The Dark Lord marked him just as the year shifted from ripening to harvest. Peter cradled his arm to his chest, bitterness rising like bile in his throat.
The irony of it was a twisting knife alongside the pulsing pain of his arm. You reap what you sow. He didn't do himself the dishonour of wondering how it had come to this. At some point in a long line of bad decisions he had slipped, and now here he was, prostrating himself as he lied to the most powerful man in Britain.
"I'm working on getting the Secret for you in writing, my Lord. Everyone knows Sirius is the Potter's Secret Keeper, but he's fallible. He's much more likely to slip up to a friend than break under torture. It will be soon, my Lord."
The few seconds under the Cruciatus were expected. Peter screamed his pain and terror, knowing the abomination of a man reveled in the sound.
That was alright, though. Peter was used to how people laughed at him, he knew all about the joy in another's suffering. It was no different than a malicious prank, he told himself sternly. He'd had worse, and he'd even thought to have enjoyed it.
Peter was dismissed swiftly after that, giving him barely enough time to straighten his mask and crawl to his feet. The Dark Lord was a busy man, even his plans likely had secret agendas. Peter's only responsibility was to get him a stupid cloak.
As if Malfoy didn't have enough money to buy a new invisibility cloak for their lord, one that wasn't 'stained by the stench of blood-traitors'. Surely the Hallows couldn't be more than a story.
Peter's only other responsibility was to his old friends, the ones he barely saw nor spoke with anymore. He had come up with a plan to get the Dark Lord into Potter Cottage, as ordered, so that they could steal the cloak and leave with no harm done. Prongs would be devastated, but he'd buy himself a new cloak, a better one with fresh charms. Nobody would get hurt.
A victimless betrayal, so to speak. The perfect crime.
These things Peter told himself when he had time to think about what he was going to do, what he was in the process of doing.
The rest of his time was spent not-thinking about things, because though he wasn't as clever as his friends he wasn't stupid either. The roiling pit of worms in his stomach didn't let him forget it, pulsing in tandem to the angry black mark on his arm.
This was wrong. It was betrayal. It didn't matter if the Potter family survived, they'd never forgive him.
He'd be alone.
But an angry voice in the back of his head would answer. They betrayed me first. They're just using me. What kind of friends are they anyway?
Peter wasn't stupid, he knew hearing voices was a bad thing. So he let the worms fester unseen and made damn sure to keep himself very, very busy.
Frank Longbottom taught him healing spells, letting him help patch up the Order members when they returned from raids.
Malfoy sent Goyle's wife Priscilla to help him in the shop, so Peter taught her all about the sales side of things while he focused on enchanting. He made sure not to see the increasing number of walk-in customers, nor hear how trunk orders were interspersed with messages about times, dates, and targets. It was none of his business, he'd decided. And ironically, business was booming.
As for his friends—he barely saw them. Remus was still away and Sirius was busy being reckless, pretending he wasn't mourning his brother. The nature of the Fidelius Charm meant Peter could only visit the Potter property once a month. A year ago when Dumbledore had explained it to them it had made a perverted sense: how many friends did people have that they could trust with their secret but were willing to see only twelve times a year? It made the Fidelius an unpopular protection, and hence one that no curse-breakers had bothered to specialise in. In short, it kept James, Lily and little Harry safe.
Peter had hated it before, had hated not being able to see what a small part of him had thought of as his family. But he relished in it now, because he had only one visit left before Samhain. Less than a day of pretending things were fine, he was fine, they were all fine.
Sirius and James filled the cottage with their roughshod laughter, Lily relaxed in the corner reading law books and sending them occasional admonishments. Peter sat and basked in it, in the normalcy of it, in the way he was finally right in the middle of things only to realise he was very very far away.
He bounced Harry on his lap in the kitchen, listening to the boy's stubborn silence. The portraits explained all about how odd the boy was, how he didn't like this and wouldn't do that. As if portraits had any right to pretend at parenting. Eventually he transformed into a rat and curled up on the toddler's chest, feeling the way it rose and fell akin to stubborn bellows.
Harry was too hot and his grip was too tight but it felt comforting somehow. Like they were kindred spirits that didn't quite fit in with the rest of the world.
xoxox
The Dark Lord's triumph washed over him like a tsunami. Peter staggered, almost dropping the parchment in his hands. He'd spent a week pouring over some of Sirius' letters and another week practicing to make it look just right.
The Potters live at number three, Coleford Road, Godric's Hollow.
Lord Voldemort was cackling his delight while Peter's chest was sinking, sinking. He might as well be drowning in his own disappointment.
But the Dark Lord evidently had a spy in Dumbledore's ranks, or at least a source who confirmed Peter's knowledge that the cloak would be back with the Potters in October. Peter had managed to delay the raid on the house until Samhain, at least. He knew the Order had a get-together planned at Hogwarts, some kind of memorial service in honour of their fallen. Peter had excused himself citing work, lest they foist babysitting duties onto him.
This was it. Tonight was the night.
The Dark Lord was holding out his hand, inhuman chuckles still escaping from grey-tinged lips.
Making sure not to recoil, Peter reached out and touched milky skin. He had taught himself to side-along someone just for this.
They appeared in Godric's Hollow with a tremendous CRACK. A group of teens guising nearby shrieked their surprise before carrying on. The Dark Lord was staring hungrily at the cottage, still radiating his glee.
Peter turned to follow—
The house wasn't empty.
The house wasn't empty.
He caught the gate before it could swing back into place. The wrought iron was rough under his fingertips but he couldn't tell if it was cold.
A yellow light was on in the kitchen. Peter could see a shadow against the tulle curtain.
The Dark Lord rang the doorbell. It was like Peter was in a dream, falling backwards, his stomach jolting out of place.
It wasn't a dream. Peter didn't wake up. He could hear voices from very far away.
Take Harry and run.
(I thought you were a Gryffindor.)
Peter lurched forwards.
He was too late.
xoxox
Peter's heart felt like it was being crushed as he moved through the house. Finite Incantatem hadn't worked and he didn't know what other counter to try.
So he pulled himself together and ignored it the best he could, his breath coming in great, shuddering bursts.
The nursery door was gone, replaced by the reek of death.
Pulling himself together didn't seem to be working very well. He had to move, he had to move. They would be coming soon. The whole roof had exploded, the place would be swarming with people.
Little Harry was staring right through him, his eyes the wrong shade of deathly green. Oh gods, oh gods—the weight on Peter's chest kept getting heavier and he didn't know what curse this was—
A crack of apparition outside reverberated through him. Peter snatched the ring and wand off the floor; it was all that remained of the Dark Lord. He covered himself with James' cloak and huddled in the corner gasping for air.
He could hear the sound of someone making their way up the wooden stairs, barely audible over the thud-thud-thud of his racing heart. Peter forced himself to breathe. In, out. Slowly. Quietly .
Severus Snape stumbled in through the door. His eyes, always so cold and black, were blinking back tears.
"No," the man choked. "Lily, no —"
Peter watched him collapse. It was awful, ugly, and private, but he couldn't make himself turn away. There was something fitting about the man's anguish; it seemed only right for her to be grieved so intensely.
Lily's neck lolled unnaturally as Severus clutched her to his chest. Green, terrified, empty eyes seemed to be staring right at Peter, crouched in his corner under the cloak.
The curse crushing his chest got neither better, nor worse. It just was , heavy and numb and cold, so cold.
Snape got up suddenly, setting Lily down. Her limbs splayed across the floor, taking up so much more space than…before. Snape swept one last unseeing look around the nursery and brushed his fingers through her hair.
With a swirl of his cloak and a crack, he was gone.
Peter jolted. He could hear now what Snape must have, the telltale sputtering of Sirius' motorbike. Time to move, time to run.
Pocketing the Dark Lord's things, Peter stood and fastened the cloak. "I'm so sorry Harry," he whispered.
The boy began to wail.
Peter's heart clenched painfully. He knew he deserved it, deserved so much worse—
More footsteps were pounding up the stairs. He could feel his knees shaking, his body was drenched in sweat and he was freezing. Whether he deserved it or not, he wasn't ready to greet Death. "I'll bring back your daddy's cloak, I swear it," he whispered, then disapparated.
He barely had a minute at Master Whittaker's to gather a few meager things. He summoned them haphazardly into his own enchanted trunk.
"PETER!"
Sirius' voice thundered through the shop, accompanied by the sound of a shattering window. "I'm going to kill you."
The growled threat was even more terrifying than the yell. Peter felt for his connection to the shop wards and let them fall, apparating away again.
To his mum's old house. To Hogsmeade. To the graveyard his parents were buried in. To Godric's Hollow—shit bad idea, bad idea—
To the place they'd holidayed once in Cornwall; it had been the last time they'd been a proper family.
It was late and he was so tired, but no, he should go somewhere muggle. One more jump.
To the park by Lily's old muggle home. Nobody would think to look for him here, surely—
There was a cloaked figure sitting on one of the swings. The man looked up. Snape, Peter's mind supplied helpfully, but he was already disapparating.
He missed his next landing. Peter hadn't really been sure where he'd been going, just away. Carefully, he patted himself down. At least there was nothing missing. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest, like a desperate sparrow that knew it was about to die.
By the time he registered the spit pooling in his mouth it was too late. Peter retched, then turned around and heaved again.
He felt empty, cold, disgusting. He knew he couldn't run anymore.
It was time to hide.
He gathered James' cloak around him and began to walk, looking for somewhere warm and dry. The lights of a petrol station blinked warmly up the street, beckoning with a loo and cigarettes.
Peter was halfway through the door when he realised his trunk was gone, left behind on one of his apparation jumps. He froze in place, searching his pockets in vain. He had no money. The attendant's eyes were already boring holes in him. Peter looked up, shrugged with a meek 'What can you do?' smile and left.
No muggle money. No friends on either side to protect him. No friends at all, his mind corrected helpfully. He couldn't use magic; Sirius would be able to trace it.
Just a dead man's cloak around his shoulders and the Dark Lord's wand burning a metaphorical hole in his pocket.
He had never felt so alone.
Peter walked and walked until dawn bloomed across the slivers of sky between buildings. He walked until the sidewalks became busy and his eyelids drooped. And then, just barely dodging some lady about to bump into him, Peter saw his salvation.
"Pet Palace," the sign pronounced.
Peter slipped inside. If there was one thing left to him, it was being a rat.
The door chimed cheerfully. "We don't open until nine!" a chipper voice called from the back. The room smelled of dry dog food, clean sawdust, and fresh coffee.
There was a supply cupboard with its door open. Wrapping the cloak around the Dark Lord's things, Peter placed the bundle on a dusty top shelf. Then he let himself shrink until the world became smaller, narrower, simpler. Smellier.
Wormtail began to groom himself frantically.
A startled gasp interrupted him. Couldn't he get a moment's peace? "A rat!" the voice cried.
He pulled in his tongue from where he'd been licking his paw.
"Hello poppet. How did you get out?" the voice said, thawing. Wormtail let it approach, holding still as gentle hands scooped him up and dumped him on fresh newspapers. There was a bowl of food, a water bottle-thing, and some bedding in the corner.
It was, quite frankly, heavenly. Wormtail was asleep before his tail could curl properly around himself.
xoxox
He should have known Sirius would find him here, too. Wormtail had barely gotten a day's rest when the man stormed in, madness in his eyes. "You're selling me that rat," he announced, talking over the lady's protests. "Now. Confundus."
Great big hands reached out and grasped him. Wormtail wet himself in fright.
"I've got you now, you rat," Sirius spat. "You're going to wish your mother never birthed you."
"E-Excuse me," the shopkeeper said, "what's wrong with you?"
"Obliviate," Sirius snarled, then they were disapparating.
Wormtail bit the hand holding him when they landed, transforming even as Sirius dropped him on the ground. He splashed into a puddle, quickly righting himself and drawing his wand. Had Sirius taken them outside the Leaky Cauldron? There were muggles here—
"Expelliarmus," Sirius snarled. "Levicorpus. Sectumsempra. Crucio. "
Peter ducked, scrabbling backwards. "Sirius, please—" This was it, he was going to die. He thought of his mother, how she had died at the bottom of the stairs with nothing but fairy lights to keep her company.
A Bombarda ripped past. Suddenly heat flared behind him, singeing his rain-damp hair. The sound was deafening. Pain bloomed, as though his wand had exploded in his hand.
Peter cried out. He wished he were dead, wished things were simpler, wished to feel anything but the burning. He let himself shrink, his vision narrowing. He could smell a storm drain, ripe with leaves and litter. Wormtail dove in.
His ears were still ringing. His pulse was racing. The water rushed around him, sink or swim? The sound of Sirius' mad laughter echoed loudest of all.
Peter's mother had told him bedtime stories about London's ancient sewer system, stories of snakes and crocodiles. Yet it was the water itself which was going to kill him now, battering him around like…like a small, lonely rodent in a very strong current.
He wasn't ready to die. Wormtail transformed back into Peter, suddenly able to stand waist-deep in the muddy water.
The air was the sweetest he had breathed in all twenty years of his life.
He pulled himself onto a narrow ledge and took stock: he was wet and shivering, half his hair had been singed off, and one of his shoes was gone. All that was left of his wand was a splinter lodged deep in his left hand. He was missing an entire finger. His friends hated him, Voldemort had killed James and Lily, he'd lost everyone and everything he'd ever cared about.
And fuck, it hurt. He cried as he tugged the splinter out and wrapped his shirt around what was left of his hand. Peter cradled it to his chest, perched on a stone ledge in a storm drain. He listened to the water rush by and heard Sirius' ringing laughter.
He should have just died. Anything would be better than this—even nothing at all.
His sobs echoed around him until they calmed to sniveling, and finally, restless snores.
xoxox
It took two days for the bleeding to stop. By then, the gripping pain of infection convinced Peter to leave his storm drain for the world above.
He didn't have to make it far. The muggle healers picked him up in a small bus that screamed with blue lights. They must have given him something for the pain, too, because the sharp all-encompassing changed to a terrible throbbing. His thoughts didn't get any clearer, though.
It looked like the bobbies' hats were dancing. Peter reached out, wondering if they were as hard as they looked.
The hole in his hand got patched up. They gave him food and a change of clothes. And the next day they returned with round faces and sharp questions.
"No, it was an accident, I swear it was an accident. Please, I don't want to press charges. I don't want to make a statement. Please—"
The bobbies left him alone after a while. Peter's nurses stopped letting him have the painkillers, but it wasn't so bad anymore. He couldn't remember what it felt like not to be hurt, or scared, or running.
In the middle of the day, when nobody was paying attention, Peter crept away while thanking every god, faerie, and lucky star for the NHS.
He spent the next four weeks visiting each Pet Palace in the East and West Midlands on foot until he found the kind lady with the gentle hands, and the Deathly Hallows perched on the top shelf of her supplies closet.
He spent exactly two days tracking down Harry Potter. 'Safe in the muggle world,' Dumbledore's arse; Lily's sister had married Vernon Dursley. Dursley was listed in the bloody phone book.
The rest of it was rather more...complicated.
xoxox
The first time Peter approached Surrey, he was suddenly on an urgent mission to the Leaky Cauldron, desperate to catch up on the news.
SIRIUS BLACK IN AZKABAN the headline read. Peter scowled to himself, ignoring how his insides wriggled like trapped calamari.
He'd made a vow to return Harry's cloak and he wasn't going to let some distraction ward stop him.
The second time he tried a sneakier approach. He walked in circles around the address with a map, figuring out the protection's boundaries by trial and error. He found out where Mr. Dursley worked and found a market where Mrs. Dursley shopped. Then he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Petunia Dursley didn't visit that market again.
…
The third time Peter approached Surrey he was alarmed to realise the edges of the wards had shrunken back drastically. When he'd previously been unable to reach the neighbouring streets, he made it all the way to Wisteria Walk this time—only to be swarmed by kneazles.
Peter hated kneazles. It took his knees an hour to stop wobbling.
On Harry's second birthday, all of Peter's waiting finally paid off. Petunia left a napping Harry in the car, promising him she'd be right back. Leading her own son by his pudgy hand, she went briskly into the shops.
Peter approached quickly, knowing he wouldn't have long. Harry was scowling in his sleep, strapped in a child's seat, and tucked under a light woolen blanket. How could they not know Harry hated wool?
"Hullo," Peter greeted gently, only for the boy to start wailing. "Shhh, shhh," he soothed through the cracked window. "It's alright Harry. Please stop crying?"
Harry cut off abruptly, staring at Peter's nose the same way he always had with his bright, bright eyes. Peter ducked his head down to meet them, but Harry's seemed to look right through him—under his skin. The judgement of a toddler was an odd and uncomfortable sensation.
It was all the more unnerving that Harry didn't say anything. Peter shuddered, chilled despite the warm July drizzle. "I'm so sorry, Harry," he whispered, then glanced around furtively. At least the boy wasn't crying.
"Get away from my car!"
Peter startled so hard the cloak almost slipped from his hands. He ducked, covering himself with it and rolling beneath the neighbouring van.
Petunia got in her car and drove away so fast she almost backed into a lamppost.
xoxox
The next time Peter approached number four, Privet Drive, he made it all the way to the garden gate. Stunned, he plopped down to sit on the low wall marking the property line. He'd never seen wards so strong deteriorate so quickly; it filled him with worry.
It wasn't safe. Harry wasn't safe. He had to protect Harry.
With a start, he felt the wards touch him with a curious tendril of magic. He's not safe, Peter tried to project. Can't you see? Anyone could come here.
For a moment Peter felt like he was falling backwards off a rocking chair. He closed his eyes on instinct.
When he opened them he was inside the wards.
"Huh," he said to himself. Tucking his things under the hedgerow, Peter shrunk into Wormtail and headed into the house.
xoxox
Peter had always liked muggles. They were fascinating, the way they scuttled about their ordinary lives doing all the same things, just in strangely unmagical ways. It had always seemed so miraculous how much they managed to do without a lick of magic.
Lily had indulged him often when the others were off marauding. She'd been patient and kind, showing him the underground and the television and the toaster. Everything had been delightful, fascinating, innovative.
The Dursleys, on the other hand, were completely, utterly, totally normal . They lacked every creative instinct, choosing instead to live like drones, or ants.
Mr. Dursley had an unimaginative job. Mrs. Dursley was a mundane housewife. Dudley Dursley was a dull child, though 'Dudley Dursley's Desserts' would have made an excellent name for a bakery down Diagon.
Harry had never been normal. He fit into the family like a wooden block with a jigsaw puzzle. Or a grapefruit and a jigsaw puzzle. Or anything but a puzzle piece, really.
It was obvious Petunia tried. She fed her son, then cleaned up the mess that Harry had tossed to the floor. She washed and changed them, entirely perplexed when Harry screamed at the sensation of running water on his skin. She cooed and sweet-talked both children, delighting in her son's animated responses while staring forlornly at her nephew's refusal to communicate by anything other than wails.
She cooked, she cleaned, and every night she went to bed exhausted.
But not before tucking Dudley into his bed, and tucking Harry into a crib. In the cupboard. Under the stairs.
It took less than a day of watching for Peter to understand why the wards had let him in: things were very much not alright.
A week after Harry's second birthday a rat crawled into Harry's cupboard. It promptly turned into a man and let fairy lights dance off the tips of his nine fingers.
For the first time since Halloween, everyone at Privet Drive slept through the night.
Well, everybody except the rat.
xoxox
Harry became calmer after that. He'd eventually learn to use the loo, how to feed himself, how to look almost at Petunia's face when she talked to him.
He didn't speak until his third Halloween. "Be good Harry," he parroted, voice soft. "Look at me." And while Dudley would say things like yes, no, give me, mine, or, look mummy, a car like daddy's! , Harry would stare at his cupboard, grasping towards nothing and saying, "My Ratty!"
Petunia only wrung her hands helplessly, at a loss for how to reach him at all.