Mischief Managed

Epilogue

***a/n: a small recommendation- while writing this epilogue, I was listening to music. Music, I think, often speaks to certain emotions that don't always translate into words. Thus, I feel that listening to the song that helped inspire the words below would greatly enhance your reading. It was the song "Hello My Old Heart" by The Oh Hellos (there are several uploads on Youtube, but I will link one below for easy access :).***

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKNwx82kPjY

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The Riddle House, 1996

"Wormtail," drawled a cold, cruel voice. "I have some news that may be of interest to you."

The short, sweaty little man squirmed, his feet rocking against the manor's obsidian floor. His clothes were ragged, his pant cuff hanging over his shoes, and his grey shirt sleeve torn above his elbow. On his forearm, a painted snake writhed from the mouth of the black, tattooed skull. The man's face was sunken, his eyes swollen, and his pupils wide with fear.

When he opened his mouth, his words dripped with agitation. The slump in his shoulders radiated his inferiority to the tall man standing above him.

"W-Whatever may that b-be, my L-Lord?"

The man with the cruel voice laughed, his black cloak billowing around his ankles as he stepped closer towards Wormtail's shrinking form.

"One of your old friends from school, Sirius Black, was killed during the Battle at the Ministry."

Wormtail's breath caught in his chest, and for a moment, he was taken back to a different time. A time when he wasn't breathing, sleeping, drowning in fear. He saw a laughing boy, his long dark hair flying from his face and his cheeks creased with familiar levity. Wormtail must have said something funny because in his memories, he felt like laughing too.

Friends. They were friends.

He was snapped from the vision when cloaked man inhaled sharply.

"But, of course, this news shouldn't be...upsetting to you, Wormtail. Really, Black should mean nothing at all to you, if you are as devoted to me as you say you are," the man said, his voice silky.

Fear overcame him once more. His stomach dropped and his body was trembling with panic as vicious as a pack of wolves. Anything. He would say anything, do anything, to get rid of this fear.

"Y-Yes, my Lord, B-Black means nothing to me. Nothing at all. H-He deserved to die for refusing to devote himself to y-you, my Lord."

The Dark Lord smiled.

"Yes, Wormtail. You reacted exactly as I predicted you would. Now, come. I have another job for you."

He strode towards the door.

Peter followed.

London, 1994

Fire crackled in the hearth. Dark wood was carved around it, and the shelf above was lined with picture frames- a tall, curly-haired man, his arm around a dark-eyed brunette; the same couple, standing in front of the Colosseum; the two again, smiling from a gondola in Venice; then, the last picture showed them leaning against their doorway, a tiny girl with curly brown hair clutching each of their hands.

The same man and little girl were sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace, the flames casting a gentle orange glow on their faces. The woman was brewing tea in the house's kitchen. A sweet, cinnamon smell wafted through to the living room, and the clang of glasses echoed as she pulled out two green mugs.