A/N: Just something that came to me while I was trying to type up my Psychology paper. It will be a series of one-shots, at least I think, but you never know. I'd love to hear any suggestions you guys have, so please R&R! Anywho, this story is completely AU and I don't think I have seen it done before, perhaps it has. I'm not a big advocate of Peter-I never really did like him-but I just had to. Please don't hate me.

Disclaimer: If I had a penny for every time I wished I owned the rights to Harry Potter, I would have a billion pennies, but still no HP.

Prologue

"We have been waiting for you."

The short, stubby man with already greying blond hair jumps about a foot in the air. He can hear his heart thumping wildly in his ears and he closes his eyes, hoping against hope that he has imagined the cold voice. They are in a middle of a war, after all, and they've all been driven a bit mad. He turns around slowly his wand gripped tightly in his hand.

He sees a group of masked figures in his sitting room, all with their wands pointed to his chest and he knows that he can never be a match against so many of them. His eyes fall to the pale man with distorted, waxy features who had spoken, whose eyes are snake-like and red and incredibly inhuman.

"Sit," he commands. "We have matters to discuss."

But the man remains standing in defiance, his Gryffindor courage pulsing through his veins; it might be faint, but it is still there.

The man laughs a cold, humourless laugh. "Defiant, I see. You may not be a Pureblood, Peter Pettigrew, but you are brave. Lord Voldemort appreciates bravery. Perhaps you are not as useless as you look." He circles the man named Peter and he wills himself to remain strong, despite his trembling in fear. "Perhaps you would make a perfect Death Eater, once the issue of blood was resolved, of course."

"I will never join the likes of you!" he cries, a bravery he never knew he possessed taking over.

"No?" the man asks, his lips curling into a cold smile. "You are being offered a rank in one of the most powerful armies the Wizarding World has known. I suggest you do not take my offer lightly."

"You're a pathetic excuse for a human being. And I will never join you or your bloody army," Peter hisses, his wand gripped tighter in his hand. He knew it was no use to him now, but it gave him a small comfort, knowing that it was there.

"Pity," Voldemort says as he steps back, pointing his wand at Peter. "Crucio!"

Peter falls to the ground and agonizing screams fill the air; it takes him a minute to realise the screams are coming from him. Over and over he feels as if a thousand white-knives pierce through his skin and his head feels as it is about to explode under the pain. As soon as it started it stops and Peter lies in the ground, whimpering in pain.

"Now, where are the Potters?" Peter says nothing and Voldemort sighs. "Perhaps he needs more encouraging."

(Crucio, Voldemort repeats incessantly, almost sound like an eerie chant. "Do you really think you can resist, Pettigrew?"

I should hope so.

"You are a pathetic excuse for a wizard. You shall talk."

Perhaps I am, but no more than you.

"If you do not talk, I shall kill you!

Go right ahead. I will never tell you.)

They go on like that for hours, it seems—he's lost track of time. The searing pain is too much for him to bear and he feels himself loosing grip of reality, sinking deeper and deeper into insanity. But he doesn't talk, doesn't waver, because Peter Pettigrew might have been a great many things: weak, pathetic, and stupid, but there was something he wasn't. And that was a coward.

In another part of London, a meeting ensues.

"Brother."

The word is soft as it leaves the man's lips and the older man in front of him spins around, bewilderment adorning his tired, handsome face. From first glance, no one would ever confuse the two men as brothers; while one is tall and strikingly handsome, the other is shorter, less attractive. The similarities between the two become more pronounced the closer you look; same mischievous grey eyes that have lost their twinkle; the same haughty smirk, although it is more of a ghost now, for both men seem increasingly tired. The war has certainly taken its toll on them.

One eyes the other warily, his wand at ready to protect himself, while the other seems to have a defeated air around him as he tosses the wand to the other man's feet.

"I did not come here to hurt you, brother."

"One can never be too sure, brother," the man says as he lowers his wand, although he keeps it gripped tightly in his hand. "How do I know Voldemort hasn't sent you?"

The man flinches at the mention of the name, almost imperceptibly, he hopes, but the other man notices and raises an eyebrow.

"Does it make you uncomfortable to hear your Master's name?" the older man asks, almost mockingly.

The man sighs. "I know of a way to bring the Dark Lord down, once and for all."

This catches him off-guard and a silence ensues, during which the older man desperately tries to process what his brother has said. They have tried everything, but nothing has proved to be futile in their efforts to bring the Dark Lord down. The Dark is winning, taking over their world and the Light can only withhold the Dark Lord from taking over Europe so long. He can already feel their defences crumbling as people lose hope. Why keep fighting? The Dark has won, they say.

Can it be that, after almost a decade of war, there is a way to bring peace to the Wizarding World? He can feel a glimmer of hope shining through his doubts as he regards his brother, but he wills himself to ignore it. He's never been much of an optimist.

"Why should I trust you?" the man finally asks.

"You mistrust me," the younger man says, almost reproachful.

"Do you blame me?"

"Do not judge me, brother. You do not understand. You have always been braver, stronger than I. You were able to free yourself of Mother's grasp. I never could. I was always too weak." The man sighs a great weary sigh as he regards his brother. "Not anymore. I do not want this life anymore. Please. Let me help."

The older man looks into his brother's eyes, searching him. A spark of hope flashes through his eyes.

"Why are you willing to help?" he asks.

"Because I know things, things the Dark Lord has done. I want no part of it."

"What will happen to you?"

"I know what helping entails for me, Sirius. I am perfectly aware of the consequences of my actions tonight. I know what the Dark Lord will do to me when he learns of my treason. And I am not afraid, Sirius. I do not fear death; I welcome it."

The spark dies. "You cannot possibly expect me to allow my brother to die! If accepting your help means your demise, I reject it. I do not want it."

"Please, Sirius. Let me help."

There is something in his voice, something desperate, almost suppliant, that makes the man named Sirius fall silent. They stare at each other, both in defiance as they will the other to back down. Finally, Sirius does, heaving a great, bone-weary sigh.

"How?"

The man holds up a gold locket, as if it should be clear to him what it represents.

"A locket? That is how we kill Voldemort? With a locket?"

The unmistakable ghost of a grin flashes through the younger man's face.

"It is not just any locket, brother." His expression turns sombre once more. "A Horcrux."

A look of horror and disbelief passes through the older man's face as he regards the golden locket. "He couldn't possibly have," he whispers, almost to himself.

"I'm afraid he has," the younger man responds. He passes the locket to his brother, which he takes unwillingly from his outstretched hands. "Can you feel it?"

Sirius frowns, not really sure what he should be feeling. And then he does. It's almost as if the thing has a heartbeat, for it pulses almost undetectably in his hand, sending shivers of fear down his spine.

"Does he have more?" Sirius asks as he stares at the locket in his hand, almost transfixed.

The man hesitates, before nodding his head slowly.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course there are more, Sirius. This is the Dark Lord we speak of."

"How many more?"

"It is but a guess, brother. I cannot know for sure."

"How many?" Sirius asks again, his voice somewhat forceful.

"Five, I believe. The locket, a cup, a diary, a diadem, and a ring."

The old wizard with long white hair and matching beard sits in his study, lost in thought as he stares of into space, the same words replaying over and over in his head.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month die."

Surely it cannot mean the child of Lily and James Potter? Surely Voldemort cannot possibly think that a child poses a threat to him? he asks himself over and over again.

A man topples out of the fireplace to his right, startling the old wizard out of his thoughts. He looks up to see a shaggy-haired man, who, albeit tired, seems excited.

"Sirius, to what do I owe this visit?" the aging wizard asks, motioning the man to take a seat, which he does.

"I know, Headmaster. I know of a way to bring Voldemort down once and for all."

The Headmaster sits hastily up in his seat, a hint of hope sparking in his piercing blue eyes as he stares Sirius in the eye. Finally, he speaks.

"Horcruxes," he whispers to himself. "I should have known." He pauses, a thoughtful look in his face. "Do you have it?" he asks, turning again to Sirius.

"I do."

Sirius lays the locket onto the Headmaster's desk when the fireplace burns green once more. A man topples out of it again, wearing blue robes, a shiny Aurors badge fastened to it.

"I bring grave news, Headmaster."

"What is it, Moody?"

"Pettigrew is dead."

Four of them sit in the round table that seats five: the man with untidy hair and square glasses perched atop his crooked nose; the woman with fiery curls and vibrant green eyes; the shaggy-haired man, covered in soot and looking almost as if he has gone through hell and back—which perhaps he has; the woman with straight raven hair and blue eyes, whose head is resting on the shaggy-haired man's shoulder and the shabby man with faint scars, who seems older and more tired than the rest, even if they are the same age. Their eyes are hollow and their faces blank as they stare off into space, the unmistakable trail of tears glistening in the dim light.

Upstairs, a small child sleeps peacefully, oblivious to the sufferings of the people downstairs.

They do not speak, they do not move almost giving the sense that they are frozen in time. The locket has been snapped in half, the ring has been crushed, the goblet has been melted, the diadem has been destroyed and a diary has been pierced through the middle.

A cheerful voice speaks in the background and they can barely make out what it is saying.

The Dark Lord has gone. The Dark Lord is dead. He has gone never to return again. Let us rejoice for this happy, happy day.

It feels so out of place, because even if they should be celebrating, and they should be happy because they wanted the war to end, they never wanted it to end like this.

Not with one of them dead. It wasn't supposed to happen that way.

Finally, one of them speaks, startling them all.

"To Peter."

The shabby haired man raises his goblet and his friends follow his example as they raise their goblets in the air.

"To Peter," they repeat and drink. "To Peter, the bravest one of us all."

And to Regulus, Sirius whispers to himself, the bravest man I have ever known.

A/N: As I said, I'm considering leaving this as a series of one-shots, but I also have an idea to make it into an actual story, involving the return of our favorite female villain: Bellatrix. Well at least mine anyway. Or a simple story, showing how different Harry's life would have been. But I'm still not sure what to do? Any thoughts guys? Your input would be greatly appreciated! :)