Can't Promise You That.
My take on Peter
Pettigrew's betrayal. Make of it what you will, but I would be grateful for
reviews. Perhaps my ideas differ to yours – I would be interested to hear of
your thoughts. *g* Tell me where I'm going with this!
Usual disclaimers as ever. I don't even
*look* like JKR, okay?
--
I'm big on the inside. I promise you that. I know that I'm small for my age still and it looks like I'm done growing. But I'm big on the inside. I can definitely promise you that much.
--
The lights were out in the dorms when he got back and slid into the cold sheets on his bed. The linen was icy against his body, sweaty from nervous exhaustion as it was. It would take the sheets a while to warm up from his body heat, he knew, but during the wait he was reduced to shivering and wriggling trying to keep the cold out and the warmth in. He had drawn the curtains around his bed closed, the thick velvety material sliding shut with a rich rustle of cloth, concealing his flushed face from the rest of the darkened room.
He'd done it.
Finally, he had mustered up enough courage and will inside himself to get what he wanted and knowing that in his hands he now held something more precious than a thousand gems made his very blood sing. He was sat upright and lit the single torch above his head with a flick of his wand. The warm glow travelled no further than the deep red confines of the curtains that he had grown to love. He put his wand down and looked to the expanse of black that he held in his hands and smiled blissfully.
--
Perhaps you don't really understand me after all. I know you always thought you did; you thought that there was nothing to understand, after all. But I'm beginning to think that there's someone else in me, someone that you couldn't even think to believe. But you started it, I promise it was you. You awoke the rat in me.
--
He'd been thinking about it for a long while now as his obsession had grown. The voluminous black robes he held in clammy, sweat smeared hands had been the object of his desire for longer than perhaps deemed healthy. But as he brought it up to his face to inhale the scent of the previous wearer deeply, he did not care.
Everything about himself had irked him endlessly for the past few months. Every little hesitation, every blush and every down casting of eyes. He had cast around the school for something to help, reaching out and clawing with the desperation of a trapped animal for release.
Sweet, blessed relief, so sweet that tears would cascade down his cheeks to dream of the perfect solution, the perfect answer to all the little, niggling problems that plagued his confused mind.
They had always been his friends, the boys that populated the rest of the beds. They had been since the first day when the Slytherins had been pushing him around, smelling weakness and fear like a particularly potent cologne. And the fact that they stood up for him enamoured him by their fantastic presence. He idolised them in his mind, escalating their achievements to hugely embellished, exaggerated sizes. They could Do No Wrong, and they liked him. That in itself made him feel special and their attentions alternately brought him out of his shell and crammed him back in again. Brought him out when they laughed at his comments and listened to his thoughts, drove him ruthlessly back in when they laughed among themselves at a joke he couldn't see.
He was jealous. He knew that now as he clung desperately to the black cloak like a drowning man to driftwood. The waves were coming and he didn't want to drown. He was jealous of everything they did that was better than he could manage, he was jealous of. Every. Little. Thing that they did between themselves that he wasn't part of, and he was jealous of every unworthy girl they bragged about. The newest attachment to the group was kind, was friendly, was lovely and beautiful – truly her namesake.
He had never hated anyone more than she.
It was she who tore the group into distraction, she who dampened their spirits by pointing out that they could have been hurt, caught, expelled over their most recent prank. It was her who drew the leader of the pack into corners with her, where they giggled and talked and behaved in the most vile manner he could even think of. What made it all the worse for him was that none of the others saw her for what she was. For the lying, sly, plotting little wretch she really, truly was, and they accepted her into their group. True, they occasionally complained that she was pulling their beloved friend out of the group and was softening him up, but they preferred to drag her in with them, even inviting her in on their little games and tricks.
When she came along, he stayed behind. He couldn't stand to see her appreciated more than he was, and he knew that that would inevitably happen. Because she was better than he was. Because she was just so *perfect*. It infuriated him to the point of distraction and it was all he could do to be civil to her. Fortunately, it was put down to his shyness around girls by his friends and no one heeded to it any longer.
And then they wondered why he spent so much time by himself.
--
I'm sorry, I guess, I really am. But I can't stand it any longer. I need a fuel to make my fire bright. I need something to sustain me, to urge me into the Gryffindor bravery you so often tell me I lack. I need something more than the camaraderie you offer; I need something unconditional and real. I have that now, though you'd never guess where I found it.
In the Slytherin dorms.
--
He spent hours walking out around the grounds of the school, idly tickling the tentacles of the giant squid, straying into the far corners where no one went just because it was so far away from the castle. Sometimes his friends got suspicious, and it was always her who had to say something about it, voicing concern that was so honeyed and so sugary sweet in worry that he just wanted to slap her in uncharacteristic anger. He just shrugged it off and turned away.
The time he spent by himself was, in his eyes, well spent. Everything was so much clearer when he was alone like this, breathing in the unpolluted air and being allowed to drop all pretences of happiness. He could truly be himself and no longer had to bare any of the pressing restraints that judgement from others brought him. Sweet bliss, sweet isolation.
His behaviour started him thinking. This peculiar individualist mindset got his eyes straying to another member of the seventh year, to someone who was, he realised, not so unlike himself. But while he, himself, had been cowering from acceptation of his own being, his new object of thought seemed to have accepted his position and moved on into manipulating it to suit his needs. He had, by all means succeeded, top of class, lover of one of Hogwart's most beautiful. Surly rather than silent, he had a voice.
--
And now I want a voice too. I know you always said that you gave me all the freedom I needed – and I know that you think you really, honestly did. But you all pressured me so hard just by being yourselves. I adored you, worshiped you all and found myself still empty of expression for all my troubles. Well, I've moved on. I've got myself a new Idol. And he doesn't like to disappoint.
I've heard him say so myself.
--
And now, he must also find his voice. Move away from the old group, the old group and her. He would find his own way. Knuckles, still slightly chubby even after the loss of puppy fat, clenched around the thick black cloth of his newest possession. He would move alone.
The thought scared him by the sheer enormity of what he would be doing. He wouldn't speak out against his old friends, as he was already thinking of them, he wasn't ready for that. He would stay the same, small, timid boy they had always known. But inside?
Inside, he would become a man.
Oh, and it all sounded so melodramatic. But it had to happen, otherwise he would be left stuck in this rut for the rest of all time. When she finally married into the group, for that was surely to come next, he knew he wouldn't make best man to the happy groom, so why bother even pretending? No, instead he would smile and be happy for the couple. Just as he was expected to.
But his new idol would always be there. True, his idol wasn't aware of this new turn of developments, but that was exactly how he wanted it. The old friends had known exactly where they had stood with him, and look what had happened there. No, this would be secret admiration. He would watch, would observe, would note every little thing that made his idol so strong. So icy and so unmoveable in the confidence he had in himself.
And when he had studied, he would practise, he would perfect. And he would emerge like a caterpillar from the suffocating cocoon and turn in a butterfly. Free. Fluttering wings of freedom, of beauty, simplicity and nature. He would be free of the restraints he had spun himself when he was small and hungry, starved of everything he longed to be.
The thought excited him as he clutched at the stolen robe. Freedom. Beauty. Life.
--
So, I'm sorry to leave you all like this, though I'm sure you don't really mind that much. My replacement was wheeled in even before I noticed I was being edged out. I doubt you'll miss me too much, if at all. She'll keep you busy. Keep you happy.
Keep you, oh, so close.
I promise to think of you kindly from time to time, to keep you all as close to my heart as she does to hers. But her unwavering, lioness loyalty?
No, I can't promise you that.
--
Funny, he didn't really think of the robe he held in his stubby fingers as stolen. Not even as acquired. It was almost as though he had had a right to this, like the follower had the right to help himself to the bones of a saint.
Life was going to be good. He didn't fool himself into thinking that it wouldn't be hard before it became good, but he was prepared for that, feeding himself words of strength and ambition at every turn. There were things to be done if he was to develop into his full potential, into the softer faced mirror of his idol. There was a new cult, a group that he was sure his idol would be interested in.
He was going to find out about it first thing tomorrow.
Let the Marauders have her, in all her fiery haired glory. They would never know their loss until it was too late anyway.
They never did.