A Marauder To The Last
Part Three
Peter
The noises coming from the drawing room were awful. Pressing his lips together, Peter clamped his hands over his ears, hating the way the cold metal felt against his head. The Mudblood girl was screaming, again and again, unending and agonizing. It hurt just to hear her. Bellatrix was exceptionally adept at the Cruciatus Curse; Peter knew that all too well. He shuddered a bit at the memory, and was simply glad that it wasn't him this time.
Below the floor, a boy was shouting. "Hermione!" he roared, as if that could make a difference. It was the Weasley boy, Peter realized dimly, remembering all those years as his faithful companion. He felt a small pang- life as a rat had been demeaning, but not nearly as demeaning as this. He had certainly been more well fed.
The girl screamed again, and he remembered her hateful cat, an orange demon with claws at least as big as his head. He was the one who had given Peter away. Right now, Peter could be safe in a dormitory at Hogwarts, chewing on a carrot or a jelly bean. Sirius could still be in Azkaban, the Dark Lord could still be nothing more than a scattered shadow, and everything could have remained peaceful for everyone.
Yes, this entire war was the damned cat's fault. Peter fumed silently for another minute, until he realized that his thoughts were dangerously approaching treason. The Dark Lord did not deal mercifully with those who betrayed him, and Peter did not want to take the Mudblood's place shrieking and writhing on the floor. He had suffered it infinitely more times than she; let someone else take the fall for a little while.
The door creaked open, and the Malfoy boy poked his head in. From his days as Ron's companion, Peter remembered Draco being something of a self-important bully. Now, however, he only spoke when necessary, and generally hovered in the corners of rooms, looking pale and peaky. It seemed that war did not agree with him. He was a coward, just like Peter himself.
"They want you," he said quietly, jerking his head towards the drawing room. He disappeared once again, and Peter hurried after. It never did to keep the Malfoys waiting, and even less the Lestranges.
"Wormtail!" Bellatrix whirled on him, dark hair floating in a mad nebula around her white, cruel face. He shrank back involuntarily, and she sneered. "I heard something in the dungeon. Go investigate."
"Yes, Mistress," he mumbled, casting a baleful look at her the moment she turned her back. He hated that name. Wormtail. In his school days, it had been something of a joke. It was a nickname given to him by his three best friends in the world, two of whom were dead now and one who wanted very much to kill him. He swallowed back that unnamable emotion that flared up upon thought of Remus, who had always been kind to him whenever James and Sirius cast him aside like old socks. Patient, gentle Remus had always been there to help him with his homework- but then again, patient, gentle Remus had had an easy time of it, hadn't he? It probably made him feel self-important, such an altruistic soul, helping out poor, dumb Peter with his Transfiguration homework. After all, hadn't he too cast Peter out the moment they graduated? They were out in the real world, and now Remus was the one at a disadvantage, the dirty werewolf.
But despite the hatred he felt for his friends, dead and distant, Wormtail belonged to them. Peter might be a Death Eater now, but Wormtail, Moony, Padfoot and Prongs would always be Marauders. Bellatrix had no right to use that name.
He hated that witch.
Taking a deep breath, he descended into the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. It was probably the Weasley boy shouting again; did she expect their prisoners to be quiet and unobtrusive? No, Mistress Lestrange, we wouldn't want to cause you any more inconvenience than we already are by occupying your cellar. Please, take your time in killing us, as you're apt to do.
Standing outside the cellar door, Peter took out his wand and licked his lips nervously. "Stand back," he called. "Stand away from the door. I am coming in." No backing out now. Turning the knob, he pushed the door open and stepped in, waving his wand. The bright light blinded him momentarily- and where had that light come from?- and then rough hands were grabbing him, muffling his screams and trying to snatch away his wand.
The rat within struggled for dominance, panic signals flaring up across his brain, telling him to run, bite, claw, rip and tear- to do whatever he could to escape from the giants who were trying to kill him and steal his magic. His wand was spluttering and sparking, mirroring his rage and fear, and with his free hand he grabbed Harry's throat.
Much as he hated the metal hand most of the time, he had to admit it was much stronger than its counterpart. The trio struggled for purchase, the Weasley boy with a death-grip on his wand hand, and Harry's face turning blue as he kept his fingers firmly clamped over Peter's mouth.
"What is it, Wormtail?" Lucius' voice floated down the stairs and through the open door. Peter renewed his struggles, shouting vainly into Harry's hand.
"Nothing!" called the Weasley boy in a humiliatingly squeaky imitation of Peter. "All fine!" The older man fumed. He was not going to be bested by two boys who hadn't even finished school yet.
"You're going to kill me? After I saved your life?" Harry gasped out, green eyes locking onto brown. Those were Lily's eyes, James' hair. "You owe me, Wormtail!" Unbidden, his own words of four years ago sprang back into his mind. James would have understood, Harry... he would have shown me mercy... His fingers slackened, trembling with horror. Feeding the Dark Lord information was one thing; murdering James Potter with his own bare hands was another. Wait, no, not James... Harry, wasn't it? Yes, Harry...
The Weasley boy snatched his wand away, and Peter looked up at them in terror as it began to dawn on him. He had just betrayed Lord Voldemort. The very name made his knees tremble. On his forearm, the Dark Mark began to burn, and his metal hand moved towards him of its own accord, identical to the way it had moved towards Harry's throat.
"No," he whimpered, but how could he run from his own hand?
Cold steel tightened around his throat, crushing his windpipe with a powerful fist. Harry was shouting, and both boys were attempting to pull the hand away from his throat. Peter's vision faded in and out; could it be James, trying to save his life one last time? No, he had saved James. For once, he had saved James.
But he didn't want to die. He wasn't ready!
His legs gave way, and his heart not soon after.