After months buried in stolen tomes of the darkest of arts, from the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library, she posed the question one night. She was laying on her back on the cold and damp limestone down at the Chamber, staring at the high dark ceiling, while Peter ran in circles around her in his Animagus form. "Can I meet Him?" The rat stopped abruptly on its tracks, and morphed back into a scowling Pettigrew pointing a menacingly finger at her. "Absolutely, not!" She sat upright as if jolted by an electric surge. "You said he is dormant. He won’t even know I was there." Peter shook his head horrified. "Oh, he will. He always does. I know you have a death wish, My Lady. But, I like my head where it is. I like to think I’m still in control of my expiry date, by not testing his tolerance. Or lack of, that is." And then she arched an eyebrow, and smiled at him. "Wormtail." He deflated with a low whimper. "He is not what you think. He... I don’t know what you expect to find, but the Dark Lord is not  him ." Peter pointed with a tilt of his chin at the crumpled diary peeking out of her satchel, as if trying to convey the message. She knew what he meant, but she needed to know, to see, to feel something. 