AN: I wrote this story for two reasons: one, I wanted to write a story about Peter; and two, I wanted to show my explanation of how a spineless jellyfish like Peter could have been put in Gryffindor.
Disclaimer: This is one.
*****
"He's going to be in Hufflepuff."
Melinda Pettigrew was poking Peter in the stomach with her bony finger.
"Now Mother…" Moira Pettigrew began.
"Look at him," Melinda continued. "He's a lump. Just like his father." She said father like it was a dirty word.
"Mother, Peter isn't like his father," Moira insisted. "Peter's special."
But Peter knew what that meant. Special was his mother's word for-
"Useless," his grandmother continued. And Peter had to stand there and take it, just like he always had, and put up with his grandmother's bony fingers prodding him, and her hawk eyes boring into his own with such intensity that he wished he could look away. But he couldn't. because he had been taught that when his grandmother spoke to him, he listened.
"Mother," Moira continued, her voice slightly more firm. "Peter is going to be in whatever house he wants to."
Melinda made a strange noise, sort of like a chuckle. But of course that couldn't be right. Melinda Pettigrew didn't laugh.
"We're leaving now, Mother," Moira said curtly, taking hold of her son's arm and leading him out of the house.
"Don't listen to your grandmother, dear," Moira said once they were back in their flat.
"I know, Mum," Peter said. He'd heard it before.
"You can be whoever you want to be," Moira said.
"I know, Mum."
"I mean it," his mother continued. "Just because I was in Hufflepuff and my family was in Ravenclaw, and your father-"
"Mum," Peter interrupted. "I know."
"Because you'll always belong," Moira plowed on stubbornly. "You'll always belong right here." She patted her chest where her heart was and hugged Peter.
*****
But despite all his mother's assurances that Peter could be in whatever house he wanted, he prayed every night:
"I know I'm not brave," he would say. "And I have no friends to be loyal to. I'm not smart like my family, and I'm still scared of the dark. But I want to make my mother proud. I want to be in Gryffindor."
And the day he sat on that stool, the Sorting Hat on his head, was the scariest one of his life.
"Hufflepuff material," the hat told him.
"P-please," Peter stammered. "I-I want to be in G-G-Gryffindor."
"Gryffindor?" the hat asked. "Why?"
"I want my mother to be proud of me. And I want to prove to my grandmother that I can be strong."
"But you aren't brave," the Sorting Hat told him coldly.
"I know it," Peter agreed. "But-"
"But you are honest," the Sorting Hat interrupted.
"One chance?" Peter begged.
And the Sorting Hat gave it to him.
*****
"Tell us the location of the boy and his parents," Voldemort hissed. "And no harm will come to you."
Peter gulped loudly, his throat dry. He was shaking with terror, but he managed to croak, "I do not fear for my own life."
"No?" the chilling voice inquired. "How gallant of you. How noble of you to protect your friends, even at the expense of dear, sweet Moira."
And into the room came two Death Eaters, hauling a terrified Moira Pettigrew after them..
"Tell us!" Voldemort hissed. "Or your mother dies."
"Don't Peter!" Moira shouted, and was promptly silenced by a spell from one of the Death Eaters.
"My patience is wearing thin," Voldemort told Peter, raising his wand at Moira.
"Godric Hollow!" Peter shouted. "That's where they're hiding!"
Voldemort laughed cruelly, a flash of green light shooting out of his wand as Moira Pettigrew fell to the floor.
But not before Peter saw the look on her face. The only time she'd ever been disappointed in him. The pained, horrified, disapproving look that would haunt Peter for the rest of his life.
