AN: this is a remake of story I started using a different penname but can no longer continue because I don't have access to that account anymore. It begins relatively the same, but I have made some major edits in the upcoming chapters! Please read and review! The more reviews I get the quicker I update :)
October 31st, 1981: 10:45pm.
Sitting alone in the Hogs Head, Peter Pettigrew reflected on how life was often not fair. He was a small man, barely twenty-one, whom, if circumstances had been different, may have been a better man. Peter chose to blame his circumstances, rather than himself. He chose to believe it wasn't his fault.
Peter Pettigrew had sandy blonde hair, brown eyes, and consistent look of hesitation on his face. Many of his former classmates would have described him as mousy- he was shy, quiet, and many people often didn't pay much attention to him, but he didn't speak to many of his classmates anymore. The three that he did speak to were his best friends. At the thought of his friends, Peter's stomach twisted. He signaled to the bartender for another drink, preferring to drink away his guilt, rather than think about the damage he caused.
Peter was currently on his fifth firewhisky of the night. The whisky, however, was not doing its job of drowning out the guilt. Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another drink.
Peter was not an average man. In fact, Peter Pettigrew was what the average man would call extraordinary; he was a wizard, who came from a long, proud line of wizards. To the average wizard, however, Peter was simply an ordinary, over-looked, slightly overweight man.
The Hogshead, a bar of ill refute in the wizarding world, was currently empty excluding both Peter and the tired looking barkeep. Three years prior this would have been unusual, as wizards, much like every other type of man, enjoyed alcohol, booze, and the company of their peers, and bars of ill refute such as this are known to be quite popular late at night. Much had changed in the past three years, however, and now England's wizarding population was engaged in a deadly war. In the last week, twelve wizards had been found dead in their homes, and Peter knew that by the end of the week there would be at least a dozen more. Everyone knew who was responsible, of course. The Dark Lord, or Lord Voldemort, was one of the most powerful and dangerous wizards alive. He began openly waging war against the Ministry of Magic just over three years ago. At the time, many wizarding families had assumed the ministry would put a stop to his nefarious acts. The ministry had not been successful and was in more danger of being taken over by the Dark Lord and his followers each day.
Lord Voldemort hated wizards born from non-magic (muggle) families. The Dark Lord believed violence, fear, and torture were stepping stones leading to power. He played into deep-seeded prejudices of the wizarding world and created a following of rich bigots. When the killings first began, quiet at first, the Dark Lord lost some of his following. Then, as the killing became more public and violent, wizards were forced to chose a side, as Lord Voldemort took indecision and neutrality as a sign of weakness.
In the last twenty four hours, Peter had finally chosen a side. In truth, he had not been sure which side he would chose. For the past two years, Peter Pettigrew had been playing both sides in a deadly war, carefully calculating which side would become the victor. Tonight, his decision would be final. There would not be any turning back. Sirius would know, and Sirius would never forgive. He would tell everyone how Peter had betrayed his friends, how he had let them be murdered.
Peter thought of Harry, and took another sip of his firewhisky. He looked so much like his father, except for his eyes. Those damn eyes. They were emerald, like his mother's, Lily's, and Peter suspected that Harry would take on much of his mother's personality rather than his father's. Lily who had always been kind to him; Lily who defended him and treated him as an equal.
She was most likely dead now, Peter reflected. He took another drink of his firewhisky. Peter was drunk, but he was a sad, sullen, self-hating drunk. He took another drink, and stared at the clock. It read 10:47. They were all dead now, he guessed. James and Lily. Even little Harry. The Dark Lord had never failed at killing his marks, and He did not trust anyone else to complete this particular task. Peter took another drink of his firewhisky.
Peter remembered the first time he met James Potter. It had been on the train to Hogwarts before their first year had begun. James and Sirius had entered his compartment and asked if they could sit with him. Peter said yes, glad for the company. But James and Sirius had mostly ignored Peter, talking amongst themselves. Peter had felt small and alone during that ride to Hogwarts. Although Peter eventually befriended James and Sirius when they had all been sorted into the same house, Peter had never forgotten. And Peter never truly forgave.
Peter took another sip of his firewhisky, trying to block out the thoughts of all of the pleasant memories of James Potter: James standing up for him, staying up late and laughing with his three friends, sneaking around the castle, fighting with James and Sirius on his side, James reassuring him…. Ten years of good memories, of James being his friend.
Peter signaled the barkeep to replenish his now empty cup and continued to drink. Ten years of friendship. Ten years, and now James Potter was no more.
Sitting alone, Peter reflected on his life, and came to the conclusion that it was not his fault. He didn't have a choice. Voldemort would have killed him. It wasn't his fault. He took another drink. It was just who he was.
He took another, large drink of his firewhisky and let the disillusion sink in. Peter had never been anyone special or great. Being a part of the marauders had not changed who he was; he had only tricked himself into believing he was something other, something better, than he was.
Peter Pettigrew, the son of Edna and Peter Pettigrew, was often regarded as a disappointment by others. Even his parents, both from old pureblood families, often found their son perplexing. The senior Peter Pettigrew had been a Slytherin during his time at Hogwarts, and was thoroughly surprised by his son's sorting into Gryffindor. Although the Pettigrew family could not strictly be classified as blood supremacists, they did come from a long line of prejudice wizards. However, the Pettigrew's preferred to stay out of the political lime-light and chose not to openly choose a side. The junior Peter Pettigrew, however, had taken on his friend's perspectives when it came to both politics and the war. When Peter had told his parents that he intended to fight against the Dark Lord, his father was rather perplexed.
"This isn't your war, boy." His father had told him. "You're a pure blood. The blood that runs through your veins is noble. You're pure. You keep your head down during this war and stay out of it, y'hear me? It's not your fault that this is happening, and it's sure as hell not your responsibility to stop it."
Edna Pettigrew had also been surprised by her son's response. Edna had been a Ravenclaw. She was as clever as she was cruel, however, and her sharp wit was often used to belittle, diminish, and verbally abuse others. She believed in putting herself first, and only thought of others as an afterthought. She truly cared only about a select few people, her son and her husband being the exception rather than the rule. Edna would have idolized her son, simply because he was her son, but he fell short of her expectations. Edna supported her son's decision out of obligation, though she would have preferred that her son stay out of the war in order to stay out of harm's way.
Peter, however, had developed a character which was in some parts his mother and in other parts his father. Peter was actually quite clever, though not in a traditional way. Like his mother, Peter could read people instinctively. He could sense their weaknesses, strengths, and how best to persuade them. Like his father, though, Peter was inherently selfish and used his perceptiveness to his advantage. He often surrounded himself with people who were stronger, smarter, and more talented then him. Peter was also a dreamer, like his father. He surrounded himself with people he strived to be like, whose characters were decidedly strong, brave, and admirable. He imagined himself to take on the characteristics of his friends. He imagined himself loyal, outgoing, optimistic, and impressive. He could, in fact, imitate these characteristics quite well, and for a time he truly did believe that he possessed these qualities, that he could truly be a better person.
In his heart Peter knew he was selfish and often self-serving. Being friends with Remus Lupin had taught him to be humble, to reflect on one's weaknesses and not let it define you, and for a while Peter had convinced himself that he could change the very nature of his character. That he could be a better person. Being friends with James Potter and Sirius Black had taught him to be brave and to always stand up for what he believed in. For a time, he thought that he could imitate that, as well. It was easy to be brave when he was with James and Sirius; they had his back, and he had reason to believe that no one would dare go behind Black and Potter. For a time, Peter believed that he could truly take on those traits as a part of his character. That he could become the person he wanted to be by sheer force of will. But a war was brewing. James and Sirius were no longer the strongest force, and Peter knew that they could not protect him for much longer.
Peter wanted to be brave and he wanted to change, but the very nature of his greatest weaknesses had too much pull, the idea of giving his own life for a greater cause petrified him. He could not compel himself to die for his friends, even if he hated himself because of it.
And hate himself, he did. Because although Peter dreamed of being like James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin, he could never muster the willpower to actually change himself. In his heart of hearts, Peter Pettigrew was self-serving, and his only true alliance had ever been to himself. Perhaps, had circumstances have been different, if had been raised differently or tried harder or if circumstances had not caused to chose between himself and his friends, he could have been different.
As Peter Pettigrew sat alone, sullenly drinking his firewhisky, he realized, not for the first time, that there was no going back.
He took a large gulp of his firewhisky, finishing his glass. He stood up, and walked out of the bar and into the bitter October air. Outside, he took one last glimpse at the street where he had often snuck off to with James, Sirius, and Remus. He could almost see them as boys again, gleefully running through the streets, laughing at their own cleverness, and breaking the rules with reckless abandon.
James Potter had been a good friend. Peter Pettigrew had been a terrible friend, but Peter vowed to always remember him. To always cherish his the memory of James Potter.
Peter stared down the street, feeling numb. He felt empty, hollow. Peter Pettigrew apparated to his home and went to bed knowing that James, Lily, and Harry Potter were dead because of him.
AN: I always enjoy starting off a story with end! The next chapters will focus on the fifteen-year-old versions on these characters! Reviews are always welcome.
