A rat can squeeze through a gap the size of a Galleon. It is a survival technique, he supposes.
Peter thinks about survival a lot, these days.
Lily pours him tea.
Survival, he reasons.
Harry clutches his knee, toddling towards the sofa.
Survival, he reminds himself.
James claps him on the shoulder.
Survival, he thinks weakly.
They hug him, an unwitting, trusting circle, and he wants to cry.
The Mark prickles on his arm.
Black mark. Black spot. Black heart.
On his knees before the Dark Lord, the secret spills unbidden from his lips, and Wormtail prays, somehow . . . for survival.