…What Dreams May Come?
by sissy hobbit
rating: PG, thematic elements, blood, mild curses
summary: Peter Pettigrew can't escape the blood, or the voices.
note: Title from Hamlet's famous soliloquy, "For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come? When we have shuffled off this mortal coil…" Somewhat inspired by GOB, "This Evil World". EDITED/REVISED.
This evil world…
The small man crouched, rocking, staring into the hearth and long dead fire. There was nothing there; ashes and the dead embers, cool now, and grey. Only dust…dust that stained the ragged hem of his robes, dust that clung to his pointed face and thin, pale hair, dust that covered his damp palm.
"…I didn't…you know…not that way…can't you see?…not like that… …couldn't…never…can't see…no, oh no…you have to… …can't see…"
He muttered, shaking his head, poking dully at the ash-scattered floor. This was all wrong; surely, this was not as he planned it, not as it was meant to be. But this was how it was, wasn't it? His small watery eyes flickered, squinting at the hearth, haunted.
They didn't know; they couldn't know. When had they ever been frightened? Always strong, always leading…they couldn't understand.
"You don't know…can't see…how it is…"
But it's been about you
all the time
"Do you think I wanted to hurt you?" his voice cracked and squeaked in the silence. But there was no presence in his gaze…and dull, greasy tears slipped down sagging cheeks.
He couldn't think it; there were their faces, in the ash, in the floor, in his mind. There was screaming, light…always light, brilliant, blinding. There were voices - the dead fire flickered, curling white about its ashes - voices that spoke death, voices that swallowed hope. Yes, Peter, it's all right. Just a boggart, anyhow. Come on… Long hallways…leading where? Why did he wonder? They all went the same way, now, didn't they? Never thought you had it in you, honestly, ol' Wormtail. An auror. Bloody Hell.
Bloody Hell, yes. Was it really bloody? he wondered. Perhaps he would drown there, in their blood.
But now it was just words…
Words sealed things, words made things, words were what conjured, cursed, revealed - promised.
He hadn't thought of them as curses though, themselves. A curse was a curse… Crucio. He shuddered. But 'yes' was just that; a sound, meaning…nothing. An oath was nothing - simpler to break than a hex, simpler to forget. But he couldn't forget. Yes, my lord, they are near… mad laughter - or was it screaming? Green light flashed in the ashes. Green…green…green…And what had he gotten? No thanks, no hope, no power. He rocked, shaking…now dry sobs choking his voice. Nothing. In the dust, the silver fingers ground coal, blackened. Nothing.
Friends, Peter… Then you should have died, as we would have for you.
Died. But then everyone would have died; everyone. There was nothing else to do. They would all die. Mightn't he not save himself? Would his friends be glad if - of all of them - he could live?
He was afraid. He had been afraid. Was he still afraid? Yes, yes…afraid. Always afraid.
Now he hates me, Remus…Sirius, look. He hates me. What can I do? What could I do? I can't die. I can't die. I'm afraid. In the ash, his silvery fingers drew…sharp lines, winding away. A snake. And names, names…Peter…James…Remus…Sirius… …Wormtail… … fading, breaking, running into one another, and over. A snake.
Where are you?
Where are you now...?
The ash was empty. Just dust. It crumbled in his hand, dulling silver to grey.
He didn't know. How could it be his fault? I tried, I tried… What did he try? His mind had faded with the day…twilight. The white flames of dead fire licked at the dun bricks, encircled cinders…but they were nothing.
Sirius! Sirius! …Now what's Wormtail got himself into? …Oh come on… Not that he can manage for himself… Shut up, Padfoot… Have to admit… Well, it's why we're here, maybe… Of course…
"I don't know… I don't know…" the man whimpered, "Sirius… Remus… James…"
But Sirius was dead. James was dead. Why were they dead? A moment, he stared vacantly. They should be here. But they weren't. Because they were fools; they'd fought. He was taking over everywhere, why couldn't they see? They had to die. Oh, it was just like Sirius - always had to do it his way; he would die, a stubborn idiot. But James - why James…
"No!'
The sky was black, dead. Dry wind swept an empty street. No one'll guess little Peter. He ran. I mean, it's perfect. They'll come after me. The echoes of his footsteps were too loud, crack against the pavement, shattering. Hide, Peter. The door, ahead - "Ex umbris -"squeaked his voice. Don't worry, they won't even think -
"What?"
"It's Wormtail. Tell him -him - I have the Potters."
Then laughter - as he skittered away into the dark. No, not his laughter - this was hysterical, breaking…a gasp away from a sob. That was Padfoot's laughter, standing in the shattered street. That was the man who would kill him.
"I couldn't help it… I didn't know…I didn't it didn't work…it wasn't how he said it would be."
No, it wasn't at all how he thought it would be. It was all wrong…and he watched the dust. He watched himself, distantly. A once roundish man, worn thin, balding, clothed in ragged robes…staring vacantly into nothing, staring, eyes dull.
"It wasn't my fault… just the way it went…" he whimpered. Sirius, Remus, James… "Please."
"Little Peter, Wormtail..." Remus was sobbing but the rat didn't care. "...all of them..." And that distinct part of his mind thought oh no, Moony, remember, you only ever cried in your sleep...
"Nothing." he whispered. "Nothing." The word quivered, shadows growing in the dusk as if caught and drawn to the word, void, nothing. Things were all wrong…bloody, bloody Hell. Was it sunset or were the ashes flaming again? Blood. His silver fingers cringed away, tears mingling with the dead-fire's dust, darkening - the gleaming hand was stained. Desperately, he rubbed it, ash ground into both palms, natural and unnatural. Fire and blood… No, no…
...down, down, down the rabbit hole; sewers yawning, filthy and the water dripping on his head. It echoed. Above him, faint and sepulchral trickling down with the filth, Sirius's laughter. Hysterical.
Not little Peter. Who would ever expect little Peter?
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" tears and ash mingled, but the ash would not rub out the blood, tears would not put out the fire. It burned, on the dead hearth, flickered shadows, faces and screams. Now he could hear them, no longer soundless, echoed from memory, from dreams.. "So sorry… Remus, you know. Remus, you understand. Please. James… your son…not dead…" The starved-thin shoulders shuddered. "It wasn't me…please, it wasn't me…"
It was never you, Peter. Who would have thought, little Peter? No one. Pathetic, hopeless little Peter.
Foosteps were echoing on stone. Voices. And the dead flame flickered over the lifeless ash, pale and empty. But even it would not burn away the blood. Meticulously, the wretched man scrubbed at his fingers, scrubbed and pressed, moaning, pleading mercy of the empty room, sobbing his sins into shadow.
Where are you?
Where are you now?
Bloody Hell…the flames flicked at his hands, stained. Bloody Hell, Peter, who would have thought it?