What Peter Pettigrew wants most of all is to be brave. Like the knight in the fairytale, saving the princess and defeating the dragon. Like the adventurer on a quest, scouring through hidden places of old magic and always finding the treasure. Like the hero, going from defeated and scorned to hailed across nations for their deeds of good.
Peter Pettigrew wants to be brave – like the knight and the adventurer and the hero – because if he isn't, he doubts he'll ever get to be anyone other than Peter Pettigrew, and stories made for Peter Pettigrew's are never the great kind.
(They're the kind forgotten, told only once and then never, ever again.)
Peter Pettigrew, born and raised in an old and decaying building – in an even older and more decaying neighborhood in the hidden and decaying parts of London's streets, the places normal people draw their lip at and wipe at their coat in, made for decaying people and those who can't be seen.
Peter Pettigrew, born and raised a halfblood – wizard mother and muggle father, never really knowing where he belongs because he isn't really either and everyone can't help but let him know. None of the other kids on the street are magical, don't know of it, and the memory of his mother keeps them all far away. She is off to them, a puzzle put together wrong, and so is Peter Pettigrew.
Peter Pettigrew, born and raised to hide when the shouts starts to echo through the walls – because fists hurt when they're hitting you in the stomach and they never show through clothes, just felt through when he tumbles and falls maybe not on purpose but maybe not not too. There is salvation in pain, sometimes. In feeling.
Peter Pettigrew, short and not-quite-ugly not-quite-not with spots and thin hands and weakweakweak bones, breakable and shakable, everyone hears how he rattles. The sum of his parents worst parts put together.
Peter Pettigrew, forgotten and written out of every story ever written, as he should.
Peter Pettigrew knows – like he knows his home and his father and his faults – that if he is to be anyone other than who he is, he needs to not be a coward; like Peter Pettigrew.
And the only people who aren't cowards are the people who are brave.
Peter Pettigrew holds a letter in his hands and doesn't cry when he's not alone.
Peter Pettigrew meets Sirius Black on the train, thrown to the floor, bag open and belongings scattered and broken. Sirius Black runs through the train without looking where he's going, his long dark hair in his face and his wand in his hand, shouting, "I'm gonna get you for that, jerkface!"
The look on his face is intent, certain in himself and his actions and uncaring for anything else; justified.
Sirius Black doesn't meet Peter Pettigrew on the train to Hogwarts – because Sirius Black doesn't look back and apologize, he only looks forward and does what he likes. Peter Pettigrew is left looking at a back clad in black cloth, unnoticed.
It takes a while for Peter Pettigrew to gather himself up, both mentally and physically, rising up and halfheartedly dusting off his robes and picking up his stuff before he escapes into a compartment , the damage already done.
That is how the story goes.
Those who run.
Those who fall.
Peter Pettigrew's name starts with P and P is a long way from the Ayes and the Bees and the Cees, and there are many of them this year. Abbots and Bookers and Chambers. Allingtons and Banks and Cooks.
Blacks also, and he sees the hat take its time before it sorts Sirius into Gryffindor.
Peter Pettigrew isn't surprised that Sirius Black ends up in Gryffindor – because Peter Pettigrew knows that Sirius Black is as brave as Peter Pettigrew isn't – but it seems that everyone else are.
The hall is very quiet.
Then very loud.
Peter Pettigrew holds his hands over his ears and pretends to be somewhere else. It's gonna be his turn in a while – to be sorted, placed and judged – and he's scared. Scared scared scared.
Peter Pettigrew wants to be brave but knows he isn't, and wants it both to be over and done with and for time to pause and never press play again.
The Hat shouts, "Hufflepuff!" and Miss Green says, "Goodmoore, Jason." and the world goes on.
No one waits for Pettigrews except for Potters and Quintons and Rockwelts.
MacDougal, Phineas gets put into Ravenclaw, and Peter Pettigrew's hands are wet and warm with nerves as they clench the riggetyraggedy chair. Three legs not four, Peter Pettigrew remembers, feet stuck to the ground because he will not fall over in front of hundreds of people in every direction he can see.
Miss Green puts The Hat on Peter Pettigrew's head – and he's swallowed. Dark and damp and not quiet.
"Hello, Mr Pettigrew, this is the Sorting Hat speaking. Do you have a destination in mind?"
Peter Pettigrew does. Doesdoesdoes.
But Peter Pettigrew doesn't say a thing – because he is a coward and there is a person in his head – just digs his fingers into bristling wood to convey what he can't.
The Hat chuckles, kind and calm and sort of sad, and says, "No worries, Mr Pettigrew. I know just where to sort you." and Peter Pettigrew feels cold then hot then nothing but dread for just a few seconds.
No.
The Hat shouts, "Gryffindor!" and Peter Pettigrew almost doesn't hear because this world is a lie and he is going to die of mortification he just will and everyone will laugh and it will be over. It'll be over, before it ever really began, because that's how these things go. His frame can't hold the pieces of his puzzle. They're falling.
Everything pauses – though the hall is clapping and people are cheering – and Peter Pettigrew doesn't know what to do.
The Hat chuckles again. "It isn't what we are, Mr Pettigrew, that makes the difference. You'll see. In time, you'll see."
Peter Pettigrew runs like he's never run before, to a table clad in reds and golds and dreams.
He hopes he doesn't wake up from this one.
Hopes he doesn't fall (more).
Hopes he can believe.
There are four beds in this room – his dorm, seven years and a childhood – and there is baggage beside each one. Two very fine and expensive and two as worn down and patched as the others were not.
Sirius Black swears like a muggle and leaves the room as fast as he is able.
James Potter looks at Sirius Black's bed like he could make it catch on fire by mere will alone.
Remus Lupin starts unpacking and pretends he doesn't exist beyond himself.
Peter Pettigrew's skin is itching like it wants to come off and he clenches his hands in his robes to not help it along.
This isn't how it's supposed to be. It's not. It is supposed to be great and they're supposed to be friends and Peter Pettigrew is supposed to be able to stand nearby them and look in and get to pretend. That he belongs. That they like him. That he isn't who he is.
But they're not friends – James Potter Hates Sirius Black and Sirius Black Scorns Remus Lupin and Remus Lupin Avoids James Potter.
There is nothing there to pretend with.
Peter Pettigrew makes his bed and lies down and closes his eyes.
Pretends that pretending will make a difference.
Peter Pettigrew doesn't cry himself to sleep.
At least not if anyone would care to ask.
Gabriel Nettleburn is fifteen years old and likes pushing Peter Pettigrew into walls. Thick walls. Hard walls. Walls of stone and cold punishment. Walls like is the kind of person who makes people hurt him, he knows, because that's what his parents always tells him, those brief moments where he exists and they see him.
There are bruises on his back, in reds and not-quite-golds that he bears with pride and never tells about.
The only kind of secret a coward can have.
(The only kind that lasts.)
In the way of the unlikely band of heroes, it's a common goal – a common enemy – that brings them together and Peter Pettigrew watches with fascination as Remus Lupin keeps watch, James Potter lays the groundwork and Sirius Black prepares to spring the trap.
They all agreed that Severus Snape was worse than the others could ever be, and someone at some point made a mistake and pulled Peter Pettigrew along with a hand on his arm and Peter Pettigrew is still and holding his breath not to let anything on and have them realize their mistake.
This is not how it's supposed to go, but. But. But.
(But maybe it's better.)
Severus Snape gets a face full of owl poop and Sirius and James laughs loud enough that there is no guessing for anyone to know who's at fault here and the professors are all very mad when they're handing out their detentions. Sirius Black and James Potter to spend the rest of the evenings of the weeks cleaning the owlery, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew somehow getting off with just a night each. Apparently they're not guilty to the same degree.
Peter Pettigrew still hasn't said a word, because this surely has to be a dream.
They're smiling, three musketeers of mischief and bravery and sometimes it's even aimed at him.
Peter Pettigrew.
(Can you believe that?)
He goes home during the winter break and almost doesn't mind the broken bone he gets as a gift from his dad because Remus Lupin sent him chocolate.
There are some times when seeing Remus Lupin is like looking in a mirror, hunched in and sallow. Peter Pettigrew doesn't know why that is and knows even less how to ask. Sirius Black has never cared for societal rules, though, and boldly goes out in the night where the moon shines full and monsters come out of hiding, James Potter and Peter Pettigrew made accomplices in a crime that never would be put at their feet for blame.
Remus Lupin howls as his bones break.
Sirius Black doesn't run because he is brave and Remus Lupin is his friend.
James Potter doesn't run because he is brave and Remus Lupin is his friend.
Peter Pettigrew doesn't run because he knows that if he does, he won't be.
Friendship for Peter Pettigrews are fleeting things that disappear into thin air if you give it just a moment of inattention.
Complete devotion or nothing.
Peter Pettigrew goes home for the summers, home for the winters, until he doesn't.
He gets a letter with the morning post, an elderly bird who's done this trip many times before and will do it many times more after. It's short and formal, to the point with little left for platitudes. Just as the Ministry doesn't care for muggles or the witches marrying them, Voldemort doesn't care if they were good and decent people enough to kill.
Peter Pettigrew doesn't cry.
The scars on his back itch.
The house he grew up in rarely went a moment without rats. The big and ugly kind, associated with gutters and plague and broken homes full of broken people and broken promises. Rats of rot and decay. Rats you see in nightmares, the sewers of your mind.
Peter Pettigrew's nails turn to claws and his nose stretches out, trembles, takes in the world as it changes and grows bigger.
He would laugh, maybe, if he wouldn't cry.
Peter Pettigrew doesn't cry.
Sirius thinks it'll all be a good laugh. Getting one over Snivellus, scaring him a bit and showing him who's boss. It's not something new. That's usually the plan of action, when it comes to Sirius.
Remus can't know, of course, because Remus would say no to using his teeth to maybe tear someone's throath out. Even if that someone thinks mudblood is an appropriate term to use for a friend, even if they laugh when bones break and skin boils off.
Sirius always thinks it'll be a good laugh.
Maybe that's the beginning of the end.
Peter Pettigrew tries not to hear similarities in laugh, in mad, because this is how it's supposed to be. His friends are brave and just and kind even when they hurt.
Peter Pettigrew is twenty-one years old for all of three hours before he falls to the ground and scrapes his hands and knees raw, the scream leaving his throat swallowed by fog and green lighting. They're deep in the dark hours and monsters and their prey are the only ones out.
They laugh behind him, sharp and high and terrible.
Peter Pettigrew whimpers and closes his eyes, tries not to think of how the smell of sulfur grows stronger and stronger; how the hairs on his arms keep raising; how the sounds of the forest grow quiet and still. He wants to pretend, just for a moment, that everything will be fine. That he'll come back from this.
That he'll see his friends again; sitting round the kitchen table at Lily and James' house, laughing with Sirius as they prank Remus, playing with Harry. Sweet Harry who still isn't old enough to tell that Peter Pettigrew isn't made of the same stuff as his other uncles, as his parents, are. Who isn't old enough to spot Peter Pettigrew as the phony that he is, the cuckoo.
Harry James Potter who always smiles when he sees Peter Pettigrew come close.
Peter Pettigrew wants to run but his legs can't hold his weight.
They never could.
Peter Pettigrew doesn't put much stock in prophecies and divination, just like he doesn't put much stock in dreams and hope and make belief. He had it beaten out of him when he was young. In its stead he learnt, that when the world around you is an immovable force and touch hurts, you can only bend yourself to fit. No matter what it does to you. No matter who you become.
Voldemort distorts the world around himself, breaking and remaking until satisfied.
Voldemort believes in magic.
Peter Pettigrew bends.
Is remade.
Peter Pettigrew had forgotten for awhile, the things that every cowardly broken child should know. Had hoped and believed and lived a dream and now other people will pay the price.
It is time to wake up.
Peter Pettigrew isn't a brave man.
He wants to be, though.
By God he wants to be.
Ugh, the formatting on ff is the worst. I had linecuts in the orinigal but ofc ff never recognizes that and so i have to go back and manually correct it... Whyyyyyyyy.