It was not treachery. He just wanted to know.
Disclaimer: I only experimented with ideas.
THE S E C R E T
He was called Wormtail by his friends.
Some might say that he was unfortunate to have been labelled such a name, but he was eternally grateful and he always felt lucky in his life.
He was a Pettigrew.
That wasn't something to be looked down upon, nor was it something to be extravagantly proud of. He was raised in a middle class wizarding family, and his main goal in life was to just please his ever-disapproving father and his coddling mother.
He always wished to be someone he was not. To be a Potter, perhaps that would make him popular among the wizarding crowd… sometimes he even let himself indulge in fantasies with him being a long lost relative of the Dumbledores or the Bagshots –and, if his dreams were quite ambitious and desperate, the Malfoys.
So naturally, it was the closest to dream-come-true when He was invited, on the first day, no less, by the James Harold Potter, to their side of the table. He was ecstatic of course, and quickly, yet without noticeable excitement, made his way over. It was the start of something beautiful –something legendary.
By third year, the Marauders, as they dubbed themselves, was the most popular group in the school, aside from the elder Slytherins. They were loud, rambunctious and entirely too mischievous for their own good. While that in itself was true, there was more to them than meets the eye.
There was always a secret to everything, and like in most things He is a part of, He felt lucky and grateful.
There was James Potter –the star, the leader and the popular chaser. Everyone loved Potter. Even though most of the world thought that the only thing James was troubling himself with was his undying affections for the Evans girl, they knew better. He was raised in a family where not only was he considered the brightest; he was also the handsomest and most talented of them all. He was praised for his good looks –messy black hair and hazel eyes, and for his skills in quidditch and in his suave manners. He was given by his parents the impression that he was great in everything that he did, and though that may be partly true, his arrogance and ego built up too much for his own good.
They often saw him by his lonesome, in the quidditch pitch, looking at the field before him. They all knew he was trying to find himself, to just know that he was human, that he was true and that he wasn't perfect. He was called the best, and for that he resented imperfection –the reason for his never-ending pursuit of Evans. He despised being second, and being bested by what, he called, a slimy git in potions, was something he did not take lightly.
Potter only took comfort in the fact that he almost always garnered attention, and then chastised himself for wanting it in the first place. He sought, in the end, some alone time in the field, to actually know himself before presenting himself to the world again.
Prongs wasn't perfect, and for that He was grateful.
Then there was him. He was named the black sheep of his family, held values differently, and abhorred the ideals of his lineage.
He was Sirius Black. He was raised in a family that were supporters of a Dark Lord, a family that held the belief that purebloods were forever greater than everyone else, that being a Black made you practically royalty, and that it was right to chop off the heads of house elves.
Before Hogwarts, he was always treated with respect and fear. He never wanted to take part in his family's traditions, and so he became quiet in his demeanour with his family, which others took as haughtiness and pride. He looked menacing and intimidating –even in his young age –with his dark, shaggy yet well-kept hair, and his dark, calculating obsidian eyes.
For some reason, they have never questioned his decision to live as if he had no blood relatives. He was there as a friend, as a Gryffindor, and they accepted that. And while the whole world thinks he's just the prankster, the cunning and light hearted Marauder that he was, his true spirit was a far cry from it.
He was dark. He was tainted. He was a Black. They always connected his sombre expression with his past, and he never contradicted it. He was melancholy at times, and happy and joyful the next. It sometimes left them wondering -what was he truly thinking at times?
There were nights, when, if you go down the common room, you will see him alone in the shadows, seated in a chair near the windowsill. You wouldn't see his face, but by the gloomy and solemn atmosphere you knew he was contemplating something –something that was entirely too burdensome for his age.
That first to see him was Prongs. It was only supposed to be a late-night trip to the kitchens, but instead it lead to a silent vigil –a vigil spent in silence, praying for something Potter didn't know. Before the early cracks of dawn would come, Black would always come back up the dormitories, and there would be no trace of his ponderings at all.
The next, and possibly last, to have seen him like that was Pettigrew. He simply left his Divinations book in the armchair near the fireplace, and in an act of impulse went down to retrieve it. What he saw, of course, was something he didn't expect.
Black was staring at him, though you couldn't see his eyes. In the dark of the shadows, even someone as sharp eyed as a hawk wouldn't have seen his expression. He stood there for some time –a few minutes that went by like an eternity –and went back up.
The next day, He would see Black again. There was something different to him that day, and the days that followed. There was not much sadness and depression in the air, no more resentment, there was only grim acceptance -acceptance that he was and forever will be a Black, and envy -envy that he wasn't a Pettigrew, wasn't a muggleborn, wasn't normal.
He was envied, then –and for that, he felt exalted.
The third of the quartet was different.
He was a Lupin. A Pureblood, smart and polite –he seemed normal to the eyes of others.
Perhaps, if you'd ask him if he was different, you'd just answer that he was a bit quieter and less rowdy than his best mates, and maybe that is true –but that's not all of it. And then, maybe, if you had a keener eye for observation than most, you'd realize that he was gone for some time of the month, and if you analyze his actions carefully, you'd see that he was intimidated and insecure with himself -though why he would be, with his charming attitude and sandy locks.
It was true, yes. It was late in first year when they put the pieces together and found out about his lycanthropy. Of course, all of them was surprised… even He was. For all the things in the world, his friend was a werewolf! That would explain his hesitance in joining the Marauders, his careful and composed actions, as if he practiced everything perfectly.
Beyond those insecurities and self-confidence issues he had, he was also fighting a struggle with himself.
His friends comforted and consoled him, and helped him feel better… but a part of him knows that he would never be just Remus Lupin. He would forever be Remus and Moony, a man and a wolf, a werewolf.
He was a monster. He loved his parents, yes, but he often found himself, outside –near the lake, wondering what life could have been like if there was no Fenrir Greyback, if he wasn't ever bitten at such a young age –at any age.
He envisions himself as a happy and free person, wild and unrestrained by the cage that holds him so tightly. But then again, it might have been different. He might have grown up with friends already, and might get sorted into another house -away from them.
This would be the time when he would stand up, and walk -walk back to his friends that are waiting for him back in the castle. This is his life, and it's the only one he'll ever get.
So Lupin goes back, and once again, He's thankful that he was blessed with normalcy.
And then there was him.
He was named Peter Pettigrew.
He was, in other eyes, no reason to be admired and to be praised.
He was somewhat fine with that.
He wasn't seemingly perfect like James, nor was he dark like Sirius, nor was he different like Lupin… He was just himself -his pudgy, bleached hair self.
There were times, of course, when he would be high up in the astronomy tower, looking into everything from the grass below to the skies above, wondering, simply wondering, if he would be anything special. He wasn't perfect, has accepted that, but what would happen, if he wasn't just the follower? If he became the leader, the prankster or the bookworm, or perhaps something entirely different?
Maybe it wouldn't work out well –that was always his conclusion. He never dared himself to dream for more than that, he had dreamed enough.
Then, as always, he would sigh, and go into a state of vague properties. He wasn't sad, he has no reason to, nor was he disappointed, resentful nor was he wrathful. The only emotion he feels is guilt –guilt for being the only one of his group that wasn't burdened, wasn't troubled one way or another.
He should consider himself lucky, and he does –but he considers life unfair, for blessing him with normalcy (though not quite contentment) while fate gave his friends rocky and sensitive situations.
Years would roll by quick enough. There would be no change in their appearance and status among peers and teachers, unless it would be because they became stronger, taller and more charming than before. Possibly, it might only be Dumbledore, with his ever-twinkling eyes, who saw the depth of these friends.
They had secrets, insecurities and loads to carry, but they were friends first and foremost.
They would be praised more, awed and admired. They would succeed in their quests, even if it would seem impossible. They managed to be Animagi, and be of company to Moony during those nights- and even when they only in their fifth year.
The next year they would create their legacy for pranksters to come. A map –the Marauder's Map –to guide every aspiring mischief-maker and to leave their names in prank history was devised. They were brilliant and cunning –there was nothing they could not do.
Their last year in Hogwarts was momentous –a year of conquests, a year of conclusion. He was happy, more so than ever before -he had 6 years of fun, another coming in the way and more adventures to do.
Potter won the affections of the Evans girl, Black revelled in his freedom from his family, and Remus -Remus was simply happy that he was there, that he has accomplished his goals.
And he –he would do something so drastic, so disturbingly brilliant, that it wasn't good for him, at all.
It would turn him to the dark, finally break him as his friends were broken now and before. He would, finally, be tainted.
It was an act of utter lunacy, to take the offer of a now graduated Malfoy, to be a spy for the Dark Side –to serve him.
It was wrong, and yet to his logic, it was completely right. He knew that most of the world would view him as a traitor or in a twist of fate a hero –or maybe forgotten if anything at all.
But what's done is done. He is now a Death Eater, finally burdened with sadness, with despair, with shame, with resentment –he was finally one with their secret. He would be troubled by fate, he was no longer lucky.
But he was grateful.
The world might not know his name, but he knows that his friends would remember him. Remember him as someone who knew, someone who sympathized and empathized with them.
He knew of their secret, and his name was Peter Pettigrew.
That was quite lengthy, and somewhat dragging. Hope you liked it, though.
Reviews are very much welcome.