poor wormy

“Send Red for an honesty post on what my muse dislikes/hates about yours.”

Hate James? Peter’s pretty sure the idea itself is impossible. But still…

There’s moments. Peter sags under Sirius’ weight against his shoulder, the laughter barked in his ears, firing off a biting comment concealed as a joke – or otherwise the four of them gathered after an Order meeting, somehow tense and exhausted all at once and the cruelty that comes then is thinly veiled and a nice little scapegoat in the way Peter folds up and takes it and lets Sirius say whatever he needs to make himself feel in control again. And James does nothing or James weakly laughs or James glances away the second Peter’s pained eyes look to his for support and James stares out the window or at the ceiling or the wall just long enough for Peter to give up hope. He does, quickly, because he’s learned: James’ll keep letting it happen. Peter doesn’t think hate but he thinks coward and suffers the guilt of the thought after and he doesn’t ask why because he knows the answer. There are things he does ask, silently,

Am I your project, am I your charity, do I make you feel better about yourself at the end of the day? Is it easier to let someone else love you so you don’t even have to try it on yourself, how long do you think I can keep it up?

“Send Red for an honesty post on what my muse dislikes/hates about yours.”

Friendly as some of the members may be, the Marauders were a notoriously closed unit, thank you very much. The greatest of affection stayed within the four and their greatest fights were contained too – at least, until Lily Evans came along. It’s not that Peter hates her for butting in, it’s not even that he sees her as stealing his friends. It’s just how easy it was for her to lay her hooks in someone he cared about and drag them away and okay maybe, yes, there is that deep little kernel of bitterness for her taking so much of James from them. He hates how much of a cliche he is against her, the jealous little peon lurking in the back and wondering why their gushing small talk and gooey eyes weren’t enough to hold interest. Even with Sirius, he’s at least worthy of garnering Lily Evan’s famously firey anger. For Peter, he only seems to be worth her pity. Those startling eyes of hers turn on him and it’s like being pinned under a microscope dead set on finding every one of his flaws and then kindly pretending not to see them once they’ve been dragged out into the air. He hates how she makes him feel inadequate, even when she’s trying to be his friend in that half-assed ‘at least i tried’ way. 

“Send Pink for an honesty post on what my muse likes/loves about yours.”

Colors of the Rainbow Meme

Send Red for an honesty post on what my muse dislikes/hates about yours.

Send Yellow for some headcanons about our muses.

Send Green for a moodboard on our muses.

Send Blue for an aesthetic of our muses.

Send Purple for a playlist of our muses.

Send Pink for an honesty post on what my muse likes/loves about yours.

What is your character’s headspace?

More than anything else currently in game, Peter is on edge. There are a few in the Order who consider the recent dip in Death Eater activity a good sign but he knows better. No group like the Death Eaters would go down easy, just slipping away into the night -- they’re planning something. He’s not nearly as religious as his parents, but Peter hopes to God the Order will be ready when it comes to a head and can’t help the fear that they won’t. He’s skittish, even jumpier than usual, visibly worn out from too many late nights when that paranoia keeps him from sleeping. His friend’s jokes are wearing at him more and more and all he wants is to for someone recognize just how high the stakes of the situation they’ve gotten themselves into are. 

What is their current goal/focus?

Peter is starting to focus less on winning the war, beginning that shift towards being more concerned with surviving it. He looks around him and sees other Order members that don’t seem near as worried as he is and he’s flip-flopping between marking it down to his own anxious mind or the people around him simply not taking things seriously enough, starting to get sloppy. His goal is to keep himself and those very select few he’s close to safe, and collecting as much information as he possibly can, both for the Order and himself. If the Order isn’t going to be prepared for whatever is coming, Pete knows he has to be.

What do you want to happen right now (short term development)?

Start examining his relationships! With the Marauders, Peter is stuck in limbo between his desire to keep them as close to how he remembers them in their Hogwarts days and his instinctive drive to pull away from the increasing baleful remarks and tired brushings-off from three boys just as stressed as he is, even if Peter can’t see (or perhaps tolerate) the ways they express it. The most important thing here is what Peter witnesses or hears, whether it be purposefully in front of him or snatches of things he was never supposed to be privy to, and how those things cement his ideas of what direction each of the Marauders is going (and if they’re going away from him, all the while towards each other). 

Even if you’re not close to Pete, it doesn’t really require a lot of mental gymnastics to come to the conclusion that he’s a virgin – the classic sort that never really left preteen awkwardness behind. He’s far from flirtatious, has never even strolled in the general neighborhood of suave, and broadly considers the idea of feeling sexy a distant far off country he will likely never visit. It’s all the more evident when at least two of his closest friends are near-polar opposites to that, but this line of thinking will only ever lead Peter on into the problem of the other thing. 

Their bubble of warmth insulated them from both the party and the weather. James felt himself relax in Peter’s company. There was a thread of commonality between them; always had been. That was the main reason why James had asked Pete, all those years ago, to be mates. Well, that and the fact Peter could cast a wicked tripping hex. 

Peter looked good when he smiled. But the mention of Sirius sent his eyes skittering away, and James’ expression faltered. Glancing out over the park, he shifted his weight uncomfortably. “You should,” he replied, injecting some joviality into his tone. James nudged Peter’s side and gave him a warm smile. “No, mate, I know. Suppose it’s better than doing something boring like knitting. Or that muggle paper folding thing. What’s it called?”

Transparent, probably, this change in topic. But it was certainly better than edging towards the yawning abyss that was Peter and Sirius’ relationship. James had just escaped one imminent storm: he really didn’t feel like clattering headfirst into another one. 

James watched Peter fidget with his fingers. There was an edginess to him, now that James thought about it. There was something prickly in his quiet, firm expression; the slight shake in his hands. The bandages were a bit sooty, as if he’d forgotten to change them, and Peter’s middle and forefingers were cigarette-worn, an aftertaste of lonely nights and endless watches. All the watches were necessary – they were never going to get ahead if they didn’t spend all those evenings lurking about Death Eater hidey-holes. But, then again, the shadows could do things to you. Or so he’d heard; James preferred to ignore the oppressive blackness of an empty apartment, with only a subtle lumos for company, for as much as possible. He knew the tangibility of Dark magic. It came upon you like a silent tide. Fathomless.

“Yeah.” James cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up. They glanced at each other; James held their gaze for a beat longer than usual. “You alright, Peter?” He hadn’t meant for his voice to dip in such a confidential manner, but something slipped between them, a flicker of hurt that at times accompanied Peter like a second shadow. “I mean…” James rubbed his lips together, thinking. “That thing with Fenwick last month – I wouldn’t blame you for feeling on edge. As you said, everyone’s a bit wired. Can’t blame a habit if it calms you down.” An olive branch: “D’you want me to get you a smoke? I don’t mind.”

Peter was caught somewhere between disappointment and poignant relief; was it really better for James to have said anything approaching recognizing the jagged edges of he and Sirius’ relationship? Friendship, Peter was quick to correct himself, automatic and a little guilty. But it wouldn’t have been like James to say a word against Sirius, would it? They were too desperately intertwined for that, it’d be like James slicing away and criticizing a piece of his own flesh. Maybe Remus didn’t see it yet, maybe even they weren’t clearheaded enough to recognize it in themselves, but Peter saw -- Peter always saw. He didn’t need to be a Legilimens to understand what lay behind those lingering looks. No, Sirius would always rank higher in James Potter’s priorities than him and Peter told himself he was used to it, no matter how many times these small reminders chaffed against an already permanently raw hurt. 

Still. A change of subject was its own mercy, wasn’t it? 

“Origami,” Peter replied after a beat, “I think.” The effort of recalling the word brought back a memory; sitting under a Christmas tree, the chatter of gathered family and spark popping harmlessly out of the fireplace onto a charmed carpet. “One of my cousins was obsessed with it. Da got a big book of patterns for her Christmas one year, dogs n’ swans n’ shit. Some of ‘em even glided without magic. Real neat.” Coming out of his mouth, he realized how mundane the whole thing sounded, as if James was actually interested in hearing about the hobbies of some kid he’d never met and Peter felt the back of his neck flushing red in embarrassment on James’ behalf, cheeks hot as he was quick to add, “For muggle stuff, I mean.” 

It was another chafe. There’s a reason he prefers Sirius to you. James’ eyes were heavy on him and he could feel the flush only worsening, a patchy ruddiness to his face that he could no longer blame of the nippiness of the weather. That was the cinch of it all, his friends were easy to read when they were tied up in their own little worlds, invested entirely in themselves but Peter could only guess what James saw when his focus was on him, though his mind was quick to offer several possible fill-in-the-blanks, each more disdainful than the last. Pitying -- that was the word for that gaze. Peter didn’t mean to meet James’ eyes, but he found it impossible to break away from them once he had. The other boy’s question was an unexpected one and it showed in Peter’s rapid blink, semiconsciously straightening his spine as if that characteristic curve in his posture was a warning sign flashing in James’ face. He knew the correction was useless the moment he did it, if anything it only justified the question. But the question... wasn’t that exactly the kind of thing Peter wanted to hear? Interest? Concern? Enough attention paid for James to realize, no, he wasn’t alright? The mention of Fenwick was what it took for him to be able jerk his eyes away back down to his trainers, but Peter could feel himself leaning towards James even as he did it. 

He could say yes. He wanted to, desperately. But that line of thinking led too easily to James getting lost inside the crush of the party again, getting wrapped up in the countless people lining up for the attention he was giving Peter now, taking all his warmth and magic with him and leaving Peter out in the cold while he sat and waited and waited until the windows went dark and it was time to go home, back to the empty flat with more cigarettes and more moments of panicking over fleeting visions of Death Eater’s masks pressed against his windows. “Don’t worry about it. M’alright,” he finally said, “Like y’said, everyone’s a bit wired.” Peter chanced a look at James’ face again, quiet and hesitant, “But I mean.. what about you, Prongs? Are you.. okay?” 

001. BASICS.

FULL NAME. Peter Douglas Pettigrew

NICKNAME. Pete, Wormtail, Wormy, Dougie (but very specifically only by certain aunts)

BIRTHDAY.  May 21st, 1960

GENDER. Cisgender male

SEXUALITY. Questioning (bisexual)

RELATIONSHIP STATUS. Single

SPOKEN LANGUAGES. English, some poor Latin retention from Hogwarts

ACCENT. All Sheffield, dropping his h’s, making his u’s into uh’s, contorting vowels and dropping plurals, turning behind into be-yind. Pete himself tends to insert plenty of speech breaks, liberally peppered with filler words (all those good ums and ahs), though his sentences tend to blur together rather than having an audible period/pause after every idea. Peter’s a notorious mumbler, always checking himself to try and chin up and speak a little more defined so he and his conversational partner don’t have to play the painful ‘can you repeat that?’ game.

BIRTHPLACE. Sheffield, South Yorkshire, England

“There are loads of things to celebrate.” Sirius placed the spare bottle down on the couch beside Peter before grabbing the discarded duffel and plopping it atop the coffee table. “Being alive is a decent start. Other people being alive is a decent continuation.” He began absentmindedly sorting through it, not looking for anything in particular but making a show of pulling out half a dozen shirts and three different pairs of dark jeans. A bag full of jewelry soon followed, and that was all it took for Peter’s den to go from a comfortable reading place to an area dominated by things that Sirius had discarded. Sirius stood amongst them, hand propped on his hip as he contemplated each article individually and without really seeing it. 

“Personally, I’ll be celebrating the fact that there’s a party. It’s been too damn long without something like this. Everyone needs to get out of the house – and that includes you. I’m sure you’ve got something tucked away that’s worthy of a careless night.” 

Finally, Sirius glanced at Peter, and the sight made him frown. Peter was perfect suited for a night in, and that would not do. “Good thing I came along then, isn’t it? Keep thinking that only birds dress up, and you’ll never have one dressing you down. Really, Pete, how have you made it so far?” It wasn’t a fair question, largely because Peter’s worth had never been dependent upon fashion. Peter was built to discover and establish, and that was priceless to the Order. It just meant precious little to Sirius, who was far more interested in courting death than trying to outrun it. 

As the minutes ticked past and more and more clothing flew out of Sirius’ duffel and onto Peter’s furniture, it became more and more apparent that this wasn’t a fluke and it was his fireplace the other boy had intended to Floo into. Being alive was a good start. Other people being alive.. well, Peter couldn’t think of them without thinking of those who weren’t in such fortunate condition. All the hush and secrecy, the nervous pouring over paper headlines, the constant looking over their shoulders -- these habits were not results of people continuing living. It was not a thought Peter wanted to entertain, but he could hardly shake it any more than he could shoot back something to match one of Sirius’ dazzling quips.

A party to celebrate partying, well. That carried much less horror hidden under the table. “I get out plenty.” Peter protested weakly, finally setting his book down on top of one pair of Sirius’ jeans. In a matter of a few short moments, Sirius had managed to command the entire room with such a tight grip Peter almost felt like he was trespassing in his own space as he pushed off the couch and stepped to stand next to him in the middle of his sea of clothing. 

But no matter what the reason, Sirius was there, he’d chosen to come to Peter specifically and he couldn’t help a small trill of pleasure low in his stomach at the fact, plucking up a black shirt with large enough openings for sleeves it was impossible to tell where exactly one’s head was intended to go.  “Isn’t it supposed to snow tonight?” He fingered the hem of the shirt; old cotton, worn and soft, that perfect pairing of effortless cool Sirius seemed to exude. There was something clever to say here, something about without Sirius at least Peter wouldn’t freeze before he even got to party. 

For all of Peter’s careful conversation, James could feel the question on the tip of his tongue. It’d probably start with, hey, James, why are you, and end with, out here with me? Truth was, he didn’t really feel like explaining himself to anyone at the moment. It felt like he’d spent the better part of the evening explaining himself in one bloody way or another. No, far better to just be out here, in the cold quiet with Peter shivering beside him, than devolve into some drivel about Lily. That’d probably just make my mood worse.

Shooting Peter a broad grin, James settled back against the railing. A clipped breeze skirted along the darkening building, bringing with it the distant sound of muggle traffic and some pounding music half a block away. In a neighborhood like this, finding some peace and quiet was a task. Fortunately for him, Peter seemed particularly adept at squirreling out those niches where your bones could settle and your thoughts didn’t seem to press against the inside of your skull. After the bedlam of the party, the smothered world outside made his ears ring.

“Sounds like we both do,” James replied kindly. He wrinkled his nose in thought, pictured the bubble of warmth in his fingertips, and concentrated on producing the charm. Almost instantly, as if they were huddled once more outside the tall, stone walls of Hogwarts, skiving off Transfiguration or en route to detention, the warming charm flickered between them, and, with a sensation not unlike slipping into a bath, the spell gathered and curled beneath their skin. Opening his eyes, James pushed his glasses up his nose and winked at Peter. “Still got it, Pete. McGonagall could never say I didn’t pay attention in class.”

The mention of smoking prompted him to make a face. “Don’t have any, I’m afraid. You could ask Sirius, though. He’s gallivanting around with a pack he nicked from Meadowes, the idiot.” James nudged Peter’s elbow, a teasing edge to his tone. “You smoke too much, mate. You’ll end up like Lily if you’re not careful.”

Peter silently watched him cast the wordless charm, fixated on James’ face and the little crinkle of focus between his brows, his fists tightening in his pockets even as it happened and the relief welled up from his half-frozen toes to the top of his head -- a warm flush that cozied up indulgently against them like an house cat by a fire. It was enough to spark a short huff of pleased laughter from the smaller boy, “Good timing,” Peter murmured gratefully as the weather made good on what it had been threatening all day, the next gust of wind bearing a flurry of white along with it, his eyes drawn to a solitary flake of snow as it merged into the edges of James’ magic and melted away in the newly temperate bubble the two huddled together in.

At the mention of Sirius, the smile flickered and faded away entirely. “If I see ‘em, I’ll ask.” He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He’d practically run from Sirius at the first chance; it’d be best not to see him until tomorrow when the other hopefully wouldn’t remember anything beyond the usual disappointment. Given the drinks Sirius had been throwing back, Peter thought privately, it wasn’t likely Sirius would remember anything. He caught himself halfway to chewing at his nail again just at the picture. 

“Can’t be too bad a way to end up. Gotta keep m’self occupied somehow, y’know?” He sheepishly held up his hand, showing off the frayed bandages wrapped around three of his finger tips before cramming it in his jacket again. The picking was a bad habit that was hard to break, one Peter’d had since before he’d even stepped onto the train at King’s Cross and his mother had always despaired over. Ugly habit.

“Plus, it’s something to do when I’m on watch. Better’n just sitting there. You know how it gets? Just staring and watching people and getting wound up. Least if I’m lighting up..”

LET’S GET DOWN TO BUSINESS Pre-Event One, Peter’s House @wcrmtale

Sirius was well known for being unpredictable, and sometimes that meant swooping through the fireplace in a stage of unannounced mania with two bottles of liquor and a duffle bag tossed over one shoulder. If it was possible to become accustomed to such a hurricane, then Peter of all people should have come to expect the unexpected. 

“Worms!” Sirius had barked the syllable before ever glancing around the den, and he found Peter sitting on the couch only a few meters away. “C’mon, mate. You should be getting ready. We’ve got a party tonight, and I can’t let you show up looking like you’ve just rolled off the couch, or out of bed, or any other mundane activity. It’s a night to celebrate, Pete. Now let’s get you looking happy.” He tossed his duffle aside, full of clothes (and proof that Sirius himself had shown up entirely unprepared to party himself, save for the shot he’d taken just before sprinting to the Floo.) 

With a flourish, he clapped his hands and came to stand just before Peter. “What were you thinking of wearing? Jumpers are out of the question.” A strong claim, given the chill of the wind beating against the windows. Nevertheless, Sirius looked, well, serious, even as he pressed one of the bottles against Peter’s chest, eyebrow cocked expectantly. 

Thankfully it wasn’t a Death Eater bursting into Peter’s living room, but fuck if it wasn’t just as sudden and terrifying -- Peter’s heart jumping in his throat even as he recognized Sirius all at once, eyes darting to follow the chucked duffel before returning to his friend’s face. There was an expression there toying with being solemn, still quivering with possibility the way the other boy always was. That was the thing about Sirius, one of many things Peter could never compete with: that look in his eyes promising that as dangerous as it might be to place yourself in his hands, boredom was an impossible result. It was tempting and intimidating all at once. Right then, it just made it even more impossible for Peter to speak.

“What’re we celebrating exactly?” He managed to ask, book clasped in both hands and held a few inches in front of his chest like a ineffective shield. It was a genuine query as much as it was a thoughtlessly blurted response; the past few weeks of strained monotony for the Order didn’t exactly put one in the partying mood, but Peter supposed again that that was probably the point. For people like Sirius, staying still felt more like drowning. 

“I haven’t really... planned out a wardrobe.” His lower lip pouted out into a small frown as he examined the label of the bottle Sirius pressed to his chest, brows furrowing, already tasting a future bad decision. ‘What’s wrong with a jumper?’ Peter wanted to ask, but doubtless there was a whole list of things wrong he just wasn’t privy to. More questions rolled by; where’s Prongs and Moony?, why are you here with me?, making way for safer statement - “..Isn’t it more girls that dress up for these things?” 

FROM THE OTHER SIDE. FEBRUARY, 1980.

@wcrmtale

If anyone twigged James was sort-of not-really escaping a party, he’d never live it down. As such, he managed to shove his way through the crowd with a volley of how are you, and alright? before he closed the front door behind him. The hot press of bodies lingered on his skin. He half imagined he could hear Lily’s loud conversation mingling with Marlene’s braying laughter – or was that Sirius and Remus? James closed his eyes briefly and leaned his head against the chipped paint, feeling his bones resettle.

The threat of snow tasted bitter in the air. Dark had fallen like a shroud over the council estate, the grey buildings illuminated only by orange streetlights or the lingering lavender on the horizon. Shuddering, James let go of the doorknob behind him and zipped up his leather jacket, then shoved his hands in his pockets. Just a few minutes, he thought. Then I’ll go in and face the music.

Merlin. That was something he could do without.

Thinking miserably about Lily’s flashing argument, James pushed off from the door. The concrete balcony ran the length of the building, and overlooked the squalid park opposite. Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he almost missed the figure leaning against the railing a couple of doors down. James paused and narrowed his eyes. Then the figure looked over, and he relaxed into a grin.

“Hullo, Pete.” James came over to lean back against the railing. The low light did little for Peter’s features, which were shadowed and, as they had been lately, slightly distant. It occurred to James that Peter probably wanted some time alone, but he could have some time alone with James. That’d sort him out.

James met Peter’s gaze and smiled warmly. He glanced off into the darkness behind him. “Bit cold out. Want me to do you a warming charm?”

It wasn’t the first time Peter had snuck out of the crush; there was always a pattern to his coming to these kind of events -- scouting out the safe places, cataloging each room, inevitably creeping past partygoers to find those few minutes of relief. He’d seen exactly where he’d end up since he’d first mounted the Prewett’s stairs with Sirius’ arm slung round his shoulders, the other a heavy weight against his smaller frame, warm and loose from the alcohol he’d already persuaded Peter to gulp a few mouthfuls down of as well. 

It was a fool’s hope that they would stay that way for long -- Peter knew that, why the hell had he let himself get suckered in again so easy? Sirius’ good mood had only soured as the night had gone on and Peter had done the only thing he could: make himself scarce in the hopes of avoiding the storm entirely. Or maybe just remove himself as the cause of it.

After that, the cold was a welcome relief. Peter had stepped out into the ashen night with his arms wrapped around his midsection, pressing his forehead into the icy brick and letting it leech the warmth and dizziness out of him all at once, give him something else to think about than the persistent nausea that wasn’t entirely liquor-based in nature. 

The Prewett’s Silencing Charms had kept the balcony shrouded in silence and the sound of the door opening and closing was deafening as a result; Peter’s head snapped up from where he’d been studying the street, teeth set in his thumbnail, to see who it would be this time to catch him on his own -- skulking, sneaking away, alone as always, Pettigrew is. Except - 

Hestia sat at the corner of the room, watching everyone interact. She felt guilty, knowing that they were going behind Alastor’s back. As she watched the tension-free bodies of the Prewett twins, the quiet words and smiles exchanged by the Longbottoms at the other corner of the room, she finally felt that coming here—and not watching the windows of headquarters for the next thing to happen—was the right thing to do.

She cradled the joint Dorcas had given her earlier, rolling it around in one hand, flicking at a lighter with the other. Hestia felt rather than saw someone sit next to her on the couch. That’s my cue, she thought. Lighting up the joint, she brought it to her lips and breathed in, the familiar smell and taste a comfort in itself. “Hey,” she said, turning her head to say face the person who’d just arrived.

There was something invigorating about finally having people taking up what had once been all gathering dust and increasingly more irritable Order members, but all the same, Peter couldn’t ignore the queasiness making waves in his stomach at the combination of sweat and smoke choking up the air, clinging to his lone beer like a lifeline as he skirted the outside edges of the party. It made some sort of sense to find Hestia at the end of it, perched on the couch by herself, and in the end he found himself staring more at the empty spot next to her for what could have been seconds or several excruciating minutes hovering on the edge of stepping forwards. This wasn’t quite their normal place, was it? Far from it. There was that unreasonable fear in the back of his mind, wondering if approaching her here would break some kind of unwritten rule between the two of them that had kept her from brushing him off thus far. 

But he’d lost Sirius only twenty minutes in. James was equally absent and Remus -- well, Peter wouldn’t be surprised if Remus had disappeared with either of them. Hestia was mercifully unmoving, lighter sparking in her hand and Peter sucked in a deep breath for fortification, immediately regretting it when he got a lungful of mixed perfumes that made his stomach twist anew. Fortune favors the brave, right? The coils under couch cushions were old and unwilling to bear much weight and Peter ended up sinking much deeper into the empty seat than expected, wobbling back into steadiness with at least only a mildly awkward splay of his arms as he grabbed one of the arms for balance. Just keep going. Say something clever. 

“Hi.”