Peter Pettigrew had long since forgotten what it felt like to be truly human.
He had been a rat for so long that it no longer felt like a disguise or trick, but a reality he could not escape. The world, viewed through the beady, dull eyes of a rat, was a murky haze of shadows and sounds. The scent of sawdust and the scratch of straw beneath his claws had become so familiar that they were like second nature to him. His small, misshapen body had adapted to the scurrying movements, the gnawing hunger, and the instincts to hide, to scuttle away at the first sign of danger.
He couldn’t even recall what it felt like to walk on two legs anymore. The aches in his spine from curling into small spaces, the constant churning of his stomach, and the distant fear of being discovered—these sensations had blended into a monotonous, endless loop.
It had all started when Percy Weasley found him scurrying through the garden, skinny and starving, dirty from weeks of hiding among the bushes and stones. Percy had only been eight years old, clutching Peter’s tiny, trembling body in his hands like he had found something precious.
“Please, Mum, can I keep him?” Percy had begged, his eyes wide with hope. A boy who had shared everything with his brothers and now had an opportunity to have something he could call his own.
Molly had relented after some convincing, more to stop the constant nagging than out of any real desire to keep a rat. Another thing to feed. She’d taken Peter, giving him a quick examination before setting him up with an old shoebox and some spare rags. A rat heaven, Percy had called it, Scabbers new home.
Peter, as Scabbers, had nestled into the rags, his body still humming with the aftershocks of fear and survival. His mind had been sharp then, his thoughts distinctly human, but the more time he had spent as Percy’s Scabbers the more he slipped into a routine of a rat’s life.
His gnawing hunger became a thing of the past. The smells of the Weasley household became a backdrop to his new existence - Molly’s cooking, the earthy musk of the garden, and the faint aroma of wizarding paraphernalia.
Percy, ever diligent, took care of him with the same meticulousness he showed in everything else. Every morning, Peter would be fed the leftover crumbs from the breakfast table as he scurried along the floor in search of scraps. His claws clicking on the worn wood was as natural as breathing.
In those early years, Peter clung to the memory of his former self. He would stare out the window from the shoebox that Percy had set on his nightstand to give him a nice view, watching the children bicker and play, and remind himself that he was Peter Pettigrew, not just Scabbers. He was a wizard, not a rodent. But the Weasley household was safe. It was warm. And it required nothing of him but to exist.
Over time, Scabbers became part of the Weasley family. Percy adored him, carrying him around the house and showing him off to his younger brothers. Scabbers still remembered how Percy talked to him like he was more than just a pet. “You’re the smartest rat, aren’t you, Scabbers? Smarter than anyone would think.”
Scabbers had taken those words to heart as the years went by, but Percy grew older lost interest in his childhood pet and more focused on his studies. He spent his time lazing about the Gryffindor Common Room and being harassed by the younger boys, Fred and George. They showed little interest in him beyond using him in their prank experiments and teasings. Chase him around Hogwarts with their latest prank item they had procured or dangle treats just out of his reach, laughing at the way he stretched and scrambled for the food.
They had grown rather bored of him after that, Scabbers became mostly ignored, save for when Percy would remember to feed him or when the twins decided to use him for some prank. Scabbers, the lazy, balding rat with a missing toe. Scabbers, who slept and ate too much. Scabbers, who gnawed at leftover crusts, feeling less human with each nibble.
One day, he was passed down to Ron when Percy replaced him with an owl, Hermes. He had earned the new pet for becoming a prefect. Ron, the youngest boy, had little more than a shrug of excitement for acquiring the ageing, lazy rat.
“He’s old,” Fred, or maybe George, had commented glancing at Scabbers with a bored expression. “Doesn’t do much but eat and sleep, like you, Ronniekins.”
Ron had grown as red as a cherry tomato at the statement, stuffing Scabbers into his pocket without a second thought and replied, “At least I’ve got a pet to go to Hogwarts with unlike you.”
“Suit yourself,” George, or Fred, had shouted from the other side of the room joining the conversation.
Scabbers barely remembered what it was like to be Peter. He remembered the endless scratching of his claws on wood and the gnawing of his teeth on scraps he was given. The feel of his fur, matted and thinning with age, was more familiar than the idea of skin. His tail, long and bald, twitched instinctively. The sensation of his sharp teeth, always itching to chew on something, whether it was wood, cloth, or discarded trash, had become second nature. He had forgotten what it was like to speak, to walk on two legs, to cast a spell with a wand in hand.
Sometimes, he would hear the Weasley children whisper about Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and the name would stir something deep within him. But he would push it down, burying it beneath layers of instinct and denial. You’re safe, he told himself. You’re only a rat.
Yet today, as the rattling Hogwarts Express sped along the tracks, he sensed a shift. The train car was filled with the scent of old leather seats, and Ron's pocket was a familiar cocoon of warmth and sweat. Scabbers curled tighter, feeling the rhythmic sway of the train beneath him. He tried to sleep, to shut the world out, but then-
“Hi. Do you mind if I sit here?”
Scabbers’ ears twitched, but he paid little mind. He heard new voices every year; it would be no different.
“Everywhere else is full,” the boy added.
Ron grunted in reply, and Scabbers felt the pocket shift as the boy made room for the newcomer. That voice, he tried to ignore it, to burrow deeper into Ron’s pocket, but then he heard it.
“I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.”
“I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”
The name hit him like lightning, sparking a tremor through his small, quivering body. Harry Potter. Harry.
A name that once echoed through his mind, etched in guilt and shadow. The child he had betrayed before he could even speak. Peter’s claws dug into the fabric of Ron’s pocket, his whole body trembling. He tried to disappear deeper into the pocket, to drown out that voice. But it was useless. That voice- innocent, unaware of the shadows that trailed him- pulled memories like ghosts from their graves.
James.
James Potter, wide grin, messy hair, eyes alight as he spoke of his son. “He’s going to be just like me, you’ll see,” he’d said, brimming with pride. “When Harry gets to Hogwarts, he’ll have the time of his life. He’ll be a Gryffindor, like all of us.”
Peter remembered the laughter, Sirius clapping him on the back, Remus’s quiet smile. They had all dreamed of Harry’s future, of the boy who would grow to be as brave as his father, as fierce as his mother. But Peter- Peter had known even then. He had already sold them out and handed their fate over to the Dark Lord. He had known that Harry would never have those years with his father.
But James hadn’t known. James had smiled at him, so trusting. “You’ll be there too, Wormtail. You’ll see it all. Can’t wait to see him on his broom, right?”
Peter had smiled back, empty and hollow. Guilt gnawed at him even then, but he buried it, deeper and deeper under fear, under the instinct to survive.
You’ll never see him grow up, Peter thought, trembling with the memory, because of me.
The compartment around him was a distant murmur, Harry and Ron’s voices blending into a haze. All he could hear was James’s laughter, and Lily’s soft voice chiding him for spoiling her son. “You’ll be a great uncle, Peter,” she’d said once, her green eyes filled with warmth.
A great uncle. What a joke. He was nothing. He was nothing but a rat, hiding in the shadows, cowering from the very boy he had doomed to a life of orphanhood.
They had always said he was a rat, hadn’t they? How did a weak, cowardly thing like Peter even get this far? he remembered them saying, half-laughing. They never saw it then, never saw him. But he was always a rat, and now, hiding in a child’s pocket, it was all he was.
How easy it was to survive as a rat. Easier to be weak and live, easier to serve and cower than to stand tall. But it was never my fault, he reminded himself, shivering. They were cruel and arrogant. The Potters, Sirius, all of them. They pushed him away long before he ever betrayed them.
“Peter’s more like a Hufflepuff, really,” he could hear James teasing, mocking. “How did you even get in, Pete?” James had nudged him in the ribs, not unkindly, but enough to make Peter feel small, less than, the runt of the pack who somehow managed to tag along with the daring, the strong, the truly brave.
Do you really think so, James? Peter had wanted to ask, but he had only laughed weakly, forcing a grin, pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending he didn’t feel each jab like a pinprick, burrowing into his skin, leaving behind a lingering sting.
Then there was Remus, calm, and thoughtful, but too observant for Peter’s comfort. “Peter’s our friend,” he had said, his voice softer, measured, “even if he runs away from things.” His gaze had lingered on him, steady, as though he were searching for something within Peter, some hidden depth or strength he thought he might find. But even in his kindness, there was a distance, a trace of pity. Remus seemed to understand him in ways that Peter could never quite understand himself, and for that, he resented him.
Is that what you believe, Remus? That I run away from things?
They thought they knew him—thought he was small and safe, someone who would always trail behind, too weak to make his own path. But they didn’t know the weight he carried, the lengths he’d go to survive. They had never seen the world from his eyes, always standing in their shadows, craving a glimpse of their warmth while they laughed and teased without a second thought for what lay beneath.
You’re wrong, he thought. You’re wrong. You’re wrong. You’re wrong.
He shrank further into the pocket, clinging to his new identity. Scabbers, not Peter.Just Scabbers, he repeated, clinging to the name. A rat with no past, no guilt, no shame. A rat didn’t feel loyalty or regret, didn’t feel the bite of betrayal or the chill of loneliness. A rat simply did what it needed to survive.
The train rumbled on, a relentless, steady beat, carrying them all toward Hogwarts, toward the castle filled with echoes of a future he had stolen from his friends, memories he had buried but could never quite silence.