Disclaimer: None of the characters or places referenced in this story belong to me.
Care
Peter Pettigrew doesn't care. He doesn't care about James and Lily. He doesn't care about their son being orphaned. He doesn't care about the wizarding world's opinions of Sirius; he doesn't care about Sirius' opinions of him. He doesn't care about Remus, who can't possibly understand everything that's happened in the past weeks. No-one ever explained it to him. Everyone suspected him. He doesn't care that Remus is probably grieving his death.
He runs down narrow alleyways in the fading light, the gap where his finger (well, toe now technically) was aches slightly. But he doesn't care about that and he's not worried that he doesn't know where he's going. He doesn't stop to think about the people he's betrayed, he barely spares a thought for the muggles he's killed and he only allows a flicker of gladness in the back of him mind to reflect the knowledge that the Dark Lord is gone. He wouldn't want to have to face His wrath at the baby's escape.
And he doesn't care about his friends, because they're not his friends anymore. They can do whatever they like, it doesn't bother him.
And when a young-ish man with ginger hair and spectacles picks him up from the hedgerow he's hiding in and brings him into the house, he doesn't feel a single pang of regret. When the man's face comes into focus before him, Peter convinces himself that he's done the right thing, because Arthur Weasley can get on with his life now, without fear of the Dark Lord hurting him or his family.
When a ten year old boy picks him up announces to the room in general that this rat is now called "Scabbers", Peter doesn't care. He just curls up in the boy's hand and allows his mind to drift off and worry about other things. And he never once worries about any of his friends again.
Because Peter Pettigrew doesn't care, but Peter Pettigrew lies.
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