QLFC S7R3, Wanderers Beater 1
Write about a character who comes to respect someone they didn't previously.
-(song) Demons - Imagine Dragons (Look into my eyes/It's where my demons hide/It's where my demons hide/Don't get too close/It's dark inside)
-(emotion) happiness
-(poem) A Friend - Gillian Jones
Word count: about 2170
Thanks to my wonderful beta(s): Bailey
TW: mental illness, self-esteem issues, implied torture
Peter's not-italicized thoughts are purposely written as a bit disjointed and unfocused.
He wakes up. He opens his eyes—or maybe it's the other way around.
He sees light, a ceiling, and there's something soft around him. There's also a body. He remembers a chubby thing; this is bony and aching. It's his own and it's warm. He is warm, hot. Something's weighing on him, constricting him. He struggles. The knots around him tighten.
Pain. There was always pain. There isn't now.
Screeching voices demanding something of him.
Red flashes.
The ceiling is pale yellow.
"Good morning."
He flinches, but nothing happens. Nothing bad.
They disentangle him. They touch him, circles on his arms. It... doesn't hurt? He frowns. Why doesn't it hurt?
Someone sobs. "Peter, please."
Peter.
That's... his name.
He is Peter.
It may be important or useless. Probably the latter. That name is not why he endured. Even though…
He doesn't care.
The feel of wrongness still pervades him.
An interrupted echo: It wasn't supposed...
Ξ
Wormtail.
Forgotten and forever hated.
Rat.
Traitor.
Worm.
Never has a name been more appropriate for a creature like him, who thrives on bodies.
He looks at himself and all he feels is loathing.
It's nothing new. Peter has always disdained himself. Too short, too stupid, too fat—so overabundant, yet never enough.
He's lacking. And whatever hole has been carved into him, it's filled with demons. He knows it. He can see them in his dark eyes whenever he looks into a mirror. It's the reason he always casts them down when around other people. He can still feel his eyeballs burn, though. And the more he's forced to alienate himself, the more the hole, the rift, broadens, generating other demons, ready to torture him.
Today, they have James' and Lily's faces. His friends are going to die. Because of him. Because he's scared. So scared—he's never been a good Gryffindor.
Peter sometimes wonders why they chose him all those years ago, why they even bothered to include him. He wouldn't be in this mess if they hadn't decided to see worth where there was none.
The Dark Lord is waiting and is not patient, but Peter can't, can't… What?
Ξ
The woman has red hair and cries sometimes. The man has black hair and glasses to hide his eyes with.
They look kind. They ask him questions: "How are you?" and "How did you sleep?" and "Are you hungry? Thirsty?" They never get angry when he doesn't answer.
Speaking is bad.
They hug him and say, "We're here for you."
Something good engulfs him, elevates him when they are with him.
Their faces are nothing like the one in the bathroom—white, too white. The glass is cold and there's a man behind it, looking at him. The stranger copies his every movement and is gaunt, pale, old. Dead.
He's seen death, knows death. He's been at its door, he believes. Now, it's in front of him. He's afraid and reaches out. His hands close around nothing.
The floor is cold.
His mind is empty until the next nightmare.
Ξ
Peter's memory is an unforgiving mirror: mistakes, regrets, sins, losses. But he does remember because he deserves to be tortured by each of them. Even when he's locked in his room with his eyes pressed shut and his hands around his ankles, grieving for a sin he hasn't committed yet.
The dirty rag he used to cover himself with slips and falls on the floor, but he doesn't move to pick it up even as the September cold breeze blows through the cracks and he shivers.
Yesterday, he could have slept wrapped up in soft, colorful blankets.
Today, his only companions are silence and darkness. Bitter acid seethes in his stomach. He wishes he could throw it up along with all the bad that runs through him. But he can't. He's too afraid to stick two fingers down his throat, afraid of what he'll have to face if he does.
He bites his lips until he can taste blood.
They keep worrying about him, sending letters. The owls go back to their owners with food in their stomach but nothing in their beak or attached to their feet.
Despite the cold and the shivers, Peter sweats, wet beads down his neck.
Because he's missing something, a nebulous, blurred thing. He can feel it sting and crash his gut. It has James' cheerfulness, Sirius' fire, and Remus' calm.
He sweats and trembles because there's something to understand, and he can't grasp it.
Yesterday, someone would have helped bring it into focus. Someone would have hugged him.
His chapped lips tingle, but what's left to say?
Yesterday, there was someone he could talk to. Apologize to.
Today, the wind would take his words and disperse them; the rain would wash away their meaning.
Yesterday was good.
There was Lily's welcoming smile and Harry's toothless one.
A lot of cheese and pastries. Promises and warm socks.
Yesterday, Peter Pettigrew was a useless kid, overlooked member of the magnificent quartet called the Marauders. Friends with Potter, Black, and Lupin. Fat and clumsy. The one who'd never take action.
Peter lets out a bitter chuckle. Yesterday, he was still a man, he realizes. Now? It may be too late.
He knows what he'll see in the mirror, and that's not a man—it's nobody, nothing.
He's thankful for the darkness and the absence of mirrors, unwilling to look into the eyes of a demon, a monster whom he can't recognize and who doesn't deserve anything but hatred or maybe oblivion—which he'd consider an act of mercy at this point.
The constant fight between light and dark, right and wrong has been wearing him away. He thinks of Sirius and how easy he's always made such a choice look as he made his decisions with his distinctive grace.
But to Peter? Everything's confused, the line's blurred, and the border between life and death is becoming increasingly thin. He can't believe he's about to turn into—perhaps he already has—a villain from his mother's fairy tales, the one he dreamed to defeat when he was a child.
He never got the chance, too content to let others win his battles. He can still see Remus' neat handwriting—so easy to copy—Sirius' fierce protectivity, James' smart plans, and Lily's unwavering strength.
They were so good to him. He needed them, and they were so happy to give, waste their best efforts on a parasite like him. They enjoyed his company.
Peter can't choke back a furtive tear. It rolls down his face like a finger tracing the contours of his face to commit it to memory. It feels appropriate. What he's about to do is going to change him forever.
Yesterday—
His enhanced hearing picks out a noise and he raises his head, opening his eyes. The light coming from the crack under the door is disrupted by a shadow. Footsteps draw near.
Peter shivers while the darkness into his soul perks up. He's never learned to keep it at bay, convinced that he couldn't fear what he didn't see.
The door opening to let the Dark Lord's silhouette step in shows him how wrong, childish, he was. He's never been more afraid, his mind frantic with terror and hate.
Too late, too late, too late—so stupid, always a step behind everybody else.
The original plan was actually brilliant, like any other plan James and Sirius concocted. If he'd stuck to that, now his heart wouldn't be exploding against his ribcage. His rat form would protect him. Sirius would protect him because, if nothing else, James is his brother and Harry his godson. But no, Peter just had to go and change it because… what? He doesn't like spending time as a rat? Craves power?
His silent ego definitely chose the worst possible moment to make himself known and demand something better.
In a flash, he sees himself submerged by waves and waves of black hoods and masks—lost, anonymous.
If he ever was someone, he has his friends to thank for it, for seeing beyond shadows that even he hasn't been able to penetrate.
It's too late. As soon as the secret is out, he won't even have the time to warn them to leave the house. Three green flashes and it'll be over.
"No," he whispers. The word reverberates in the silent room, its ramifications powerful and clear. He hiccups. He said no to the Dark Lord, even though involuntarily.
It's almost intoxicating to see traces of disappointment flicker across You-Know-Who's face as he says, "Wormtail," emphasizing the worm part. And that's wrong. Peter is a worm, but that name belongs with the Marauders. How is he supposed to live with this reminder, with himself? If he hated himself yesterday, how will he even look at himself tomorrow?
"You're not who you think you are," the Sorting Hat told Sirius. "You are who you choose to be."
Suddenly, the world becomes an easier place to live in, and Peter thinks he can try to endure for a little while. There's always time to surrender. After all, the Dark Lord needs him alive.
He never deserved his friends, but it's time to at least try to give that friendship back.
As a few Death-Eaters filter in, Peter grits his teeth and braces himself, hoping that his blood will be enough to wash away his almost-betrayal and that the eyes he'll meet in the mirror tomorrow—if he'll ever wake up again—will be clearer and demon-free.
He is no one important, just a vessel for information, but he is also their friend again, the same Wormtail who made them laugh and—he struggles to remember, hold on to whatever good quality they've found in him—whom they loved. That's all. He can settle for it even if he never understood before. Peter is worth enough to catch the Dark Lord's interest because JamesLilyHarry depend on him. He is worthy. He'd make them and himself proud.
There, in that derelict building, blazing spells hitting him, mocking laugh ringing in his ears, he discovers that demons do not cast bigger shadows when illuminated, like he feared all his life. They disappear.
Everything is a blur, a tangle of blood and pain and screams. The only thoughts in his head revolve around friendslovesafe. All the while repeating to himself, "Hold on just one more minute," and clenching his fists.
He focuses on the pain to the point he forgets what huge secret he's trying to protect, but he remembers what matters the most.
He cries—and hears Lily telling him he gives the best hugs.
He twitches—and sees himself acting clumsier than usual to divert attention from a post-full moon Remus.
He tastes acidic vomit in the back of his throat—and sees himself buying candies for little Harry.
Minute after minute, hours must pass. Days?
Looking into angry red eyes, Peter lets himself hope that he's made the right call.
"Let him here to rot, for his friends to find and agonize, knowing this is their fault," the Dark Lord says in the end. "Let this be a warning to everyone who dares cross me." He and his Death-Eaters Disapparate.
Peter's world goes mercifully black, but not before a pleasant feeling similar to triumph settles in his stomach.
It's good to be a man.
Another unbid thought forms in his mind: It's great to be a Marauder—whatever that means.
Ξ
"Uncle Peter."
Who is that?
A little human runs to him. A child. Little James. The name comes out of the blue. James' little one. Mini-James with green eyes—green eyes are always kind—wraps his arms around him. Something uncoils in his chest. It's warm. It's pleasant.
Then, a soft voice says, "I love you."
Heat explodes inside him then and he presses his lips to the little one's head. That gesture—it has no name in his mind, but it feels right. It amplifies the feelings in his heart.
He thinks and thinks and thinks, broken pieces cutting him. He perseveres. He finds it. That's what happiness would be. He misses it. Back then. He remembers it being easier. Remembers wind in his hair. Sun. Flying. He called it friends. Back then.
Now, it's little James holding his hand and saying to big James, "Dad, Uncle Peter and I want chocolate."
Uncle Peter and I.
The circle closes.
He feels full.
That night, he dreams. He doesn't know how, but he recognizes him. It's the man from the odd window in the bathroom. No death in sight this time.
The man looks at him and nods. "We did the right thing. You did. Thank you." The tone seems sad and happy at the same time. Then, the man bows his head in appreciation.
Respect.
Gratitude.
He's confused for the briefest moment. He can't understand. So he just bows his head too, because that's what they do—they mirror each other's movement.
The other smiles and says again, "Now we can rest. Thank you."
"Thank you," he repeats.
He's at peace with himself and—good, it feels good.