate depiction of a kicked puppy.
The spell’s broken by his pink lips failing to suppress a smile, peeks slipping through and as loud as giggles in their precarious sanctuary, stolen from the sleeping.
It only serves to increase her desire to devour him later, until he’s a limber pile of enthusiastic whimpers and blushing, bruising red, lungs hoarse from calling her name.
But there is also a comfort in waiting, knowing she can find his distracting dimples, his soft snuggling or his private passion as a beacon of stability throughout an unpredictable war, tumultuous teenage years and even as far back, calm as an innocent friendship between the intimidating wallflower with a peculiarity for divination and the secretive yet earnest care-of-magical-creatures student with a penchant for seer birds.
”In a century, ‘course, and then it’ll be mine too so none of your marauders could protest it.” A challenge is scribbled across her face, communicated by her creasing laughter lines that may as well be dedicated to him.
”That’s below you, honoured dueler.” His fingers curl comfortably around hers this time, soaking in her warmth with their contrastingly cold, long reach akin to roots.
”How’s something to do with you lowly? Unless it’s with Potter or Black.” She leans forward to him, posture breaking as she tips comfortably until their close enough for the buzz of their breaths to heat the air around her.
”You’re incredibly kind sometimes, Dorca. In your prickly way.” It’s an admission that fogs her vision with the steam that rises from his mouth.
Still, she waits for it to rise, curling away into the night sky with its wispy grey, until raising her eyes from his lips with rapid blinks, to respond in a sultry resonance, ”And you’re incredibly mean sometimes, in your lovable way.”
”Only for you.” He cheekily bumps their noses together, bumpy bridge slotting against bumpy bridge.
”Proven again. I’m starting to believe I’m a masochist for you.” Unbothered by the forming goosebumps brought by the clashing temperatures of their skin, Dorcas nevertheless pulls back to fully view his face, creasing genuinely in ignited cheek.
”Only now?”
”At least I was in denial for less time than you, Sir Would My Lover Go To My Funeral.”
”Hey, it was reasonable!”
The incredulity that statement inspires deserves perhaps even removing her hand from its entanglement with his and yet she selfishly cannot bring herself to part with his.
Rather, she aims at old wounds, scratching at them with the glee of a particularly wretched vulture with its favourite prey, “If you say so, Mr Fancy Hat.”
”You’re not going to let that go. It’s just a cap.”
His poorly suppressed grin is reason enough to carry on, ”Then don’t wear it to crash a wedding.”
”You asked me to!”
”Aw, it’s nice to be reminded you’d do anything I say.”
”I trusted you! I still trust you.”
Dorcas discards the idea to pretend the word doesn’t affect her at all, instead openly inching closer to Peter once again at the exclamation and the butterflies it sends careening in her stomach.
It had started when about a year into their hijinks, when a young Peter heard the subtle emphasis in her voice as she stumbled past the word trust in her train-wreck of a revenge prank plan.
It’d been a mess, as they hid within a broom closet, cramped wooden walls pushing them closer along with their teenage hormones and words catapulting at hurtling speed in hopes they be out in the open before the likely possibility of Filch finding the two curfew-breakers.
Yet the boy had still managed to clock it, gaze thoughtful every time after as the word ‘trust’ leaves her lips and even in the most joking of moments, reassuring handsomely of his trust in her to the point of risky escapades by her word.
“Surprisingly for such an honoured auror.” She tries and is immediately met with an exasperated block.
”I don’t believe you didn’t already know what I was going to do.” Peter sounds almost wounded as he says that, enunciating the words to bring out the most surly teenager voice he can and it surprises a squawk out of her with the hilarity, along the fluttering of her eyelids at the reminder of his - their youth - an edge to all of their words, a buzz yet to fade to static as Peter’s voice carries a high pitch he’s still not rid of and her acne remains prominent on her face.
“That’s the price of loving me.” Dorcas mischievously doesn’t deny, peering at Peter’s ginger hair from the bottom of her lids as a lifeline, and watches as the light in his eyes seems to grow as they crease happily, all while he maintains the teasing, attractively imperfect existence and smile that somehow pulls at her heartstrings despite its sarcastic plea.
“You’re insufferable.” Blunt, straight-to-the-point and decidedly happy with the conclusion even with the falsity of annoyance, only held up by fond exasperation and a strong desire to prod at her.
”Am I really that bad if you haven’t struck me down yet? You know I’d let you.” Her words are honest, sincere as the spilling light of the stars, constant and true even as they blend to match the hues of the morning sky - a fact of life, every life.
Peter scrunches his face, contemplation creasing his nose in a movement she wonders if there’s enough room in her camera to capture yet another picture of, “Thanks.”
”Thanks??” The sweet tone beckons a raucous response and she bends over, head pushing into his abdomen as he rests stabilising hands on her back, her laughter filling the void between the starts and their rooftop with a soft ripple of iridescent magic judging by the familiarly awed reflection in Peter’s eyes, the glimpse of teeth precious in its innocent love.
Dorcas manages to tumble out, ”Oh, mo ni fẹ́ rẹ, ọkọ mi.”
It gets a blushing reaction, her affection lighting the boy up a red befitting of Rudolph and as she raises her head, she resists the urge to kiss him rather to huddle him to her warmth, climbing into his lap gently and slotting her legs around his waist.
Their height difference is exaggerated as she looks down upon him, warm palms curling around his nape as a hand gently tucks at a lock of his hair.
Peter is smiling at her, into her eyes - but there’s a cloudy look fogging them, an uncertainty pricking at him cruelly, and Dorcas lives in absolutes - she was the greatest student of the time under Salazar’s colours - the best quidditch captain they had ever seen with the highest scores on NEWTS for the past decade.
She cared for Penny till the last flutter of his tawny wings - a morose understanding as he grew more feeble, more withered and she had to resort to keeping him in her dorm full-time, restricting him from the skies he had once traversed so freely.
That year, she’d won the quidditch cup, and that year, she had her mind on the beloved family-owl as she hurtled at high speed on her broom, eyes on the quaffle with the intensity of a seeker and scoring the most points in a match than she’d, or anyone else on the pitch that day, ever had.
This year, she duels against death eaters, prevents raids and murders dozens of perhaps familiar faces lost behind masks, scores bloody win after bloody win in a three-way game of chess with people as pawns, and lives with the absolute truth that takes precedence above it all, “I love you, even when you don’t know why. And so I’m asking you,” bringing a hand to trace across his jaw gently, “speak to me, ademi.”
”It was the funeral thing.” Their eyes meet and their is nothing but sincerity, a resigned, rugged, relieved sincerity.
”Yes. But I would have figured out anyways.”
”Gloating your freaky Peter-tingle really doesn’t work after the thousandth time.”
”You always smile at it, though. Case in point.”
A beat of silence, as Peter betrays the lingering tension that takes opportunity and springs from his taut shoulders even whilst a small smile plays on his lips, tugging a string of melancholy when paired with his downturned, impossibly hesitant eyes.
”Penny for your thoughts, ademi.”
”Did you mean it? The funeral thing.”
”I wouldn’t lie to you, ademi. What’s brought this on?”
”Tuesday last.” He’s firm but reluctant as the two simple words, words that batter far harder than the wind ever had, thriving her breath in a fell swoop so different from the ecstatic thievery of long-gone quidditch matches, are out of his mouth uniformly at her request, frigid in his posture, in the fierce clench of white-knuckled hands and likely the painted red where his bitten nails dig as harshly as they can into his skin.
”It’s just - your making a promise, a promise that you can’t know if you’ll keep.”
”There’s a war out there. We’re on the front lines and not everyone is going to make it. How do you know we will, nae sarang, that any of us will?”
”They’ll have to tear me from you with their bare hands, ademi. We’re not going down without a fight, you and me.”
“Gar might’ve thought the same.”
”He might‘ve. He might’ve fought for that too, so Emma could have his last goodbye.”
”If I were to go down, I don’t want to have my words buried with me. I need you to know that..”
“I love you.”
“Still, as I said, they’ll be the ones dead if they were to try duel us. And an unforgiving end it’d be, not your soft lips to bring me warmth as it would be for us.”
”Dying together?”
”If it comes to it so soon. But always, together.”
”Anything feels possible by your side, even smiling at death’s doorstep.”
”We’re you and me, Peter and Dorcas. Anything is possible, ademi.”
”When it comes, I want to die before you. I don’t want to think of how I’d carry on.”
”You make me swoon as always.”
”What? Saying that dying together wouldn’t be so bad, nae sarang?”
”From you, anything. You’re my moon, a piece of my heart torn away.”
”Is that how you say forever? Until the stars burn out?”
”Our love could last that long. There’s a reason the ancient magicks are still so revered.”
”Maybe we could, too. Merlin favoured soulmates, didn’t he?”
”Favoured killing them side by side, maybe.”
”Would you embrace me as I go?”
”You say that like I wouldn’t at any given time, a dozen loving kisses in death’s cold palms.”
”Though, once this war has passed, we’ve still got the uni in Germany. We’ve still got that flat in Scotland. We’ve still got those waiting graves and a life left to spend together.”
“What would they do without their chaotically driven, up-and-coming tomb raiders, after all?”
”There wouldn’t be another us, not someone with your smile.”
”Nor your heart.”
”Spending my life with you would be the greatest gift.”
”Even just in our heads, nae sarang?”
”Even just in our heads, ademi.”