.
.
.
Possibly, it holds true that no one has ever cared for Peter Pettigrew as much as an 11-year-old kid named Ronald B. Weasley.
Yes, well, he isnt' too honest with Ronald daily, having to play the part of a rat and all, but when has he ever been too honest with anyone, really? Was he ever honest to James, whenever he hid all his left socks just for fun? No, he'd always kept the straight, clueless face when asked about them. And with Sirius? Sirius never suspected his innocent face when his cigarettes just kept disappearing… his own fault, actually: if he'd never made Peter try them he wouldn't have craved them afterwards. So.
Maybe Remus, good ol' Remus too-clever-for-his-own-good, Remus-too-spineless-to-do-anything-with-it, Remus, whose problems were really greater than Peter's antics, he sometimes looked like he suspected the whereabouts of the Marauders' (and every other Gryffindor's) honey-flavored Bertie Botts' Beans (Peter's eternal favorites). But. He never told on him. He'll never know if out of neglect or care, so what does it matter.
Now, Peter sits every night on Ronald's pillow, and his tiny animal eyes have ample time to behold the kid sleeping on the bed next-to theirs, James's kid, Harry. He has ample time to wonder what would've happened if Remus had told on him. If maybe it couldn't have been that they'd all ended up alive.
Sirius and James and Lily, people who said they cared about him. Who cared about him, if he had to be honest. Oh, some nights, Peter is afraid that having died when he was due, if he was due, well, if maybe that wouldn't have been preferable to be have to watch scrawny Harry ask so many silly questions about their world to which he should, of course, know the answer. And other questions to which Peter could answer, because he could've been like an uncle to the child.
Sometimes he can imagine Lily's voice, drifting in the darkness. Uncle Padfoot. Uncle Wormtail. Uncle Moony.
So much fear and sadness and unfairness. All his fault.
Unlike his brother Charlie, Ron doesn't snore. Very much like his brother Bill, he brushes his hair, and he always wins at chess. Thankfully he's nothing like Percy, who used to wash him with soap twice a week, and regrettably he's got none of the twin's knack for pranking. He did aid in many of their endeavours, the brief time he belonged to them, and he wonders if they ever noticed it.
What great fun they were, Fred and George, he thinks with nostalgia. Almost like Sirius, and James, and…
He never lets his mind wander that way. He turns, instead, to sniff at Ron's face, his frazzles whiskers brushing faintly against his freckled cheek. In his sleep, Ron's nose wrinkles, and he babbles something about dragons and broomsticks and treacle. This nameless little boy, just a number among his brothers, the last name his ma calls him when she means to refer to him- he reminds him, a bit, of himself.
Poor thing. He also thinks, probably, he is meant for greatness. And he always has time to stick to old frayed Scabbers, second hand as everything else he owns, sneak him treats and speak of him grandly, as if it wasn't missing a finger, and some whiskers hadn't been burnt off during Charlie's reckless adventures. As if he wasn't just an old, skinny rat.
Truly, to Ron Scabbers is someone precious.
Half of his prayers (because yes, Peter prays, every night, like his ma taught him) go to Harry, whose family he was too cowardly to preserve. But the other half go to Ron, to wish him well when push comes to shove and Peter has to choose, because he cares enough about the kid to be afraid for him should his courage, again, fail him.
.
.
.