Peter Pettigrew

benjyfenwiick​:

What was that? Sirius clearly didn’t think much of Benjy’s “skills” on the battlefield and Benjy felt himself blush at the thought. “Er…” he began awkwardly, trying to answer the question that might’ve been hypothetical. “Dueling?” It came out as a question, which probably wouldn’t instill much more confidence from Sirius.

But the older wizard told Benjy to stay with him and Benjy listened. He was pretty good at listening - when he wasn’t distracted or Dorcas wasn’t around. Those often were one in the same. But really, he just wanted to get to Maddy, who had told him outright that she wasn’t afraid to die. And if sticking with Sirius Black got him there in one piece, he would do it gladly.

Sirius was impressive in a battle. Benjy had seen it while sitting on the sidelines at the Dueling Club, ready to heal any injuries - but it was different on the field. He showed a grace in his movements that reminded Benjy of the way that, once, he was on the Quidditch Pitch.

“Furnunculus!” Benjy shouted at the now-silent Death Eater and, unlike the last time, it hit the wix. He’d been aiming for the face, but it hit the Death Eater’s hand. The wand hand, however - which made large boil sprout from the skin and forced the Death Eater to drop his wand. “Yes!” he said, almost excitedly, but sobered a moment later because Sirius Black was standing right next to him and getting happy over a hex wouldn’t help Benjy’s case.

Dueling. Got it. Sirius would return to that with Benjy later if they got the chance. They better get the chance. 

At least the next spell hit. Sirius had just enough focus to decide that part of his issue was his form, but they had bigger issues than correcting the way Benjy flicked his wand right now. “Good,” he said, figuring Benjy needed to hear it. Without pausing, he summoned the dropped wand toward them. The Death Eater wouldn’t be happy, but without a wand, he wouldn’t get very far toward revenge. That would mean fighting like a muggle.

“Lets go,” he said. As a just in case, Sirius threw a leg locking jinx toward the other. Mostly it would just piss him off, but if they lived through all this, at least a few Death Eaters would need to be taken alive. 

As Sirius strode around the corner, he swore and buckled under the sting of another curse. His hand went to his waist. Blood. Not good. He looked up, the soulless eyes of another mask staring back from a few meters away. Sirius kept his hand clamped to his side. Did he even have time to get his wand up? Could he risked it.

The fighting hadn't been easy. Peter wasn't sure if the Death Eaters that recognized him thought they were imagining him, or if perhaps they thought it was someone polyjuiced as him. The second was probably more likely, he was sure that all of them thought he wasn't stupid enough to have played dead for the past month, let alone brave enough to. As it was, they didn't seem too focused on targeting him specifically, and there was no calling out to him like there had been when he'd chased them down to fake his death. Instead, there was just fighting, and Peter trying to do what he could to help the other Order members around him, even if they too hadn't realized he was alive.

He'd been moving to go after a Death Eater that he'd seen throwing what looked like slashing curses at randoms, anger welling in his chest at how easily it was for the other to be hurting people like that. It was chilling, the fact that there was no remorse from him, and that he seemed to laugh at seeing people bleeding. And then, someone came around the corner and the Death Eater had sent another curse... only for Peter to see who it had hit this time. Sirius. His friend was there, hit by the spell and bleeding.

"PADFOOT!" Before there was even a chance to have a second thought, the nickname was out of his mouth and his feet were moving. Long strides, he rushed across the hall, seeing the Death Eater raising his wand again, and feeling terrified about it hitting Sirius again, or if the Death Eater was going to do worse. There was no time for hoping Sirius could get his wand up, Peter knew he had to act, and so he did. He moved his own wand to put up a shield charm as he launched himself in front of Sirius, putting his body and his spell in between his friend and the Death Eater.

Only... The spell fizzled from his wand and there was no shield that popped up, nothing to put a barrier between them and the spell, only his body. It was like everything was suddenly in slow motion, though it clearly wasn't. As the Death Eater fired the spell, it went straight at Peter and hit him square in the chest. Peter felt the sting, and could see out of the bottom of his vision, the silver X that was left as a mark on his chest. It felt like time sped back up then, as he went crashing towards the ground.

Before he'd even hit the floor, Peter Pettigrew was already aware that it was far too late.

It had only been a little over a month that Peter had been in hiding at the House of Bones, and yet, it felt as if he’d been there for an entire lifetime. Suddenly he was more alone with his thoughts than he had been before; there were no Order meetings for him to go to, no Death Eater meetings to go to, no work, and only Edgar and the other Marauders to visit him. And so he spent most of his days lost in thought, thinking of James mostly, or occasionally running around as a rat to see what the others in the House of Bones were up to, without being caught of course. Was it a blessing or a curse to not know what was going on? To not be able to help?

And then a message from Edgar reached him, letting him know that there were Death Eaters at the Ministry, and that Peter had to come and help the Order. For once, Peter didn’t hesitate; he scrambled up, getting ready and quickly moving out. Edgar had said he needed to be there, and Peter knew it was what James would have wanted as well. He had to go and help, to do what he could to finally take down the Death Eaters, to finally prove himself that he wanted the Order to win, and that he was on the right side of this in the end.

Apparition was a little more difficult this time, but Peter didn’t think much of it. Instead his mind was already on edge as he landed in the midst of what seemed to be a battle in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Had they paused to look at him in shock? Peter couldn’t be sure, though now he realized it, he wondered how many would be shocked to see him alive, and if that would hurt, or help, the Order’s chances for the time being. As it was, he quickly dodged a spell that had been headed his way, and sent another one in return, glancing around for more Order members.

Peter Pettigrew was there, and he was ready to fight.

The High Priestess: How does my muses inner voice effect them? How does this manifest? Do they trust their instincts?

Peter’s inner voice has become more and more a voice of pure panic and anxiety, especially as they’ve left Hogwarts and he’s gotten into being a traitor and all. It wasn’t nearly as severe when he was younger; yes he had a lot of anxiety and worry about his home life, about going to school, and getting good grades. However, it also didn’t help that others, bullies specifically, were trying so hard to put doubts in his head about if his friends were really his friends, or if they truly cared for him or not. Deep down he knows they did, and that they still do, but there’s always that little inner voice adding just a little bit of doubt into that. Now it seems to be even worse with being in hiding, and lying to them about the reason why he’s hiding.

I think he’s learned, however, to not let that doubt control him too much. It still affects quite a few decisions, but it’s not completely controlling his life. For instance, he has tried to turn to the side of good, even though he feels like his mind is screaming at him that he may not survive because of that decision, but it’s probably just, once again, that doubt. That manifests as anxiety and worry, normally him picking at his nails or wringing his hands, especially when those doubts come into play.

[We’re just going to ignore how long these have been in my inbox, tbh.]

How does my muse mourn the end of things? How do they deal with transitions in their life?

I feel like the answer to these two questions can easily be summed up in one sentence. Uh, he doesn’t handle it very well, obviously. Weather that’s bawling at graduation when they had to leave Hogwarts, or going to cry at James’ grave (which hey I wrote that thing forever ago and never posted it, oops), or just dealing with now being thought dead and hiding out in the House of Bones; Peter is not really that great with change, and he misses the good old days more than anything. If he could go back and make them all stay at Hogwarts forever? He would probably do that. He doesn’t like when things end, or when he has to change things up, and it’s very difficult on him, even when he knows that it’s necessary to survive.

Are there any bad habits they seem to be stuck in?

I almost feel like that could have been answered with “Does doing anything to survive no matter what count as a bad habit?” But like, clearly he’s changed and gotten out of the evil gang he was in and is more doing the right thing now than what he thinks might keep him alive, so I don’t think that counts. I mean, at least he’s trying and actually changing that?

“Are you?” Edgar asked, wand still pointing at Peter. “Are you sorry or are you saying this because you think it’s what I want to hear?” The fire in the lamps he’d lit were flickering restlessly. “I’ve asked you a question, I expect an answer. Are you aware that you killed people today? That you have blood on your hands? That you are the reason Order missions have failed in the past?” 

“If Severus had never told me about you, how long would you have continued, Pettigrew? How many more people would you have watched die before being sorry? Are you even sorry for what you did or are you sorry you were found out?” There was none of Edgar’s habitual softness in his voice, his body wasn’t leaned back, his hands not lightly dancing through the air. There was only sternness, sharp angles and anger – built up over the course of all those years of war and now surfacing because all the pain and fear he had been forced to write down in his notebook today. Because of facing this meek little creature who couldn’t even bring out a full sentence, a proper explanation.

Perhaps Peter should have flinched back again like he had when Edgar had first pointed his wand at him, but he didn't. Maybe it was the fact that he was becoming used to it, with the Dark Lord, the other Death Eaters, now Order members, all pointing their wands at him. At least somehow he'd managed so far to come out alive of the confrontations, if not a little battered and bruised. But being alive was all that mattered, wasn't it? He was surviving, for better or worse, at this point. Still, that didn't mean that it didn't feel like a small sting as the wand stayed pointed at him and Edgar spoke.

"Yes," His voice cracked, and he continued to try and make himself as small as possible, though still had yet to look up at Edgar. He was afraid to. He could see the fire in the lamps flickering, and he knew by his tone that he was angry... and Peter couldn't blame him. Look at what all had happened, what all he'd caused. It was all his fault, and there was nothing he could do to take any of it back, no matter how desperately he wanted to. There was no fixing any of this. There was only a small hope that maybe they could move on.

"I am sorry, because I am," he choked out then, "not just because it's what you want to hear. I know that I've... I-I..." A soft sob broke his words, the boy looking down at his injured hand, mind repeating that it wasn't enough, that he deserved worse. Part of him wanted to say that clearly he had blood literally and figuratively on his hands, but those weren't words that would escape him, not if he hoped to keep surviving. And he knew that he was the reason some Order missions had failed in the past, but it hadn't been by his choice, right? He'd only been doing what he'd had to...

"I never wanted anyone to die," He whispered out then, "I never wanted anyone to get hurt. I never wanted us to fail. If... If Snape hadn't told you, I..." He let out a shaky breath, reaching up to run his good hand through his hair, but stopped and quickly lowered it, both because he was afraid of what Edgar would think, and also because it reminded him too much of James, and he couldn't think about him right now, not if he was going to keep it together. "I was sorry before any of it. I was always sorry. I never stopped being sorry," He choked out then.

He smiled and ducked his head. He still didn’t quite see what he could have done to help Peter in this short time, but he wouldn’t deny it made him feel good, to know that he’d had some positive impact. After all, Peter himself had said he’d been in need of some cheering up. If

Fabian had aided him in that quest at all, he would sleep more soundly tonight for knowing it.

His smile turned into an understanding nod. Another time, yes, it was silly to rush things. He wouldn’t mind being indebted to Peter really, not for something so small, not when he knew he could deliver to promised reward. “Yes, you’re right, they’d see right through me as I am right now. I’ll have to work on it.” Fabian gave a small chuckle. Almost disappointed at the imagined adventure slipping away until it was just that, imagined. “Another time.” He agreed, more forcefully, making sure Peter knew he meant it, that this wasn’t an empty promise.

Fabian finished his cup of tea then, and sat forward. “Then I should probably get going.” He said, with an air of apology. He had enjoyed this meeting with Peter, but better to end it now, before it went stale. “I’ve got to put some of your tips to the test before I forget them.” There was a mischievous glint in his eye as he stood to leave. “I’ll see you soon though, I’m sure. I’ll let you know how it all goes.”

Peter had to let out a small chuckle too, knowing it probably would be a bit difficult at first to get the kids not to see right through Fabian. It made his heart ache as he remembered his Hogwarts days and how they'd teased and spoke about the teachers, and he was sure that those kids that were still there would do the same. What he wouldn't do to go back to such an easier time, he thought, and hearing Fabian's more forceful words about 'another time, he grinned. Nodding, Peter was sure that Fabian meant it. And, when the time came, he would be more than ready to step back into the halls he missed so much.

Peter shook his head and looked more fearful than when they’d started. That was understandable. Too many didn’t believe in the presence of the Truth, but hadn’t It just looked into Peter’s very soul and picked him apart? Betrayal. If there was one word to describe what the man in front of him was good at, perhaps it would be that.

Regulus leaned forward and slowly slid the cards back towards him. “If you say so,” he replied. The Answers were not for him to decide - that was only for Peter. As he pocketed the cards, he leaned forward again, only this time clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on the log. He placed his chin on his hands and looked at the man in front of him.

“I still have not shared your secret, Pettigrew,” he informed the man. “But if you help the ending of the world, I will not continue to keep it for you. This is your chance to make a choice.” He paused, took a long, slow breath. The next words weren’t easy. Peter, like the rest of the world, would likely not understand them.

“And if your actions lead to the death of my brother,” he said quietly, his tone stable. “I will kill you.”

Peter watched as Regulus leaned forward, and his immediate reaction was almost to flinch backwards away from him sharply. As it was, he leaned back just a little, taking a shaky breath as the other took the cards back and pocketed them. If he said so. Peter had no idea what that was supposed to mean, or what Regulus was thinking. All he could really focus on was the one words that was rattling around in his mind over and over again. Betrayal.

He tilted his head just slightly as the younger boy leaned forward again, watching him and then feeling his heart sink at Regulus' words. "I don't want to help the world end," He spoke faintly then, "I don't want... any of that." He sighed deeply, scooting back a little more, instinctively hugging his knees to his chest again and curling up, as if making himself smaller would keep him safer.

“Thank you," he spoke then after a moment, "For not sharing my secret. I..." And then Regulus was speaking about Sirius, and Peter visibly flinched at that thought. He'd already basically caused James' death... he could barely handle it, he was sure there was no way he could survive knowing he'd lead to another death of one of his best friends. The thought made his stomach churn, and he wanted to start crying again. He couldn't lose anyone else.

There was comfort in knowing someone else was awake when you couldn’t sleep, at least. Remus had always known this. When he was a little kid, the trauma of the attack still fresh enough in his mind that he couldn’t bear sleeping alone, or sleeping much at all, he’d always wanted a friend to stay up with him. He had to take comfort in peeking out the window and seeing the distant lights of the town occasionally, and he’d imagine what other people were up to. It was definitely much better to actually have a friend to stay awake with you.

And then Peter cracked a joke into the quiet atmosphere of the room, and Remus’ laughter burst out of him like water from a freshly broken dam. It was a quiet giggle for a second, before it grew into something hysterical, the heels of his hands pressing into shut eyes in embarrassment. He didn’t know why something so ridiculous could make him laugh so much. It wasn’t even the joke itself – although there would always be humour in hearing someone poke fun at their own awful situation –, it was something else in his gut, this awful mix of exhaustion and this looming horror that sat on the back of his mind. The slightest bit of joy felt like enough reason to break into hysterical cackles.

The light air that had settled between them, however, was short-lived. The house retaliated against his laughter like an annoyed professor hearing students whisper in the back of the room – Remus told himself he was being irrational to think of the comparison at all. He was halfway through his second wave of laughter when the window between their beds sounded like it was slammed onto.

He sat up, laughter trickling down into a humorless chuckle before it stopped. “Merlin, sorry–” Was he apologizing to the House or to Peter? He was, either way, feeling insane. “That was probably just… the structure of the House. Adjusting. Or whatever. Right?”

He wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, trying to cling to the feeling of joy that was quickly slipping away from him. “This House is–”

Before he could finish, there was another noise. This time, a whimper that grew into a cry, like when the wind whistles, but somehow much worse. It wasn’t like anything he’d heard before, so he wanted to shrug it off to just the wind, but it felt different. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from – it might’ve been from his own head –, but it sounded like a thousand voices in unison, crying, wailing, singing, agonizing. Dread trickled quickly down his throat and into his stomach when he gulped.

He was still trying to keep his cool, not wanting to feed into the fear, either his own or Peter’s. “Do you– is that the wind?”

Peter had said the joke to lighten the mood, but he truly hadn't expected the level of laughter that came from his friend. Blinking, his eyes widened a little as he listened to the quiet giggling grow into something hysterical, and it made him let out his own tiny laugh. He hadn't thought it was that funny, but he was glad that it had at least made Remus laugh. For a moment his mind betrayed him, thinking of Sirius and Lily and how they'd left; would he ever hear them laughing with him, as Remus was now, ever again?

All thoughts and joy were cut short though, when it sounded like the window in between them had slammed, and it made Peter jolt in his bed. He was already on edge enough as it was with everything going on, and with the house in general, so the noise spooked him and he couldn't help but flinch. Cowering slightly, he tried to bury himself a little more under the covers with only head head sticking out, feeling like if he'd been alone, this would have been the perfect moment to just turn into Wormtail and hide. However, Remus was there, and he wasn't going to be that much of a jerk towards his friend.

He glanced over, watching Remus and taking in a shaky breath. "Y-yeah..." he agree in what sounded like an even softer voice, though he tried to strengthen it, "P-probably just the house se--" And then there was another noise and Peter froze up completely. The sound, the way it grew, the way it seemed almost like a cry like... Like tortured screams, like the yelling of someone dying, like... His hands were shaking and he felt almost ready to get sick, lost for a brief moment in memories he didn't want to have anymore.

Edgar’s mind was loud as they made their way through the servants’ corridors to the East Wing and he could feel it in the focus it took for a simple spell like lighting up his wand. But his hand was steady and so was the light, and he hoped it would show once they’d be in the room he led them to: he didn’t want to appear weak or hesitant, not now, not when so much was at stakes. 

It was a large room but even when Edgar lit the lamps the darkness made it feel narrow and tight. The furniture was the same as two hundred years ago, and everything was covered in heavy dust. Nevertheless, Edgar ordered Peter to sit, remaining on his feet himself. He closed the door, and then finally, dared to speak: “Are you aware you killed people today?”

Peter was quiet, shoulders hunched and just hugging his hand to his chest as they walked. He trembled, thoughts swirling, and just trying to focus on the fact that he was alive. He was alive and Edgar hadn’t turned on him to kill him... well, yet. And hopefully he wouldn’t, but Peter wasn’t going to let his mind go there.

He glanced around the room a bit, seeing the darkness, the dust, and almost instantly moved to sit when Edgar ordered him to. He curled up in the chair as much as he could, wincing as his hand hit his leg, but hunching to make himself as small as possible. Edgar’s words made him flinch and he didn’t look up at him. He knew that it was true. He had caused deaths by telling the Dark Lord what he had. He’d caused more deaths than he was sure he could count, without even really thinking about it or realizing it. He couldn’t take any of that back, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

“Thank me?” He sat back with an amused but kindly expression. “I’m not sure I’ve done much.”

When the request came he sipped his tea thoughtfully. This job was still rather new, he didn’t want to get into trouble, but he knew guests to the castle were allowed. Going through the front door, and sneaking someone in were two rather different things though.

“I’m not sure about sneaking, though I have no doubt you’d know a secret passage if we needed it,” he added with a hint of mischief. “But if you want to accompany me back, as my guest, I’m sure that would be fine.” Fabian knew letting just anyone into Hogwart’s could be dangerous, but Peter was Order, they could trust him. And given by the information Peter had already given him today, Fabian was pretty sure Peter was actually Peter and not some imposter. 

“I could definitely give you a ‘tour’ of the quidditch pitch. Perhaps you are some generously wealthy wizard looking to make a charitable donation to help us buy some new equipment hm?” It was a joke more than anything. Peter had only just graduated, anyone they met would surely remember him, there was no need for a ruse, yet it amused Fabian all the same.

Peter couldn’t help the soft flush and chuckle he let out at Fabian’s words. “No, you have. More than you realize,” he said with a light shrug, though he wasn’t going to go into just how grateful he was to be able to even just map out Hogwarts for someone without probably sounding like a moron. That was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment, especially in front of Fabian. He looked like an idiot enough of the time as it was.

He snorted and then ducked his head slightly, because well, Fabian wasn’t wrong. He knew of plenty of secret passages to get in, and it would be more than easy for Wormtail to get back into the castle and run around by himself. He’d considered that before, truly. But without his friends there with him, what was the point even? More heartbreak? More misery as he missed James more and more? No, it wasn’t worth it.

“A guest?” He blinked after a moment then, tilting his head slightly as if in question, as he thought about it. To go back into Hogwarts with Fabian, even if just to the Quidditch pitch. His heart pounded slightly in his chest, and he felt almost like it was another betrayal to the other Marauders at this point if he did that. Not to mention, he was sure people would recognize him, and he wasn’t sure how to take that.

Edgar’s gaze fell on Peter’s hand, and while he didn’t know what he’d done exactly, at the sight of the blood-drenched rag and along with those words, he understood. Blood had been drawn and the promise sealed.

He drew his wand and pointed it at Peter’s chest.

There was no hurry or emotion in this motion, nothing frantic but also nothing like relief or joy. There was only this cold sternness, the one that made him look taller. His habitually patient eyes were glazed with that impenetrable logic of his, seemingly ready to be ignited with impatient fire at any wrong word. “East Wing, now,” he ordered, nodding towards the corridor behind Peter. “Through that room and down the servant’s corridor. Not a word until we’re alone.”

Peter watched as Edgar’s gaze went to his hand, wondering what the older man was thinking. He visibly flinched back when the other drew his wand and pointed it at his chest though, suddenly feeling afraid. He hunched his shoulders a bit more, trying to make himself look as small as possible, as if that would make Edgar realize he was of no threat now. All he wanted was safety.

Height Headcanon:

in our play we reveal what kind of people we are

Time: Night, March21st Place: House of Bones Status: Closed, for @peterdpettigrew

The list Fletcher had handed him was securely placed between the pages of the Minutes. Two extra hands had been sent to the McKinnon Farm to help Benjy out. Four eyes were now watching the door behind which their hostage – still unconscious – was secured. Amelia had been sent to prepare hot drinks and blankets for everyone. And then Caradoc came to him with the news of Fabian missing and Edgar felt the world slow down. For the first time today, he didn’t know what to say or do. His mouth opened, then closed again, his hand clumsily reached out for his friend, for support, but instead of coming up with something to say, anything, he stepped away. 

The hand lying on Caradoc’s shoulder slid off. “Excuse me,” he said, as a tiny voice in the back of his head reminded him that the only way to not feel helpless was to keep working, was to keep helping, was to keep fixing this mess. He worked all morning, all noon, all afternoon, through the debriefing, and late into the evening. It was early night, a relative calm had fallen over the House of Bones, when a pair of beady eyes hiding in the shadows of the first floor corridor, locked with his. 

He set away the inventory of things they’d lost at the Potter Estate today, climbed up the stairs to the first floor and joined the beady eyes in the shadows. “Peter Pettigrew,” he greeted, sternly, as his gaze fell on the tissue that was wrapped around Pettigrew’s hand, realising quickly that while it was now drenched with red, it had once been white. His expression did not mellow to allow pity. “Is this your doing?”

Peter was trembling, feeling all too aware suddenly of what he'd done and how his hand ached so badly. He cowered in the shadows, hiding and listening to all those that went by his hiding spot. Everyone was returning, settling down, going over what had happened at Diagon Alley, at the Potter Estate, and Peter felt like his nerves would never settle down. What had he done? He'd chose the right path this time, hadn't he? He was betraying the Dark Lord. That's what Regulus' words from the Truth had meant, right?

Chewing on the inside of his lip, Peter caught eyes with Edgar finally, and felt his heart pounding in his chest. As the other greeted him, he took a few shaky steps closer, still holding his hand wrapped in the scrap of fabric that had once been white to his chest like he was afraid his whole arm would be gone. Trembling still, he managed a quick nod at Edgar's words, taking in a shaky breath.