The Ivy Marauder
Was it worth it? Peter thought. He glared at the silver hand, such a solid reminder of all that had changed. It was this, again. Aloneness. Always alone, and never known. Right from the beginning he had sought out the protection of those bigger and tougher than him, because he had always known that he was neither big nor tough and he would need that help. Could he, in all honesty, be blamed?
And after it all, he was alone again.
When Peter was five years old his older brother had died. Peter had felt so alone, and the pain had never left him. Afterwards, he had clung to his father like ivy to a wall, holding on for dear life, knowing that he could lift himself on this wall, find the sunlight he sought so far above, and the wall, his father, would be there as long as he was.
And then he went to school. His father had seen him off at Kings Cross and Peter, being the frightened and confused child that he was, had nearly cried with the anguish of it all. He stepped onto the train, put his trunk away in the compartment, and sat down. The place was empty. He was alone.
And then, marvel of marvels. A boy had sat down across from him, with black hair and glasses. The boy was nice, so nice. And he was strong, Peter could see that from the get-go. He was strong and kind and he was happy, so plainly happy, to be Peter's friend. James was his friend.
They had been sorted into their houses, and Peter met the other two boys in Gryffindor that year. Sirius Black, strong like James. And Remus. He seemed so timid, but Peter had learned to recognise strength, and he saw it in Remus. He saw the strength inside, not the muscle on the bone.
As the years went by, he knew the strength, and he learned it. These three boys taught Peter strength. They even gave him the strength to survive his father's death. The fall of his wall, and he became, for a time, nothing but ivy scattered on the ground, no place to climb.
Slowly, brick by brick, the boys taught him how to build his own wall. It was a small one, but Peter had his own self, his own existence, his own strength. And he had another three walls to stand with him.
Then school was gone. James lived with Lily, Remus and Sirius lived together always. Suddenly, without his friends to keep him standing, Peter's wall seemed so very small, so very weak. And then Voldemort came, and the foundations of his whole world shook, and the last few remaining bricks fell and he was, again, ivy scattered on the ground.
Can one blame a creature such as he for clinging to whatever presented itself? His whole life, he had needed that strength to come from someone else. In his hour of need, his time of loneliness, the strength appeared and he grasped at it. It led to the end of all that he loved, all that he held to, and he was, for such a long time, alone again, though cared for so lovingly by a family who knew not of his dreadful past. The Weasleys saw nothing in him more than a scared creature desperately needing their care. And they gave it to him, an act for which he would be forever grateful, despite what they might feel and think about him now.
Now. Such a strange thing to ponder. Now… the accumulation of all things past, standing on the brink of the next, simply awaiting tomorrow. But he would have no tomorrow. This, the now, was his end, and he knew it full well. He knew it, and he invited it.
Regret is not as strong a word as Peter sought, but regret was all that came to mind. At the end of it all, in this forsaken reality, Peter could but think one thing as he cursed Voldemort and all his followers. Those blessed few words which, above all, he wished he could hear spoken again, which he had treasured through it all. The sacred image of James, a comforting arm around Peter's shoulder as they walked back to the castle, another successful mission under their belt.
"Marauders till the end, eh, Pete? Marauders till the end."