Chapter 8: Peter Pettigrew

There was a castle in the Highlands, its inhabitants for most sleeping in sweet dreamlands. There was a tower in the castle, where children all slept in red and gold and slumber facile. There was a rat in the tower, that for the last two months had been counting the hours.

The moon was sharp, that night, and the sky cloudless. Stars were burning bright, and two in particular did so – Peter Pettigrew remembered well enough their names from his astronomy lessons, as he cowered around the common room, hidden as a rat – hidden, forgotten, almost, for no one knew him to be here, for no one cared, truly. For he had made them believe him dead, years ago, and therefore no one knew that Ronald Weasley's pet rat was truly Peter Pettigrew himself, secret animagus and properly terrified of the stars currently burning against the dark sky.

Astronomy had been one of the five subjects he'd continued after passing his OWLs – alongside a remediation module in divination – so he knew the stars' names well enough, and unlike some, he hadn't forgotten. Not even after all these years.

NEWTs-level astronomy classes had been times he'd shared with Lily and Sirius only – well, Snape had been there too, sadly, but as Lily had stopped talking to that asshole in sixth year, it wasn't exactly... – because James and Remus had dropped the subject for other priorities despite having gotten a passing grade. Because they, unlike Peter, had had choices, they'd been able to select what to continue or not, when he'd had to stick with his passing grades if he even wanted to continue something at all. So, sure, he'd dropped History of Magic on purpose – only Sirius and his obsession for History, and Remus and Lily with their obsession with knowledge, had chosen to continue that class in their whole gryffindor group year – but apart from that? Peter had continued his classes where he could, whereas James and Sirius and Remus and Lily, they'd chosen their classes...

Anyway. Astronomy and Care of Magical Creatures were the only classes, after their OWLs, that Peter spent with Sirius and without James or Remus.

They'd worked on the right use of constellation alignments in potions, herbology and rituals, they'd calculated the changing rates of certain ingredients depending on the moon phases while Remus and James worked on their arithmancy homework, they'd done a paper on the obscure art of star-guided dancing, Sirius and him. Together.

Of course Peter would be able to recognize Sirius – the star, not his... whatever they were, now – in the night sky. There was also Adhara, not far under Sirius, burning slightly brighter than usual, too.

Sirius had always gotten pensive when they had to work on the Canis Major constellation, and while Peter had never understood why exactly, he could tell for certain that it wasn't his namesake that got his then-friend so passive.

Sirius and Adhara.

How fitting.

Peter had spent the entire months of September and October dreading – what, exactly?

It seemed obvious enough, actually. The rat closed his eyes, absolutely certain that Sirius Black was coming for him – and why shouldn't he, really? Sirius had come after him, the first time around, and Peter... Peter had gotten his friend locked away for mass murder and treason.

He'd gotten his hands on a few of the newspapers printed in the last month – talking, almost every day, of Sirius' escape, of the sightings, of his past, of what Peter's friend had allegedly done, of what Peter knew not to be true. He'd read them in the privacy of the gryffindor common room past three in the morning, always careful not to remain human so long as to be seen by anyone, careful to stay out of sight of the few portraits inside the tower.

Sirius had gone and talked to Peter's mom, and Peter...

Peter had no idea how to feel about that.

The news article hadn't said what Sirius had wanted from Mrs Pettigrew, but it'd been written that Peter's mom was unarmed, though terrified and possibly a bit traumatized too. Peter dreaded what Sirius could have told her – not done to her, because Sirius didn't attack innocents, and Enid Pettigrew had never, not once in her life, done anything that would count as evil in anyone's book – what he'd wanted from his mom.

Peter had never gone to her, not once in eleven years. Because he was afraid she'd make him admit what he'd done, that she'd convince him to stand up and be fair, to tell the truth – and he couldn't afford that. He didn't want to go to Azkaban in Sirius' stead – even if Sirius had been in Azkaban in Peter's stead – and there were all the others, out there. Those who would torture and kill him if they knew he was alive.

Because, if his mom didn't manage to convince him, he knew she'd be so, so disappointed in him. She'd turn her back on him, too – and perhaps he deserved it, perhaps he did, but she was all he had left, her and Remus, believing in him and remembering him, and even if he couldn't see them, he didn't want them to stop believing.

Peter didn't want the mother he'd let believe him to be dead and the friend he'd secretly betrayed over and over again to stop caring about him. Even if he didn't deserve it.

His father had passed away years ago, the article had said. Grief.

That, too, was his fault.

But what else could he have done? If he hadn't... If he hadn't told Bellatrix Lestrange all she wanted to know...

And so there was a rat, cowering in a tower, counting the hours.

Until what, you may ask? Until Sirius himself – and not just his celestial equivalent – came for him, a terrifying grim with fur like the darkest night and eyes like the coldest silver, ready to tear into a poor, poor rat, who maybe deserved it but also didn't think he could have done better.

In the end, someone would have died – and it would have been him, but it also would have been James and Lily and Harry, and perhaps Remus and Sirius too. If Peter had said no, if he hadn't done what he'd done... Lestrange would have killed him – perhaps tortured him first, and then either he'd have broken anyway or she'd have eventually killed him or both. Then she'd have gone to someone else, and they'd have died too, and they'd have betrayed too, and if they hadn't, then the next and the next.

In the end, the Dark Lord would have gotten to James and Lily and Harry – not matter the path to get there, Peter had no doubts of that it would have happened. And then, the Potters would be dead – alongside Peter, and anyone else who'd have gotten in the way, who would have tried to do the right thing.

No, Peter wasn't proud of what he had done – but he also didn't see another way.

If only...

If only there had been no He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, if only... If Sirius' family hadn't been so horrible, if Lily had never been targeted because of her blood, if there had been no prophecy, if no one had tried to kill James just because he'd fallen in love with a muggleborn, if Remus hadn't been bitten by Greyback, if Peter had never had to make those choices...

If only the world was a better place.

But the world wasn't, and for all that Peter wished he could have been a better person, for all that he wished he could have been more courageous, that it would have meant something and not just his useless death – it didn't change anything.

James was dead, Sirius wanted him dead, and Remus was alone.

Peter was alone, too, and he'd made it so.

The rat made his way around the common room – here, on those seats, the Marauders had planned a dozen pranks during fourth year, and there, Sirius and Peter had caught James and Lily snogging while everyone else was down in the Great Hall in seventh year.

There, just under the window, Remus and Peter had whispered about crushes and attractions during a post-quidditch party, while James had tried to woe a then fourteen-year-old Lily and Sirius had looked on completely uninterested in anything romantic.

Remus had confided in Peter, had told him he had a thing for their common friend, but wasn't going to do anything about it – because Sirius hadn't seemed really interested in anyone that way, neither gals nor guys, because Sirius had other things to worry about with his family and everything else going on, because Sirius just hadn't been available to even try back then. Because it had only been a crush, and not one worth putting both Remus and Sirius in an awkward situation where Sirius would end up simply rejecting Remus, like he'd done so many others before.

Not that Sirius was incapable of falling in love, but – he'd only had one girlfriend, in sixth year, and it had lasted about three weeks, because in the end their friend had other priorities. Then there had been the thing with Esta Goldhorn, and that... Well. Current problems aside, that had had nothing to do with feelings, and Sirius himself had told them it had been more of an experiment to try and deal with the war's stress both for him and for Goldhorn. So, not only was Sirius most likely only interested in gals, but he also put romance very far down on his list of priorities.

That hadn't been what Remus had needed.

Peter hadn't been sure what to say on the matter – because maybe Sirius would reciprocate, Peter didn't know, he wasn't in his friend's head, but most likely not – and had ended up muttering that, anyway, everyone who liked guys that way probably was attracted to Sirius, if only because of his looks. Then he'd blushed so hard even the fireplace's lights couldn't hide it, and maybe if he hadn't Remus wouldn't have caught on, but things had happened that way and that was that.

Not that Peter had ever been in love with Sirius – Sirius was way too scary for that to ever happen – or that he'd even been Peter's type, but still. Remus had gotten it, and then they'd both sighed as yet another girl had asked Sirius out and he'd just said "no". Just like that. Because Sirius didn't really care about that, and maybe he could bring himself to care, but he didn't want to make the effort – he had other priorities. Peter would have liked to have even one guy asking him out, for a change, and there Sirius was, just saying "no".

Though, to be honest, James did the same, but that was because he only had eyes for one person, and no patience for anyone else. Remus had once commented – there, they'd been standing in the far corner of the common room – that James was Lily-sexual, and instead of saying something back, their friend had looked forlorn and melted into his armchair, his eyes searching for "the love of his life".

And here, tonight, Peter Pettigrew was a lone rat in a tower, wondering: what had happened to the hours when four teenagers played and laughed and studied? The hours during which they were happy, together in this tower? Where were Boisterous James Potter, sometimes overzealous but mostly well-intentioned in whatever he did, Quiet Remus Lupin, who stepped in when James went too far, Hard-working Peter Pettigrew, who wanted nothing more than to prove he was capable to earn his place amongst them even though they never had to work quite as hard as he did for it?

Dark Sirius Black, whose laugh was two-fold, either like the bark of a dog in its sincerity, or a cold blade of cruelty. Sirius, whom Remus never managed to stop, not quite like he did James, Sirius, whom James endlessly encouraged not to fall into the pit of his flaws, Sirius, whom Peter had to coax out of dangerous moods.

James was dead, Remus was alone, Peter was a traitor.

And Sirius was out there, hunting with blood on his mind, looking for the rat who had betrayed them all.

None of them were there anymore – in this tower, happy, together, friends. And it was Peter's fault, because he'd said the words which had killed James – "Do you know the secret, Pettigrew?" – the words which had imprisoned Sirius – "You betrayed them, Sirius, how could you?! James and Lily and even Harry! You traitor, don't you have a heart?!" – the words which had left Remus alone to deal with life and the moon above him.

The rat closed his eyes.

He had no idea – oh, he knew, but he didn't, not exactly – what Sirius was doing right now. Peter was almost certain his... friend... would be coming for him, soon, but how, when? Where?

He had no way to find out where Sirius Black currently was – had he found a way to locate Peter? Was he on his way, right now? Was he... just outside the Fat Lady's painting, perhaps? Or was he still running through the countryside, far, far away, looking for a path to Peter's doom? Sirius was on the run, right now. The Aurors had it for him, and the Order, too.

The rat had smelled Remus in the corridors, about a week ago.

He'd wanted to go and tell the werewolf he was alive, that Sirius was coming for him – but Remus wasn't stupid, and he knew Peter well enough, even if he hadn't seen through the lies eleven years ago. He would question why exactly Peter had remained hidden all those years, and not just after everything had calmed down. Staying in the shadows after one of your best friends tried to kill you and succeeded in getting others killed, until other like-minded individuals were caught and sent to jail – or had to hide – that was understandable. If Peter had reappeared after a few months, maybe a year... Remus might have believed him.

But there had been the others – Nott, Malfoy, who knew how many others – who'd gotten away with being Death Eaters, and Peter didn't know which ones knew about him. Malfoy, most likely, considering his wife and his sister-in-law. Others, perhaps – and those who didn't, those who hadn't at the time... If they'd gone to visit the others in Azkaban – some of them could because they had the right to request a visit, because Lucius Malfoy was Lord of his House, and so were Maximilian Nott and Aurelius Avery – then Bellatrix Lestrange had almost certainly told them...

They knew who he was, and maybe they believed him dead – oh, they certainly knew that Sirius was innocent, too, but they, better than anyone else perhaps, also knew what Sirius would have done to a traitor – but if he'd reappeared...

Peter couldn't have come out of the woodwork back then, not while remaining alive, and that meant he couldn't go and tell Remus today.

So James was dead, Remus was alone, and so were Sirius and Peter.

Peter didn't know what Sirius was planning, and it terrified him.

Maybe Sirius wasn't planning anything.

Eleven years in Azkaban. Sirius might have gone truly crazy – he'd always been... different, unbothered by some things which should have bothered him, like death and pain and fear, but he hadn't been crazy, before.

Peter's breath hitched at the thought of Azkaban and its horrible guards. The perpetually dark sky, and the soul-freezing cold. The prison no wizard ever escaped.

He didn't understand. He didn't know how Sirius had done it. No one ever did before – not alone, that was for certain, and even with outside help, no one did it before, so how had Sirius...

Sure, Sirius was an unregistered animagus, which meant the prison hadn't taken appropriate action against that because they didn't know they should have. Peter could, perhaps, consider the fact that Sirius turned into a grim at some point to get out, but it still didn't explain everything. It didn't explain the bars, the dementors, the human guards and the warden. It didn't explain the sea.

And even so, even if you ignored everything else, even if the mere fact that Sirius could turn into a gigantic dog explained everything of how he made it out? That would only work if the animagus had gotten out of Azkaban in the first months – not after a whole decade. For whatever reason, Sirius hadn't broken out right away, and now he'd found motivation – Peter had seen the kid a few times during the last month, unexpectedly Sorted into Hufflepuff, and Altair Black had always been looking down and just a bit like his father back when they were all in school together, but without the vicious edge Sirius had always displayed, even at eleven – but he still shouldn't have been able to get out now.

Not after eleven years.

He should have been too magically exhausted because of the dementors to do much of anything, and magical exhaustion took its toll on the body itself after a few days, and even after getting out of the prison itself, there was a sea to swim across. The cells all had bars, too, and Padfoot was never a small dog, Peter would know given the number of times they transformed together and the rat was dwarfed by the grim, which stood more along the line of a medium-sized European bear, above four feet tall at the shoulder.

None of it made any sense.

Where had Sirius gotten the determination to do any of it? His son, of course, that much was obvious, but the problem was still the same: dementors ate at your soul, at anything even remotely positive which could guide you towards any kind of goal, escape included. After all this time, Sirius would be more likely to consider the news about Goldhorn and his son as somehow his fault, one more reason why everyone would be better off without him, because he hadn't been able to see it coming, just like with...

That was Peter's fault, too. Because he'd broken Sirius and everything the Marauders used to be.

The dementors wouldn't allow a prisoner to interpret any kind of news as something positive – it would all be eaten, all the more positive feelings to feast on – and that was, again, Peter's fault. Because he'd gotten Sirius thrown in Azkaban, because he'd been weak and then he'd lied about it.

Because everyone would believe mass murder out of Sirius Black, and Peter had used it.

Sirius should be insane, today – and perhaps he was, but it didn't change the fact that he was out. After Azkaban, he should never have been able to plan – or put into effect any kind of escape plan.

But he had.

He had, and now Peter was alone in a tower, a rat cowering in the darkness.

He remembered the burning determination in his friend's eyes, even before the Sorting. The desire to be someone – not good, perhaps, but at least better than what was expected of him – not to let anyone or anything dictate his destiny. Not his parents, not tradition, not a dark lord. The only kind of ambition Sirius had ever had, perhaps – the reason he hadn't ended up in Slytherin with the rest of the Blacks, maybe.

Peter hadn't seen Sirius in eleven years, but he'd never forget those eyes of hard silver, burning with a cold fire and a promise.

Sirius, calling him across the crowd on that street, on the first of November. His eyes, unforgiving, stuck on Peter. Whatever would have happened after that, had Peter not...

Peter was afraid.

He was afraid of so many things, and some he managed to overcome, but others – the Dark Lord, Bellatrix Lestrange telling him he will break, anyway, so why not make it painless, and Sirius, Sirius coming after him with death in his eyes and the promise of everything his blood ever did to betrayers.

Peter had been afraid then, and he was still afraid to this day.

The rat shivered, and thought of the boy – Altair Black, son of one of his best friends – and of what he had lived through because of Peter. Because of what Peter chose to do, when he saw that promise in Sirius' eyes, when the Dark Lord asked if he knew the secret, when Lestrange came to him.

The things Altair Black would never have lived through if Sirius had been there to see it happen, to take care of Goldhorn before it ever got so far. That was on Peter, too.

Not only because Sirius wasn't there, not only because Peter sent Altair's father to Azkaban in his stead.

He remembered seeing Esta Goldhorn at one of those pureblood sympathizers get-togethers – little parties for the high society that were nothing illegal, but everyone suspected the allegiances of those who came, or at least that they weren't against any of it. Those parties to which only a certain kind of people was invited, and maybe, probably, most likely, they'd been hunting grounds for Death Eaters to find new recruits, too. Not everyone who came to those parties actually wanted to be a murderous terrorist, but at least you knew where to look – and if someone didn't seem enthusiastic enough, well. They didn't have to be invited back for the next one.

Peter, of course, hadn't been invited to that particular party, but he'd walked past the open door in Lestrange Manor when she'd called him – and Peter knew better than to ignore her, than to pretend she hadn't made him her personal little traitor.

He'd caught a glance of Goldhorn, laughing as someone inquired about the baby's father.

"He deserves nothing, but his blood is as pure as one's get. It wouldn't do to let it get squandered."

He remembered understanding – not quite, not all of it, but enough – what was going on with her and Sirius – what Sirius didn't know about their arrangement, what she hadn't told him – and feeling choked with guilt, with a need to warn his friend...

He remembered choking on his fears – imagining the questions, where was she, how do you know, what are you hiding, Peter?

So he'd said nothing, and Sirius hadn't learned of any of it until the rest of the country had discovered exactly what Esta Goldhorn had done to their son.

The rat had regrets, today – Sirius, Altair, James and Lily, Harry, and so many more – but he had more fears – Sirius, the Death Eaters who'd made it out, even Remus and Dumbledore himself – and no matter where he turned to, only anger awaited him.

Bellatrix Lestrange – Sirius' own cousin, and they had the same cruelty in their eyes – had her hand on his throat, her wand against his ear, and she was saying things – "Sirius might hunt you down, dear, but we do have so much in common, he and I, and I am the one who's right here, am I not?".

She'd gotten him alone, and she had been right – Sirius might kill him for this betrayal, but she had been right here, not him.

At first, it had only been scraps of intel – fear, fear always, of course, and menaces and the occasional crucio, at least the cruciatus curse didn't leave marks for the other Order members to find out. Then the scraps of intel had become more – more important, more numerous, piling up upon each other until Peter had been nothing else than a mole, a liar, a betrayer.

One step, and the next, and the next – until nothing could be done for Peter to extricate himself out of this stranglehold, Bellatrix Lestrange and the Dark Lord on one side, and Sirius on the other. There had been no asking for help – not with Sirius being Sirius – and then it had been too late.

At some point Peter had mostly stopped thinking of his regrets, only his fears remaining.

Peter remembered: two words, words without meaning, but Edgar Bones and his family were killed next and he'd realized it was his fault.

"What will you do, sweetie? Go and cry to Potter? The incorruptible amongst the righteous Gryffindors? To Lupin, who is howling himself to death at night and shadowed by Greyback every hour of the day?"

"To Sirius, dear, cold Sirius, my beloved bloodtraitor of a cousin?"

She'd laughed, then.

"Didn't he behead three of our men to defend a mudblood and her family, last year?"

"Tell me, how does Sirius take betrayal, again?"

Still a rat, still alone, still a traitor, Peter whimpered – he should have gone to Sirius anyway, or, better, to James, before it was too late. But he hadn't, and now James was dead, Sirius wanted his death, and Remus was but a shadow of who he used to be. Now he could not go back, not to society – too many questions, not enough answers, not after eleven years – not to Remus – the man might forgive him, perhaps, but the wolf never would, and a werewolf was more than capable of swallowing a rat – not to Sirius – even if he could be reasoned with, Peter would never live long enough to get there – and certainly not to the remaining Death Eaters – they think it was his fault that the Dark Lord disappeared, and anyway, Peter never cared much for what they had to offer, even if they had offered him anything at all.

Fear was a powerful motivator.

It was the reason he'd let himself be used, it was the reason he'd let his friends be killed, it was the reason he'd remained hidden for so long. It was the reason Sirius would kill him.

The rat froze – there was howling, outside, and he knew it, it wasn't the Forbidden Forest wolves, not at first, even if they answered back. That first howl hadn't been a wolf.

Peter had heard, and fear took his whole being. Again.

It was stupid, it was panic at its finest, but that was all he had right now – so, the rat hurried out. Out of the tower, out of... If Sirius was here, his former friend would first look for him in the tower, but how could he know Peter was at Hogwarts, how did he figure it out, how did...

Bellatrix Lestrange laughing behind him.

"Tell me, how does Sirius take betrayal, again?"

He could... He could try and hide in the dungeons. There was a pixie-sized room near the hufflepuff common room, they'd found it in third year, and maybe Sirius remembered it too and would think of it, but neither he nor the grim could fit, and Sirius might not have gotten himself a wand...

There was a castle in the Highlands, and there a rat ran in the night. He scared a ravenclaw prefect making her rounds, who'd stopped to stare at the forest through a window – she'd heard the howling, too, and the rat thought, she had to know what it meant, didn't she, how could she not...

The rat jumped off the last stair step to the first floor, onto the soft carpet – yet two floors down, and he'd be there, he'd be able to hide, to wallow in fear and uncertainty, but at least he would be alive...

A hand snatched him out of the air, and Peter felt fear gnawing at his innards. Again.

I don't absolutely hate Peter, but what I really don't like with him is that he kept doing the same thing, even when he could... not?

I mean, you're scared of what will happen to you and sell out? Bad, but understandable.
Then you pin it on your friend. Uh. Okay, he might have killed you for what you did, but you didn't have to pin your crimes on him. Escape, hide, why not, but not that.
Then you never come out to tell the truth once the first menace (Voldemort, Death Eaters) is mostly curbed. Okay, there are still a few of them out there, but still.
Then you're found out... and instead of, I don't know, disappearing again (he definitely could have) you're so scared of the people you wronged you go back to the terrorist who got you in that situation to begin with?

Anyway. I don't absolutely hate him. I understand why he was scared, and the choices he had to make were difficult, that's true. But did he really have to always choose the worst thing to do?