Author's Note: I was really, really tired of everyone portraying Peter as a soulless Satan from childhood on. So, I wrote an uber-short fic featuring a human Pettigrew. I'm kinda tempted to one for some of the other bad guys, what do you all think? Anyway, enjoy
--------------------------------------------
It was a pitch-black night, and the wind howled mournfully outside the old Riddle House. Only a single light, pouring out from a dingy second story window, could be seen anywhere in Little Hangleton.
Peter Pettigrew sighed wearily and sat down on the edge of his bed. He ran a dirty hand over his wrinkled face. How had it come to this? He was thrice a traitor. Once to the best friends he had ever known, once to the master he now served, and once to the kind family that had cared for him.
What had his sacrifices brought him? A master that would gladly torture and kill him, three dead friends, years of fear and hiding, and a score of people he helped embitter.
Why had he done any of it? He was a 'mudblood' himself! He, better than anyone, knew the anguish a muggleborn bore. It had been James and Sirius that had protected him, Remus had comforted him, Lily had sympathized and befriended him, and Harry… precious Harry. That boy had given them all so much joy. The junior marauder, always smiling. Even now he could feel those small arms wrapped around his neck in a hug; could hear the cheerful little voice calling for his 'Ter 'Ter, Pahfoo, and Rems.
And after all he'd done, still the boy had spared his life. It was beyond comprehension.
Why had he thrown it all away? Simple…he'd been scared. The Dark Lord had seemed such a forbidding shadow over their lives. He'd killed so many; it hadn't seemed like anyone could stop him. The newspapers had started using whole pages just to name the victims every day. Muggles, Muggleborns, and Purebloods were all slaughtered in droves. How could they win?
Dumbledore himself had been failing. The great headmaster had been skin and bones at the end, a mere shadow of his former grandeur. How hopeless it had seemed.
So, he'd worked up his courage, and visited the first deatheater he could think of. Flint had been so smug when he'd come; one of the golden Gryffindors had fallen. That he was one the infamous Marauders had made it even sweeter.
The first time Peter had seen the Dark Lord he'd fallen to his knees in fear and awe. Barely recognizable as a human, The Lord had stood regally before him and, sneering, demanded to know why such miserable filth had been brought before him.
He'd expected to be pushed to the side, as everyone but the marauders had always done. He'd never expected to be ordered to spy on his own friends. Maybe that was naïve, but it had never occurred to him. He'd been too much of a coward to refuse or tell anyone of his mistake. So he'd done as ordered, and now here he was.
What a miserable life.
Peter wiped his tear-streaked face and laid back on his bed before spelling the light off. He was so tired of being the Death Eater Pettigrew. He wanted to be Wormtail the marauder again.
His eyes slid closed as he gave into exhaustion. He dreamed of moonlight adventures on the back of a large black dog, a stage and were-wolf running joyfully on either side.
---------------------------------------------------
Review please!