A/N: The credit of the Harry Potter plot and characters belongs solely to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing of it but my own words.
I've officially been writing fanfiction for a year! Thank you to everyone who has read my stories, as crappy as some of them have been! I really feel like I've improved a lot as I write since I began doing this, and I cannot be more grateful to you all.
For nostalgia's sake, let's go back to how this all started.
Traitor: In Defense of Peter Pettigrew
Peter Pettigrew was good at surviving. People called him weak, they called him talentless, they said he was stupid, foolish, coward. People never expected him to prove them so wrong.
Peter knew how life worked, and he knew he'd drawn the short straw. He knew his place on the totem pole, and he knew how to navigate it.
He was not brave nor handsome nor charming. He was not the smartest or the coolest or the most likeable. He couldn't play Quidditch (or even fly), and his teachers considered him a hopeless student. People have mourned him, have regretted their harsh words, have pitied him, but have they ever considered that he was so much more than he was ever made out to be?
They call him unremarkable, simple, and yet he was so complex he stumped the Sorting Hat. They call him weak, stupid, but he sure knew how to choose the right friends. They call him talentless, but has anyone else fooled an entire world so well? Has anyone else disappeared so completely? They call him a traitor, and he was. He was a traitor until the day he died.
They say there four Marauders, and perhaps there were, but there were only three best mates. Three best mates and a fangirl pledge themselves brothers for life . . . what a joke. Peter was a portable audience, an available set of hands to applaud at the right moment. He was not one of them. Not even close.
He'd tried to be, once. He'd seen these three, the coolest blokes in school, and he'd thought he was one of them, that he belonged. He'd thought they were his friends.
For six years, he'd felt safe. Useful. Lupin needed them, and they needed him. The entire scheme rested on Peter's Animagus form. He was the only one who could grant access past the Willow.
More than that, he understood them. They understood him. They laughed with him, groaned in sympathy at his struggles, helped him. He supported them, cheered them on, carried out the grunt work.
Then they came, and they whispered in his ear, and suddenly it all made sense. They weren't laughing with him; they were laughing at him. They didn't sympathize with him; they groaned at the sound of his whining. They helped him out of pity. And they used him.
They said all these things, and it was clear. Peter understood, really, truly. He knew he'd been fooling himself all these years. He felt betrayed. He felt threatened, abused. (How ironic that would turn out to be.)
Come to our side, they said, and we will appreciate you. We will put your skill to great use. We will know how important you are. You will be important, powerful. You will win. (And the unsaid: he will live.)
Peter's always been good at surviving.
He was a traitor, yes, but in his mind, really, they'd betrayed him first.
So when he charged into battle beside his "friends," he didn't get hurt. Even when Marlene got killed, Dorcas, Benjy, Fab, Gid. And when people didn't care enough to order him out of the room for the suspicious information, he took advantage. And when his "mates" scoffed and rolled their eyes behind his back, he saw it. And he knew.
Even to their deaths, they underestimated him. Poor, puny Peter, can't even cast a Patronus. Stupid, foolish Peter, no one will suspect. Yes, weak, talentless Peter, our secret's safe with him.
Oh, how wrong they were.
So James and Lily died, and Peter didn't, because he knew what they didn't. He knew that light was futile when darkness would always get there first, would always linger, would always win. He knew good wasn't as great as it claimed to be, but bad wasn't quite so terrible either.
All these years of losing wizard's chess, and he'd won the game that truly mattered, killed the queen without even being caught. No one suspects the pawn. Checkmate, Prongs. You'll never taunt me again.
Then Sirius found him.
The look in his eyes, so broken and hurt and betrayed, sent him crashing back down to earth. He knew that look. He'd worn it. And then it hits him. Merlin, what has he done? Sure, James was arrogant, but he'd saved his life, all those years ago. Kept bullies away and made him feel important. And Lily, she was so sweet. She'd never wronged him. And Harry.
He wished Harry had died. He'd meant them all to die. All of them. James and Lily and Harry and Sirius and Remus. He'd never wanted this.
They were supposed to die.
And Sirius, before him, scared and devastated and furious, and he just thinks, I'm sorry, but I can't change this. Don't you see? It's too late. We're too late. And he has to get out of this, has to leave, has to hide. No one's particularly happy with him right now, not on either side. So he runs. He runs and he hides, and his escape is flawless.
Peter's always been good at surviving. But not living.
For twelve years, he hides and cowers and survives, and no one ever thinks to incriminate him. When his cover is blown, Peter is almost relieved. No more pretending. Peter hates pretenders.
With James and Remus and Sirius, they'd hidden their true opinions of him behind pity and false kindness. He'd much rather be mocked to his face, which is what comes out of following the Dark Lord. No deception. No chance of being hurt. A new kind of safety.
Harry looks just like his father, did you know that? Peter thinks of it often; time is all he ever seems to have. Just like James, but — but kinder. And sometimes Peter thinks maybe he chose wrong.
But he chose, nonetheless, and now he must stick with it. So he grovels, and he kills, and he resurrects his master. And then he waits. Waits to be useful again. Waits through more torment and spite. It's what's necessary to survive.
Peter's good at that, you know.
Peter Pettigrew was a traitor, through and through, until the day he died. He'd betrayed his friends, his secrets, himself, and that day, he betrayed his Lord.
He understood what it meant, you know. Sometimes, to live, someone else has got to die. He learned that lesson a long time ago. He just never thought he'd be on the other end of it.
Peter Pettigrew was good at surviving, until he wasn't.