𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓂𝓊𝓈 𝓁𝓊𝓃𝑒

         ❝ i’m not. ❞ words are soft spoken, shattered in a way. this dark and dreadful secret he’s held onto far too long is deep and festering inside him. it might have been cathartic if it didn’t feel like scraping the words out of his throat was akin to swallowing broken glass. some secrets are never meant to be told. they’re meant to be kept as a toxic lover. exasperating wounds with surgical precision and cutting every stitch over the wounds of the past until the guilt bleeds out too heavily to deny and they leave you in an early grave. you die alone. you die lonely. save for the guilt that’s left the other side of the bed cold as ice for as long as you can remember. he tells himself it’s selfish to tell them— but it’s more selfish to hold it inside. to keep the truth from them and continue to allow them to believe he’s anything more than a selfish coward.

        eyes close when the wand is turned upon him, but his expression isn’t one of calm, nor one of contentment. it might be what he wants but it doesn’t entirely erase his fears of the unknown that might lie beyond the mortal coil. it’s the face of a stranger wearing peter’s skin, a bit too gaunt, a little too aged— remus isn’t the only one so thoroughly aged by the ravages of war. it’s the face of a man broken and defeated. one of acceptance and weariness but not without fear as the blood continues to trickle down his torn throat. kill me. kill me. kill me. please remus, have mercy. the words echo through his mind at an agonizing volume, drowning out thought for a moment. the world swims, the air too thick to breathe, another shock of pain ripping through his system— he’s supposed to be keeping calm but there is no peace that awaits him now or ever again. not since he was nineteen years old and shaking with fear and on the tipping point of what he was sure was the end of his life.

         knees crack as he’s thrown to the floor of a dimly lit room. he’s bloody. dressed in rags. skin is swollen, bruised, littered with cuts. his bones have been broken and mended only to be broken more times than he can count. tissue screams with the effort of existence, wrists jarring as he tries to catch himself to spare the pain of his head making contact with the ground once more. for weeks he’s been in the merciless hands of the dark robed figures, surrounded by laughter and muttering and taunts of the fate that will befall him. he is but a child. one year out of school hardly even a soldier though he bears the cross of it. the crushing weight of the lives of others balanced so precariously on his shoulders that are bowing and collapsing through these trials. he is no atlas, no hercules— far from a grecian hero, he’s a tragedy in the making. hardly even a martyr for the fact that many members of the order would likely believe the shy chubby boy had run off rather than finish his mission. perhaps the boys he’s come to know as family, as brothers, will know better but he knows that their voices alone won’t be enough. not in the midst of a war that’s bigger than them all. bigger than the martyrs. than the bodies in the streets. than the paranoia that shadows them all. they’re outnumbered, they’re losing, but they have no time to mourn the lost or the missing. poor peter pettigrew won’t even be allowed the luxury of mourning the loss of the life he might have had.

        blood is expelled onto the floor with a racking cough that rips through his chest and nearly saps the strength from his arms. he wheezes, tries to ignore the pool of crimson forming on the ground where it spills over the ledge of his lip. the salt of sweat mixes with the metallic tang but the taste and textures have become such a virulent constant that he can no longer process it amongst the aches and violent pains of his screaming nerves. the echoing laughter hushes to whispers, and then to a near perfect silence only broken by his heaving ragged breaths and footsteps. quiet ones nearly missed due to the blood roaring in his ears. so the man himself— if he can be called such a thing— has come to do the honors. he tries to force himself to stand, to shout in defiance of him, of all he stands for. to be brave and spit blood in the face of death itself. the way he tells himself that james would do. sirius lunging for the nearest death eater, managing to take their wand and going down in a blaze of glory. remus in his cleverness talking his way out of the mess, managing to walk away somehow. heroes. the lot of them. the thought of their disappointment at his utter helplessness is another weight on his shoulders that cause them to sag a few inches more. it feels to him as though his wrists are locked to the ground by the weight of invisible shackles and his head feels too heavy to lift as his eyes shut tightly at the encroaching shadow creeping into his view, the footsteps echoing louder in his ears.

         ❝ open your eyes, peter. ❞ the words are low, demanding, and send a chill down the boy’s spine. he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who’s spoken, who stands before him. perhaps he’s never been in his presence before, but he’s heard the stories. the tales of those who’ve crossed his path and escaped with their lives. thoughts of james who had been asked to join his ranks, denied him, and survived to tell the tale. he might not be as brave, as strong, and perhaps a stronger man would face his death with a determined grit and look the wizard in the eye. instead he chooses his defiance in a smaller way. a silent decision. he will not use his final moment to capitulate to the demands of a dark wizard, the likes of which have never before been seen. his hands curl against the stone and his head bows further. death will seize him any moment for he will not give. not a single centimeter he won’t allow himself to break despite his fragility.

         ❝ you were given an order, boy. open your eyes and look at your lord. ❞ another voice resounds, one very close— close enough he feels the sudden and sharp sensation of a hand gripping into his hair. forcing him to come off of his hands and look up with blood smeared down his chin eyes wide and red into the face of the one creature that strikes fear into him above all others. a man with pale waxy skin, bloodshot eyes— he looks wrong. human still, but closer to an embalmed corpse than to one who still brew breath. something small and inherent that tells him that this man has become something less than what he was. a single look and a raised hand from the wizard, and the one gripping his hair releases with shocking speed. no order for interference had been given. the younger almost collapses forward as the force holding him is removed, but he forces his balance despite the demands of his body to give way beneath him.

         voldemort’s gaze moves from his death eater to the boy kneeling at his feet, bloodied, bruised, soon to be fully broken. silence prevails as he looks into his eyes for a long moment, holding him in thrall unable to look away. ❝ tell me, peter. ❞ he uses his name again, refuses to allow the boy to detach himself from this moment that will be infinitely important in the future. the moment in which he must give himself over to his cause— and he will. he had chosen carefully. it was no mistake that the rat had been the one captured by his death eaters. ❝ do you want to die? ❞

         another chill rips down his spine as he stares into his eyes, wanting to look away but finding himself incapable of that simple action. blood freezes in his veins as he stares into those eyes and wonders how many he’s killed. wonders how he can feel no remorse for taking the life of something once living. the question comes as a shock, and he knows how he’s supposed to answer. say no. beg for his pathetic life and grovel at his feet and offer everything he can in an attempt to save himself. he wants to. but he’s a gryffindor, and he’s never been so afraid but he knows now is the time in which he can prove he deserves his house colors so when his veins open the crimson will spill out in maroon and gold, his final words will not be the whimper of a coward but the roar of a lion. they are his desires but the word comes out quiet in a mist of a red tinted breath. ❝ yes. ❞

         a cold laugh meets the response, foolish boy trying to be brave. trying to act as though he is a hero in the face of death. as if he’ll somehow be made invincible when the cry of the killing curse rings out and escape his fate. his is one far crueler than death should he be so brazen to reject him as james potter had. ❝ i don’t think you do— i think you want to live. but you’re trying to be brave. i’m not going to kill you, peter, i can help you achieve great things. we don’t have to be enemies. you don’t have to be on the losing side. ❞ peter tries to look away at that, but the older wizard reaches out and takes hold of his chin. it’s far from a tender touch with nails digging lightly into the abused flesh. ❝ i can give you anything you might want if you only submit— or i can take away everything that you hold dear. ❞

         the tone is alluring, seductive almost. charm is certainly a craft he has not lost in terms of speech, but it’s strange to conceptualize the words coming out of the mouth of the strangely corpse like creature before him. the abrupt shift however makes his stomach turn and twist and he’s certain that where there any contents left that he’d be heaving now. there are words that need to be said, vile rejections and condemnations that rattle in his chest and in his mind, but he can’t force them out. not with the hand still curled around his chin and his eyes locked so violently to the dark wizard’s.

         ❝ your mother, your… brethren. they will suffer. if you defy me, you will not die. i’ll have you watch as the others suffer for your insolence. i won’t kill you, you’ll live knowing that you caused it. and i’ll start with the half breed. ❞

         ❝ no. ❞ the word trips out before he can stop it, and he watches as the dark wizard’s expression twists into a disconcerting semblance of a smile. everyone breaks under torture and those heavy shoulders are cracking, giving way. he is not atlas, and he cannot carry the weight of the world. the guilt slices between his ribs and straight into his heart. bile builds in his throat as the words croak out in a soft defeated tone, chin released as he looks down and away. ❝ not them… please. ❞

         reality spins back into view as the convulsions slow once again. breathing doesn’t come easy, it seems harder now though letting loose the secret is supposed to make it easier but it doesn’t. instead it brings that sickening night to crystalline clarity at the forefront of his mind. what he wouldn’t give for it to be lost amongst the haze of damaged memories. voice is reduced to little more than a whimper, he still can’t look at him again. not now. ❝ …i was t-trying to save you. ❞

        it’s a feeble excuse, but he offers no further explanation. he can’t tell if that’s a selfish act or a selfless one. to save himself the pain of reliving it once more, or to make himself an easier target for remus’ hate. and the hate is well deserved. as long as he hates him, as long as he thinks the excuses are just that, then it’ll be easier for him to release his grip on the past. on the memory of who he was once and to cast him off.

         there’s a brief lapse in the speech before he responds. ❝ when— i can’t… i can’t keep it from them… not anymore… let them hate me as much as you do… it’s better that way. ❞

     He’s deaf to excuses. Deep down, Remus wanted to hear the whole explanation, wanted to see some light that shed amidst all the darkness that consumed this room. He wants to still love his dear friend but what was one was the lowest act that one could commit, treachery behind family. The ghosts of hatred masked Peter from Remus, to only see what he wished, not his friend--his brother. 

     In school, Remus always saw Peter as the sane one of the group. Yes, Remus’s head was tightly wound on his shoulders but Peter just seemed to be the most reliable and stable to him. Sirius and James were exactly how the dictionary would define their names, stubborn, arrogant, and full of excitement that seemed to never cease. So, when Remus needed a break from the excitement that seemed to circle around his life, it was nice to sit with Peter and simply talk or actually be able to focus on studying with someone, since it was soon figured out studying as a group never ended well and his grades showed it. Remus would not say he had a favorite of the friend group,they were all unique and he loved the three of them, but Peter, they were able to connected even if it was merely a silent moment between the two they shared, it was not awkward but welcoming because there were many times silence was a must. He was the most loyal, in Remus’s eyes, always wanting to defend the group when they got themselves in another mess. Honestly, Remus would never say it, but in his mind, he favored the company of Peter. But his loyal, reliable, favored friend...where did those adjectives come into play now? Nowhere.

     Remus began to question why he should even protect the others from knowing the truth about what Peter had done, but he thought it was the best solution at first. Maybe, he still thinks it is for the best, take care of it himself. Alas, he thinks of such a task but there is a tug in him that pulls him away from going through what he knows is for the best. The same emotion that brought up fluttering memories of the past from their school years tugged on his conscience and ability to act as he saw fit. 

     “I should go with my guts, do what I feel is right.” Breathing in, he exhaled deeply through his nose, trying to keep the ounce of calmness he still had. “But here I am standing like an idiot because there is this--thing inside me telling me if I do what I feel is right, I’ll regret it. But honestly, I don’t see how.” His eyes were burning, tears of anger blurring his vision. “I should kill you!” Remus let out a slight raise in his voice. But hadn’t Peter just hinted at the idea he would rather be hated, probably to be dead would be a better moment for him than any of this. So why couldn’t he give the traitor what he wanted? He already amused him with the threatening movement of his wand, aimed to kill already, so why not further perform the act?

     Remus swallowed down the his pride to be a faithful friend and ally to the Order. “I don’t seem to have the gut to do it.” Even with the mask that now blurred his vision of who exactly Peter was, his brain now labeling the individual as a traitor, a disgrace, a rogue. “Someone else ‘ought to go through with it, and don’t be a coward when that time comes and run away. It would be best to just own up to what you’ve done and face the consequences.” 

          bloody words rest on the tip of his tongue, pleading voice silently screaming for an end that won’t come he’s willing to bargain for this pathetic life of his to make it end. beg for some degree of mercy as he lays prone in the hospital bed— if he can just get remus to undo the

him because he’s so very certain he’ll lost the other for the words he’s about to say. he doesn’t deserve forgiveness or mercy. he doesn’t deserve death even, it’s azkaban which should be in his future but even that he finds would be a kinder fate than that which looms over him. finally the words that have held fast in his throat for oh so very long rip out of his throat as easily as razor wire embedded in the tissue. ❝ i was working for him… and i betrayed him… just like i betrayed all of you… you were my friends and i… i’m sorry i wasn’t strong enough i tried to be. i tried— but then he wanted me to give up lily and james— he threatened all of you and i had to run i couldn’t do it anymore i couldn’t— sirius was right i was a coward i wanted to die a rat so none of you would ever know i’m sorry… i’m sorry… and now they’re going to hunt me like an animal… for the rest of my miserable life… just kill me… it should be easier now just please remus… kill me. ❞

         Brows furrowed at the request. The names they bore in their years at Hogwarts seemed to be the last latch to something sane, a minuscule memory of what life they had prior that was of happier times. It was a light gesture to say it, to bring Peter back up from the hell he was encased in, the flames furling him, invisible to Remus’s eye. “ You don’t deserve it---? ” He paused himself, accepting the words and not letting such an endearing name slip from his lips again, simply going with the normality of the name given to his friend. “ Peter, we can’t forget the years of joy we had, the war can’t scar every cherished memory or ideal. We’re all; James, Sirius, you, and I, are all the same group from our years at school. Don’t forget the good days we had then. ” Finally, his voice was honing back in, clearing from the thicket that blocked the passageway in his throat. Though, there was still a crackling in the sound it was stronger than the previous sentences he procured, calming down from the raised heartbeat and sickening feeling he got.

         There was always the struggle, a push and pull between the two when hopelessness and courage fell in the middle, pressuring one or the other. The result at the end always tended to be a silence, torn between the qualities. After the return of Peter, this was too common and yet never sat comfortable with Remus who wished to just be of help but he could not penetrate any of the walls like the others could not and it, frankly, bothered him. “ I want to try to understand. I’m you friend, Peter. ” Remus spoke up again hands out in front of him, hunched over looking down at them because it was somewhere that was easy to focus on, that was normal in this time because eyes could not meet with the broken man who lay beside him.

         It was the first few words that had Remus gagging for air I was working for him.It was obvious to know who he spoke of, there was no other way to speak the word ‘him’ to make it sound so frightening and cruel to the sound. Sitting up, straighten his back to allow more access to air. Was he really going to walk out and be sick now? He could feel it rumble in his stomach. His breaths were getting deeper, the sensation before getting sick coming on. Suppress it. Were his ears deceiving him? He wished they were but Peter continued. No, no, no! Why would he not stop talking now!?! How terribly he wanted to tell him to shut his mouth, he just needed to shut up right then and say no more. His hands cradled his face, finger tips digging into his hair. Peter had to be delusional for saying such wild things, Peter—out of them all Peter saying this!

         He had to be lying! It could not be true but oh, deep down in his pit he knew. Why would Peter confess such a sin if it had not been true? Remus leapt from where he was sitting almost comfortably at that point. “ You’re lying! ” He accused his friend—could even call him that anymore?  But no, Remus was just trying to pull himself away from being a disaster, his monster growling under the surface of his skin, that forceful personality that occasionally emerged was prickling like pens and needles, his body falling asleep while the sleeping darkness wanted to take control. He had to look past it all, think that it was not true but it was. The way Peter looked when Remus looked to him, his face dropping in disbelief, scared. God, he was shaking!

         It was a quick moment, swift, like the usual, when he took out his wand holding it with a tight grip, the end pointing right at Peter lying in bed---so withered away, so pathetic. Do it. He betrayed all of you, so give him what he wants. His demon demanding, coercing him to give in but his eyes looked to the body of the other, so fragile and he stopped himself. Even with such a confession of betrayal he could not commit such a deed. Lowering his wand, he cursed under his breath, growing louder as he paced the room. “ Fucking hell, Peter! Fuck—just—fuck… ” His voice finally lowering a decibel taking a long inhale and releasing it a moment later. He could not disturb those outside the room, bring attention to the happenings here.

         Remus put his wand away, his dominant hand running down his face afterwards, stubble rough against the palm. “ After all this time, ” He began, his voice low, hurt though not full of sadness, instead a numb empty hurt that echoed in his ears as he spoke. “ They all thought—when I was away… they all thought I was a threat but really… Really it was you all this time and I took the brunt of the blame and anguish of almost losing the only family I have because they didn’t trust me. And then here you are, the one that betrayed us—your family. ---We were family? ” His last words questioning, looking back into the past they shared and truly wondering if there was any truth of their shared memories through all this newly emerging madness that engulfed Remus, drowning him in the misery.

HURT MEME || accepting 

          fingers twitch, curl and uncurl where his wrists stay locked so firm to the bed by the invisible restraint of spells. all he’s said, all he’s thought for… well he’s not sure how long. but it feels like its been years since he’s been without this agony. been without the blood coating his teeth. without the violent contortion and contraction of muscles that even with the draughts and calming spells seem to spasm in phantom bursts that make his eyes roll back into his skull with jaw clenched to just shy of their shattering point.

          as broken as he might have seemed erupting from his rat form, he was never hollowed out so thoroughly. emotionally stressed and sick to the point of near dying, but not like this. his very soul seems to be shattered by this. even lying there with shallow breaths and open eyes, he might be mistaken for a corpse. were he more thoroughly lucid, he might be glad that remus hadn’t been around when he’d first been brought in. a bloody mess of rags that smelt of piss and was begging incessantly for the mercy of death until they managed to force several calming draughts down his unwilling throat. at least now he’s clean, begun the most simple of the healing processes even with a long road ahead.

          phantom pain rips through, and the pain is so great that his spine still manages to curve and arch inches off of the bed as his hands contort and twist once more against the invisible bindings. head presses back against the pillow, tips back and it’s silent despite the agony so clearly scrawled across his face. the show would give a distinct impression to any watching that were his throat not ripped raw already that he would be screaming. it persists. five seconds. ten. twenty. thirty. almost a solid minute before his body sags back into the bed with ragged pants from breaths he didn’t know he was holding in and he can feel the blood trickling down his throat as it’s torn back open from the heaviness of the breath.

            ❝ p-please… ❞ the word rasps out broken and tasting like copper on the tip of his tongue. his eyes are closed now— he can’t look at him and say this. not again. he’s never been the strong one, or the courageous one, or even the smart one, and he just wants this to be over. if he pulls through this, they’ll just come again. they’ll just make it hurt worse. he’s not strong enough to go through this again, he’s sure. not courageous enough to stare death in the face. not smart enough to out think them and find his way out. ❝ i… i… can’t… m-make it… make it stop… please just… j-just make it st-st-stop. ❞

         Remus dares to reach out for a brief moment, as to bring comfort but such comfort would still be useless he thinks, knowing all to well he never found a physical touch of affection brought him peace, maybe a fluttering ounce of hope that the story would end happily for him; however, it was always just a flutter of a moment. It would be an attempt to just give a physical reassurance that this would all pass, right? Just a movement to brush through his hair for Peter to know he was truly there, by his side to relieve the other of some of the pain if it were possible. In a brief instant; however, hand withdrew, Remus flinched with the sudden movement of the other’s body, fear running down his face in moments as horror struck him just to see Peter fight with his pain. 

         It was unbearable to look at, the way Peter’s body moved. Stomach churned and begged to be force out of its captivity of his body. Deep breaths could only give him so much control. A stride back, away from the scene as if there was clean air to intake that would release him from such miserable suffering. Remus was going to vomit, he could feel the tension in his throat building, unsettling. Head turned fast with eyes clamped shut as he took a long swallow, bid the tension to go back down. Merlin’s beard, why did he come here alone? Should it not be a group affair to see a friend in the hospital? Another question spurred as he tried to think of anything but the noise of the heavy breathing of Peter, why were James and Sirius not here yet? But anger towards them was brief for it was flooding back how weak he was just being a mere onlooker of something tragic. A person who worried of the fate of his friends for years, dreaded that he might be the cause, but once it does turn in to his vivid thoughts though skewed with depth of the occurrence, he can’t bear to look though he feel as if he had seen it countless times in his mind.

         Thoughts of simply walking out crossed his mind but who would he be to act so cowardly when a friend was in need? Strength was the quality he wished could spring up in him but it was lacking in him. It took him a minute or so to finally feel calm enough--ready to open them, take a glance at the room he stood in once more. Hands began to clench into fist with nails digging into the palms of his hands. He had yet to look back at Peter, not until he spoke again which only created chills, cold air creeping up on him and once again he feels frozen in sheer horror to have to hear the begging word leave his lips. No, he could not be asking him to do something so horrid? Selfish. Very selfish Remus had become once he had friends by his side. Selfishness was not in his personal description until they were there. So, if he were not allowed to end his life for being the monster he was, he could not let Peter just ask for death so easily though Remus knew with all his heart that what he looked like--what he felt was ten times worse, hell, maybe the full a hundred time worse. However he felt, Remus did not like the idea one bit to just ask for death as simple as asking for a piece of candy as a child. There could be a light at the end of this tunnel, a war that ends, a body fully healed and a person who would not have to fear that someone or something lurked a few steps behind, that light still existed it only needs guidance towards it.