Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. Original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

Not beta read. Don't hex, but correcting spells are more than welcome to be tossed in my direction.

Reason He's A Rat

The boy cowered in the shadowed corner of the Shrieking Shack and his whiskers twitched with fear. Not just his own fear, either. He could smell the thick odour of it coming in from all directions and, mingled as it was with the scents of aggression and hate, it made a potent brew in his small rodent's brain. There were times when he hated Full Moon quite as vehemently as Moony did and he suspected that of the two of them, he was more scared of it. And so he'd backed his trembling rear-end up against the splintered old skirting board, his tail tucked up beneath him uncomfortably as though frightened that someone was going to bite it off. Actually, that wasn't such an irrational fear, really, if he delved in amongst the thoughts of his subconscious mind. Not that Peter Pettigrew was all that into delving amongst subconscious thoughts; that was more the bookish Remus's type of past-time. Well. When the moon wasn't full.

The creature in the centre of the dusty, ramshackle room let out a bloodcurdling howl of rage, and need, and hunger, and rose onto its hind legs. Peter's whole body shook violently at the sight. Oh, there was a good reason he was a rat, and he knew it. The knowledge didn't make him proud, but it did prove that he wasn't incurably stupid. James was right – what was the point in faking courage that you didn't have? That would be like a non-swimmer trying to save a drowning man: other people would just have to save him as well and the whole situation would snowball out of control. No, there was a reason that Peter was a rat and he didn't feel shame, or at least not much, as he sat there and shivered.

The stag at the door, rippling with muscle and its magnificent antlers glinting in the full moonlight that poured in through wide cracks in the roof above them, pawed at the wooden floor restlessly. The scratching of hoof on board was oddly reminiscent of nails on slate and the noise made the werewolf furl loose another howl, the audial embodiment of primordial dark hungers that Peter had never tasted, and then darted sideways to ram one of the boarded-up windows with the full force of its body weight. But before it could reach its target it let out a piercing screech as a swift blur of blackness sprang in a sinuous curve from the other side of the room. The dog, dark hair on its back risen into stiff tufts like a ridge and filling the air with the strong scent of canine aggression, caught the werewolf by the neck and the two beasts skidded along the floor in a terrifying jumble of fangs and claws and howling, hacking screams. Peter felt nauseous. There was a bad moon rising outside and Remus had been so buried in his exams that, while he hadn't completely forgotten his potion, it had clearly come later than it was due. It was always unpleasant but not usually quite so—

The black dog was shaken free with a piercing yelp that it hurt Peter's insides to hear, and he saw Sirius slam into a wall where he slid down to the floor and lay crumpled for a moment, before standing shakily to his feet and moving his bushy black head groggily as though something inside his skull had come loose but he couldn't quite work out what.

With a low, dangerous growl and a broad baring of yellowed fangs the werewolf turned its attention to the stag who answered by pawing restlessly again, an answering glint of challenge in its eyes. Remus howled and, outside the shack, at the edges of the not-so-distant Forbidden Forest, a pack of regular wolves released a chorus of eerie song in response. Oh, no, not that again – Peter squeaked with terror as Moony lunged at Prongs in his ravenous desire for the night world outside, and that squeak was very nearly Peter's last utterance because without a scrap of warning the monster that was one of his best friends swerved a the last minute, prior to coming into contact with James's antlers, and launched itself instead at Peter.

Oh, Merlin's underwear, he was going to become a midnight snack, a mouthful of Peter for tea, snap, snap, oh! He let his short, little legs fling himself forwards, propelled by a mad rush of speed in the opposite direction. Help, agh, freedom, safety, a crack or a hole to hide in, oh! The werewolf loped after him easily and caught him by the tail in two loose bounds, and then tossed him upwards like a cat about to gulp down a mouse in one neat mouthful. Oh, Merlin!

Peter's petrified little body twisted in mid-fall and his tiny pink toes scrabbled at the air in helpless desperation but before he could think up a plan, something, anything, he found himself landed upon the werewolf's snout—

—and latched on to it for all he was worth with four sets of sharp little claws and a mouthful of strong, pointed teeth.

There was another reason he was a rat, of course.

The werewolf let out a howl of rage and pain, and slammed into the wall to knock Peter free. Slam, slam, SLAM! It worked and his rat's body fell limply to the floor, tail bleeding profusely, and the world started to fade into foggy darkness around him even as he watched both stag and shaggy dog advance menacingly towards the werewolf, this time to take him properly down and out.

Yes. That was what he was good for. Buying time.

Peter was good at that.

There was a reason he was a rat.