Mischief Managed ♦ Fic: The Way Things Accumulate
Title: The Way Things Accumulate
Author: dusty_gun
Pairing: Peter
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,529
Prompt: 4. "For some there's a future to find
But I think they're leaving me behind"
-Nick Drake, They're Leaving me behind
Warnings: A fairly angsty Peter.
Summary: They don't understand, they don't know, they don't care, and Peter
Pettigrew has had enough.
Peter’s eyes move from friend to friend as the four sit in a small Muggle bar, tucked away in an alley, drinking some bitter Muggle concoction (‘beer’ they called it). Everyone (else) is in great spirits; they’d been ambushed while patrolling Muggle London by three Death Eaters, each of whom were now lying obliviously stunned, bound by rope, in a garbage disposal trolley somewhere west of Surrey.
They sip on their drinks cheerfully, positivity and victory making them immune to the foul taste.
He surveys them, each genuinely content, dimples showing in Sirius’ cheeks and James’ grin permanently plastered there (for the next hour, at least). He watches them as they laugh and bask in their glory and success.
But Peter can’t join them.
Heck no, the glory and victory don’t belong to him.
For in a situation where there were only three Death Eaters to the four of them, of course he would be the one without an opponent, he would be left standing in between flashes of
light and elements, twirling wands and rapid dodging, panic on his face, yet virtually twiddling his
thumbs.
(They don’t understand what it’s like to feel completely helpless while your friends face
death right in front of you.)
For Peter Pettigrew was never the first to be attacked-not enough of a challenge for the truly
talented (the ones who sought a real battle, a real adrenalin rush). He only ever found
himself facing the end of a wand when it was his side that had the upper hand, and the opposition
were looking for an easy target in the hope of depleting their enemy’s fighters. And, as Peter’s
complex nagged him, they probably would succeed at that, if other Order members didn't have the
ability to deflect the curse coming his way whilst still engaged in fierce duelling.
(They don’t know what it’s like to be completely helpless.)
He’s watched how James and Sirius would work their wands with such elegance; how they
collaborate, back each other up, foresee each other's actions and react accordingly, like only true
mates can. How he longs to have that talent, that ability, that courage to be able to jump
into a fight and duel, work magic with his wand, like them.
(They don’t understand what it’s like to be surrounded by people, friends, who have talent
you could only dream of, yet only be able to stand inferior next to them.)
He’s sat through numerous Order meetings, listening to ‘James did this’ and ‘Sirius did that’ and
even a ‘Remus is to be congratulated’ thrown in there on occasion. But never him. How he so wishes to be the one praised at Order meetings! For the crowd to look up at him proudly, admiration in
their eyes. For the one with all the talent and success to be him.
(They don’t know what it’s like to have no talent.)
He wants someone to pat his back - hell, even a simple “good job, Pete”. But it never comes. (He doesn’t think he’s heard a sincere ‘congratulations’ since he passed his Transfiguration O.W.L, and he’s sure even that was out of pity-a reaction to James’ ‘O’ next to his ‘A.’)
(They don’t know what it’s like to be inferior, and constantly reminded of that fact.)
It takes a whole four and a half minutes for one of them to notice that he’s been staring vacantly out the window and only a hand waving in front of his face to ask absent mindedly if he is awake at that. So he sighs, smiles mindlessly at James’ hand, eyes still fixed outside.
(They don’t understand what it’s like to feel completely insignificant and ignored.)
Even then, a further fifteen minutes go by before Remus (and only the more attuned Remus) realises that he hasn’t been an active part of the conversation for the past quarter of an hour.
(They don’t know what it’s like to be completely insignificant and ignored.)
“You alright, Pete?” he asks quietly, and Peter can tell that he knows what’s been eating at him.
Peter just stares in response.
That’s the thing that makes him the god damn maddest.
They get what bothers him, what gives him a bastard of a complex, but don’t do bloody bull shit to
fix anything. They don’t reassure him that he’s alright. Nup - there’s no “Pete Pettigrew, you’re an
alright bloke, you know” for him - just a bloody look of pity.
(They don’t understand what it feels like to be looked upon with pity, and only pity. They don’t know what it’s like to be people’s - everyone’s - source of shame.)
They don’t humour him, by giving him the opponent for once, watching his back all the
while. They don’t smile at his (more than) occasional idiocy, but rather look at him regretfully, as if ashamed that their friend of eight years doesn’t meet their standard, their tick of approval.
He did, once upon a time-a time where they were still ‘friends,’ (or at a time when they didn’t have victory or fame to invigorate them, and relied on the attention he provided them with). They simply don’t care anymore (and that stings).
(They don’t know what it’s like to have no one care.)
“Don’t worry, you’ll get a go next time,” Remus smiles, not quite completely.
Peter supposes that they both know that he won’t, what with the way he’s struggling to keep up
with the rest of them at the moment. He’s barely sleeping out of fear, can hardly make it up a flight
of stairs without wheezing, (let alone duel), he’s eating less and less, and he swears that his hair’s growing greyer at the mere age of twenty.
Heck, the thought of a next time alone makes him fearful; where the fuck had his blasted Gryffindor courage gone? He had it once, he knows, when he was a young one; he would fight the bullies who dared to pick on his buck teeth and slightly large belly, the ones who called him stupid and insulted his intelligence. He had been a strong boy, Peter Pettigrew had. Some even went as far as to call him brave. And that, he thinks, is a word he hasn't heard describe him in eons.
It seemed to have all faded away once the Marauders took him under their wing, once he no longer
needed to defend himself, be himself (for he had stronger, more powerful people to do it for
him). And that, he realises-that initial friendship-is what destroyed him: his sense of self, bravery, worth, individuality. So he blames them for his shortcomings.
As soon as he had people to look after him, he no longer needed to look after himself, no longer
needed to be himself; as a “Marauder” it was not necessary.The title, the belonging implied, was
enough. Ha! The irony of that.
(They don’t know what it’s like to have no identity.)
Peter Pettigrew, the individual, had slowly drifted away, left only to admire and aspire to be those
greater than him. Schooling has long since finished, war has begun, and the school friends have each found themselves needing to stand on their own two feet. Yet he seems like the only one who isn't quite able to do it. Only a shell of his once existent self remains, leaving him completely and utterly dependent.
And that‘s what has him feeling like shit this very moment. His need for people, (and the ironically
twisted form of identity andconfidencethat they provided him with) yet lack of people (anyone) to
depend upon. The ones drinking and grinning in front of him, (oblivious to the way he’s beginning
to twitch and scratch at his itchy eyes), he realises now as he sees it stated so apparently, no longer apply.
The second round of drinks shoved in front of his face snaps him out of his reverie, and he is once
again greeted by the taunting happiness radiating from the men around him. He joins them as they
raise their glasses, uttering a husky “Cheers”, pretending to look somehow pleased with the day’s
events.
“Good job out there today boys,” Sirius smirks, and Peter doesn’t fail to notice the way the smirk
falters when Sirius’ gaze meets his, and a hint of the oh-too-regularly-expressed shame washes
momentarily over the more handsome man’s face.
“Curse it!” Peter’s mind urges to cry out, “Keep that god damn condescending look out of your eyes for one motherfucking minute!”
But instead he looks away, pretending not to have noticed. His chin is wobbling, and if Sirius sees that, an extremely awkward conversation is likely to follow.. (This, in hindsight, probably would have changed everything.)
“Oi, Pete” James says, and Peter dares to hope that he may be righting his best friend’s mistake.
“Pass us your drink if you’re not going to have any.”
And Peter’s heart sinks.
He only half listens for the rest of the sitting.
That night, Peter Pettigrew Apparates in front of the gates to Lucius Malfoy’s manor.
Author: dusty_gun
Pairing: Peter
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,529
Prompt: 4. "For some there's a future to find
But I think they're leaving me behind"
-Nick Drake, They're Leaving me behind
Warnings: A fairly angsty Peter.
Summary: They don't understand, they don't know, they don't care, and Peter
Pettigrew has had enough.
Peter’s eyes move from friend to friend as the four sit in a small Muggle bar, tucked away in an alley, drinking some bitter Muggle concoction (‘beer’ they called it). Everyone (else) is in great spirits; they’d been ambushed while patrolling Muggle London by three Death Eaters, each of whom were now lying obliviously stunned, bound by rope, in a garbage disposal trolley somewhere west of Surrey.
They sip on their drinks cheerfully, positivity and victory making them immune to the foul taste.
He surveys them, each genuinely content, dimples showing in Sirius’ cheeks and James’ grin permanently plastered there (for the next hour, at least). He watches them as they laugh and bask in their glory and success.
But Peter can’t join them.
Heck no, the glory and victory don’t belong to him.
For in a situation where there were only three Death Eaters to the four of them, of course he would be the one without an opponent, he would be left standing in between flashes of
light and elements, twirling wands and rapid dodging, panic on his face, yet virtually twiddling his
thumbs.
(They don’t understand what it’s like to feel completely helpless while your friends face
death right in front of you.)
For Peter Pettigrew was never the first to be attacked-not enough of a challenge for the truly
talented (the ones who sought a real battle, a real adrenalin rush). He only ever found
himself facing the end of a wand when it was his side that had the upper hand, and the opposition
were looking for an easy target in the hope of depleting their enemy’s fighters. And, as Peter’s
complex nagged him, they probably would succeed at that, if other Order members didn't have the
ability to deflect the curse coming his way whilst still engaged in fierce duelling.
(They don’t know what it’s like to be completely helpless.)
He’s watched how James and Sirius would work their wands with such elegance; how they
collaborate, back each other up, foresee each other's actions and react accordingly, like only true
mates can. How he longs to have that talent, that ability, that courage to be able to jump
into a fight and duel, work magic with his wand, like them.
(They don’t understand what it’s like to be surrounded by people, friends, who have talent
you could only dream of, yet only be able to stand inferior next to them.)
He’s sat through numerous Order meetings, listening to ‘James did this’ and ‘Sirius did that’ and
even a ‘Remus is to be congratulated’ thrown in there on occasion. But never him. How he so wishes to be the one praised at Order meetings! For the crowd to look up at him proudly, admiration in
their eyes. For the one with all the talent and success to be him.
(They don’t know what it’s like to have no talent.)
He wants someone to pat his back - hell, even a simple “good job, Pete”. But it never comes. (He doesn’t think he’s heard a sincere ‘congratulations’ since he passed his Transfiguration O.W.L, and he’s sure even that was out of pity-a reaction to James’ ‘O’ next to his ‘A.’)
(They don’t know what it’s like to be inferior, and constantly reminded of that fact.)
It takes a whole four and a half minutes for one of them to notice that he’s been staring vacantly out the window and only a hand waving in front of his face to ask absent mindedly if he is awake at that. So he sighs, smiles mindlessly at James’ hand, eyes still fixed outside.
(They don’t understand what it’s like to feel completely insignificant and ignored.)
Even then, a further fifteen minutes go by before Remus (and only the more attuned Remus) realises that he hasn’t been an active part of the conversation for the past quarter of an hour.
(They don’t know what it’s like to be completely insignificant and ignored.)
“You alright, Pete?” he asks quietly, and Peter can tell that he knows what’s been eating at him.
Peter just stares in response.
That’s the thing that makes him the god damn maddest.
They get what bothers him, what gives him a bastard of a complex, but don’t do bloody bull shit to
fix anything. They don’t reassure him that he’s alright. Nup - there’s no “Pete Pettigrew, you’re an
alright bloke, you know” for him - just a bloody look of pity.
(They don’t understand what it feels like to be looked upon with pity, and only pity. They don’t know what it’s like to be people’s - everyone’s - source of shame.)
They don’t humour him, by giving him the opponent for once, watching his back all the
while. They don’t smile at his (more than) occasional idiocy, but rather look at him regretfully, as if ashamed that their friend of eight years doesn’t meet their standard, their tick of approval.
He did, once upon a time-a time where they were still ‘friends,’ (or at a time when they didn’t have victory or fame to invigorate them, and relied on the attention he provided them with). They simply don’t care anymore (and that stings).
(They don’t know what it’s like to have no one care.)
“Don’t worry, you’ll get a go next time,” Remus smiles, not quite completely.
Peter supposes that they both know that he won’t, what with the way he’s struggling to keep up
with the rest of them at the moment. He’s barely sleeping out of fear, can hardly make it up a flight
of stairs without wheezing, (let alone duel), he’s eating less and less, and he swears that his hair’s growing greyer at the mere age of twenty.
Heck, the thought of a next time alone makes him fearful; where the fuck had his blasted Gryffindor courage gone? He had it once, he knows, when he was a young one; he would fight the bullies who dared to pick on his buck teeth and slightly large belly, the ones who called him stupid and insulted his intelligence. He had been a strong boy, Peter Pettigrew had. Some even went as far as to call him brave. And that, he thinks, is a word he hasn't heard describe him in eons.
It seemed to have all faded away once the Marauders took him under their wing, once he no longer
needed to defend himself, be himself (for he had stronger, more powerful people to do it for
him). And that, he realises-that initial friendship-is what destroyed him: his sense of self, bravery, worth, individuality. So he blames them for his shortcomings.
As soon as he had people to look after him, he no longer needed to look after himself, no longer
needed to be himself; as a “Marauder” it was not necessary.The title, the belonging implied, was
enough. Ha! The irony of that.
(They don’t know what it’s like to have no identity.)
Peter Pettigrew, the individual, had slowly drifted away, left only to admire and aspire to be those
greater than him. Schooling has long since finished, war has begun, and the school friends have each found themselves needing to stand on their own two feet. Yet he seems like the only one who isn't quite able to do it. Only a shell of his once existent self remains, leaving him completely and utterly dependent.
And that‘s what has him feeling like shit this very moment. His need for people, (and the ironically
twisted form of identity andconfidencethat they provided him with) yet lack of people (anyone) to
depend upon. The ones drinking and grinning in front of him, (oblivious to the way he’s beginning
to twitch and scratch at his itchy eyes), he realises now as he sees it stated so apparently, no longer apply.
The second round of drinks shoved in front of his face snaps him out of his reverie, and he is once
again greeted by the taunting happiness radiating from the men around him. He joins them as they
raise their glasses, uttering a husky “Cheers”, pretending to look somehow pleased with the day’s
events.
“Good job out there today boys,” Sirius smirks, and Peter doesn’t fail to notice the way the smirk
falters when Sirius’ gaze meets his, and a hint of the oh-too-regularly-expressed shame washes
momentarily over the more handsome man’s face.
“Curse it!” Peter’s mind urges to cry out, “Keep that god damn condescending look out of your eyes for one motherfucking minute!”
But instead he looks away, pretending not to have noticed. His chin is wobbling, and if Sirius sees that, an extremely awkward conversation is likely to follow.. (This, in hindsight, probably would have changed everything.)
“Oi, Pete” James says, and Peter dares to hope that he may be righting his best friend’s mistake.
“Pass us your drink if you’re not going to have any.”
And Peter’s heart sinks.
He only half listens for the rest of the sitting.
That night, Peter Pettigrew Apparates in front of the gates to Lucius Malfoy’s manor.