The Last Battle
Summary: Peter Pettigrew reflects. 1150 words. Gen. PG-13.
The Last Battle
I was good at Charms.
When the history books are written, whichever side wins, I doubt if anyone will remember that.
So was Lily, I remember, Lily with her red hair and her passion, always in the middle of things. I’m sorry you got caught up in this, Lily, but it seems to me that you would have died anyway if we had won. Just a little sooner, perhaps, the way things turned out.
Sirius’s strong point was always Transfiguration - he and Regulus both; it ran in the family. James excelled at Defence Against the Dark Arts - another family talent. The Potters were always Aurors.
And my strong point was Charms, but who would notice me, who would remember, with those two around? Sometimes I felt like a moon eclipsed by twin suns.
But I was good at Charms.
--
Bonfires flicker on the hillside. The Muggles in the village must be trembling in their beds. They already think this place is haunted. None of them will see another dawn if we win through tonight.
Peter would have lost sleep over that. He hated killing. He was a sensitive boy - over-sensitive, you might say. Just the thought of a creature in pain was enough to make him cry. He got bullied for that at school, of course. That’s where he developed his sense of humour.
That’s where I learned how to make people laugh.
--
It’s a defence mechanism, of course. Become the class joker and you cease to be a threat. People ignore you. Other people take you up. James and Sirius adopted me the way they later adopted Remus - as a lesser creature, a thing to be protected and nurtured, but never quite an equal. Oh no. They were careful never to befriend anyone who might become a threat.
And then there were three of us. James and Sirius. And Peter Pettigrew. People would look at us and wonder what they saw in me, and I’d look back, and see what they were thinking as easily as if it were written all over their faces. But none of them dared say it.
James and Sirius. And Peter. I always understood his value to them. If you’d watched those deft hands cast a hex, heard that voice spin a tale, you would have understood it too. He was the entertainer of the group - the hands, the voice, the mind. The escapades he planned were as daring as any, and the way he told jokes would make a dead man laugh. When Sirius was in his darkest moods, it was always Peter he turned to, never James. And Peter used to lie awake and dream that one day he wouldn’t be And Peter any more, that one day it would be James and Sirius and Peter. Or maybe James, Peter and Sirius. I always knew it would never come to that.
--
In the old shepherd’s hut, we discover two Muggle teenagers, half-dressed and more than slightly drunk. The boy covers the girl’s body with his own as we walk in. Some protection. My eyes slide towards the Dark Lord’s face. He’s smiling.
‘Wormtail.’
A flick of my wand incinerates the boy. The girl stuffs her hand into her mouth to stop herself screaming and shrinks back against the wall. Another flick of my wand and there’s nothing left of her but ashes, bones and teeth and the belt buckle from her jeans. As we leave, my Master torches the hut and it burns like a signal fire. I wonder what the Muggles in the valley will make of that. One way or another, it won’t matter by morning.
--
When they found out Remus was a werewolf, they adopted him too. And then there were four. James and Sirius and Peter and Remus. James and Sirius and Remus and Peter. James and Sirius and Remus. And Peter.
I watched their friendship spill from my hands as sunlight spills through the branches of trees. I was nothing special, you see. I wasn’t a Black, or a Potter, or a lycanthrope. I was only Peter.
It was my idea to teach ourselves to become Animagi. My greatest gift to them. It took us two years. James managed it first, of course, then Sirius, and two nights later I did it as well, and there we were - the youngest Animagi in over a century. I wonder if Sirius ever realised how much I hated him when I offered him my soul and he christened me Wormtail.
--
As we get closer, the beacons on the hill resolve themselves into pinpricks of fire. There must be hundreds of torches. I had thought there would be twenty, maybe thirty, but there are nearly a hundred Death Eaters assembled here. This isn’t a battle. This is a full-blown war.
There is no way Dumbledore can ignore this.
--
All I ever wanted was to step out of their shadow. I might as well have been invisible. When James and Sirius were there, nobody ever noticed me. When James and Sirius were there, all they saw was each other. Later it was Remus and Sirius, and Lily and James, and Peter was left to fend for himself.
I’ve often wondered what they expected to happen. Did they expect him to fade away, to be good old Peter, and let’s have him round for dinner sometimes - but not too often - and reminisce about the good old days? But I had other friends by then, and the night I walked into Godric’s Hollow with the Dark Lord by my side was the first time James had really looked at me in years.
I never stopped loving them.
--
Lucius is waiting for us at the top of the hill. He hurries across and drops to one knee to kiss the hem of my Master’s robes. My Master tilts his chin upwards with a hooked fingertip and they stare into each other’s eyes. Lucius is nodding as my Master asks him a question, and I’m shocked by the fierce devotion in his eyes. Behind him, Bellatrix is staring at the ground and muttering the same incantation over and over again. I try to see what she’s looking at, but there’s nothing there.
And now it’s my turn. My Master scans the hilltop, looks over the army of Death Eaters waiting for his command and then turns to me.
‘Well, Wormtail. Shall we begin?’
‘My Lord.’ Twelve years as a rat have damaged my voice beyond repair and I almost choke on the words. The red eyes brighten with pleasure. ‘I am at your service, as always.’ A few steps, and I’ve taken my rightful place at his side.
Peter would have hated this. The violence and the cruelty would have broken him. He was too gentle a soul to have lasted long as a Death Eater. I’m glad he isn’t here to see tonight.
My name is Peter Pettigrew. I am Wormtail.
--
Notes: this was written for the 'Transformation' challenge at hp_gen_ch and posted there on 30 April 2005. It was also posted to my LJ on 30 April 2005 and to Fiction Alley on 21 May 2005. Thanks to gehayi, winding_path and yma2 for the beta. Peter's story continues to fascinate me. I wish we had heard his version of the events that took place in the Marauders era.
The Last Battle
I was good at Charms.
When the history books are written, whichever side wins, I doubt if anyone will remember that.
So was Lily, I remember, Lily with her red hair and her passion, always in the middle of things. I’m sorry you got caught up in this, Lily, but it seems to me that you would have died anyway if we had won. Just a little sooner, perhaps, the way things turned out.
Sirius’s strong point was always Transfiguration - he and Regulus both; it ran in the family. James excelled at Defence Against the Dark Arts - another family talent. The Potters were always Aurors.
And my strong point was Charms, but who would notice me, who would remember, with those two around? Sometimes I felt like a moon eclipsed by twin suns.
But I was good at Charms.
--
Bonfires flicker on the hillside. The Muggles in the village must be trembling in their beds. They already think this place is haunted. None of them will see another dawn if we win through tonight.
Peter would have lost sleep over that. He hated killing. He was a sensitive boy - over-sensitive, you might say. Just the thought of a creature in pain was enough to make him cry. He got bullied for that at school, of course. That’s where he developed his sense of humour.
That’s where I learned how to make people laugh.
--
It’s a defence mechanism, of course. Become the class joker and you cease to be a threat. People ignore you. Other people take you up. James and Sirius adopted me the way they later adopted Remus - as a lesser creature, a thing to be protected and nurtured, but never quite an equal. Oh no. They were careful never to befriend anyone who might become a threat.
And then there were three of us. James and Sirius. And Peter Pettigrew. People would look at us and wonder what they saw in me, and I’d look back, and see what they were thinking as easily as if it were written all over their faces. But none of them dared say it.
James and Sirius. And Peter. I always understood his value to them. If you’d watched those deft hands cast a hex, heard that voice spin a tale, you would have understood it too. He was the entertainer of the group - the hands, the voice, the mind. The escapades he planned were as daring as any, and the way he told jokes would make a dead man laugh. When Sirius was in his darkest moods, it was always Peter he turned to, never James. And Peter used to lie awake and dream that one day he wouldn’t be And Peter any more, that one day it would be James and Sirius and Peter. Or maybe James, Peter and Sirius. I always knew it would never come to that.
--
In the old shepherd’s hut, we discover two Muggle teenagers, half-dressed and more than slightly drunk. The boy covers the girl’s body with his own as we walk in. Some protection. My eyes slide towards the Dark Lord’s face. He’s smiling.
‘Wormtail.’
A flick of my wand incinerates the boy. The girl stuffs her hand into her mouth to stop herself screaming and shrinks back against the wall. Another flick of my wand and there’s nothing left of her but ashes, bones and teeth and the belt buckle from her jeans. As we leave, my Master torches the hut and it burns like a signal fire. I wonder what the Muggles in the valley will make of that. One way or another, it won’t matter by morning.
--
When they found out Remus was a werewolf, they adopted him too. And then there were four. James and Sirius and Peter and Remus. James and Sirius and Remus and Peter. James and Sirius and Remus. And Peter.
I watched their friendship spill from my hands as sunlight spills through the branches of trees. I was nothing special, you see. I wasn’t a Black, or a Potter, or a lycanthrope. I was only Peter.
It was my idea to teach ourselves to become Animagi. My greatest gift to them. It took us two years. James managed it first, of course, then Sirius, and two nights later I did it as well, and there we were - the youngest Animagi in over a century. I wonder if Sirius ever realised how much I hated him when I offered him my soul and he christened me Wormtail.
--
As we get closer, the beacons on the hill resolve themselves into pinpricks of fire. There must be hundreds of torches. I had thought there would be twenty, maybe thirty, but there are nearly a hundred Death Eaters assembled here. This isn’t a battle. This is a full-blown war.
There is no way Dumbledore can ignore this.
--
All I ever wanted was to step out of their shadow. I might as well have been invisible. When James and Sirius were there, nobody ever noticed me. When James and Sirius were there, all they saw was each other. Later it was Remus and Sirius, and Lily and James, and Peter was left to fend for himself.
I’ve often wondered what they expected to happen. Did they expect him to fade away, to be good old Peter, and let’s have him round for dinner sometimes - but not too often - and reminisce about the good old days? But I had other friends by then, and the night I walked into Godric’s Hollow with the Dark Lord by my side was the first time James had really looked at me in years.
I never stopped loving them.
--
Lucius is waiting for us at the top of the hill. He hurries across and drops to one knee to kiss the hem of my Master’s robes. My Master tilts his chin upwards with a hooked fingertip and they stare into each other’s eyes. Lucius is nodding as my Master asks him a question, and I’m shocked by the fierce devotion in his eyes. Behind him, Bellatrix is staring at the ground and muttering the same incantation over and over again. I try to see what she’s looking at, but there’s nothing there.
And now it’s my turn. My Master scans the hilltop, looks over the army of Death Eaters waiting for his command and then turns to me.
‘Well, Wormtail. Shall we begin?’
‘My Lord.’ Twelve years as a rat have damaged my voice beyond repair and I almost choke on the words. The red eyes brighten with pleasure. ‘I am at your service, as always.’ A few steps, and I’ve taken my rightful place at his side.
Peter would have hated this. The violence and the cruelty would have broken him. He was too gentle a soul to have lasted long as a Death Eater. I’m glad he isn’t here to see tonight.
My name is Peter Pettigrew. I am Wormtail.
--
Notes: this was written for the 'Transformation' challenge at hp_gen_ch and posted there on 30 April 2005. It was also posted to my LJ on 30 April 2005 and to Fiction Alley on 21 May 2005. Thanks to gehayi, winding_path and yma2 for the beta. Peter's story continues to fascinate me. I wish we had heard his version of the events that took place in the Marauders era.