There were so many stars. Peter gazed up at the huge expanse of swirling lights against the giant velvet backdrop of the sky in admiration, watching as they twirled and danced with his jerky movements. He could not see them very clearly through the thin film of tears and a haze of alcohol, but they were breathtaking all the same. If he squinted, he could make them grow larger and brighter, and if he swayed, he could make them dance. For a while, he lost himself in a ballet of squinting and swaying, applauding the stars for their performance, feeling a sense of pride and power for once for having the entire night sky at his command. Four empty flasks lay strewn on the ground around Peter, their metallic bodies reflecting the lights and shadows of the night sky, twisting and distorting his perception of the stars even more if he looked at them. How simple, he thought, it would be to be a star. They simply flew high above the earth at night, keeping watch during the deepest of darkness'. They never had to speak, never had to decide, they only followed the orders of the sun and the moon and watched apathetically as events played out. Then they got to sleep all day and avoid the glaring, harsh realities that day would bring.
Peter was a star, he decided. He didn't shine as brightly, of course, at least not yet. But he knew he would. He could. He'd been promised power and recognition. He could fly. He had to have the help of a broom of course. Though it would be nice to be able to fly without the aid of one. Peter smiled as he imagined himself soaring through the gentle wisps of clouds, the wind tousling his hair quietly, and an indefinite sense of freedom and the knowledge of the triviality of life down below. A broom would suffice, however. He could fly. And much like the stars, he was simply one piece in the overarching choreography of a drunken madman, a man drunk with power. Peter too came out in only the darkest of nights, forced to watch without emotion as he followed the orders given him. Instantly, bitterness stabbed him in the heart, and fresh tears were squeezed out of it and up towards his eyes, tightening his throat on the way, then threatening to escape the confines of his tear ducts. No, he did not envy the stars. They were helpless against the tyranny of the moon, and despite it not being their fault, forced to go into hiding to avoid the wrath of the sun. The sky was their prison, the cloak of night their cage. Peter glared at the moon, and made a silent promise to the stars to free them one day. They seemed to shine just a little bit brighter.
No. Peter was drunk, and he shook his head slightly to clear away the cobwebs of fantastical thought that had been consuming him. He'd made his own prison in return for shining just that much brighter, and like the stars, Peter would have to go into hiding as a result of his own vanity. Not like the stars. The stars were just that, balls of gas light years away. He had to come back to reality, had to think reasonably. But reason hurt. Reason made him remember, and if anything, Peter wanted to forget. He wanted to forget everything and drink himself into nothing, into non-being if it was possible. But nothingness was a luxury that Peter could not afford, not now or ever, because nothingness would soon be interrupted by his own slow and painful death, and as much as he wished he could face his own demise with the dignity and bravery that his alma mater was so well known for, he knew deep down that he was nothing more than a coward. And so, Peter tore himself from the night sky and began again to try to focus his mind. He'd indulged himself enough, and the time had come to return to his duties.
A quiet, sickly boy sat across from him, immersed in a book. Peter had chosen this compartment because it was quiet and the other boy had seemed nice enough, but didn't make Peter feel obligated to try and hold up an awkward conversation full of useless life history and obscure facts about his own personality. When he'd first entered, the boy had looked up at him, and Peter cleared his throat nervously, "Hi, I'm Peter." "Remus. Your first year, too?" Peter had nodded, and Remus had gone back to reading his book. The silence was soon interrupted by two boys stumbling into the compartment, one with messy black hair and the other with a haughty but mischievous look about him. The one with black hair flopped down, "Mind if we sit in this compartment? I wanted to sit in the one with the girls but as I was fighting this bloke for it, some other guy snagged it, and pretty much everywhere else is full. I'm James, by the way. James Potter."
A gust of wind carried the smell of smoke, and Peter grimaced, trying not to think of the reality that the smoke stood for. In his imagination, he smelled burning flesh mingled with the smoke, and tasted betrayal. Ah, not betrayal at all, but bile. Specifically, Peter's bile. He doubled over and retched, the acid burning his throat, and making his mouth feel and taste even grimier than it already was. The release of a bit of the alcohol poisoning his sense of purpose brought the world into more focus, the edges of trees and individual blades of grass grew sharper, and Peter once again could think and plan and, most importantly, escape. Peter heard the pained shouts and cries of despair as the people of Godric's Hollow began to discover what had happened. Began to see the flames and fear the worst. Soon they would discover the bodies. Soon they would come looking for the person to blame. The true culprit was nowhere to be found by now, Peter was sure, but if he was discovered nearby, he was sure that it would be simple for the townspeople to make the connection.
Peter had been sitting in his apartment, on the ugly grey couch that salesman had convinced him to get, and he was nearly falling asleep despite it being two in the afternoon. He'd been on a mission for the Order the night before, just a scouting mission to gather information as was so simple for him in his rat form, but it had taken most of the night and had left Peter exhausted. Sleep was a rare commodity these days, along with comfort and security and true happiness. His fireplace blazed bright green and a figure stumbled out of it clumsily, startling Peter and causing him to yell. "Sorry to invite myself over, Wormtail. Ah, who am I kidding? I never wait for an invitation." James stood before him, grinning lopsidedly like always, but there was something different about him. He was almost radiating with happiness, happiness that Peter hadn't seen since, well, since James' wedding. "But I had a reason to come over unannounced, I swear! I'm pregnant!" Peter looked at him quizzically and began to laugh, while James recanted, "Er, well no, I'm not pregnant, that'd be a bit difficult to manage, but Lily's pregnant! She's pregnant and I'm going to be a dad!"
That child had changed everything. That child had caused Lord Voldemort to seek out Peter and work his silk words and weave his tangled web of shimmering promises and sing his siren song of power. Peter has never been good at saying no, and he'd always been a follower, drawn to people of authority and yet helpless against their strong wills. That child had turned Peter into a traitor, and Peter hated himself for it. But more than that, he hated the child. Things had been so perfect before that baby. Peter had thought that perhaps there was a way that Voldemort would be able to kill the child without harming James or Lily. But he'd soon realized that it wouldn't be possible. He'd long ago said his goodbyes to them, though they hadn't yet realized it. He wondered if they'd known the truth as they died. He liked to think that they died still thinking of him as a good person. Still considering him a best friend. He didn't deserve that, but he wished it was true nonetheless. Godric's Hollow had worked itself into an uproar, and Peter knew that it was time. He pointed his wand at his hand and murmured a few words, biting back the howl of pain that broke completely through his fog of alcohol and grief. He stared at the stars once more, and they seemed more condescending, judging him for his transgressions. He closed his eyes, allowing the tears of what had once been and never would be again to break free. He opened his eyes again, and the grass was like trees around him, and everything seemed simpler. Peter ran as fast as his short, four legs could carry him, and he looked back once more at the rising cloud of smoke. I'm sorry. He could have sworn he heard shouts of triumph as he turned and ran again, but had no time to puzzle out what that meant. The days of his exile had begun.