For Pity

Peter bashing

Summary: What would you do for pity, what would you become if that which sustains and handicaps you, engulfs you?


For Pity

In the end, he knew he was a dead man anyways. He rubbed his chubby hands together nervously, pondering his choices, still in shock yet reeling from the power surge he felt.

JamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusLilyJamesJamesJamesJames…

He felt an inhumane smile cross his face, felt the harsh lines contort around his mouth. He found he could no help himself, a laugh broke free from his jaws, raw and hideous, betraying he fatal rat poison inside.

He laughed again, if Sirius could see me now, why, would he have the savage pleasure of looking upon a face so esteemed—twisted in an unparalleled rage? It was sweet satisfaction that the crime he so arduously performed, the child with a man's face would pay for.

Oh he could imagine Remus' confusion, he could just see the pitiful man-no, wolf who desired to be man—reel in bewilderment and delusion, heart heavy laden with sorrow. Sorrow for Lily, sorrow for, James.

He allowed his smile to drift in thought of James, his idol, his life, his very dream. Why, he had worshiped the very ground he walked upon yet still, it was not enough to join into the ranks of true friendship among them. He was not wanted; he was left out, grubby Peter who couldn't transform on his own, pudgy Peter that only received pity. You could even go so far as to say he lived for it, for the short attention that would fall on him, when beautiful eyes would gaze intensely, hurting—for him. Peter himself could never conjure that sentiment; he could not break away from raw adoration to even notice those who suffered more than he. But who really cared, Peter didn't, he was no lion. He could perform no great task; he sat there, hid in a cracked corner and begged, without any shred of dignity, for attention.

Ah, but he could see. He spent time observing people, you see. He noticed their fleeting eyes, the gestures that grew familiar, he noticed the love.

love,

What a strange word, strange that it should occur to him now that he never had any. He shrugged, he had not loved either, he had not cared, he would have been dismayed if James had ever been hurt, (which he was, consequently) but not devastated. He would breathe, pretend sadness, and let the pity flow; he would let it pour over him like a cold shell that held so much warmth. They would fawn over him in a disparity to not see him crumple, and he knew, he knew with another sadist smile, that they would pity him even now. Ha, he would enjoy this procession of sadness for his body; he would disfigure his body for it. His gaze turned to the bloody stump where his finger had once been, smiling.

He liked the look of blood; it was the only thing he felt he shared with others, the scarlet red tinge that stained pale flesh flecked with dark-crude hair. He wondered if; well, if Remus would find him, if the small boy (who oddly did not like pity) could understand. But no, Remus would not; he would want to believe it was Sirius, just for an explanation for his uncertainty. Remus, for all his virtues, could not trust someone to save his life, not even Sirius. He probably thought he did though, now, he would be set firm against it. Peter Pettigrew, the only one to grow old and fat, he would remain.

He would kill off the rest of the Marauders, he would. James, the beautiful boy, was now cold and lifeless, sitting in the rubble of his home, arms now limply hanging around the body of Lily, half of his face charred away, and her brilliant red hair burnt coarsely. She—who stole James away form them, away from, him.

I suppose love doesn't conquer all, for that is what I have done. I have conquered, I have overcome love.

That is what he thought, then. That is which he lived for, for which the pitiful rat took to his pathetic life of a pet rat, slave to a Weasly.

That is what drove him to become and conform to whatever duty was put to him, a rat, a worm, and conniving insane man, the ultimate betrayer.

That is what pushed that handsome man through the veil, the lovely black wisps of hair disappearing beneath the crimson curtain.

That is he who watched with unparalleled glee the utter anguish that crossed the boy's face when Sirius was engulfed in darkness.

That is what would lead to the exciting rat hunt, when the wolf would come out to hunt. This is when pity is discarded, and only a frigid contempt remains.

The wolf would come out to hunt, for the twelve long years that were wasted pointlessly.

The wolf would come out to hunt.

The wolf would come out to hunt.

The wolf would come out to hunt.

JamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusLilyJamesJamesJamesJames…

JamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusLilyJamesJamesJamesJames…

James, James, would that you should know it was me who finished the marauders; it was me that tore you apart. Pity me James, for I do not deserve it, pity me, pity, me, for I do not deserve it.

Delicate—it the potency of lies,

Swaying—beckons the temptation that binds.

Irrelevant love bound in its hate,

A decadent confession made far too late.

Blood staining crude hands,

Heeded lawless, feral demands.

Blood-red eyes speak the order,

Refusal worthless in the hazy border.

No light not dark, only power,

The lion so brave, reduced to cower.

The hate that consumed of violent malice,

Produces the boy, to be one so callous.