Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This is just a little ficlet I wrote for a contest over at FictionAlley Park. It probably could stand a bit of revising, but the deadline's coming up and I didn't really have time. Enjoy!
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"Fidelius!" Dumbledore chanted, completing the spell.
Peter felt it immediately, a tingling that echoed throughout his body. It grew quickly, a brilliant radiance, until it felt like he was lying on the beach with a thousand suns overhead. It faded just as quickly, but left behind a warm afterglow, the feeling of friendship, the touch of trust.
It also brought the acrid taste of betrayal, for in his heart, Peter was already scheming. Voldemort was about to begin the final purge of his opponents, and he would reward those who helped him handsomely. And now, deep within Peter's heart, lay the future of his best friend, James Potter.
Ties of loyalty don't snap easily, though, and Peter found himself questioning his decision as he mounted his broomstick. James had been the only one to stick up for him at Hogwarts, the one friend he knew he could always, always count on. It was James who had brought him inside the inner circle of the Marauders, James who had convinced Sirius that this pudgy, clumsy little eleven-year old was worth talking to. Nobody else had cared; they let Peter live his own miserable, lonely life.
He thought back on his Hogwarts days with a nostalgic wistfulness. He had belonged there; he had been accepted there. He had friends, protectors, adventures. He had felt important – people had even cared about him.
Nobody cared about him now.
He was just another street rat, an unremarkable young wizard. He'd held a couple jobs since leaving Hogwarts, but he'd never really been valued. He was just a grunt, who just went about his business and tried not to get underfoot.
Until Voldemort.
Voldemort had offered him the chance to be special. He'd come to Peter asking for assistance. It was only little jobs at first, stealing the plans the ministry had made against Voldemort. But spying is a slippery slope, and Peter soon found himself involved with assassinations on prominent aurors and officials.
These always left a bitter taste in Peter's mouth. He was not a murderer; he did not like to see people die. But what choice did he have? It was their life or his, and Peter did not surrender his life easily.
He was a survivor. Long years of being alone had taught him this. He didn't live for relationships; he lived for existence. When the dust cleared, he fully intended to be among those left standing. He might have to lie low and scuttle around for a bit, but in the end, he would live to see another day.
Survival. The rats had learned that lesson well. Disrespected by almost all other living things, they had nevertheless managed to endure and flourish. They avoided prominence, and so escaped the notice of predators. Nobody liked them, but nobody disliked them enough to get rid of them.
Not like the stag, who would be hunted and killed for its shear beauty and purity. Or the wolf, who would be relegated to the forests because of its dangerous and unpredictable nature. Even the dog would end up being tamed and caged by superior masters. The rat, however, would survive, building a nest out of the scraps thrown out by those above it.
Peter was the rat. The informer. The survivor.
A little voice deep within his heart screamed at him. This was not what he wanted; he deserved to live better than this. Peter's consciousness silenced it with the icy logic that he had been famous for. His mind was made up; he would live on, at whatever cost.
He set off on his broomstick to where he knew Lord Voldemort would be waiting.
