I don't write much Peter, so if this is a little out of character, forgive me.
I don't own anything!
Rat and Wolf
He had fallen asleep again. It seemed the only thing he did now; that and eat. He was comfortably warm in the boy's shirt pocket, and though he did admit that it was embarrassing to be carried everywhere, at least he didn't have to show his face. He turned over, and the boy put a hand up to rub him through the shirt. He rolled his eyes and squirmed; the hand fell away.
It was a few minutes before he was sufficiently awake enough to poke his head out of the pocket and blink blearily in the light. They were on the train, he noted, and moving at a decent clip through wild countryside. The boy had food; he sniffed the air hungrily, and the boy handed him a bit of something. He retreated back into the pocket to eat it lazily, and only when he had finished did he realize that something was out of place. He scrambled up again quickly, confused.
It was a man. An adult. On the train. Odd. Very odd. He sniffed, and put a paw up on the top of the pocket. The boy lifted him down to the seat, and he took a tentative step toward the man; none of them paid any attention to him. He caught a few words of their conversation and nearly jumped into the pocket again; they were talking about Sirius Black.
He berated himself for his cowardice, attributing some of it to his form. He had only assumed his human form less than a dozen times in the past twelve years; the rat was definitely part of him now. More than it had ever been. He turned his attention back to the man, curious but not enough so to brave waking the sleeping cat on the girl's lap. Crookshanks, was it? Ugly, beastly, clever thing. It knew him for what he was. He bared his teeth at it and continued down the seat, keeping one eye on the cat and the other on the man.
Why did he look so familiar? He was nearly opposite him when the man shifted and turned his face slightly in his direction. He froze.
Remus. It was Remus. It had to be. He backed up, shaking, gaping, little squeaks escaping his throat. The eyes were open slightly, showing a glint of amber…the scars across the face, that same haircut, the same long, slender fingers, lanky figure…it was Remus.
A hand reached down and scooped him up; he nearly bit it, but realized that the fingers were offering him a bit of pasty. He took it and shoved it in his mouth, feeling the terror swell. What if he woke? Would he recognize him? He shrank inside himself, wishing he was even smaller than he was. He tucked his right front paw underneath himself, desperately wishing for the pocket.
He glanced over at the sleeping Remus again, and his mind cleared a little. It had been thirteen years. Remus was asleep. They had both changed. He was a rat. He was with the boy. He was safe. Safe.
But he scrambled back into the pocket at the first opportunity anyway. Life as a rat was so much safer when there was somewhere dark, tight, and warm to hide.
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