AUTHOR'S NOTE: This bit of fanfic is severely unedited and was written in a single afternoon after a particularly angsty plot bunny paid me a visit. Please read at your own risk! (I'm assuming everything here makes sense but just in case feel free to ask me any questions!)
I solemnly swear that I am up to no good . . .
When Peter Pettigrew awoke, he was surrounded by soft, white sky and smooth pearl ground. His brain pounded in defiance against his skull as he struggled to sit up. His train of thought went as follows:
1) Where am I? What happened?
2) Oh yeah. Dead.
The memory returned like a slap in the face, or rather, a hand around the neck. He brought his hand up to his throat and winced when a shock of pain ran through him. Of all the ways he'd expected to die, self-strangulation was definitely not one of them.
But, if he were dead, then where was he?
He looked around and realized, with a jolt, that he was in the Gryffindor common room. Of course, it was different than he remembered (being entirely white and all) but he would recognize the centerpiece of his childhood anywhere.
'Is this heaven?' He wondered. He would have said it aloud if it weren't for the fact that his jugular was completely caved in. 'If it is, all humor is lost."
Was he supposed to spend eternity alone in this room that only served to remind him of all the damage he'd done? All of the lives he'd taken? The . . . The friends he'd betrayed? A cruel twist of fate, that one.
And what of Harry? The Boy Who Lived . . . Because an old, evil man had chosen to hesitate. He remembered with perfect clarity the way the boy's eyes shined as honest as emeralds - it was like staring right at Lily. Lily . . . His friend. The only girl who had ever been kind to him because of who he was and not because of who he was friends with. And then, the boy's unkempt black locks that couldn't be more James Potter if they were atop the man himself. James . . . He showed Peter more kindness than Sirius or even Remus ever did.
The Potters. They trusted him. And he let them down.
Just as Peter found himself so overwhelmed that he grasped the settee until his fingers matched its colorless leather, he heard a noise coming from the stairs above him - the boy's dormitory.
"I'm just saying we should leave him here!" A rough, angry voice "whispered". "That rat -"
"Now, Padfoot, calm yourself! You're just sinking to his level." A much gentler voice replied.
'Padfoot! So Sirius is here too, then . . . And that must be Remus with him.' He thought, wiping away all of the tears he hadn't noticed before. He knew they were talking about him, who else could the words "that rat" apply to?
"Both of you, shut up!"
And there it was, as strong and commanding as he remembered. James Potter had always been the leader of their band of merry Marauders, even if none of them actually said it out loud. It wasn't because he was the smartest or the handsomest or even the funniest - it was because James Potter could do or say just about anything and you'd want to believe him. James had a way with words that none of them could ever to understand.
Peter felt sick hearing his voice. At least, he wanted to be sick; not even sound could escape his crushed throat (that silver hand was good for one thing, and that's shutting him up).
The common room was silent again, but Peter knew it wasn't because he was alone. Slowly, he lifted his eyes toward the staircase. Standing before him in all of their Pre-War glory were the Marauders - Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and James Potter; Messers Padfoot, Moony, and Prongs - they looked as though they hadn't aged a day past eighteen.
"Pathetic," Sirius sighed. "Don't know why we have to waste our time on him."
"Shut. Up. Sirius." Remus coughed as he elbowed the shorter boy. Sirius rubbed his shoulder and glared, but dutifully kept his mouth shut.
The three boys continued down the winding staircase until they reached their old friend. Peter recalled vivid memories of watching them slide down the railing - he never would; he was too scared.
Three faced one in pin-drop silence - Peter could feel his entire body shaking. He didn't know what they were going to do to him, but he knew it wouldn't be good. He remembered James and Sirius mercilessly attacking Severus for simply sneering in the wrong direction; he couldn't imagine what horrors they had prepared for him.
'So this isn't heaven,' Peter thought. 'It's hell.'
"Welcome to Limbo, Peter." James said.
'Oh, so not hell either.'
He desperately wanted to scream, cry, anything that wasn't shaking and silently pleading for forgiveness. Oh, he wanted it so badly he could almost taste it behind the metallic tang of his own blood. He wanted it so badly he wanted to fall to the ground before James and and kiss his boots. He wanted to tell them that he didn't mean for this to happen.
He didn't want to follow Voldemort - of course he didn't! He didn't want to betray the only true friends he'd ever had! He was scared after Hogwarts; he wasn't made for the real world. He was made for thick stone walls and safety. After Lily and James got married and had baby Harry things started going the wrong way fast. Peter was alone most of the time, and terrified of the things he heard during Order meetings. Voldemort could sense his fear, had coaxed him under his wing, and used the diminutive, frightened man against them. The worst part of it all was that he hadn't even had to use the Imperius curse - Peter was such a coward he hadn't needed anything more than a gentle yet forceful hand guiding him down the wrong path.
Look where it got him - dead and standing before the three men he'd betrayed beyond belief. The three men he had laughed, dined, and fought with for over nine years. He was the last to join their group, the last to know their secrets . . . But he had never felt as singled out as he did now. He wished they would just send him to hell where he belonged.
"Peter," James spoke again. The defeated man looked up at him with tears in his eyes that he couldn't seem to shed. "Peter, stand up."
It was then that he realized he had fallen to the ground before them, sobbing soundlessly.
"I know," James said after Peter had righted himself. Peter started, wondering if they could hear his lament. "I forgive you."
Peter looked at him, sure that he'd heard him wrong. He wanted to ask what James was talking about when the young man offered him his hand.
Peter observed him skeptically, not believing that after all this time - after everything he'd done to them - that they would welcome him with open arms. It just wasn't possible.
"Yes I'm serious, Wormtail," James smiled in a way that was too mature for how young he looked. Every sign of war had been washed from him. Every trace of early gray was gone - but he was still Just James. "I forgive you."
He studied the other's faces, gauging for some sort of reaction. Sirius wouldn't meet his eyes, but he looked thoughtful. Remus's eyes darted from person to person, but above all they were focused on him - bright blue and full of an emotion he'd never seen.
James's hand was still outstretched. Slowly, Peter lifted his heavy silver hand and reached out as well. A wave of magic barreled through him. As if on cue, his bloody metal hand melted away to reveal young, unscathed skin. The force of the magic knocked him off his feet and he fell forward, only to be caught by James.
He looked up into the boy's eyes and knew what had happened. His throat felt new, cleaner than he'd ever remembered it being before.
"Th . . . Thank you," he choked out. "Thank you!" He cried into his friend's shoulder as James held him tightly.
"C'mon, Wormtail," Prongs replied after a moment, standing the now fresh-faced, eighteen-year-old Peter on his own two feet. "There's a lot you have to see."
And with that, Padfoot clapped the Long Lost Marauder on the back as Moony said:
"Glad to have you back, Wormy . . . It's a bit odd not having the gang all together up here."
Peter Pettigrew took a deep breath, finally free of the darkness that had been eating him alive for the past seventeen years.
"It's good to be home."
Mischief Managed.