A/N: Quidditch League Season Four – Seeker (Wasps) – Prompt: You will be writing from the point of view of your given object in your stories.

Wasps: Peter Pettigrew's Silver Hand

For a Harpy who loves Weasleys, Marauders, and Jily.

Peter was... struggling. It was the only word for it. Ever since she'd become joined to the fat cretin, there had been no shortage of trouble for the pair of them. This was due, largely, to the fact that Peter was as stupid as he was fat, and he had yet to clue in to the fact that the hand could, of course, communicate.

Honestly, how dense did you have to be? Three solid hours of sign language waved directly in the dolt's face had produced nothing but exhausted tears at how tired his biceps were getting. Midway through the fourth hour, and Peter had run howling to his bedroom, complaining that the hand was defective and was never going to stop moving, and he would never get a proper night's sleep again, and didn't he deserve more than this, so much more. Why, why, why?

It was pathetic. If the hand had been in possession of a mouth, she would have vomited.

She had begun writing messages to him. Small missives of encouragement throughout the day, under the futile hope that if she tried to be nice to the man, he might be more amenable to listening to her. It had all come to nothing, and culminated in a rather dramatic panic attack when Peter had become infested by the delusion that he was losing his memory, and writing notes to himself that he couldn't recall ever seeing before.

Of course, all this could be solved if Peter would bloody look at her once in a while. But no, he insisted on ignoring her, pretending she didn't exist, and then adamantly refusing to believe that all the strange motions she insisted on making throughout the day might actually be resulting in messages of reason. No, that was far too improbable. Clearly, he was losing his mind, writing unexplainable notes to himself such as:

You look especially fetching today. Now, I'm trying to talk to you, you great dolt. Will you listen?

That coat looks lovely on you. Why do you never listen to me? We spend every waking moment with each other. I'm quite literally attached to you. Stop being ridiculous.

I've noticed your stench is significantly less malodorous today. Well done. Why must you pretend I don't exist?

Your teeth are less yellow than usual. When are you going to get your life together Peter?

Nice hair. This is becoming childish, Peter. Listen to me. I'm your hand now. I'm a part of you. We need to discuss our plans. You could be so much more than this, Peter.

And so on.

It was becoming exhausting. But she had all the time in the world, and far more strength and stamina than Peter could ever aspire to, and she intended to continue.

She thought that the kitchen might be the most appropriate place to gain his attention. He was at his most relaxed in the kitchen. As he set out the ingredients for a double quantity chocolate cake, she laid her plans and waited for the perfect moment to set them into action.

He set down the eggs; she pounced. Grabbing egg after egg she cracked them down on his head, relishing the sight of his stunned features and petrified body. When all the eggs were gone, she made a fist and rapped down sharply on the side of his head.

Knock, knock! Is anyone there?

After thirty minutes of quiet sobbing in the shower, she reluctantly agreed that the plan had failed.

That was when she spotted the photo. Seemingly quite innocuous, it caught her notice when The Nose-less One sent Peter spying on the Scarred One and his friends. He would spend so much time staring at this photo, she couldn't fathom why it possibly caught his attention like that.

Then she realised; it was the waving. The poor boy was mesmerised by the sight of the couple waving at him, then spinning each other around.

That darling couple. They seemed so strong and sure of purpose. As joy slowly began to spread through her veins, she knew without a doubt that she had done it. She had surpassed the dreaded failure of her experimentations, and landed on a clue.

If she had a throat she would have crowed with glee. Waving! Waving was the key! And spinning, if she could manage it.

As soon as they had arrived back at their home, where there were no other distractions, she put her plan into action. Gracefully, she lifted herself into the air, motioning her fingers as if they were holding running water, and wafting them gracefully in front of Peter's face.

He froze.

At last! A reaction! She spread her fingers and waved more energetically. His eyes widened – no longer in exhaustion and stupidity, but this time in horror! True horror. At last, he was beginning to understand the situation.

Slowly, sensuously, she ran her self along his waist, and with a graceful little tug, propelled him into motion.

With a scream like a dying hyena, he crashed head-first through the wall. She readjusted her grip, hoisted him out of the wall, and spun him again. Together they danced along the hallway, the staccato beat of their footsteps joined by the gentle harmony of Peter's whimpering.

She relaxed, elated at the knowledge that finally, at long last, she had made progress.

Until she found herself ripped unceremoniously from his waist and brought high up into the air, as far from Peter's body as she could be.

"Why do you keep doing this?" Peter screamed, his eyes wide and deranged. "Don't you get it? You're mine! Mine! I own you! Stop it, stop it, stop it!"

She tensed, drawing herself into a fist. He flinched, but remained standing in firm resolve. He would fight her, and he had drawn just such a blow on her psyche that she didn't trust herself to win.

Rejection; so cold a feeling.

As she slowly lowered herself to his side, making herself calm and pliant as he hesitantly flexed her palm and wriggled her fingers, she vowed to herself one thing:

She would destroy that man.