"Well?"

He stared, trembling, down the length of the slender, white wand. It was almost comical. Something so small—practically just a stick, really—could so easily take his life away from him. So quickly, he could be ripped from his body, thrust into the world beyond life. How someone could simply end him, right here, right now. He had always had a gift in recognizing irony. He might have laughed aloud if fear hadn't seized his voice box, if terror hadn't taken his throat in its icy grasp and squeezed until he could hardly breathe.

He could feel a distinct lump in his throat, and he swallowed it, pressing his eyes tightly shut.

"I- I- I…"

"Yes?"

He couldn't.

He swallowed again, cracking his eyes open for a brief moment. Those eyes, hard, severe, narrow. Perhaps it was the lighting in his flat, but against that pale skin, those eyes glowed an eerie red—filled with anger, and hatred, and something else. His eyes snapped shut again.

No, no. He just couldn't.

"Crucio!"

A scream tore through his throat. Pain—searing, ripping, stabbing pain—exploded through his entire body. From his toenails to the longest hair on his head, every atom of his being seemed to have caught fire. His head reeled. His shouts caught in his throat, and he twisted, trying desperately to reposition or reform himself—anything to escape the pain. For what felt like hours, he screamed, he sobbed, he pleaded, until all at once, the pain disappeared and he found himself staring at his orange carpet. He had somehow ended up on the floor, and was drenched in his own sweat. Trembling, he sat back up, his eyes glued to a pair of pale, misshapen, bare feet.

"Well?"

Through his peripherals, he could see droplets of sweat falling from his brow. He could feel them rolling down either side of his face. He could taste their saltiness on his lips. He had to make a choice, and he had to make it now. Kill, or be killed. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, chewing on it nervously. He couldn't kill. It wasn't in his nature. He had always been kind, caring, albeit a little clingy. And he was loyal. His devotion knew no bounds. He had signed up for this—he was responsible for keeping his bleeding mouth shut, even if it would end in his death.

He released his lip from between his teeth. "No," he breathed. "I-I can't."

He felt the torturous curse before he heard its incantation. As a matter of fact, he didn't recall hearing it at all. All he could remember was that same sudden, blinding pain. Each and every one of his muscles contracted, throwing him into a bout of spasms. He could hear his voice filling his otherwise pleasant sitting room, he could feel the pulsing hatred from the tip of the wand pointed in his direction. But somehow, he felt detached from it all—though he was aware of the pain, it suddenly wasn't as severe. Though he was aware of his own screaming, he didn't feel it splitting through his body. He was more aware of the carpet, which smelled faintly of cats. He was more aware of his mortality. With every second that passed, he was slipping further and further away.

And then, for the second time, it all stopped without warning. Suddenly, he returned to himself, his face pressed firmly into the floor, his arms wrapped around his body. He couldn't even be sure whether the moisture rolling down his cheeks was sweat or tears. They were equally probable.

He had been slipping away, possibly toward insanity. He had read in the Prophet about Frank and Alice, a pair of his classmates, who had been tortured into the loony bin. And both Frank and Alice were stronger than him, and much more capable. If they had been overtaken so easily, what chance did he stand? At least they had left the situation with their lives—he wouldn't be so lucky. If he didn't think of something, if he didn't do something, he was done for. It one stylistic gesture of the wand, this man—this monster—would finish him.

"I'm going to ask you once more," the shrill voice bounced between his ears, filling him with a cold, awful sort of dread.

"Please!" he screamed, sobbing into the faded orange. "Anything."

"You know what you have to do, Wormtail."

He clenched his teeth—the nickname his friends had given him. He was mocking him, toying with his supper before he scooped it into his mouth. He was dangling that tiny little portion of hope in front of his eyes, that hope for acceptance, just before he could rip it away and revel in his cruel joke.

"You'll kill me either way," he said breathlessly, not daring to lift himself back up from the floor.

The Dark Lord knelt down beside him, prodding his exposed neck with his wand. He could feel his entire body tense. "Tsk, tsk." He rose again, now prodding him with his long toes. He squeaked, rolling over onto his back and staring up at that pale, hateful face. "One thing is for certain: if you don't tell me, I will most certainly kill you." His trembling became exponentially more violent. "But if you do," the pale face smirked, and the man attached to it raised his arms in the air, as though there was to be some brilliant flash of lightning, "you will become one of my most respected Death Eaters."

There was no lightning, but there most certainly was some effect.

His ears seemed to perk up. "R-respected?" he repeated, staring up at him.

He sneered. "Why, yes, of course," his tone became sickeningly sweet—but instead of hitting the ear like melted honey, it came out almost like spoiled milk. "And that is all you've ever wanted, isn't it?" He knew that he had found his niche. "Respect?"

"I-I-"

"They've never respected you, and you've always known it."

He sat up, defiant. "That's not true!"

"Really, now?" He swept past Peter, distastefully eyeing the floral furniture that decorated the quaint little sitting room. "Whom did Potter choose as his son's godfather?"

"Sirius," he said slowly.

"And who is next in line for their next child?"

He lowered his eyes. They all knew the answer to that, and the answer certainly wasn't, 'Peter.' Sirius was James' best mate. Merlin, they had even lived together for over a year! And Remus, well… Remus was reliable, dependent. Remus was sturdy, stable. Remus Lupin was the type of man that would know how to raise a child—that would raise him right. So where did that leave Peter? At the bottom of list, every time.

"What makes you think they care about you?"

He lifted his gaze, his eyebrows pulled together. "They trust me."

The Dark Lord gave a cruel little chuckle. He smirked. "And you weren't their first choice in Secret Keeping, either, were you?"

James and Lily had originally agreed upon Sirius. He pursed his lips, pushing himself to his feet and crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He might not have been their first choice, but he was their final choice. They entrusted him, and him alone, with their secret location. They gingerly handed their fates, and the fate of their young son, to him.

A small smile tugged at his thin lips. James and Lily had produced quite the offspring—a feisty little man with the hair of his father, and the bright, wide, emerald eyes of his mother. Peter had never really considered having children, not until he laid his eyes on Baby Harry for the first time. There was such light in his tiny smile, so much life in his bright eyes. He couldn't wait to watch the young boy grow into a man whose good moral character rivaled even that of his father's. He couldn't cut such a prosperous, limitless life so short. Harry had so much in store for him, and some prophecy couldn't change that.

"Why do you think they chose you, Wormtail?" the Dark Lord swept past him.

"Because they trust me," he said curtly, through a set of tightly clenched teeth.

"Really?"

"Yes."

There was a short silence, and slowly, the cloaked, pale figure turned back toward him, an evil grin ruthlessly overtaking his taught face. "I think it was a little more strategic than that."

His eyes narrowed with skepticism. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, circling around him, resting a long-fingered hand upon his shoulder, "that the Potters chose you for another reason." Peter's breath became heavier, his infamous temper rising like bile in his throat. "They knew that I would suspect Black. They even knew that I might suspect the werewolf. But not you. Why is that?"

He didn't say anything, but he could feel the colour rising in his cheeks—he could feel new droplets of sweat forming in his hairline, and the Dark Lord's ragged breath on his neck.

"Why is that?" he repeated.

"I don't know."

"Perhaps," he breathed, "because they've never seen you as a friend, at all."

Peter pulled away, shaking his head, his eyes wide. "No, that's not-!"

"Not what?"

"They-"

"They what?" he demanded, sweet demeanor all but disappeared. "You've followed Potter and Black around for years, fawning over their every word, carrying out orders." Peter could only stare at him. "You were useful to them—that's why they kept you around!"

He opened his mouth to object, but the words wouldn't come. His lips simply couldn't form them. He had never quite seen their relationship from that perspective. But over the years, he had received a great deal of teasing, and he had carried out loads of orders. He was nothing to James but an errand boy, someone whose service was nice to have around, but wasn't crucial. The whole idea was hard to swallow. He shut his mouth again, gently shaking his head again, but this time with much less confidence.

"You don't mean anything to them, Peter."

"I do," he said quietly, his confidence in his position fading with every passing second.

"You don't."

He swallowed, staring into those crimson eyes. Suddenly, he recognized something else within them: it was desperation. The Dark Lord needed to find James, to find Harry. He didn't get some sick pleasure out of tracking down families with small children; Harry was prophesized to overthrow him, to kill him.

"Tell me where they are, Peter."

His arms fell, involuntarily to his sides. "I-I can't."

"Tell me where they are, and I will give you all of the respect, all of the recognition that you deserve." His eyes narrowed expectantly.

Peter closed his dark eyes, chewing on his lip. What the Dark Lord was saying just couldn't be true. James cared about him. Sirius and Remus cared about him. Even Lily cared about him. They were friends, they were all best friends. It couldn't have been a lie; the last nine years of his life couldn't have been an illusion. He thought back to James' wedding of all things, watching from the end of the line of groomsmen while James gently took Lily's hands into his own and pressed a kiss to her lips. He recalled grinning, clapping his hands ferociously beside Remus as Lily turned to James' closest friends. She wrapped her arms tightly around Sirius, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. She took Remus' head and pressed her lips to his forehead, before turning to Peter. She grinned at him, brushing his hair out of his eyes and giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder before racing back down the aisle, hand-in-hand with her new husband. Then, he hadn't considered the lack of affection unsettling. But now he did. It, and many other instances like it, was indicative of a problem. He was the lesser of the group of friends—he was the least appreciated, the least liked.

His hands trembled uncontrollably at his sides, and his face became suddenly very hard. He was hardly a "Marauder" at all, then. He simply filled space, kept Lily's spot in the group warm while James chased after her. They hadn't severed contact after the wedding, but meetings between the four had certainly become much more scarce. And somehow, Peter thought that he might have been the only one left out—the one they simply didn't invite out for a night at the pub. He balled his hands into tight little fists, set his jaw.

"Godric's Hollow," he breathed, allowing his eyes to finally flutter back open.

But the Dark Lord, his new master, was already gone.