Pro Bono Publico--DvD Commentary
Happy Saint Joseph Day!
Coincidentally, this is also the day that I chose for Peter Pettigrew's birthday. (I have a tendency to select birthdays for characters, despite the fact that Remus's birthday just got thoroughly Jossed by JKR. I had him down as a September baby, not as a March one.)
So without further adieu, here's the DvD commentary for the first Peter story that I ever wrote.
Pro Bono Publico
First, let me explain the title. Pro Bono Publico was originally going to be a novel-length fic set in a Potterverse AU beginning in 1981 and continuing until 1996. The main difference in this universe was that, in this world, a member of the Order very quickly discovers (using canonical information) that Sirius Black is innocent, and begins fighting legally to get Sirius freed and cleared.
It was also going to be multiple-chapter, with the viewpoint changing in each chapter a la George R. R. Martin.
Finally, since Peter Pettigrew's treachery starts everything, this section--which begins the story--was from his viewpoint.
As it turned out, the story worked better as a one-shot set in the canonical universe.
***
He scrabbled through the sewers.
Only one character is ever described in connection with a sewer, so the opening sentence lets readers familiar with the world know who the story is about and roughly when it's taking place.
Most of those currently looking for him would see nothing out of the ordinary in the scene--just another disgusting rodent scurrying through concrete pipes filled with filthy, refuse-filled water. However, one or two of those people might have noticed that this particular rodent was a small, grey garden rat which bore little resemblance to the cocker-spaniel-sized black sewer rats, half of which were red-eyed, rabid and watching the outlander avidly.
That's what the sewer rats look like in Hartford, Connecticut. I used to see them sometimes when I was coming home from work. Also, please note--although Peter is a rat among rats here, he doesn't look like the others, and doesn't blend in. The motif of not being like the others and not fitting in will continue throughout the story.
One of the sewer rats, seeing him as either territorial threat or midnight snack, leaped at him. He scooted backwards behind a ground-level pipe, looking on with grim satisfaction as the sewer rat slammed, mouth first, into a garbage-covered iron grate.
He would have liked to stay and gloat silently, but, given the enraged chittering coming from his attacker and the gleaming eyes shining from nooks and crevices, that would have been unwise. And he had enough people hunting and hating him right now without making enemies of another species as well.
This is characteristic of Peter's approach in the books. Even in a situation where killing might be desirable to help him avoid Azkaban--as in the Shrieking Shack--Peter prefers to stun or injure his opponents, and then escape.
Yesterday, he'd been Peter Pettigrew, wizard.
A few hours ago, he'd lost his wand, his allies, his reputation, his friends and his identity. And he had little to no chance of ever getting any of them back.
In addition to confirming Peter's identity, we now have a definite time that this is taking place. It's 1 November, 1981, about three hours after Sirius caught up with Peter in Muggle London.
None of this should have happened.
If it hadn't been for the Order of the Phoenix, probably none of it would have gone wrong in the first place.
But what else could I do? he thought desperately as he dodged in and out of shadows and dived behind random pipes. The others were so happy about it when Dumbledore invited us to join.
He'd known at the time how mad it was. A small secret order of wizards--four of them not out of school yet--recruited to fight Voldemort. But he hadn't been able to make his friends see the insanity of the situation. Not then. Not ever.
In this story, he doesn't try. I had planned other stories/chapters in which he would make the attempt, however.
The invitation had been issued over the Easter holidays in their seventh year.
Seventh year would have been 1977-1978. According to the Gregorian calendar, Easter Sunday fell on the twenty-sixth of March in 1978. This being the Easter holidays, Peter and his friends probably have a week or so more of vacation before school resumes, so this flashback is taking place in early April, 1978.
McGonagall had told him proudly that he'd been summoned to Dumbledore's office. He'd trudged up the stairs to the Headmaster's office, dispirited and weary. Of course he was going to be expelled. His luck, naturally, was always bad.
Peter's reaction is typical of anyone summoned to talk to a principal, headmaster or boss. However, I also wanted to establish that talking to Dumbledore could be frightening, even intimidating. "Why didn't Peter just tell Dumbledore that he was a Death Eater?" is a recurrent question in the fandom. I needed to establish a relationship that was close and trusting from Dumbledore's viewpoint and virtually nonexistent from Peter's.
But Dumbledore hadn't said a word about expulsion. Instead, he'd gazed at Peter with a solemn expression, and, for a moment, had looked uncertain of what to say.
"Peter," he said finally, "your parents are Muggles, are they not?"
Dumbledore is beginning a conversation in which he's going to invite Peter to become a member of an elite group by reminding Peter that, in the eyes of many wizards and witches in the 1970s, he's not a REAL wizard, simply because of his bloodlines.
It was the worst thing Dumbledore could have said.
Peter had heard the taunts and mockery for seven years. Mudblood. Dirty blood. Hangs about with halfbloods and blood traitors. Stupid. Slow. Not really in the same league as the others. Potter and Black, they're brilliant, and Lupin's a born genius at Defense Against the Dark Arts...but Pettigrew? Why do they even let the stupid Mudblood hang around with them? Pity. It has to be pity.
"Defense" should have been spelled "Defence" if I was going to go with British spelling.
As for Peter's reaction, it says a great deal about the past seven years that he hears a comment about his bloodlines as a smear of his intelligence and ability.
"Yes," he'd said coldly. "Both my parents were Muggles. My mother is, and my father was when he was alive."
"Your father is dead?" Dumbledore glanced at Peter with an understanding look that twisted Peter's stomach. "I'm sorry. I don't have any records of your being notified by the Ministry about...er...your father..."
This is something else that grew out of that Marauder-era RPG--the idea of the Ministry sending black owls to the families of those who had been crippled or killed by Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Arrivals of black owls would have been fairly common during the years of the First War with Voldemort, which is why Dumbledore automatically assumes that Peter's father was killed by Death Eaters.
Why does he always think that he understands everything? Peter shouted within his mind.
"You wouldn't have," he said patiently. "My father died of a heart attack. Perfectly natural death."
It isn't mentioned here, but Albert Pettigrew died when his son was four. Peter really doesn't remember him.
"Ah. So it's just your mother and you?"
Peter nodded. "Both my parents were only children. No aunts, uncles or cousins. Just them and me."
Peter acquires three sisters--all considerably older than himself--in "Memory, Awake." Here, he's an only child.
"The danger that Muggles are currently in must be deeply troubling to you," Dumbledore said softly, steepling his fingers as he studied Peter's expression.
He hated that kind of statement. Dumbledore had already clearly made up his mind about how Peter felt. Besides, what could he say? 'No, it's not deeply troubling--I try very hard not to think about it, as I'm here at school in Scotland and can't do a thing'? 'No, after seven years at Hogwarts, I don't know any Muggles, aside from my mother, and I tend not to bleed for people I don't know'?
Yes, Peter is being selfish and unfeeling. No, I'm not going to apologise for it. Everyone has moments like this.
Better just to tell the Headmaster what he wanted to hear and leave. "Yes, sir," he agreed soberly. "It worries me a great deal."
Peter doesn't consider this lying. To his mind, it's more like echoing your teacher's opinions on a test; it saves time.
Dumbledore smiled, a tiny smile but nevertheless one glowing with pride. "I wonder," he said quietly, "if you'd be interested in helping people like your mother."
Appeal ad miseracordium, thought Peter wearily. He would have felt much better about whatever Dumbledore had in mind if the old bastard weren't trying to manipulate him by jerking his heartstrings.
An appeal ad miseracordium is an appeal to pity. It's also a logical fallacy.
Peter is frighteningly well-controlled here. He not only sees that Dumbledore is manipulating him, he can understand how…and he's able to observe and analyse his own emotional reactions. This is a boy who has had to comprehend his opponents--and realise what they would be likely to do next--for a very long time.
It's something bad, he suddenly realised. Something as bad as washing all the bedpans in the Infirmary without a wand, or serving detention with Filch. So horrible that he feels he has to give me a holy cause so that I'll do what he wants without complaint.
Peter's making an intuitive leap here. He has nothing to base this on except his own knowledge of Dumbledore.
"Are you all right, Peter?" inquired Dumbledore, frowning slightly. "You look a bit tense."
"I--I was just wondering how I could possibly help Muggles, sir," he said, stammering a trifle. "It doesn't seem like there would be much I could do here at Hogwarts."
"Ah." The blasted tiny smile was back. "And after Hogwarts?"
Peter shrugged. "If I do well enough on my N.E.W.T.s, I'll probably apply to the Ministry of Magic. They're always looking for a few good wizards."
The slight pause after Peter's words stated Dumbledore's opinion of Peter's skills more clearly than any ridicule.
And Dumbledore loses Peter right there. Peter could have written off the comment about his parentage as a topic he's too sensitive about, and the false sympathy for his father's death as something that was well-intentioned, at least…but he really can't ignore Dumbledore's lack of faith in his skills.
I am a good wizard, he thought fiercely. Far better than you know.
Contrary to what most of the fandom thinks, Peter is good at wizardry while at Hogwarts. He's one of the three youngest Animagi in all of wizarding history, after all. This is magic of a sort that grown wizards in the Potterverse find almost impossible--and three kids of fifteen did it. That shows a level of power and will and ability far above the norm...and Peter got no credit for it. Remus, remember, tells Harry that Sirius and James had to help Peter with the transformation. Leaving aside the question of whether or not Peter NEEDED help, or whether James and Sirius just thought he did, let's focus on the real issue--that Peter was able to become an Animagus, period. But instead of recognising this achievement, either James or Sirius downplayed it to Remus, making it seem as if Peter's transformation was more to their credit than to his.
The story of Peter's life. And like most outsider kids, he would have craved recognition, respect and loyalty more than anything. Sadly, he didn't get the first two--not from students or from teachers.
However, while James, Sirius and Peter all have to conceal this remarkable achievement, James and Sirius have other ways of gaining attention and approval for their skill at magic. Peter doesn't. And unless he wants to get in trouble for being an unregistered Animagus, he has to keep secret the one thing that could get him the respect he wants. That's GOT to hurt.
"What about the war?" said Dumbledore, fixing Peter with a raptor stare.
When in doubt, take refuge in courtesy. "Sir?"
"Come now. You must have formed some opinion of Voldemort over the years."
Peter shivered at the sound of the name. It was all right for Dumbledore. Everyone knew that Dumbledore was the only wizard that--that You-Know-Who feared. But saying the name casually...that was stupid. Names, after all, had power--and naming an evil force was tantamount to summoning it, or, at the very least, attracting its attention.
He had no desire to be the target of You-Know-Who's attention.
I decided to use a very old superstition to explain why everyone in the wizarding world is so afraid of saying Voldemort's name.
"Peter?"
"He scares me, Professor," he said in a trembling voice. "He scares me more than I can say."
Dumbledore stroked his beard as his blue eyes searched Peter's face. "He frightens all of us, Peter."
The question burst out of its own volition. "Even you, sir?"
Dumbledore looked gravely at him. "What he has done, and what he may continue to do, terrify me very much indeed."
It was like watching a tower of indestructible steel collapse. Dumbledore, worried. Dumbledore, frightened.
"The question," Dumbledore said slowly, "is whether you would like to cease being afraid."
"Yes. Of course I would! Yes!"
And that was certainly true. He'd been afraid for years--of bullies, of the condescension and loathing of half the Slytherins for his "dirty blood," of the cruelly accurate, barbed comments that Sirius and James uttered every time that they were exasperated or annoyed with him.
James had given the worst description of him--the one that still stuck in Peter's mind--in their fifth year. "Peter," James had said, "is Gryffindor's fat boy...without being fat."
This is a javelin throw to Peter's heart. Fat kids are very often designated outsiders. James is saying that Peter looks like an insider, an accepted member of the group--but that he's really an outsider. He doesn't belong.
Remus had looked pained and had glanced warningly from James to Peter, but had made no protest. Sirius had laughed. Laughed.
If he had had any self-respect, he would have dropped James' crowd that day.
But where he could have gone?
And they were his friends. They would do anything for him.
Most of the time, anyway.
"I'd give anything to stop being afraid, sir," he repeated with unusual fervour. "Anything."
An unreadable expression--joy? Pride?--flared in Dumbledore's eyes. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to hear that," he said softly. "Let me tell you about a new group that's fighting Voldemort. It's called the Order of the Phoenix..."
Peter listened as Dumbledore rambled on about the Order. The group was scarcely formed--only a handful of wizards and witches. One or two members were disreputable, and there were a few older ones--like Dumbledore, supposedly. However, most, the Headmaster made clear, were young. Recent graduates of Hogwarts. Some were still students.
Schoolkids, thought Peter with sick horror. Dumbledore's trying to fight You-Know-Who with old people and crooks and schoolkids.
Which sounds appalling in itself, but I was also thinking of the very young boys and older men that tend to become cannon fodder when the strong, able-bodied, trained soldiers are all dead.
It was at that moment that he knew that You-Know-Who would win. How could he help it, when his only organised opponents were old wizards and barely trained boys and girls?
Why us? he shouted silently. Why US?
Because they were expendable. It was as simple as that. Dumbledore might care about his students; he might want them to be loyal. But in the end, their main value was that the fact that they were young, reckless and stupid, willing to risk their lives as if it were a game.
"...was wondering if you would like to join us, Peter, " concluded Dumbledore.
Peter's first instinct was an emphatic No. A second thought advised him to be cautious; Dumbledore had entrusted him with far too many secrets about the Order to be comfortable with immediate refusal.
Looking innocent, sincere and trustworthy are more important than actual beliefs--or so Peter feels. The sad thing is, he probably picked this up at school.
"If--if you don't mind, sir, I'd like to think about it," he said in the calmest voice he could manage. "It's a huge step."
Judging from Dumbledore's proud expression, he had struck just the right note. He decided to push his luck.
"Er...may I discuss this with the others?"
There was no need for Dumbledore to ask who the "others" were.
"Of course. I've already spoken to them. I believe that Mr. Black said that they were going to talk this over in your dormitory." Dumbledore glanced at him with a gaze of blue steel. "I look forward to hearing your decision. Good luck, Mr. Pettigrew."
Peter trudged from Dumbledore's office and up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, hoping against hope that his friends had done something sensible for a change.
"Anguis in herba," he muttered, before the Fat Lady's portrait could cheerfully demand a password.
Anguis in herba is Latin for "a snake in the grass."
"Your friends are inside, dearie," said the Fat Lady as the portrait hole opened. "My, they looked excited."
He hadn't thought that his hopes could sink any further. It now seemed he was wrong. "Excited" was never a good sign, not with James' crowd.
The common room was all but deserted when he walked in. Not surprising; most people had gone home for the two-week Easter vacation. Still, he would have welcomed a few extra Gryffindors at the moment. James, Remus and Sirius would be less likely--well, he admitted to himself, slightly less likely--to talk while others were around.
James, Sirius and Peter didn't go home for Easter because Easter Sunday was a full moon, and they didn't want Remus to go through that alone.
James, his glasses askew, was pacing around the room, running his hands through his hair as he did so. Remus, who was looking thoughtful, was seated at the common room's largest table with seven or eight hefty tomes in front of him. Sirius, his face ablaze with eagerness, was half-standing beside him, his left trainer squarely on the floor, his right one firmly planted on the seat of the chair to Remus' right.
None of them saw or heard him at first. They were too busy discussing the Order. Or, to be more precise, agreeing with each other about the Order.
"I can't believe it!" James was saying jubilantly. "Of all the wizards in Britain and Ireland, Dumbledore asked us."
"Well, of course he asked us," said Sirius, glancing at James with exasperation. "He wants the best, after all."
"Ah, modesty," murmured Remus, a tiny smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "Tell me, Sirius, how long have you been suffering from these delusions of grandeur?"
All his life, Peter thought sourly as he gritted his teeth, willing himself not to speak until one of them acknowledged him. All his bloody life.
In other words, James sees Dumbledore's offer as an unlooked-for honour; Sirius sees it as an inevitable honour; Remus sees Sirius's reaction as delusional (albeit amusing); while Peter sees Sirius's reaction as delusional and infuriating.
Sirius smiled lazily at Remus. "It's not considered a delusion when you are the best, Moony."
As in canon, Sirius doesn't lack for confidence.
Remus rolled his eyes, but did not comment further. Instead, he turned to James. "I wonder where Peter is?"
Given Remus's rationality and powers of observation, he's already noticed that Peter is listening and is trying to give Peter an opening so he can just "walk in."
"Probably off in the kitchens, begging some extra food from the house elves."
Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs end up doing this a great deal in fics about their school days.
Sirius leaned against Remus' chair. "Why?"
Note that although Remus asked the question of James, Sirius is answering it.
"I was wondering if Dumbledore invited him to join as well."
"Oh, probably," said James indifferently. "After all, Dumbledore asked us. It would look odd if he didn't ask Peter too."
And here James answers the comment put to Sirius. James, too, comes up with the truly devastating comment--that Peter wasn't invited because of merit, but because Dumbledore wants the other three, and it would look odd if Peter weren't asked. Given Dumbledore's display of doubt regarding Peter's skills, James's comment is going to sound dreadfully probable.
He studied the ceiling for a moment, then shrugged. "I imagine that there will be a place for Peter. Some quiet desk job. You know Peter. He's meticulous. Good at planning."
Yes, that's what every eighteen-year-old boy wants to hear--that he's a natural bureaucrat.
"But definitely not the James Bond type," said Sirius.
Yes, logically, Remus and Peter, as the two non-purebloods, would be more likely to know about 007, while James and Sirius wouldn't. The trouble was, I thought that Remus would sense and understand that Peter wished that he were a James Bond type, so I gave the line to Sirius instead.
Ironically, of course, James Bond is the archetypal fantasy spy. Peter's going to become an excellent spy, though less in the tradition of Ian Fleming's Bond and more in the tradition of John Le Carré's George Smiley--a fat, shy, stammering, plodding man with a deadly talent for accurate observation.
James picked up one of the tomes--a forest-green book with The Noble Sport of Warlocks in white on the cover--and tossed it at Sirius. "No, that's you."
"And you'll be making dashing midnight raids on your broom and snatching members of the Order right from under the Death Eaters' noses." Sirius threw the book back at James, though rather harder than James had thrown it at him.
The Noble Sport of Warlocks by Quintius Umfraville is mentioned in Quidditch Through the Ages, which, along with Fantastic Beasts and How to Find Them, Rowling wrote for Comic Relief. It includes, according to the Harry Potter Lexicon, "a diagram of a seventeenth-century pitch and descriptions of the game as it is then played."
The real point, however, is that the book James and Sirius are tossing back and forth is green. Green is an interesting colour symbolically--it stands for youth, hope, loyalty, envy, deceit and betrayal.
"And Remus--wait a second." James caught the book neatly, then lowered it. "What would Remus be doing?
Sirius surveyed Remus thoughtfully. "Undercover work? Or perhaps I should say, under the covers..."
"Sirius." Peter could tell from Remus' chill tone and studiedly calm expression that Remus, while not quite angry yet, nevertheless felt that Sirius was pushing it.
"All right, all right." Sirius held up a protesting hand. "You'll be teaching Order members to defend themselves. Better?"
"Marginally. Though I don't know what you expect me to teach McGonagall or Dumbledore."
James tossed the book in the air, caught it, and then--intercepting a stern glare from Remus--put the book down on the table.
Remus definitely has authority, despite James being the unquestioned leader--Sirius backs down after one word from him, while one glance from Remus makes James put the book down.
"You'll manage. And that'll be the four of us. You'll teach people how to fight You-Know-Who, and Sirius and I will make sure that wizards and Muggles alike survive and Peter--"
"He'll make sure the paperwork survives," Sirius interrupted, grinning. "Each to his own ability, and all that."
And again, there's that offhand assumption that Peter's abilities aren't that great. I wanted such comments and presumptions to pop up randomly, like attacks from a flick knife, so that readers could understand how much it hurt to hear such things daily, even hourly, not only from enemies, but also from teachers and friends.
"All in agreement about joining, then?" said James, in a tone that suggested all was settled.
Note that James assumes everyone will agree with him--not only the boys who are here, but also the boy who, as far as he knows, isn't.
Aren't you even worried? thought Peter, envying and hating James at that moment. Don't you know what it is to be afraid?
No. James probably didn't know. He was Gryffindor's Golden Boy, after all--rich, popular, pureblooded. And, though James wasn't handsome, he'd always acted as if he were irresistible, which, Peter had noted, counted for quite a lot. He'd never run into anything unconquerable or unbearable; even Lily Evans had fallen in love with him eventually. The world accommodated itself to James, not the other way around.
James was picturing moments of reckless daring, last-second rescues and unlikely heroics, as the right sort of people in the wizarding world cheered and shouted, hailing the brave young men of Gryffindor.
Dumbledore needed people to fight a war, and James was envisioning a Quidditch match against Slytherin.
Which goes back to Peter's realisation that Dumbledore needs people who will risk their lives as if they are playing a game.
Sirius at least knew what the risks were. He should, with his family. He just didn't care...or acted as if he didn't, which amounted to the same thing. Sirius would have been perfectly at home in the Charge of the Light Brigade--never mind that it was a pointless, recklessly defiant charge that got most of the brigade killed or maimed for nothing but stupid heroism.
Peter wondered how many wizards would end up dying because of Sirius' pranks and defiance.
Remus knew what a war was, at least. He should; he spent every full moon fighting an unconquerable and hated monster. Even if the monster was part of Remus himself.
Reluctantly, Peter admitted that Remus would go along with the other two, despite knowing the risks better than both of them put together. James was Remus' brother, and Sirius' brother. And Sirius was--something else that Peter's mind twitched away from. They were his family. More, they were his pack. The werewolf would never abandon his litter-brother or--oh, admit it, he told himself wearily--his mate.
Peter knew that he was not part of Remus' pack. Not that Remus was unkind. Far from it. But the connection that existed between the other three had never quite come to life in his case. Remus liked him. He was patient about tutoring Peter in Astronomy.
Peter's eyes are described in canon as "watery" which I interpret as both "blue" and "near-sighted but lacking glasses". If indeed he is near-sighted, Astronomy would be difficult for him.
They played pranks together. But when Remus was in pain or worried or upset, it was James and Sirius he turned to. Not Peter.
This shouldn't have hurt. But it did.
So, no chance of Remus siding with him. Not while James and Sirius were around.
Of all three relationships, I think that this one bothers Peter the most, because he sees what it could have been...and isn't.
He looked at the three of them, all laughing and joking, as if they weren't agreeing to fight an immortal and supremely powerful being, as if they wouldn't be facing former classmates and kinfolk and having to kill or be killed. They weren't thinking of battles and strategy and tactics, of pain and madness and sudden death.
They didn't understand what war meant.
For a moment, Peter felt as if his mind were split in two. Half of it looked at them with fear and pity. I could help them. I'm good at planning. James and Sirius never planned ahead in their lives.
As if they would listen to you! he thought bitterly. You're just Pathetic Peter, the pity friend. Puny Peter. Porcine Peter. Petty Peter Pettigrew.
Involuntarily, a rhyme the Slytherins had chanted at him for most of his first year returned to him:
No one guessed and no one knew
How petty little Peter grew.
No one knew and no one guessed
What petty Peter kept suppressed.
All right. Here's what everyone asks about. The rhyme.
I can't take much credit for it. I stopped at the point of "They didn't understand what war meant." When I woke up the next morning, I was reciting the rhyme. I guess my subconscious was working on the story while I slept.
No, no one knew and no one guessed. And that was the way it had to be, for now.
Someday, perhaps, he'd be able to talk to his friends. Really talk. Tell them how he felt. And they would understand.
Someday, when he'd done something important, something no one else could have done. When he'd proven his worth, and seen pride and respect shining in their eyes.
Peter genuinely does care about his friends. He doesn't have much faith that they care about him, however, and no faith whatsoever that they'd listen to him under normal circumstances; he honestly does believe that he'll have to prove his courage or worth before they'll do that.
But not now. Now he had to swallow his better judgement and agree to this madness. They'd never trust him again if he said no. They'd think he was a sympathiser of You-Know-Who. They'd hate him.
He really didn't think he could live in a world without friends. Even occasional friends.
The above paragraph was initially two long paragraphs about friendship. I cut it to two sentences.
Besides, he might be the only chance they had of coming out of this intact.
Surely they'd respect him then.
They'd have to.
Peter cleared his throat, startling James and Sirius. Remus simply turned around calmly and smiled slightly.
Indicating yet again that Remus has known all along that Peter was there and listening.
James glanced at him guiltily, then stared at the floor.
"Peter?" said Sirius, frowning. "When did you get here?" And how much did you hear? his expression added.
"Just now. Why?" Peter lied. Don't tell, he silently implored Remus. Don't tell.
Peter lies a great deal in this story--to Dumbledore, to his friends, to himself. I didn't realise how much lying he did until now.
Remus' smile grew a fraction broader. He nodded slightly.
Sirius relaxed somewhat. "Oh, nothing. We were just talking about some things that would bore you to tears. Quidditch, the loveliness of James' redhead of choice..."
Peter sighed. Obviously Sirius was going to be difficult, and he didn't really feel up to bantering. "Dumbledore told me about the Order," he said quietly, looking gravely into Sirius' eyes.
"I knew it!" exulted James. "I knew he'd invite you too! Er..." he added, noticing Peter's solemn expression, "you are joining, aren't you, mate?"
Peter regarded James with an exasperated expression. "Was there ever any doubt? I mean, you're my best friends in the whole world. How could I not join you?"
And once again, Peter does what he did with Dumbledore--he says what he knows the others want to hear.
"Too right," grinned Sirius. "Wouldn't be the same without you dotting along after us all the time, would it? That'd be tragic, that would. Poor wee Wormtail, all alone."
Here Sirius delivers a threefold punch. He describes Peter as a tagalong; he says that if Peter didn't tag after the other three, he'd be all alone; and he mocks Peter's size in two respects, for we know that Peter is short, and as nicknames go, "Wormtail" is an ugly one--with distinctly negative sexual overtones. And yet I honestly don't think that Sirius realises how hurtful he's being.
Peter laughed long and low. "Tell the truth, Sirius--you know you'd be doomed without me. Who else is going to make up excuses for you, or search out secrets for the Order, or do all the ordinary stuff that you lot never want to do?"
As Sirius yelped that he was very good at forcing himself to do the undesirable, and as Remus smilingly commented that the only way Sirius would ever do something undesirable would be under the Imperius curse, Peter crushed a thin cold jet of rage that none of them--not one--had protested that he was not ordinary.
It wasn't important.
Really.
Not at all.
He'd heard far worse.
This is called apophasis--the pretended denial of what one's actually saying.
He ignored the rage, forcing himself to laugh and joke with the others. Soon enough, the fury went away. Or seemed to.
He determinedly paid no attention to the jingle that kept repeating itself in his mind:
No one knew and no one guessed
What petty Peter kept suppressed.
***
Coincidentally, this is also the day that I chose for Peter Pettigrew's birthday. (I have a tendency to select birthdays for characters, despite the fact that Remus's birthday just got thoroughly Jossed by JKR. I had him down as a September baby, not as a March one.)
So without further adieu, here's the DvD commentary for the first Peter story that I ever wrote.
Pro Bono Publico
First, let me explain the title. Pro Bono Publico was originally going to be a novel-length fic set in a Potterverse AU beginning in 1981 and continuing until 1996. The main difference in this universe was that, in this world, a member of the Order very quickly discovers (using canonical information) that Sirius Black is innocent, and begins fighting legally to get Sirius freed and cleared.
It was also going to be multiple-chapter, with the viewpoint changing in each chapter a la George R. R. Martin.
Finally, since Peter Pettigrew's treachery starts everything, this section--which begins the story--was from his viewpoint.
As it turned out, the story worked better as a one-shot set in the canonical universe.
***
He scrabbled through the sewers.
Only one character is ever described in connection with a sewer, so the opening sentence lets readers familiar with the world know who the story is about and roughly when it's taking place.
Most of those currently looking for him would see nothing out of the ordinary in the scene--just another disgusting rodent scurrying through concrete pipes filled with filthy, refuse-filled water. However, one or two of those people might have noticed that this particular rodent was a small, grey garden rat which bore little resemblance to the cocker-spaniel-sized black sewer rats, half of which were red-eyed, rabid and watching the outlander avidly.
That's what the sewer rats look like in Hartford, Connecticut. I used to see them sometimes when I was coming home from work. Also, please note--although Peter is a rat among rats here, he doesn't look like the others, and doesn't blend in. The motif of not being like the others and not fitting in will continue throughout the story.
One of the sewer rats, seeing him as either territorial threat or midnight snack, leaped at him. He scooted backwards behind a ground-level pipe, looking on with grim satisfaction as the sewer rat slammed, mouth first, into a garbage-covered iron grate.
He would have liked to stay and gloat silently, but, given the enraged chittering coming from his attacker and the gleaming eyes shining from nooks and crevices, that would have been unwise. And he had enough people hunting and hating him right now without making enemies of another species as well.
This is characteristic of Peter's approach in the books. Even in a situation where killing might be desirable to help him avoid Azkaban--as in the Shrieking Shack--Peter prefers to stun or injure his opponents, and then escape.
Yesterday, he'd been Peter Pettigrew, wizard.
A few hours ago, he'd lost his wand, his allies, his reputation, his friends and his identity. And he had little to no chance of ever getting any of them back.
In addition to confirming Peter's identity, we now have a definite time that this is taking place. It's 1 November, 1981, about three hours after Sirius caught up with Peter in Muggle London.
None of this should have happened.
If it hadn't been for the Order of the Phoenix, probably none of it would have gone wrong in the first place.
But what else could I do? he thought desperately as he dodged in and out of shadows and dived behind random pipes. The others were so happy about it when Dumbledore invited us to join.
He'd known at the time how mad it was. A small secret order of wizards--four of them not out of school yet--recruited to fight Voldemort. But he hadn't been able to make his friends see the insanity of the situation. Not then. Not ever.
In this story, he doesn't try. I had planned other stories/chapters in which he would make the attempt, however.
The invitation had been issued over the Easter holidays in their seventh year.
Seventh year would have been 1977-1978. According to the Gregorian calendar, Easter Sunday fell on the twenty-sixth of March in 1978. This being the Easter holidays, Peter and his friends probably have a week or so more of vacation before school resumes, so this flashback is taking place in early April, 1978.
McGonagall had told him proudly that he'd been summoned to Dumbledore's office. He'd trudged up the stairs to the Headmaster's office, dispirited and weary. Of course he was going to be expelled. His luck, naturally, was always bad.
Peter's reaction is typical of anyone summoned to talk to a principal, headmaster or boss. However, I also wanted to establish that talking to Dumbledore could be frightening, even intimidating. "Why didn't Peter just tell Dumbledore that he was a Death Eater?" is a recurrent question in the fandom. I needed to establish a relationship that was close and trusting from Dumbledore's viewpoint and virtually nonexistent from Peter's.
But Dumbledore hadn't said a word about expulsion. Instead, he'd gazed at Peter with a solemn expression, and, for a moment, had looked uncertain of what to say.
"Peter," he said finally, "your parents are Muggles, are they not?"
Dumbledore is beginning a conversation in which he's going to invite Peter to become a member of an elite group by reminding Peter that, in the eyes of many wizards and witches in the 1970s, he's not a REAL wizard, simply because of his bloodlines.
It was the worst thing Dumbledore could have said.
Peter had heard the taunts and mockery for seven years. Mudblood. Dirty blood. Hangs about with halfbloods and blood traitors. Stupid. Slow. Not really in the same league as the others. Potter and Black, they're brilliant, and Lupin's a born genius at Defense Against the Dark Arts...but Pettigrew? Why do they even let the stupid Mudblood hang around with them? Pity. It has to be pity.
"Defense" should have been spelled "Defence" if I was going to go with British spelling.
As for Peter's reaction, it says a great deal about the past seven years that he hears a comment about his bloodlines as a smear of his intelligence and ability.
"Yes," he'd said coldly. "Both my parents were Muggles. My mother is, and my father was when he was alive."
"Your father is dead?" Dumbledore glanced at Peter with an understanding look that twisted Peter's stomach. "I'm sorry. I don't have any records of your being notified by the Ministry about...er...your father..."
This is something else that grew out of that Marauder-era RPG--the idea of the Ministry sending black owls to the families of those who had been crippled or killed by Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Arrivals of black owls would have been fairly common during the years of the First War with Voldemort, which is why Dumbledore automatically assumes that Peter's father was killed by Death Eaters.
Why does he always think that he understands everything? Peter shouted within his mind.
"You wouldn't have," he said patiently. "My father died of a heart attack. Perfectly natural death."
It isn't mentioned here, but Albert Pettigrew died when his son was four. Peter really doesn't remember him.
"Ah. So it's just your mother and you?"
Peter nodded. "Both my parents were only children. No aunts, uncles or cousins. Just them and me."
Peter acquires three sisters--all considerably older than himself--in "Memory, Awake." Here, he's an only child.
"The danger that Muggles are currently in must be deeply troubling to you," Dumbledore said softly, steepling his fingers as he studied Peter's expression.
He hated that kind of statement. Dumbledore had already clearly made up his mind about how Peter felt. Besides, what could he say? 'No, it's not deeply troubling--I try very hard not to think about it, as I'm here at school in Scotland and can't do a thing'? 'No, after seven years at Hogwarts, I don't know any Muggles, aside from my mother, and I tend not to bleed for people I don't know'?
Yes, Peter is being selfish and unfeeling. No, I'm not going to apologise for it. Everyone has moments like this.
Better just to tell the Headmaster what he wanted to hear and leave. "Yes, sir," he agreed soberly. "It worries me a great deal."
Peter doesn't consider this lying. To his mind, it's more like echoing your teacher's opinions on a test; it saves time.
Dumbledore smiled, a tiny smile but nevertheless one glowing with pride. "I wonder," he said quietly, "if you'd be interested in helping people like your mother."
Appeal ad miseracordium, thought Peter wearily. He would have felt much better about whatever Dumbledore had in mind if the old bastard weren't trying to manipulate him by jerking his heartstrings.
An appeal ad miseracordium is an appeal to pity. It's also a logical fallacy.
Peter is frighteningly well-controlled here. He not only sees that Dumbledore is manipulating him, he can understand how…and he's able to observe and analyse his own emotional reactions. This is a boy who has had to comprehend his opponents--and realise what they would be likely to do next--for a very long time.
It's something bad, he suddenly realised. Something as bad as washing all the bedpans in the Infirmary without a wand, or serving detention with Filch. So horrible that he feels he has to give me a holy cause so that I'll do what he wants without complaint.
Peter's making an intuitive leap here. He has nothing to base this on except his own knowledge of Dumbledore.
"Are you all right, Peter?" inquired Dumbledore, frowning slightly. "You look a bit tense."
"I--I was just wondering how I could possibly help Muggles, sir," he said, stammering a trifle. "It doesn't seem like there would be much I could do here at Hogwarts."
"Ah." The blasted tiny smile was back. "And after Hogwarts?"
Peter shrugged. "If I do well enough on my N.E.W.T.s, I'll probably apply to the Ministry of Magic. They're always looking for a few good wizards."
The slight pause after Peter's words stated Dumbledore's opinion of Peter's skills more clearly than any ridicule.
And Dumbledore loses Peter right there. Peter could have written off the comment about his parentage as a topic he's too sensitive about, and the false sympathy for his father's death as something that was well-intentioned, at least…but he really can't ignore Dumbledore's lack of faith in his skills.
I am a good wizard, he thought fiercely. Far better than you know.
Contrary to what most of the fandom thinks, Peter is good at wizardry while at Hogwarts. He's one of the three youngest Animagi in all of wizarding history, after all. This is magic of a sort that grown wizards in the Potterverse find almost impossible--and three kids of fifteen did it. That shows a level of power and will and ability far above the norm...and Peter got no credit for it. Remus, remember, tells Harry that Sirius and James had to help Peter with the transformation. Leaving aside the question of whether or not Peter NEEDED help, or whether James and Sirius just thought he did, let's focus on the real issue--that Peter was able to become an Animagus, period. But instead of recognising this achievement, either James or Sirius downplayed it to Remus, making it seem as if Peter's transformation was more to their credit than to his.
The story of Peter's life. And like most outsider kids, he would have craved recognition, respect and loyalty more than anything. Sadly, he didn't get the first two--not from students or from teachers.
However, while James, Sirius and Peter all have to conceal this remarkable achievement, James and Sirius have other ways of gaining attention and approval for their skill at magic. Peter doesn't. And unless he wants to get in trouble for being an unregistered Animagus, he has to keep secret the one thing that could get him the respect he wants. That's GOT to hurt.
"What about the war?" said Dumbledore, fixing Peter with a raptor stare.
When in doubt, take refuge in courtesy. "Sir?"
"Come now. You must have formed some opinion of Voldemort over the years."
Peter shivered at the sound of the name. It was all right for Dumbledore. Everyone knew that Dumbledore was the only wizard that--that You-Know-Who feared. But saying the name casually...that was stupid. Names, after all, had power--and naming an evil force was tantamount to summoning it, or, at the very least, attracting its attention.
He had no desire to be the target of You-Know-Who's attention.
I decided to use a very old superstition to explain why everyone in the wizarding world is so afraid of saying Voldemort's name.
"Peter?"
"He scares me, Professor," he said in a trembling voice. "He scares me more than I can say."
Dumbledore stroked his beard as his blue eyes searched Peter's face. "He frightens all of us, Peter."
The question burst out of its own volition. "Even you, sir?"
Dumbledore looked gravely at him. "What he has done, and what he may continue to do, terrify me very much indeed."
It was like watching a tower of indestructible steel collapse. Dumbledore, worried. Dumbledore, frightened.
"The question," Dumbledore said slowly, "is whether you would like to cease being afraid."
"Yes. Of course I would! Yes!"
And that was certainly true. He'd been afraid for years--of bullies, of the condescension and loathing of half the Slytherins for his "dirty blood," of the cruelly accurate, barbed comments that Sirius and James uttered every time that they were exasperated or annoyed with him.
James had given the worst description of him--the one that still stuck in Peter's mind--in their fifth year. "Peter," James had said, "is Gryffindor's fat boy...without being fat."
This is a javelin throw to Peter's heart. Fat kids are very often designated outsiders. James is saying that Peter looks like an insider, an accepted member of the group--but that he's really an outsider. He doesn't belong.
Remus had looked pained and had glanced warningly from James to Peter, but had made no protest. Sirius had laughed. Laughed.
If he had had any self-respect, he would have dropped James' crowd that day.
But where he could have gone?
And they were his friends. They would do anything for him.
Most of the time, anyway.
"I'd give anything to stop being afraid, sir," he repeated with unusual fervour. "Anything."
An unreadable expression--joy? Pride?--flared in Dumbledore's eyes. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to hear that," he said softly. "Let me tell you about a new group that's fighting Voldemort. It's called the Order of the Phoenix..."
Peter listened as Dumbledore rambled on about the Order. The group was scarcely formed--only a handful of wizards and witches. One or two members were disreputable, and there were a few older ones--like Dumbledore, supposedly. However, most, the Headmaster made clear, were young. Recent graduates of Hogwarts. Some were still students.
Schoolkids, thought Peter with sick horror. Dumbledore's trying to fight You-Know-Who with old people and crooks and schoolkids.
Which sounds appalling in itself, but I was also thinking of the very young boys and older men that tend to become cannon fodder when the strong, able-bodied, trained soldiers are all dead.
It was at that moment that he knew that You-Know-Who would win. How could he help it, when his only organised opponents were old wizards and barely trained boys and girls?
Why us? he shouted silently. Why US?
Because they were expendable. It was as simple as that. Dumbledore might care about his students; he might want them to be loyal. But in the end, their main value was that the fact that they were young, reckless and stupid, willing to risk their lives as if it were a game.
"...was wondering if you would like to join us, Peter, " concluded Dumbledore.
Peter's first instinct was an emphatic No. A second thought advised him to be cautious; Dumbledore had entrusted him with far too many secrets about the Order to be comfortable with immediate refusal.
Looking innocent, sincere and trustworthy are more important than actual beliefs--or so Peter feels. The sad thing is, he probably picked this up at school.
"If--if you don't mind, sir, I'd like to think about it," he said in the calmest voice he could manage. "It's a huge step."
Judging from Dumbledore's proud expression, he had struck just the right note. He decided to push his luck.
"Er...may I discuss this with the others?"
There was no need for Dumbledore to ask who the "others" were.
"Of course. I've already spoken to them. I believe that Mr. Black said that they were going to talk this over in your dormitory." Dumbledore glanced at him with a gaze of blue steel. "I look forward to hearing your decision. Good luck, Mr. Pettigrew."
Peter trudged from Dumbledore's office and up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, hoping against hope that his friends had done something sensible for a change.
"Anguis in herba," he muttered, before the Fat Lady's portrait could cheerfully demand a password.
Anguis in herba is Latin for "a snake in the grass."
"Your friends are inside, dearie," said the Fat Lady as the portrait hole opened. "My, they looked excited."
He hadn't thought that his hopes could sink any further. It now seemed he was wrong. "Excited" was never a good sign, not with James' crowd.
The common room was all but deserted when he walked in. Not surprising; most people had gone home for the two-week Easter vacation. Still, he would have welcomed a few extra Gryffindors at the moment. James, Remus and Sirius would be less likely--well, he admitted to himself, slightly less likely--to talk while others were around.
James, Sirius and Peter didn't go home for Easter because Easter Sunday was a full moon, and they didn't want Remus to go through that alone.
James, his glasses askew, was pacing around the room, running his hands through his hair as he did so. Remus, who was looking thoughtful, was seated at the common room's largest table with seven or eight hefty tomes in front of him. Sirius, his face ablaze with eagerness, was half-standing beside him, his left trainer squarely on the floor, his right one firmly planted on the seat of the chair to Remus' right.
None of them saw or heard him at first. They were too busy discussing the Order. Or, to be more precise, agreeing with each other about the Order.
"I can't believe it!" James was saying jubilantly. "Of all the wizards in Britain and Ireland, Dumbledore asked us."
"Well, of course he asked us," said Sirius, glancing at James with exasperation. "He wants the best, after all."
"Ah, modesty," murmured Remus, a tiny smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "Tell me, Sirius, how long have you been suffering from these delusions of grandeur?"
All his life, Peter thought sourly as he gritted his teeth, willing himself not to speak until one of them acknowledged him. All his bloody life.
In other words, James sees Dumbledore's offer as an unlooked-for honour; Sirius sees it as an inevitable honour; Remus sees Sirius's reaction as delusional (albeit amusing); while Peter sees Sirius's reaction as delusional and infuriating.
Sirius smiled lazily at Remus. "It's not considered a delusion when you are the best, Moony."
As in canon, Sirius doesn't lack for confidence.
Remus rolled his eyes, but did not comment further. Instead, he turned to James. "I wonder where Peter is?"
Given Remus's rationality and powers of observation, he's already noticed that Peter is listening and is trying to give Peter an opening so he can just "walk in."
"Probably off in the kitchens, begging some extra food from the house elves."
Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs end up doing this a great deal in fics about their school days.
Sirius leaned against Remus' chair. "Why?"
Note that although Remus asked the question of James, Sirius is answering it.
"I was wondering if Dumbledore invited him to join as well."
"Oh, probably," said James indifferently. "After all, Dumbledore asked us. It would look odd if he didn't ask Peter too."
And here James answers the comment put to Sirius. James, too, comes up with the truly devastating comment--that Peter wasn't invited because of merit, but because Dumbledore wants the other three, and it would look odd if Peter weren't asked. Given Dumbledore's display of doubt regarding Peter's skills, James's comment is going to sound dreadfully probable.
He studied the ceiling for a moment, then shrugged. "I imagine that there will be a place for Peter. Some quiet desk job. You know Peter. He's meticulous. Good at planning."
Yes, that's what every eighteen-year-old boy wants to hear--that he's a natural bureaucrat.
"But definitely not the James Bond type," said Sirius.
Yes, logically, Remus and Peter, as the two non-purebloods, would be more likely to know about 007, while James and Sirius wouldn't. The trouble was, I thought that Remus would sense and understand that Peter wished that he were a James Bond type, so I gave the line to Sirius instead.
Ironically, of course, James Bond is the archetypal fantasy spy. Peter's going to become an excellent spy, though less in the tradition of Ian Fleming's Bond and more in the tradition of John Le Carré's George Smiley--a fat, shy, stammering, plodding man with a deadly talent for accurate observation.
James picked up one of the tomes--a forest-green book with The Noble Sport of Warlocks in white on the cover--and tossed it at Sirius. "No, that's you."
"And you'll be making dashing midnight raids on your broom and snatching members of the Order right from under the Death Eaters' noses." Sirius threw the book back at James, though rather harder than James had thrown it at him.
The Noble Sport of Warlocks by Quintius Umfraville is mentioned in Quidditch Through the Ages, which, along with Fantastic Beasts and How to Find Them, Rowling wrote for Comic Relief. It includes, according to the Harry Potter Lexicon, "a diagram of a seventeenth-century pitch and descriptions of the game as it is then played."
The real point, however, is that the book James and Sirius are tossing back and forth is green. Green is an interesting colour symbolically--it stands for youth, hope, loyalty, envy, deceit and betrayal.
"And Remus--wait a second." James caught the book neatly, then lowered it. "What would Remus be doing?
Sirius surveyed Remus thoughtfully. "Undercover work? Or perhaps I should say, under the covers..."
"Sirius." Peter could tell from Remus' chill tone and studiedly calm expression that Remus, while not quite angry yet, nevertheless felt that Sirius was pushing it.
"All right, all right." Sirius held up a protesting hand. "You'll be teaching Order members to defend themselves. Better?"
"Marginally. Though I don't know what you expect me to teach McGonagall or Dumbledore."
James tossed the book in the air, caught it, and then--intercepting a stern glare from Remus--put the book down on the table.
Remus definitely has authority, despite James being the unquestioned leader--Sirius backs down after one word from him, while one glance from Remus makes James put the book down.
"You'll manage. And that'll be the four of us. You'll teach people how to fight You-Know-Who, and Sirius and I will make sure that wizards and Muggles alike survive and Peter--"
"He'll make sure the paperwork survives," Sirius interrupted, grinning. "Each to his own ability, and all that."
And again, there's that offhand assumption that Peter's abilities aren't that great. I wanted such comments and presumptions to pop up randomly, like attacks from a flick knife, so that readers could understand how much it hurt to hear such things daily, even hourly, not only from enemies, but also from teachers and friends.
"All in agreement about joining, then?" said James, in a tone that suggested all was settled.
Note that James assumes everyone will agree with him--not only the boys who are here, but also the boy who, as far as he knows, isn't.
Aren't you even worried? thought Peter, envying and hating James at that moment. Don't you know what it is to be afraid?
No. James probably didn't know. He was Gryffindor's Golden Boy, after all--rich, popular, pureblooded. And, though James wasn't handsome, he'd always acted as if he were irresistible, which, Peter had noted, counted for quite a lot. He'd never run into anything unconquerable or unbearable; even Lily Evans had fallen in love with him eventually. The world accommodated itself to James, not the other way around.
James was picturing moments of reckless daring, last-second rescues and unlikely heroics, as the right sort of people in the wizarding world cheered and shouted, hailing the brave young men of Gryffindor.
Dumbledore needed people to fight a war, and James was envisioning a Quidditch match against Slytherin.
Which goes back to Peter's realisation that Dumbledore needs people who will risk their lives as if they are playing a game.
Sirius at least knew what the risks were. He should, with his family. He just didn't care...or acted as if he didn't, which amounted to the same thing. Sirius would have been perfectly at home in the Charge of the Light Brigade--never mind that it was a pointless, recklessly defiant charge that got most of the brigade killed or maimed for nothing but stupid heroism.
Peter wondered how many wizards would end up dying because of Sirius' pranks and defiance.
Remus knew what a war was, at least. He should; he spent every full moon fighting an unconquerable and hated monster. Even if the monster was part of Remus himself.
Reluctantly, Peter admitted that Remus would go along with the other two, despite knowing the risks better than both of them put together. James was Remus' brother, and Sirius' brother. And Sirius was--something else that Peter's mind twitched away from. They were his family. More, they were his pack. The werewolf would never abandon his litter-brother or--oh, admit it, he told himself wearily--his mate.
Peter knew that he was not part of Remus' pack. Not that Remus was unkind. Far from it. But the connection that existed between the other three had never quite come to life in his case. Remus liked him. He was patient about tutoring Peter in Astronomy.
Peter's eyes are described in canon as "watery" which I interpret as both "blue" and "near-sighted but lacking glasses". If indeed he is near-sighted, Astronomy would be difficult for him.
They played pranks together. But when Remus was in pain or worried or upset, it was James and Sirius he turned to. Not Peter.
This shouldn't have hurt. But it did.
So, no chance of Remus siding with him. Not while James and Sirius were around.
Of all three relationships, I think that this one bothers Peter the most, because he sees what it could have been...and isn't.
He looked at the three of them, all laughing and joking, as if they weren't agreeing to fight an immortal and supremely powerful being, as if they wouldn't be facing former classmates and kinfolk and having to kill or be killed. They weren't thinking of battles and strategy and tactics, of pain and madness and sudden death.
They didn't understand what war meant.
For a moment, Peter felt as if his mind were split in two. Half of it looked at them with fear and pity. I could help them. I'm good at planning. James and Sirius never planned ahead in their lives.
As if they would listen to you! he thought bitterly. You're just Pathetic Peter, the pity friend. Puny Peter. Porcine Peter. Petty Peter Pettigrew.
Involuntarily, a rhyme the Slytherins had chanted at him for most of his first year returned to him:
No one guessed and no one knew
How petty little Peter grew.
No one knew and no one guessed
What petty Peter kept suppressed.
All right. Here's what everyone asks about. The rhyme.
I can't take much credit for it. I stopped at the point of "They didn't understand what war meant." When I woke up the next morning, I was reciting the rhyme. I guess my subconscious was working on the story while I slept.
No, no one knew and no one guessed. And that was the way it had to be, for now.
Someday, perhaps, he'd be able to talk to his friends. Really talk. Tell them how he felt. And they would understand.
Someday, when he'd done something important, something no one else could have done. When he'd proven his worth, and seen pride and respect shining in their eyes.
Peter genuinely does care about his friends. He doesn't have much faith that they care about him, however, and no faith whatsoever that they'd listen to him under normal circumstances; he honestly does believe that he'll have to prove his courage or worth before they'll do that.
But not now. Now he had to swallow his better judgement and agree to this madness. They'd never trust him again if he said no. They'd think he was a sympathiser of You-Know-Who. They'd hate him.
He really didn't think he could live in a world without friends. Even occasional friends.
The above paragraph was initially two long paragraphs about friendship. I cut it to two sentences.
Besides, he might be the only chance they had of coming out of this intact.
Surely they'd respect him then.
They'd have to.
Peter cleared his throat, startling James and Sirius. Remus simply turned around calmly and smiled slightly.
Indicating yet again that Remus has known all along that Peter was there and listening.
James glanced at him guiltily, then stared at the floor.
"Peter?" said Sirius, frowning. "When did you get here?" And how much did you hear? his expression added.
"Just now. Why?" Peter lied. Don't tell, he silently implored Remus. Don't tell.
Peter lies a great deal in this story--to Dumbledore, to his friends, to himself. I didn't realise how much lying he did until now.
Remus' smile grew a fraction broader. He nodded slightly.
Sirius relaxed somewhat. "Oh, nothing. We were just talking about some things that would bore you to tears. Quidditch, the loveliness of James' redhead of choice..."
Peter sighed. Obviously Sirius was going to be difficult, and he didn't really feel up to bantering. "Dumbledore told me about the Order," he said quietly, looking gravely into Sirius' eyes.
"I knew it!" exulted James. "I knew he'd invite you too! Er..." he added, noticing Peter's solemn expression, "you are joining, aren't you, mate?"
Peter regarded James with an exasperated expression. "Was there ever any doubt? I mean, you're my best friends in the whole world. How could I not join you?"
And once again, Peter does what he did with Dumbledore--he says what he knows the others want to hear.
"Too right," grinned Sirius. "Wouldn't be the same without you dotting along after us all the time, would it? That'd be tragic, that would. Poor wee Wormtail, all alone."
Here Sirius delivers a threefold punch. He describes Peter as a tagalong; he says that if Peter didn't tag after the other three, he'd be all alone; and he mocks Peter's size in two respects, for we know that Peter is short, and as nicknames go, "Wormtail" is an ugly one--with distinctly negative sexual overtones. And yet I honestly don't think that Sirius realises how hurtful he's being.
Peter laughed long and low. "Tell the truth, Sirius--you know you'd be doomed without me. Who else is going to make up excuses for you, or search out secrets for the Order, or do all the ordinary stuff that you lot never want to do?"
As Sirius yelped that he was very good at forcing himself to do the undesirable, and as Remus smilingly commented that the only way Sirius would ever do something undesirable would be under the Imperius curse, Peter crushed a thin cold jet of rage that none of them--not one--had protested that he was not ordinary.
It wasn't important.
Really.
Not at all.
He'd heard far worse.
This is called apophasis--the pretended denial of what one's actually saying.
He ignored the rage, forcing himself to laugh and joke with the others. Soon enough, the fury went away. Or seemed to.
He determinedly paid no attention to the jingle that kept repeating itself in his mind:
No one knew and no one guessed
What petty Peter kept suppressed.
***