"Then you should have died! Died, rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!"
[October 18th, 1981]
Peter Pettigrew wishes for oblivion.
He's staring at his cardigan (maroon, too short, perma-cigarette scented) feeling alone and trembling and terrified. The cardigan's got a tear near the wrist where, as an almost nervous habit, Peter often sticks his thumb. He can't remember where it came from and guesses it simply popped into existence, hanging neatly in his cupboard, like so many of his clothes were wont to do. For the first time in months, Peter thinks of his mother.
His hand appears almost detached; a pale, clammy fist. Peter Pettigrew is frightened. Peter Pettigrew is terrified and trembling and alone. He is alone and insignificant and nothing matters anymore. If Sirius were here he would tell him to Man Up, but Peter's sick of having to Man Up (and fuck Sirius, anyway). For the second time in months, Peter thinks of his mother; he needs her – or anyone, really – to take him home and tell him what to do and how to Man Up and how to not feel so God-damn pathetic all of the time. He wants to collapse, or sleep, or die.
Peter Pettigrew wishes for oblivion.
There is a war waging against Peter's ribcage as he brings his knuckles to the door. Insanity, or hysteria, makes him almost giggle as he knocks once, twice, thrice before remembering, with a sudden clarity, that the cardigan came from Remus. Stupid moody Moony, full of ink-stains and quirked lips and pointed stares and it's Colloportus, Peter! with that insufferable patronisation and fuck Remus. Fuck Remus and his gifts of stationary and cardigans and fuck Remus' kindness and self-deprecation and Peter hates stationary. He finds no appeal in the smell and he loathes ink-stained fingers and the sight of a blank scroll makes him feel confused and – perhaps, though he is reluctant to admit this – a little frightened. Peter feels as though Remus should know this. Peter feels as though Remus should notice. Nobody notices that scrolls confuse Peter and that ink-stains repulse him. Nobody remembers and nobody cares and Peter finds himself resenting the Marauders, those loud, arrogant troublemakers, a little more.
The door swings open and the figure, outlined and terrible, looks down.
And Peter – alone, trembling, terrified, god-damned Peter – smiles up at Lord Voldemort.
[October 16th, 1981]
Peter, absurdly, wants to whistle.
The conversation started like this: "Peter, bad news."
The conversation ended like this: "Of course I'll be your Secret Keeper."
[November 1st, 1981]
The house is smoking slightly; a peculiar scent wafts over from the rubble. The baby survived.
Fucking fuck, Peter thinks to himself, leaning slightly over the Potter's front fence. The fence that once belonged to the Potter's. The fence that the Potter's no longer own because they are dead. The fence that is no longer in the Potter's ownership because they trusted their friend, Peter, with their whereabouts and Peter betrayed that secret and now they are dead. They are gone. Prongs. Peter supposes that James died in a fit of heroics. He supposes that Lily and James died fighting or that, perhaps, it was silent and quick and they had no time to think: 'Peter. Peter is to blame.' Peter supposes and supposes until he has to stop supposing because it makes him feel both ill and terrible.
They're saying that He Who Must Not Be Named died. That he was finished by a baby. Though Peter thinks this is ridiculous because babies don't finish Dark Lords and babies don't survive killing curses and friends don't betray other friends and Peter should Disapparate before Sirius comes after him because Sirius knows and Sirius will be furious and everything is broken and horrible and wrong.
Peter Pettigrew wishes for oblivion.
[1970 - 1977]
The thin, scarred boy – more bones than substance – pretends to sleep whilst Sirius Black re-enacts for the nth time the beating he gave Snivellus. Peter watches, mouth slightly agape, with undiminished amusement. Potter has a pillow over his ears.
"You're all right, Pettigrew," Black says, nodding towards him.
Peter flushes.
.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Peter, look, we needed evidence. We weren't going to out a werewolf without validation."
"But I could have helped!"
"No offence, Pete, mate, but you're a bit of a wet blanket." That was Sirius.
Even Remus – terrified Remus who trusts no one and who is a werewolf and who probably thinks he's going to be turned in and locked up and whipped and beheaded, or something – looks at Peter with pity.
.
The dog, somehow the embodiment of grace, darts forward. He barks occasionally at the wolf, their tongues lolling, joint insanity laced between their pupils. Peter struggles to keep up, tiny legs darting forward and heart pounding and escape, escape! running through his rodent brain. Nobody notices that he is lagging behind and he finds himself watching, from a distance, his very best friends travelling on easily without him.
.
"A-and I told him, no, wait, I went: 'hey, Sniv!' and he went: 'oh, why if it isn't dashing Padfoot! Whatever did I do to deserve your brilliant attention?' and then h-he went, no, no wait, then I went-"
James is livid, his lips pressed white. Peter is scared.
"-yeah, so I went: 'why not touch the knot on the willow, if you're so damn curious about Lupin!' and then he, (stupid he), went: "why, my beautiful comrade, I believe I shall-'"
"Sirius, this is not a joke," James says, voice quiet and furious and shaking.
"You mean it's serious?" Sirius asks.
James throws the first punch. And then they're both rolling around on the ground, ink splattering their clothing and staining the floor, and they're getting twisted in the blankets and they're both going for each other's necks and everything is chaos and Peter is confused and frightened and Sirius is saying: "gerroff, gerroff" and James is going: "shit, shit!" and James' nose is bleeding and Sirius' shirt is torn and their eyes are locked, hitting and hitting and hitting until "enough!" Peter says frantically but they don't hear him and it's difficult to tell whose blood is whose and then James smashes his best mate against the bed frame and Sirius swears, loudly, twice, and Peter screams "enough!" again but they continue to ignore him.
[October 17th, 1981]
The fly-screen has been torn out of its frame; shavings of paint crumble from the walls. The furniture has been carelessly knocked over and each step twinkles due to the dusting of glass. It is a war scene. It is chaos. Peter Pettigrew wants to cry.
The figure, hooded and terrible, stands calmly in the door way. "Evening," Voldemort says – evening – before pulling a wand from his cloak.
Peter Pettigrew wants to curl up and die.
"It is with little regret that I must kill you, Pettigrew."
Peter wants to scream or vomit or both.
"You're the Secret Keeper, I believe?"
Peter, for a confused moment, imagines pulling his own wand out and Avada Kedavraing Voldemort.
"Y-yes," Peter whispers.
"Y-yes, my Lord," Voldemort corrects, removing his hood and sneering slightly.
Peter Pettigrew can no longer feel his limbs.
"Give me their location, boy."
Peter's initial silence is out of bravery. The continued silence is out of fear.
"No?" And with a deliberately poor aim a green curse is sent straight past Peter's ear. Peter drops to his knees, breathing out of control, tears now running freely. He is hyperventilating and hating, despising Sirius for not being Secret Keeper and why did Wormtail willingly agree to this? And why him, why him? Voldemort is standing over him now, cloak brushing Peter's hands and Voldemort is laughing – laughing – and Peter is screaming for mercy and ow, pain, ow and Cruciatus and white, white, pain! and please, please! A cupboard crashes to the floor to Peter's right, plates sent sailing and glasses smashing and wasn't it Lily that bought him those cups? Peter can't remember and does not want to remember. The stained carpet is carving itself into Peter's knees, his shoulders bending from raw pain, his ribs splintering and groaning, muscles screaming and heart protesting. There is a fire in his lungs and a gun to his heart. Peter is convinced that he is dead. And why, why, Sirius? Why does Sirius get to roam free and why does James get to reside safely in his home and why, why, why does Peter always, always, get stuck with the rotten jobs and finally, finally –
"Godric's Hollow."
Peter expects Voldemort to kill him regardless. Peter almost wishes he did.
[November 1st, 1981]
"Traitor!" Padfoot screams. He looks maniacal – more Black than Gryffindor. His knuckles are bleeding slightly, as if from punching something. Sirius was always doing that.
"You don't understand."
"Understand?" Sirius advances forward a step, face looking – Peter thinks for the first time – rather ugly. "They are dead. They are dead, and you're a fu-
Peter can't stop looking at Sirius' hand.
"-cking murderer. You betrayed them. You're a piece of imbecilic, repulsive filth. I hope you rot in-
Peter imagines killing Sirius and finds, to his surprise, that the idea does not disgust him. Sirius Black, who never seemed to have the time for Peter at Hogwarts – and then, later, who never owled Peter, or invited him out, or laughed at his jokes. Sirius Black, who would invent cruel words at Wormtail's expense. Sirius, who would fly into curious rages and ignore Peter for weeks at a time. Sirius, who was always calling Peter pathetic or fat or boring.
"Hell you embarrassing slime of a-"
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" They're on a Muggle street. A window advertising vacuum-cleaners is to their right.
"And did you, in that thick moronic skull of yours, consider that they had a baby? A baby, Pettigrew. James had a son. Prongs. I was a Godfather and you ruined everything. You're an absolute cu-"
"You don't understand. You never understand. The Dark Lord would have killed me! You're always barging around like you know ev-"
Sirius lunges at Peter and Peter, heart thumping, begins to panic.
Peter's first Unforgivable is the Killing Curse – Avada Kadavra, an etymological disaster of a word: part Aramaic, part Latin – "let the corpse be destroyed." Which is what Peter does, by the way, to twelve Muggles. Destroys them. "Avada Kedavra," he says, which feels foreign, but which at least shuts Sirius up. There's screaming of course – lots of it – but it ends almost immediately. He isn't thinking about the people he has just killed, much the same as he hasn't thought about James or Lily.
He was never squeamish around blood; he was always the one cleaning Moony up after a bad night – whilst Sirius vomited and James grew pale, Peter could distance himself. He cuts his finger off with the kind of deliberate thinking that leads Peter to believe that, perhaps, he'd always been planning this. Sirius is still silent, or perhaps Peter has gone deaf. He wonders if the curse hit Sirius. He doesn't like the thought, so stops thinking it: thinking is awkward and terrifying and lonesome. Peter Pettigrew is very tired. Humanity is so very tiring.
And so he stops being a human – awkward, sad, pathetic, stationary-despising Peter morphs. Conflicted thoughts are too complex for the rodent, and Wormtail finds himself thinking: flee,flee! without really knowing why.
Oblivion.
A/N: I really like Peter as a character; his comparisons to Neville are v. interesting, and I quite like the idea of Peter's later actions being spawned from a lack of attention or kindness. Of course I think the other Marauders liked Peter - they must have - but I'm very endeared with the head-canon that Peter always had self-esteem issues, perhaps reinforced by the Marauders' lack of praise. I don't think Sirius intended to treat Peter as badly as I've portrayed here: I think, instead, that Peter perceived and internalised a lot of his words with more weight than Sirius intended.