Peter Pettigrew's life was a mirage.
His friends were a mirage.
His happiness was a mirage.
And no one tried to save him from his fate.
He was abandoned, unloved.
But only because he was a traitor.
He'd made his life a mirage.
He'd once had friends, and with them, happiness.
He'd once loved others, and now he retreated inside himself.
What he found was terrifying. His insides were dark and twisty, he was devious and scary and he was too cowardly to explore the twists and turns.
It was his own fault, though.
"Wormtail! This is your fault—you convinced Prongs that he should go for it, and ask Lily out, and now he's practically crying!"
His I'm sorrys meant nothing.
"Get up, you lazy lump of a man. I have no respect for you, and it is your own fault for that, isn't it?"
His pleas and cries for help, his reckless tears, were worthless.
"And what have you done wrong this time, Wormtail? It always seems to be your fault, does it not?"
Those red eyes were inescapable.
"Here he is now. James—are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Padfoot, shove off. Leave me alone."
But another pair of red eyes was worse. Lily turning James down, that first time when all four were oh-so-confident… Sirius had been furious. He blamed not himself, of course—oh no. It was always someone else's fault. He, being the weakest link, was chosen.
"Moony, Wormtail, what the hell do we do now?"
It never lasted long.
But he was hated, now. Hated for succumbing to those red eyes.
His life was a mirage of once-hopes, broken laughter, and deadened friendship.
A/N: Eh. (Or you could translate that to, say, review and I'll give you virtual cookies. But it really does mean eh.) For Wotcher's Weather Challenge.