Peter
It was dark when a small rat slipped through a whole in the back screen of the little house in Chipping Sodsbury. Had anyone been able to see it enter, they wouldn't have been surprised at its presence. That house had fallen to disrepair years ago, back when there were so many reports about the gas explosion that had killed the boy from the family there. All sorts of strange creatures hung around that place. Had anyone bothered to remember, the creatures had been larger and stranger back when the boy was still alive, but Peter never had been a very memorable boy.
So he came to be standing in his old bedroom, in the soft light of the full moon. He could never sleep on full moon nights, hadn't once since they had found out about Remus. Which was many nights lying awake, as often as not he discovered himself staring at the moon, paralyzed with fear and guilt and haunting illusions. And that was why he was here tonight, to finally exorcize himself of the memories that prevented him from abandoning his past.
But it was a daunting task that faced him. Everywhere he turned, there were pictures Stacks of Muggle and wizard photographs lay on the dressers. Albums of notes and clippings and records sat on the shelf. A whole corkboard was full of tacked up sketches he had done, while all four walls were covered in faces, hand-drawn, smiling, winking, laughing faces. And he was disabled by them. He could have done something to the papers, burned or shredded or exploded or something, had they been on there own. And the Muggle photos, that stared blankly with fake grins and unnatural events. But not like this. He could not crucify his idols as they smiled back benevolently.
Remus stared from his left. A young, shy Remus, a laughing one, a crying one, with his head over a book, staring out the window, sleeping peacefully, and even the werewolf, losing his puppy curves, with the wind rippling his fur, muscles tensed in a silent howl at the undrawn moon. There. He'd start there. He had never liked the wolf. When they finally discovered their animals, he was thankful for the deficits in his stature that would keep him away from the wolf. With a simple charm, the fur on the wolf began to smoke, and then to flicker, until the whole creature caught illustrated flame, and within a minute had disappeared into a fading pile of ash. Amidst its distress, the rest of them caught, until the whole wall was aflame. And Moony would haunt him no more.
The wall in front was Sirius. Sirius smiling, laughing, with ridiculous haircuts, with hats, dripping wet, on his broom, in dress robes, dancing, singing, snoring, and of course, transformed. The monstrous Grim seemed out of place among the lazy grins. The terror and fright of his last year as a rat had grown into enough bitterness to make Sirius worthy of destruction. This spell was a slicer, slowly cutting up the images, small pieces at a time, as the blood dripped and pooled. And then Padfoot was gone too.
A turn to the right brought images of James. The golden boy of Gryffindor. He even seemed to be haloed in most of the pictures. His wall was thick with James flying, and playing with the Snitch, becoming invisible, reading, eating, sleeping, swimming, in classes, in the corridors, on the roof. And central to it all was the glorious moon-bathed stag in front of the forest, possibly the most beautiful creature Peter had even seen, and the most skilled of his drawings. And in a foul swoop returned all his memories of James, mocking him, ignoring him, commanding him, excluding him, coercing him. And so it was without remorse that Peter watched the dark form of the Lethifold swallow up the radiance of Golden Boy, Sr., and cloud the moonlight and the magnificent antlers of Prongs.
But as the third wall cleared, before he could turn to the last, Peter remembered what it portrayed. Remembered, and felt the resolve in him dissipate. He turned cautiously, but he could not escape the terrible image that faced him. The buck disappeared from his memory as it had from the wall. For there was no way its merit held a candle to the larger-than-life perfection before him.
Lily hadn't wanted to pose for him. She wasn't feeling too well that day, and Sirius had made some sort of mess in the house that she wanted to be off cleaning. But Peter had pleaded with her, and with the final result they both realized it was worth it. She sat on a low hanging tree branch, leaning back with her eyes just open. The sun was setting behind her, turning her edges to a pure gold. Her hair spilled from her back over one shoulder, over a bosom grown expansive and a belly rounded with pregnancy. Even without the sunlight, she glowed that day. Glowed with peace, and love, and a purity that had melted them all around her.
And he knew, as he stared dumbly at the woman looking back at him, that he couldn't touch her. The boys had their faults, their shortcomings and blemishes. But Lily was innocent. She was generous, patient, helpful, the pinnacle of virtue. He hadn't meant for her to be killed. It was her fault, he considered, for aligning herself so poorly. He drew and pointed his wand hopefully. But he could not touch her. Whatever had happened in the past, she was his goddess, and goddesses must be worshiped. His wand dropped and he fell to his knees, weeping in the moonlight.
Disclaimer: I don't own him either.
Author's Note: This came at a suggestion from a friend (who knows who she is). It was a heck of a lot harder to write than the other two. It may have come out a little purpler than I intended to be - warn me if it did, and I'll try to change it. I think this will have to be the conclusion of it, unless anyone comes up with anyone else who needs some emotional completion. Till then, Jacy.