As does pretty much the entirety of Harry Potter fandom, I despise Wormtail as he was written in canon. Having started this story before book 5 came out, I was determined to, despite that opinion, write him as a real character; I was convinced that someone who was a full Marauder and, among other things, capable of becoming an Animagus at 16 had to have more depth to him than his adult self showed.

Turns out book 5 proved me pretty thoroughly wrong on that account. So I guess my Peter is lucky that I started writing this before it came out. In this story, Peter has always been, and will continue to be, a real character.

The braid is not a full one, but one of those itty-bitty little ones at the nape of the neck that are a lot longer than the majority of the hair. I think I made that clear enough ... I hope ...

Erica Brown is my own invention and most likely Lavender's aunt. Just in case anyone was curious. I'm pretty sure J. K. Rowling owns the rest, though. I'm just borrowing them ... and messing with their heads ... probably traumatizing them for life ...

Anyway!

(6/30/2003) Not much changed. Finally got around to correcting the half-and-half mistake ... and, now that I know the actual color, James' eyes. I think that's it.

(11/26/2012) As mentioned in chapter 1: minor edits. Also updated the author's note to make more sense in a post-book 5 world.

# # # Chapter 2 # # #

Waking up to cheerful – and precious, given its infrequency at this time of year – sunlight, he stretched. Mm ... It's so nice to have my body back. Last night ... had been one of the most horrifying nights he had ever lived through. Being suddenly shunted to the back of his own mind, unable to move ... unable to do anything!

At least it was over now.

He sat up, groping towards the bedside table for his glasses. "Sleeping beauty! Awake at last!" Putting the glasses on, he turned towards his best friend (and, rumor had it, long-lost brother), Sirius Black; face rapidly developing a matching grin. "How did it go?" Though that certainly caused the grin to disappear even more quickly.

"How did what go?" Peter Pettigrew, a somewhat stocky boy with blond hair, asked, as he wandered back into their shared room from the bathroom looking about as sleepy as James felt. "I thought you two stayed back here so that you could work on homework. What were you not telling me?"

Sirius – who, to lend credence to the lie, had stayed in the common room until quite late working on homework – looked from Peter to a now-solemn James and back. "Wait, did he not take the bait?"

"Who?" Peter was pulling at the tiny braid that fell from the nape of his neck nearly to his waist, a sure sign that the mild-mannered young wizard was becoming annoyed.

James gritted his teeth. "Oh, Snape took the bait all right. But then some evil raving maniac spirit possessed my body and saved him and told the greasy git Remus' secret."

:Evil raving maniac? Sorry to disappoint you, but I was not only quite sane, but on the side of the Light, last time I looked: A voice in the back of his head sniped. :And it's certainly not my fault I'm trapped with you.:

"This isn't about the duel on Saturday, is it?" Peter asked suddenly, eyes suspiciously narrowed. "Look, I know I'm not as good at hexes as you two, and I'm certainly not as smart as Remus, but I can take care of Snape myself. What were you trying to do anyway? Kill him?"

:Amazing ... I'm impressed.: The voice deadpanned. :Certainly more impressed than I am with you or Sirius. Does the life of a human being really mean so little to you?:

Peter evidently saw the answer in their not-exactly-repentant faces. "I see." His grip on the braid was white from the force with which he was holding it. "If the spirit's still there – although I assume it's not, given that you're clearly yourself – tell him or her I appreciate it."

:Tell Wormtail it's the least I could do.: The voice replied promptly.

"He said it was the least he could do." James repeated rather mechanically. It had only just really hit him that the voice was, indeed, still there. His eyes widened suddenly. "... and he called you 'Wormtail' ..."

"Probably dug around in your memory." Peter airily dismissed his friend's concern – as though the idea that the spirit might be able to read minds wasn't even more unnerving. "What's your name?" And somehow, James knew that Peter was not speaking to him, but to the nameless entity.

:Nameless entity? That's better than 'evil raving maniac', at least. Can I dig around in your memory, do you think? Perhaps I'll try later ...: There was a nearly audible hesitation. :I'm Harry.:

# # # # #

:Tell him.:

:No.:

:Tell him.:

:No!:

:Tell him!:

:NO!:

:TELL HIM!:

:FINE!:

James jolted out of his seat, muttering curses under his breath.

"Hm?" Sirius looked up briefly from his food, still chewing. "Where're you goin'?"

"I'll be right back." James gritted, stalking away.

Peter smiled. "Bet you it has something to do with Harry." None of them had been able to convince the spirit to give them a last name, so for now he stayed 'just Harry'.

Sirius watched his friend angrily stalking in the direction of the Slytherin table, somewhere he'd never willingly go – unless it was part of a prank, of course. And he was never that angry when pulling off a prank (not to mention, Sirius would be outright insulted if any plans to prank Slytherin ever failed to include him). "No bet, Wormtail."

# # # # #

On the other side of the Great Hall, James reached his goal, addressing himself to the back of a very familiar black head. "Snape. A word."

The black-haired Slytherin turned around and slowly blinked. Shook his head. Rubbed his eyes. Blinked again. The person that looked and sounded eerily like Potter, his nemesis, was still there. If I was taking any hallucinatory drugs, I'd swear them off right now.

"Well?"

"What do you want, Potter?" So much for the vaunted Snape eloquence. Oh well. Perhaps he could blame it on his near-death experience the previous night – which situation had been caused by a certain Gryffindor in the first place ...

"A. Word." Whatever had brought his nemesis over to the Slytherin table, he obviously was no happier about it than Snape. "Now. Alone." Before he could shake off the sheer surreal aspects of the situation enough to react at all, much less protest, Potter grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him away.

Of course, as soon as they were far enough away, Potter dropped his wrist like a hot poker. Probably thinks it's as greasy as my hair. A bitter thought, aimed more at his image in general than what Potter in particular thought – who cared about that, after all? "His name is Harry."

Blink. "Huh?" No, as far as eloquence went, today was most definitely not his day. Then again, today didn't seem to be Potter's day as far as comprehensibility was concerned, either, so maybe it all evened out.

"The stupid spirit. Who took over my body. And saved your life. Last night. Is named. Harry." Potter was obviously hanging onto the final shreds of his patience with his fingernails. "And now that I've told you that, maybe he'll leave me the bloody hell alone!" Business apparently concluded, the Head Boy stalked away.

"Harry." A small smile played across his face as he committed that name to memory. I owe you one, Harry. It is a wizard's debt ... and someday I will find a way to pay you back.

# # # # #

:Anyone else you want me to babble your presence to? Maybe I should just go straight to Dumbledore!: A pause. :Actually, that's not a bad idea. Maybe the Headmaster would know how to get rid of you.:

:Simply spiffing idea.: Harry agreed affably. :You're not the only one chafing from this associ ... a ... tion ...: He trailed off into silence.

"Why so stormy, dear?" His girlfriend of nearly three years, Lily Evans, approached, giving him a short kiss of greeting.

:Erk.: Harry whimpered in the back of his mind.

James brightened. "Nothing at all, darling Lily. Not so long as you're around." He didn't know exactly why his girlfriend's presence caused such an extreme reaction from the spirit, but hey! Whatever worked. Maybe he'd finally have some peace within his own head again.

"What prank are you planning now, James?" His girlfriend watched him through narrowed eyes. "I love you too, but I don't trust you when you're this happy."

"Nothing at the moment." He murmured absentmindedly, for once using that phrase truthfully. Thought of pranks, though, brought inevitably to mind his spectacular failure the previous night. "Let's not talk of pranks now. How did you do on your Charms homework?"

Ever ready to talk about her favorite subject, Lily gave him only one more suspicious look before launching into a long, detailed monologue. He just let her beautiful voice wash over him and reveled in the feeling of being almost alone in his head.

# # # # #

Morning passed into afternoon and afternoon into evening. Harry had gotten over the shock of meeting Lily to a certain extent, but was still somewhat quieter and less argumentative than he had been previously.

Sunset saw the available Marauders – James, Sirius, and Peter – gathered along with Lily and her best friend, Erica Brown, around a table in the common room. The two girls were regarding the three boys with complete disbelief, having just been informed of James' ... visitor.

"So you're saying that there's some sort of ghost possessing James?" Erica asked Sirius – who had done the majority of the storytelling – doubtfully. "Are you sure this isn't just another of your pranks?"

:The Boy Who Cried Wolf: Harry snickered.

:What?:

:Never mind. It's a Muggle thing.:

"I'm in full control ... now. He was evidently in full control last night." A sour face. The boys had all glossed rather quickly over what James had been doing the previous night that had prompted Harry to take control, just mentioning that the spirit had done so. While they knew for a fact that the girls liked Snape and the band of Slytherins he ran with as little as they themselves did, they also knew that the girls – Lily especially – would rather vocally disapprove of the methods employed. Not to mention the web of other secrets that would unravel if they started getting into how they knew that there was a werewolf accessible by taking a secret passageway underneath the Whomping Willow.

"And his name is Harry." Lily said. "What else do we know about him?"

"He's Muggleborn." James supplied, surprising the others.

"How do you know?" Peter asked.

"He was just nattering at me about some random Muggle quote. A boy who said 'wolf' or something like that."

"The Boy Who Cried Wolf?" Lily asked, then giggled. "Considering your reputation for pranking, it is really quite an appropriate quote. Good one, Harry."

:I'm not Muggleborn, actually. My mum was; my dad was a wizard. But I was raised by my Muggle relatives.:

"Actually, it turns out that it's his mother that was Muggleborn – his father's a wizard – but he was evidently raised by his Muggle relatives." James faithfully passed on to his waiting audience. :Anything else you'd like to share?:

"What does he look like?" Erica asked curiously, leaning forward.

:Look in a mirr-aaahhhh!: Harry's voice in his head was abruptly cut off. It sounded almost like the spirit was in pain ...

"Aaahhhh!" James clutched at his head. Pain that he had ever so generously decided to share with James, evidently ...

"James!"

"Prongs!"

"Harry?"

" 'M fine." James groaned. "Merlin, that felt like when my scar hurts."

"What scar?" Lily asked, puzzled.

"Something you haven't told us?" Sirius had grown up with James; they had shared in nearly every escapade and never, as far as he knew, had James been scarred.

James raised his head and everyone recoiled. His eyes, no longer their ordinary, nondescript hazel, were a blazing emerald a shade or two darker than Lily's. "This scar." He raised his bangs, baring to the rest of the group a long thin white line shaped like lightning decorating his forehead.

Although it had only been a wild guess when he had said the name before, now Peter was sure. He leaned forward. "You're Harry, aren't you."

"Yes. Please, don't ask what just happened; I have no more clue than any of you."

"You look a lot like James. But smaller." Erica commented.

The boy smiled, and the change was immense. "I keep hoping I'll start growing someday ... though I suppose that's too much to ask for, now." A wry look.

"What happened to you?" Lily asked. "Maybe if we know that, we can figure out how to get you back where you belong."

A thoughtful frown. "I wouldn't bet on it. I'm pretty sure that my body disintegrated. As I'm sure you've guessed, I'm supposed to be dead." He stretched backwards. "I used a spell – no point in telling you what, since you wouldn't recognize it" although Snape might ... I wouldn't put it past him "that required the sacrifice of the caster's life; no documentation I could find ever figured out what happened to the caster's soul."

He examined his fingernails, rather rough but surprisingly clean. "I guess now I know."

:Were you insane?:

Sirius reiterated James' question, and added, "What is worth willingly throwing your life away like that?"

"Have any of you heard of Voldemort?" Harry's face froze, but his eyes burned.

"Don't say that name!" Sirius hissed.

Incongruously, that relaxed Harry's face, bringing back something that resembled another smile. :The more things change ...:

:What are you talking about?:

:Nothing. Everyone back home used to have that reaction too. It just ... amused me.:

"There's your answer. Besides, isn't foolhardy suicidal risk-taking a Gryffindor trait?"

"That's bravery." Sirius corrected.

Harry gave a deliberately nonchalant shrug. "Isn't that what I said?"

# # # # #

As the night wore on, it became clear that Harry's obvious presence had put a damper on the usual evening activities of the other two Marauders present. In the case of Sirius, largely because he was more interested in tag-teaming with Lily on trying to convince Harry to tell them more of the future he came from – particularly, the eventual fate of Voldemort. Knowing, though, that he had probably already revealed too much, Harry kept stubbornly silent. Peter and Erica were mostly quiet as well, observing.

Eventually, the two gave up in disgust and the five Gryffindors began to make their ways up to bed. Harry suspected that usually, this was when the Marauders would have begun to plot or execute their next prank in earnest, but between the presence of an outsider – Harry – and the fact that any consultation of James would require going through him, nothing happened.

Harry lay back in the bed – he had been surprised, last night, to learn that James' bed was where his would be someday – hands tucked behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. This day had been ... strange.

Sirius. It was so heartbreaking to see his godfather this way, so much younger and happier than the brittle man he knew. Yet he could still see in this Sirius the fanatical loyalty to those he loved and the strong protective instinct that would someday cause him to go nearly mad at the betrayal of one of those he trusted so deeply, the protectiveness that would cause him to lash out at Peter and, later, would hurt him so when he realized how much of Harry's life had gone by without him there.

Sirius was very similar to himself, but not nearly as ... shadowed as the man Harry knew. This Sirius knew how to laugh, and for that Harry was grateful. If he ever returned home ...

No. It was beyond all reasonable hope that he even still existed, as warped and vicarious as this life might be. To think that he might ever return to the life he knew before was frankly impossible. He refused to even entertain the notion, as it would only hurt him, make him even more homesick than he was already.

Peter. The betrayal burned ... but how could he hate this young man? He had tried. When he first looked upon the traitor and realized that that was who he was looking at, he had tried. But he just couldn't. He couldn't see the whiny little rat of a man that had begged at their feet for his life, not in this proud young man who willingly told off his friends when he thought they had done something wrong.

This Peter was one he thought he would be proud to call friend; he certainly liked him a great deal more than either Sirius or James at this point. What had changed him so?

Lily. She was ... wow. Really special. And stunningly beautiful, at least to Harry's eyes. She was everything he had ever imagined his mother might be like; smart and funny and charming and gentle and loving. James didn't deserve her.

Still, that kiss ... ew. Even being a silent observer in the back of James' head instead of an active participant, watching his body kiss his mother like that was really, really wrong.

Good Lord. Suddenly, he had a perfect reason for wanting to get out of this situation. If just kissing Lily felt this wrong, he really didn't want to be around by the time James and Lily got married.

James. His 'other self'. His father. Who had actively participated in Snape's near murder ... and who hadn't realized his error. If Harry hadn't appeared, Snape may very well have died. And however little Harry liked his irritable Potions professor, he certainly didn't want the man to die. No, Harry did not have a very high opinion of his father right now, although he also realized that he was perhaps depending more on his strongly negative first impression than he probably ought.

James was loyal to his friends, after all, an admirable quality ... even if he displayed that loyalty in ways that Harry virulently disapproved of. Above and beyond the fact that Harry didn't see attempted murder as a valid way to solve one's problems (Voldemort being a notable exception) ... if James had really wanted Snape dead that badly, he should have had the courage to do it himself. Not just sit by and wait while his friend – one of his best friends, for Merlin's sake! – did it at a time when he had no control of himself.

Remus! That was who he had been missing – he had completely forgotten about the fourth Marauder. The full moon had been last night; surely he ought to be back by now. Then again, none of the others seemed worried ... but ...

He levered himself out of bed, listening with satisfaction to the snores coming from two of the other three beds ... and even from the back of his head. He spared a brief moment wondering how James could be snoring when he wasn't actually breathing – Harry was in charge of that particular involuntary function right now – before shrugging it off in favor of more important concerns. Opening James' trunk, he was pleased to see the Invisibility Cloak folded up on top right where he had left it, picked it up, put it back on, and padded out of the room as quietly as he could manage. He had a werewolf to visit.

# # # # #

Hot ... so hot ... He tossed the threadbare blanket off, baring the legs and lower half of his torso that were all he had managed to cover as he fell into bed that morning, exhausted and in pain as usual.

He had smelled and seen the Rat last night, but not the Dog or the Prey. Peter. He insisted muzzily to himself. Sirius. James. My friends. So cold ... He shivered convulsively, curling up into as tiny a ball as he could manage.

A warm weight drifted down on top of him; gentle hands tucking the edges of the blanket closer. He knew academically that this was just another hallucination – they were common when the fever was at its worst the day after he transformed, and this sort of tender care was far from an uncommon theme. It was like his parents were tucking him in for the night, a comforting homey feeling that he hadn't experienced since he had been bitten – despite the information they had been given about his condition, his parents had always feared it was somehow contagious.

Despite how hard he tried to stop them – not all that hard, considering the shape he was in – a few tears leaked out through the corners of his closed eyes. It was only a dream. Only a dream. His friends were wonderful, but they would never do this for him ... he had made certain they never knew just how hard the transformations were on him.

Warmcool fingers wiped the tears away, touched his forehead briefly. If only this were real ...

No. He didn't want this to be real, because if this were real, he would have to push whoever it was away. He was dangerous. He couldn't allow anyone near him. Not now, not ever. He already feared that he had done irreparable damage by becoming as close to the other Marauders as he had become.

He was a werewolf; he could never allow anyone close to him, close enough to cuddle, to have another warm presence beside him, to have someone who would care for him as he would care for them. It had to be a dream.

"Remus?" A gentle soft voice, alto or tenor. "Oh, Remus ..." The voice sounded sad. For him? Why?

An immense effort; the fingers of his left hand twitched. That same logical corner of his mind from before noted that he appeared to be in a worse state than usual.

"Remus?" A note of hope. Really, this was a very realistic hallucination. "Remus, can you tell me which of these potions you need to take?"

Potions. Potions. Ah! That's why it was worse than usual. Which did he need to take? He tried to overcome the fuzziness that filled most of his mind. The wonderful hallucination wanted something from him, so he needed to tell it. "All ..." His voice cracked; he could feel a migraine coming on from the effort, something he usually managed to avoid because he didn't usually have to think.

"All five?"

"Mm." He tried to sound as affirmative as he could. What else did the hallucination need to know? "Red ... first ..."

"All right." Almost immediately, there was a cup at his lips, a gentle hand lifting his head, the sickly-sweet liquid running down his throat as he convulsively swallowed. The potion went into effect as quickly as it always did, and he felt his head beginning to clear.

As his head cleared, he knew that now that he could think properly again, the hallucination would disappear, and that knowledge was almost enough to drive him back to those tears of self-pity he had shed before. Yet ... the next potion, and the next ... and the hand supporting his head only briefly disappeared between the potions before reappearing. Always reappearing.

A fever dream, then. Those, too, were common. He felt recovered enough now to open his eyes, if still tired ... always tired ... But not tired enough that he was willing to miss the chance to see what sort of person his subconscious had dreamt up.

"Merlin, Remus, you scared me! You were so still ..." Messy black hair and lightish eyes and large glasses. James? Why would I dream fever dreams about James?

"James?" He propped himself up on one of his elbows, wincing as he rubbed a scrape the wrong way and his sore muscles – which, to be fair, was pretty much all of them – protested. He could dull the pain with his potions, but not get rid of it entirely; he just wasn't that good yet. "Where were you and Sirius last night?"

The fever dream James stiffened, his face hardening into an expression hardly ever worn by the real James. "Sirius was evidently back in the common room studying." The voice was ... off. Soothing, wonderful, the voice of his beautiful hallucination, yes ... but not the voice of James. In addition to being somewhat higher in pitch, it was also too soft, too quiet, too well modulated. The voice of someone accustomed to solitude, to avoiding or being ignored by the spotlight.

"James was not too far away, actually. Eagerly anticipating watching you rip Snape's throat out."

Only the persistent pain in his muscles prevented him from bolting upright. "Snape? What was Snape doing anywhere near here?" Please oh please let it not be true just a dream just a dream thank Merlin it's just a dream ...

"Either James or Sirius – on that point, I'm not absolutely certain – evidently told Snape how he could get through the Whomping Willow."

He squeezed his eyes shut. No! Nonononono! I'm not a murderer please I'm not I didn't mean it why don't I remember I didn't want to murder anyone oh please it's just a dream whywhywhy? Those hands, so gentle when tending to him, shook him roughly, snapping his eyes back open and his gaze back to the fever dream's face.

Focusing straight into fever dream James' ... green ... eyes. Deep green eyes that told a story of worry over him. Him! Why? Not only am I a werewolf, now I'm a murderer too. I don't deserve this kindness.

"Listen to me, Remus Lupin, and listen closely." The gentle voice was now velvet covering solid steel. "Nothing. Happened. I managed to pull Snape away before he could even enter the tree, much less make it all the way to the Shack. And even if something had happened – if Snape had been hurt or, Merlin forbid, killed – you would not have been at fault. That blame would have rested solely on James and Sirius."

Remus stared at this phantasm, who stared back even more intently, shaken by the faith he saw in the other boy's eyes. Even more sure, now, that this was just a fever dream. And yet … he had to know. "Who are you?"

"A friend. My name is Harry." Harry smiled sweetly. "I'm so glad you're okay."

And even though this was a fever dream – he believed that, he had to – there was something else he knew he needed to say. "Harry ..." An unfamiliar name on his lips. "Thank you. Thank you for saving Snape from me."

The other boy looked downwards, embarrassed. Embarrassed by clearly deserved praise – the longer this dream went on, the more clear it became that despite their similar appearances, this was most definitely not James. "I'm just ... just so very tired of death. I may dislike Snape, but he doesn't deserve to die. No one deserves to die like that. And you don't deserve to have that on your conscience."

As though speaking directly to Remus was too hard, Harry instead concentrated his attention on the now-empty jars that littered the table beside the bed, rearranging them with motions sufficiently quick that it made Remus' still fuzzy head hurt to try and focus, yet were oddly mesmerizing. Even after Harry finished speaking, Remus was distracted from responding by his interest in the display.

Eventually, however, Harry settled on a pyramid-like structure – the four larger bottles forming the base of the pyramid with the fifth, smaller bottle perched in the center on top. Remus shook his head gingerly – it wasn't like it could hurt much more than it already was – in an attempt to bring himself back on task. "Nonetheless, I thank you. You don't have to accept my thanks, but know that you have them."

"What else can I say to that but 'you're welcome'?" Harry asked, with a wry smile that suddenly transformed into a huge yawn.

"What time is it?" Remus asked. He often lost track of time in the 'Shrieking Shack', as the villagers called it, due to the complete lack of windows.

"I dunno. Probably after midnight."

"What are you doing here looking after me, then? Go to bed!" He waved a hand. "Shoo!"

"If you're sure you'll be all right ..."

"I've been a werewolf for about twelve years now. I'm used to it."

"But will you be all right?" Remus was bemused to note that, despite their many differences, Harry's expression bore a remarkable similarity to James' when he was feeling particularly mulish.

He rolled his eyes. "No. I hurt all over because I don't know how to brew a good enough pain-numbing potion. The scratches and bruises will probably heal before the next full moon, while the strained muscles will be good as new by the end of the week. I'm tired, feverish, and the only reason I'm telling you this is because I know you're a fever dream or hallucination of some sort. But I will survive, and I will be back on my feet and back attending school by tomorrow. I promise."

"I'll hold you to that." Harry rose unsteadily to his feet and yawned again. "I'll see you tomorrow, Remus ... even if you don't see me." He walked through the door, disappearing down the passageway back towards the Whomping Willow.

"Goodbye, Harry." He continued watching the doorway long after the other boy had gone, mulling over what he had said and wondering how much of it was actually real.

Finally, he rolled over, ignoring the protests of muscles and injuries. Goodbye, my fever dream. I'll miss you. Then exhaustion finally overcame the pain and he slept.

# # # # #

A very small amount of light seeped into the small house through cracks in the boards blocking the windows. One such beam just happened to come to rest over the eyes of the sleeping seventeen-year-old. Eyelids twitched, squeezed tighter shut, opened. He looked around, eyes already accustomed to the extremely dim light.

For a moment, he stared at the dust motes whirling lazily through the beam of sunlight, mind blank. Then the memory of the previous night slipped back in, and he deflated. Just a fever dream. How could it have been anything else? He often dreamed, after all, that he was a child again, that his parents still tucked him in and sang the soothing lullabies that had always lulled him to sleep. This was just a variation on that common theme, perhaps a sign that his subconscious was beginning to accept that he was no longer, and would never again return to being, a child. Nothing more.

Then his eyes fell on the five bottles sitting on the small table beside his bed; arranged into a miniature pyramid of glass.

26 December 2002
30 June 2002
8 August 2011
28 August 2012