The Man of Three Names
by infinitemaybe
A/N: So I came across this idea as I was talking to my friend, Everything'sPeachy, about Marauder-era fanfics. We both agreed that Peter Pettigrew was always either a very minor character with little to no development or already becoming a Death Eater. We both felt that his character was also often ridiculous. In writing this one-shot, I wanted to show a different, more emotional side to Pettigrew. I hope you enjoy! Please review.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Nope, not at all.
He was known as 'Wormtail' to his friends, 'lowly servant' to his master, and 'Peter' to his mother. And as he begged before the Boy Who Lived, he knew he had not lived up to the names that meant the most. Instead, he had lived up to the name that would be the death of him.
His years at Hogwarts started in 1971. He was a carefree boy then, like most Gryffindors. But unlike the other Gryffindors, there was nothing brave about him and he knew it. His friends comprised of the bookish werewolf who became a prefect, the rebel who abandoned everything his Ancient and Noble Family of Black believed in, and the cocky, fearless Quidditch star: their leader. The leader seemed to have nothing extraordinary about him, like the other two, but somehow his lack of special made him the most special. He always wore a lazy grin and a love for the Head Girl.
None of them knew that the Man of Three Names would destroy them all, not even him himself.
Power hungry and easily influenced, he quickly befriended the three. The most popular boys at Hogwarts, the 'Marauders' as they were known, he still fell into their much larger shadows. And though they shared their largest secrets and biggest adventures with him, he knew he did not belong.
The Marauders grew up. Before they knew it, they had found new ways to live. The leader married the Head Girl and started a family, while fighting the Dark Lord. The werewolf too joined in the Order to destroy the Dark Lord. The rebel bought himself a motorcycle and lived his life with ease. And as for Wormtail? He found himself stuck in a painful transition, with no one to direct him. No way to determine what his future could be.
But the Dark Lord found him and he became his lowly servant. His friends did not know he'd betrayed them and he didn't know that he would betray himself.
The rebel told him a secret as the Dark Lord threatened their friends, thinking the Man of Three Names could be trusted. The rebel no longer knew that Wormtail was no longer Wormtail.
The leader and Head Girl, murdered by the Dark Lord, allowed him to frame the rebel. The rebel was sent to Azkaban, wizarding prison, for more than ten years. And as for the man? People believed he had died a hero. His mother thought he had died a hero. But he had not.
The rebel and the werewolf found him, years later... twelve, in fact. The Boy Who Lived spared his life as he groveled before him in Hogsmeade, in the Shrieking Shack. But the man knew that he had chosen his own death more than a decade before. Yet he wouldn't admit it to himself then. No, he wouldn't admit that he would someday die.
As his master plotted to kill the Boy Who Lived, the man killed the spare, the un-needed co-champion of the Tri-Wizard tournament. He took the innocent life with no thoughts otherwise. His master had given an order, he was to obey. Obeying was what he did best.
His master rose after the man gave him his hand as sacrifice. The mutiliation was painful, but he would rather lose his hand than his life. He knew he had chosen well at that point. He felt safe, he was safe, for the time being, even as he faced the Death Eaters who believed him a traitor. But he was on the Dark Lord's side. He was truly safe from harm.
Deep down inside, he knew he was a traitor. A traitor to the Marauders, the best friends who had cared for him and trusted him with their lives.
Yet the Dark Lord frightened him, at the same time keeping him in awe, much like the Marauders had done. But still, he would not side with the losing side. For once in his life, he was special.
The rebel died in the Department of Mysteries, quick and sudden and painless. It was then that the lowly servant knew his end was coming near. But with his artificial hand and a debt to the Boy Who Lived, still he did not turn.
In the end, the Man of Three Names had only one. He was not Wormtail. He hadn't been since he had left Hogwarts and betrayed his friends. He was no longer the lowly servant, for he knew that his master viewed him as worthless. He had defied him too, and for that the hand, the generous gift, was not gift at all. It was only there as a punishment. A safety net for his master if he ever chose a different way. The hand, his punishment, led to his downfall.
Two Marauders already dead, he thought to himself as the hand reached closer to his throat. I will be the third.
But he knew in his heart that he was not worthy to align himself with them, even in death. Even as he spared the Boy Who Lived, dying himself in the process.
No, the only name he could be known as was Peter. Peter Pettigrew. As the hand tightened around his throat, he thought of his mother.
In his mind, she beamed at him proudly. His first year at Hogwarts... his satisfactory marks... his good friends... She was always proud of him. He remembered going back home, after betraying the rebel, to see his mother for one last time. Oh how she cried when the Ministry gave her his finger.
They told her that his death would be honoured with Order of Merlin recognition.
She smiled amidst her tears, proud of her son. He had died a hero.
As Peter remembered, his final moments as his mother's eyes filled his memory, he felt like sobbing. His mum died believing he was a hero. If only she had known. How she would have cried to know her son had killed innocent men and an innocent boy and betrayed his friends. For that he felt the most regret, the only regret.
It was growing very dark. Peter knew the time had come. He closed his eyes and gave up. His heard his mother calling for him, like she had done when he was young and at home from Hogwarts. He saw her warm smile and loving eyes. She didn't recognize him as a traitor, only her son. That's what he was... her son.
With his mother in his mind, Peter took her hand, accepting the death he had chosen. His hand, wrapped around his neck, tightened for one last time... the final blow. As he saw his mother, held her hand, he died.
He died, the man with one name and one name alone. The name his mother called him.
Peter. He was Peter Pettigrew.