Another story from my old account. Hope you enjoy, please leave feedback? xx
Wormtail's eyes were wide in shock as he realised that his own hand was uncontrollably reaching towards his throat. He desperately grabbed onto his silver hand, a gift from his master, as it turned on him, creeping slowly towards his neck, the fingers flexing, straining out to touch that first patch of skin, to feel the last of the living warmth and beating pulse that lay there, but would soon be extinguished.
The silver fingers scraped his skin to get themselves a firmer hold, and to his horror, as well as Harry and Ron's, they grasped hold of his throat and began to squeeze, constricting his wind pipe, blocking his breath. He struggled, coughing and retching against the pressure his of his own hand that had turned on him in vengeance of his one final moment of humanity, his final act to save the son of the man whose life he had sold sixteen years ago.
He knew his death would not be as easy as his friend's. Their ends had been soft and peaceful, despite the manner in which they found them. Their souls had slipped quietly from their bodies and the chaos surrounding them, and rushed to their eternal resting places where they would be happy for evermore. He, however, had had forfeited this right to peace when he had betrayed them with that very first rendezvous with the hooded and masked man. He had been fearing this moment; he had been fearing his end, even before he had found Voldemort. It was this immense fear of death that had ultimately caused him to follow the one threatening to destroy his fear forever. But Wormtail knew that it would have been easier to resist Voldemort when he had first had the chance to as an innocent young man. He could have joined his friends, shared their peaceful passing and eternal happiness. Instead, he was facing pain and fear as he approached his end, the very thing he had tried to flee from as a young man. How ironic it was that it should end this way. At the time he thought he was running from such a death, but instead he had been striding towards it blindly, stumbling away from peace and happiness.
Delirious as he was at his lack of air, he knew that he would see them again, they who haunted his dreams with their soft, forgiving whispers. They who need not forgive him, but curse him, hate him for what he did. It would have been easier for him. He knew now that he would now pay the ultimate price of betrayal. His friends could forgive him, but he himself could never forgive himself.
He saw Harry blur in and out of focus in his final gagging moments and thought just how much he looked like James how extraordinarily like him, an almost taunting reincarnation, he remembered the night at the graveyard and how wretched he had felt, trying not to look at the embodiment of the friend he had handed over to his enemy. Then, his world went black and he felt pain, not only overwhelming physical pain, but a savage, burning emotional pain as he saw the terrible actions of his pathetic life and lies. There was a terrible wrenching at his heart and he heard screams, horrific ear splitting screams that echoed round his soul and tore at the very fibre of his being. They were the screams of Voldemort's victims, murdered as a result of his actions.
Bertha Jorkins, James and Lily Potter, Cedric Diggory, as well as countless other unnamed souls that had perished as a result of his dark fears. He heard their forgiveness in his sleep, but now he heard their pain. The sound was unbearable, as was the pain of his soul being wrenched from his body. It was like tearing off a limb, but much, much worse. Everything in him screamed out in protest, knowing what would await him in his final destination, knowing that this pain was only the beginning of an eternity of torment.
With one final jerk, his soul was ripped free of his body, and slithered blindly along a terrible path, past all the writhing bodies of Voldemort's past and future victims, and at each he passed, the guilt and grief he felt multiplied tenfold, so by the time he reached his journey's end, his soul was twisted and contorted beyond all recognition.
They were there, just as he knew they would be, smiling at him, all the people whose deaths had been easier than his. There was James, and Lily beside him, and Sirius behind her. There were others, but their faces were lost. The first three were the only ones that mattered to him.
'Come,' Lily said, holding her delicate hand out to him.
'Yeah,' Sirius chimed in, smiling. 'We forgive you, Peter. We all do.'
Wormtail shrunk away from their touch. They were able for forgive him for what he had done to them, but he himself was unable. They were superior beings. He turned away to try and rid himself of their peaceful faces, but the sight he saw when he averted his eyes was even worse. He saw himself, except it wasn't him as he was now, or as he had been, he was younger looking, rounder and fuller, well kempt, clean and happy. He was surrounded by a large group of people. He looked at them all in turn, wondering who they could be. Standing next to him was a plump, jolly looking woman with a kind face and pretty smile. On her hip was a bouncing boy of around eighteen months old. He had the woman's beaming smile and fair hair, yet there was something about the boy that Wormtail recognised from his own features, and with a jolt of shock, he realised that he was looking at an imaginary wife and son.
He looked to the other faces. There was James, standing behind him, smiling merrily back, his arm across Lily's shoulder. She carried a young girl with the same thick red hair in her arms. James's other arm was around a small boy's shoulder on his other side. Peter looked at the boy. It was Harry, there was no mistaking him. Harry, a few years younger, and without the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead.
Harry was linking arms with another young boy, whose hair was being ruffled by his father. This had to be Sirius's son, he bore such striking resemblance with his elegant manner and budding looks. The adult Sirius was just as handsome as he had been when he was sixteen years old, his head was thrown back in his unmistakable barking laugh that echoed around him. There was another younger boy sat upon Sirius's shoulders, playing with his hair and waving madly at him. Sirius's hand was intertwined with the hand of a beautiful woman stood next to him. She too held a child in her arms, a girl who nestled close to her, sucking her thumb and waving up at him shyly.
He tore his gaze away from her and focused on the figure who stood next to his wife.
Remus.
He was no longer tired and ragged and scarred as he had been at Hogwarts, all this had gone; he seemed fuller in the face, his bright eyes shining out at him, a well of mirth. He stood next to a thin, pretty woman with shocking pink spiky hair. The woman was smiling happily as she bounced a baby with a small tuft of turquoise hair on her hip.
They were all smiling back at him happily, some of them waving, some of them not, but all of them blissfully happy. Harry and his cousin were making faces at him, mischievous grins on their faces, and Peter felt a small tear form in his eye as he looked at them. They would have been just as inseparable as Sirius and James had been, and could have given the twins, Fred and George a decent run for their money as Hogwarts chief troublemakers.
But these were the families that could never be. He looked into the face of his son, a boy who could never exist, except in this weird limbo. This was a boy that knew nothing of the troubles of Voldemort, the pain, the fear, the mutiny he inflicted on people. In his world, his father had resisted the Dark Lord's power, and he had been hailed a hero. Someone else would defeat the Dark Lord, leaving the Marauders free to live normal lives.
He had condemned the all to death, all the happy smiling faces of the children who would never be born. The cousin linking arms with Harry, the shy girl clinging to Sirius's wife, the red headed child in Lily's arms. He was plagued with guilt for all the children whose lives would never begin, they lived only in his torment. He could not bear it anymore. He could not stand to look at them all, knowing it was he who had ended their lives before they had even begun. He had ruined his friends chance of this life as well as his own.
He looked away from their grinning faces and moved apart from them, shrinking himself back into the rat shape that was all he was fit for. That would be how he would spend eternity, as a rat, unable to forgive himself for his earthly deeds and plagued with reminders of his sins in the faces of these children, and of the soft gentle whispers that wove in and out of his mind.
He would never be at peace, and he knew he deserved it.