James sauntered out of McGonagall's office, his face sporting a triumphant grin that his three companions found quite contagious. "Auror!" he exclaimed with unabashed enthusiasm. "That's the path for me, no doubt. She even mentioned I've got the potential for a Transfiguration mastery, but let's be honest, that's not going to do much against the Slytherins."
The trio exchanged amused glances as Remus mused, "So, it's settled then. You two are destined for the auror ranks, and as for me, I've got my heart set on a Defence Against the Dark Arts mastery. Peter, haven't you decided yet? You're the only Marauder left."
All eyes turned to Peter, awaiting his response. He resisted the urge to fidget, digging his nails into his palm to stay composed. "I haven't quite made up my mind," he admitted hesitantly, his voice a touch uncertain. "Maybe a mastery, I suppose?" He shot a quick look at Remus. If any of his friends were to offer their support, it would be him.
"Do you have the required grades for that?" Remus probed gently. "If not, you could retake some courses to meet the criteria."
Peter's shoulders slumped a bit. "No," he muttered. "I'll, uh..."
"McGonagall can be a right piece of work," Sirius grumbled, giving Peter a reassuring pat on the back. "Just tell her you're considering something like working at Madam Malkin's, and us Aurors—James and I—we'll put in a good word for you with the department, mate."
"Right, Peter, don't fret," James chimed in. "You've plenty of skills. For example, you're, erm..."
Remus interjected, "You're brave. You face the Whomping Willow every month. That takes courage."
A small, hesitant smile formed on Peter's lips. "Thanks, Moony."
"Peter Pettigrew!" rang McGonagall's stern voice: and the Marauders wished him luck as the door shut behind him, leaving Peter alone in McGonagall's office. The space was severe, defined by sturdy oak furniture, save for the sunlit windows and a hot chocolate dispenser in one corner, offering a touch of comfort.
"Please, take a seat." McGonagall gestured to a student chair, a bit worn and marked with scratches.
"Right, Professor," Peter mumbled, trying to muster some confidence. He pulled out the chair and settled into it, feeling his nerves flutter in the pit of his stomach.
"So, Mr. Pettigrew," McGonagall began, her expression as stern as ever. "Have you given any thought to your potential career choices?"
Peter's anxiety only grew under her gaze. "Um, well..." He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. He couldn't bring himself to say Madam Malkin's, as that would only reinforce her low expectations of him. James might argue otherwise, but Peter always sensed a certain disapproval from McGonagall, a feeling that she saw him as less capable than his friends. "I haven't really decided yet."
"You've no ideas at all?" Her casual tone grated on him, as if this outcome had been predicted from the start. She continued to pace without pause, her steps purposeful as if she already had his future plotted out. "You might take a look through these," she continued, spreading a stack of pamphlets out on the desk before him. "Some options you ought to consider."
The titles read: Magical Maintenance, featuring a wizard fixing a broken Floo; Misuse of Muggle Artifacts; International Portkey Operation- and there he stopped reading, cringing at the very thought of scheduling Portkeys day after day as his friends fought Dark wizards in the field. They sat in silence for a moment.
"...If you're not interested in working at the Ministry, you might consider positions at Flourish & Blotts or Madam Malkin's," she offered.
"Or maybe Ollivander's?" he ventured, his voice tinged with optimism. It might not be the grandest career, but it was a respectable one.
"Unfortunately, Ollivander demands a minimum of seven N.E.W.Ts, all with Outstanding grades. Wand-making is an intricate craft."
"The truth is," he admitted, fingers nervously tapping against the arm of the chair, "I want to become an Auror."
A frown creased her brow. "That is not feasible. To become an Auror, you need a total of five N.E.W.Ts, and at least four of them must be from the following subjects: Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology, or Charms. You only have the required O.W.Ls to continue in Defence and Charms. I advise you to explore the available options."
"But James and Sirius—"
"Have acquired the necessary O.W.Ls," she interjected. "If you wish to retake the O.W.L. exams, that can be arranged."
"Retake?" The thought of facing those exams again, without Remus to assist him, made him shudder. Surviving them once had been a challenge; he was certain he wouldn't fare any better the second time around. "Er, I- I'm not sure I want to do that."
She exhales through her nose, displaying her frustration all too clearly. "Carry these with you," she insists, thrusting the brochures in his direction. "We shall reconvene three days from now—we need to have some idea of your preferred career choice in order to ensure your enrollment in the suitable N.E.W.T. courses. If by that time you remain undecided, then you shall be assigned N.E.W.Ts randomly."
"Yes, Professor," he mutters, his voice barely audible as he edges his way out of the room.
"Well?" inquires James, his impatience evident as he waits immediately on the other side of the door. "Did you manage to shake her off?"
"More or less." Peter attempts to discreetly tuck the brochures into his robes, but his attempt is foiled by Sirius, who catches hold of his arm.
"What's this, Wormtail?" Sirius seizes the pamphlet for the International Portkey Operation and raises it triumphantly.
"One of the most vital roles at the Ministry, International Portkey Operation is a department brimming with adventure. Foreign dignitaries, magical creatures, hazardous imports—everything must pass through our gates—oof!" Peter halts himself as James blocks his way and Remus snatches the pamphlet from Sirius's grip.
"Here you go," Remus says, returning it to Peter.
"She's trying to pawn you off!" Sirius declares, his tone laced with indignation. "On bloody Portkey schedules! Forget that nonsense—whether by hook or by crook, we're making you an Auror! And—" lowering his voice to a hushed whisper— "once we've formed the Order, they won't be able to reject us, no matter which path you choose."
"Do you still believe Dumbledore will accept our offer?" Remus questions. "We're underage, and even if we weren't, he's already turned us down."
"It's a necessity," Sirius replies with unwavering conviction. "He'll come around to it. He needs us. He'll realize that sooner or later. Especially with Lucius Malfoy recruiting witches and wizards for their side."
________________
As it turns out, Sirius is quite wrong. So wrong, in fact, that even once Dumbledore sees the need for an Order of the Phoenix, even once they've all joined up, even once he's sworn himself to the cause, he's still not accepted into the Order's fighting force.
"Sorry, mate," offers James, guiltily. "It's too bad about all that, would have loved to have you with us, but Siri and I have got to join either way, with what's going on in the world..."
"I know," he replies. He is a good friend. "I understand."
"I bet Dumbledore has work for you, though!"
Sure enough, he does. They've muggles to rescue, and he wonders if Peter would help take them in so that old Merton Pomfrey might heal them.
"I can help heal them," he offers, but Merton shakes his head. "You didn't complete N.E.W.Ts in Potions or Herbology, did you?"
"No, but I did in Charms."
"Ah, yes- but, forgive me, Peter..." he trails off, and looks to Dumbledore.
Dumbledore twinkles at him kindly. "Unfortunately, my boy, your casting is not altogether as precise as might be necessary for healing charms. But you are sure to be a great help to Merton."
The old wizard smiles and nods, and Peter asks: "What would you have me do, if not heal?"
"Ensure the injured are comfortable, that they are supplied with food and water, that the sick bay remains clean, and above all, protect the house from attacks. It's highly important work."
He's dumbfounded. "You want me to... to complete menial chores? Day in, day out?!"
"And protect the Bones house," says Dumbledore gravely. "As I said, it is critical work."
"Isn't the house under Fidelius?" he asks, and Dumbledore replies in the affirmative. So that's that, then. A house under Fidelius needs no guard, and if it did, Peter alone would hardly be enough. He fights the urge to scowl.
"Will you help us, Peter?" Dumbledore asks, and he can hardly say no when James and Sirius are out fighting, when Remus buries his nose in books to invent new battle spells, when Lily brews endless potions to help them along.
However, when he next speaks to his friends, they are nowhere near as sympathetic as they were the last time.
"It's important work," James insists. "There's no glory in war, Wormy, you know that. We must be prepared to do anything, take on whatever tasks are necessary to push us towards victory."
Even Sirius, usually so lighthearted, is frowning. He pats Peter on the back. "Don't worry about all that, mate. If we all live through this, we can re-take our N.E.W.Ts together and join the Aurors properly, yeah? And it isn't all fun and games, in the field. James and I were on a bloody boring eighteen-hour stakeout yesterday, just watching the gates at Malfoy Manor."
But Peter would bet every knut he has that it wasn't boring, or at least not nearly as boring as playing housemaid at the Bones place. James and Sirius would have been together, they would have whispered, laughed, exchanged smiles, lain on their stomachs in the tall grass and taken turns watching while the other slept. Not like him, wandering from bed to bed and fluffing pillows for the thrice-damned Muggles, putting together three meals a day and watching them moan about the taste, shoving healing potions down their throats after old Merton turned in for the evening. They didn't understand, they wouldn't understand, until they experienced it- so Peter waits, and the next time he's afforded a break, he asks to see Remus instead.
He meets Remus for tea, at the Potter house. A pregnant Lily is there too, nursing a cup of hot chocolate on the couch. "Oh," she says, when she sees Peter come through. "Hello, Peter. How are you?"
She says it, somehow, as if she truly cares, although the pair of them don't have a friendship without James there to facilitate. Nevertheless, he appreciates her for it. Although the Marauders are his friends, his closest companions, in some ways, he feels more comfortable around Lily: as if they are interacting on equal footing, as if she considers him exactly one-fourth of the Marauders, no more and no less. "I'm well, thank you. How are you feeling? Still up to brewing?"
"Thankfully, yes. I'm only two months along, and James bought an enchanted apron for extra protection against fumes or accidents. So, what brings you here? Remus?"
"Yes, is he here?"
She points to the spare room. "Just give him a knock- I'll leave the sitting room to you two, I'm going to lie down."
"I don't mean to run you off-"
She waves his concern away. "No, not at all. I sleep early, these days." Her smile is gentle, palm on her barely-swollen abdomen. "Good night. Don't work yourself too hard, Peter."
He smiles, too. "Same to you. Good night."
Once she disappears up the stairs, he knocks on Remus' door, and he emerges, haggard and ink-splattered, black-blue painting his eye-bags. "Wormtail!" he exclaims. "My, it's good to see you! I haven't seen Padfoot nor Prongs for a week now."
That, at least, makes him feel a little bit better. Remus, too, must work alone. "Where are they?"
He waves the question away. "Some secret mission of Dumbledore's, they didn't divulge anything to me. How have you been?"
So then Peter expresses his frustration, and to his growing anger, finds in Remus yet another unsympathetic ear. "Yes, I know it's difficult," Moony's murmuring, so as not to disturb Lily, "but we're all doing difficult jobs, jobs we wouldn't choose were we at peace, instead of at war. Lily, Alice, Frank, and I are doing our level best to keep our potions stock full, reinventing our enchantments to counter the Dark Lord's changes, fortifying our warding... I've been exhausted, you can't imagine." But, suddenly, he smiles. "But you can," he adds. "You've been working, too."
"Not like that!" he exclaims, careful still to keep his voice down. "Not like that! I wake up every day and do nothing for the war effort, Moony. They've put a gaggle of ill Muggles in the Bones house. I feed them, I give them potions, I fluff their blasted pillows- what am I but a house-elf? And the irony- I, a pureblood-" and horrified, at that, he cuts himself off. Remus is watching him warily now, too, aware that he's said something dangerous.
"Peter," says Remus heavily. "Peter."
"Not like that," he hurries to explain. "I- I don't think like that. You know I don't! I don't care that you're a werewolf, I don't care that you're a half-blood, nothing like that!"
"I know," comes the reply. "But, Peter... you must not allow your frustrations with your work to get the better of you. Remember what we're fighting for. And more importantly, what we're fighting against."
He hangs his head in shame. "I'm sorry." A hand reaches out and clasps his shoulder.
"It's all right." Moony's voice fortifies him. "Stay strong, my friend. That's all any of us can do."
______________________
He tries to take Moony's advice to heart, at first- but the greatness of their shared cause cannot conceal his day-to-day drudgery. He knows, to a Hufflepuff, he would seem like the lucky one. Well away from danger, tasked only with ensuring Muggles' happiness. But he is a Gryffindor, red blood through and through (never mind that the hat almost put him in Slytherin, he hasn't the power to back up any sort of ambition in any case) and he wants to be closer to the action. He wants his chance to be brave.
Peter daydreams often about an attack on the house. Perhaps Remus and Lily would come through first, begging for help- perhaps he'd show them where to hide, in the old Bones house he knows so well now- and perhaps Death Eaters would come, and he'd hold them off, defend his companions, and old Merton, and all the Muggles to boot- and then James and Sirius and the rest of the Order would arrive, a day late and a sickle short, and see what he'd done. They'd see that Peter managed to hold back the Death Eaters on his own, that he'd saved James' wife and child from certain death, and they'd finally recognize him. They'd finally see him.
He muses on this topic constantly. It needn't be the way it always has been- Padfoot and Prongs an unshakeable unit, and Moony a third but somehow, somehow never unsure of his position, self-possessed enough that he fit in like a puzzle piece- and then he, Wormtail, squirming along in their wake. It'd shift, after an attack, he decided. It had to. Peter, and Prongs, perhaps, would be partners. An unshakeable unit. And Prongs and Padfoot couldn't be separated, so Padfoot would be the third, leaving Moony to trail behind. He frowns. This feels terribly unfair to Moony, but he can't work out how either of the others would end up in that position.
Lost in such musings, months pass, and before he knows it, he's at the Potter house, the newborn in his arms screaming bloody murder .
__________________________
It's some months after that when Lily floo-calls the Bones house. "Peter?" she asks. "Are you there?"
His fantasy rushes to the fore immediately. She's in trouble, she needs help- "I'm here!" he shouts. "Is there trouble?"
"No, nothing like that." Alas. "Will you come through?"
So he steps through the Floo into the Potters' sitting room. "Hello," he says. Dumbledore's there, and so are Padfoot and Prongs. "What's going on?"
"No idea," says James. "Professor?"
Dumbledore smiles. "I do think each of you has earned the right to address me as Albus, but habits die hard. I come with grave news, and I thought it best all of you were to hear it. I understand that Remus is undergoing his transformation tonight, but the matter at hand is pressing. I will inform him of the situation in the morning."
"Fidelius? Here?" And the Potters grow paler and paler as Dumbledore explains the prophecy, warns them of the Dark Lord, urges them to go into hiding.
"We need four to set the Fidelius," he continues. "Or else I would not have put Sirius and Peter at risk tonight. Set it the moment I leave. Who would you choose as Secret-Keeper, James?"
"Padfoot." It's immediate, for him. He doesn't even have to think about it. Even so, Peter's obscurely disappointed.
"Very well," intones Dumbledore. "James, do you trust each person in this room?"
"Yes," he declares, looking each one of them in the eye. "I do."
"Then I will take my leave. Set the Fidelius immediately once I am gone." And with that, Dumbledore apparates away.
The four of them link their wands together to create the Fidelius bind, and Lily recites the spell.
"Now, the Secret-Keeper must step inside the circle."
James nudges Sirius forward, but he doesn't go. "Wait," he says. "Wait. James."
"What?"
"If you were the Dark Lord, and I were in hiding, who'd you look for?"
"Myself."
"And if you were in hiding..."
"I'd look for you." It's dawning on him, now. "It's too obvious."
"I have an idea. Let's tell everyone that I'm the Secret-Keeper. But the actual Secret-Keeper..." He turns to look at Peter, grinning. "Our Wormtail! Nobody would suspect it!"
"R-really?" Peter stammers. "Me?" Of course, he thinks. Nobody would suspect him because they all know him as the weakest of the Marauders, naught but their shadow.
"It makes sense," Lily admits. "You're the safest, Peter. It'd be difficult to find you at the Bones house. Sirius is in the field every day."
"I trust you with my life," declares James. "Wormy, I'd be proud for you to be my Secret-Keeper."
"All right," he says. "All right, Prongs. I'll keep your secret."
So they shake hands, and he enters the casting circle, and he's made the Secret-Keeper.
____________________________
Many months later (time scarcely seems to matter, when it's all spent on cleaning up after Muggles), there's an attack on the Bones house. It doesn't go at all as Peter imagined. There are screams, and blasts, and bangs, and chaos- and in the midst of it all, he turns into a rat, and crawls into the little hidey-hole he made. He refuses to put himself at risk for the Muggles- there's simply no point.
But then, someone discovers his hidey-hole. "Who's there?" calls Lucius Malfoy, just two beds away. "Homenum revelio. Ah, now I see you."
He kneels down beside the rat-hole, almost genteel. Peter's cowering in a corner. "Now, now. Don't do that. I shan't harm you. You're Pettigrew, aren't you? There's no reason to spill pure blood." He waits, patiently, ignoring the screams and blasts from outside. "You're clever," he says. "Cleverer than the rest of Gryffindor. It is the mark of an immature man to die for a cause; but the mark of a mature man to live nobly for one. You're not like them, ready to rush into death on a whim. You're thinking."
Peter gives no reply, so he frowns, and continues to speak. "What is this place?" he asks. "What is its purpose? At first, it seems a hospital, but those in the beds... they are lifeless. Naught but Muggles. That then begs the question: what exactly are you doing here? You wouldn't have come here to hide- no, you're still a Gryffindor. So, Dumbledore must have sent you here. To do what, exactly? Not protect this place?"
That stings. He squeaks once. No.
Lucius laughs. "No, I didn't think so either. Pettigrew- tell me this. The very idea disgusts me, but I can't help but ask... were you sent here to babysit these Muggles?!"
There's a long silence, as that sinks in. Shame roiling in his gut, Peter squeaks twice.
"What a waste," murmurs Lucius. "What an absolute waste of talent, spirit, blood- oh, Pettigrew..." He sounds sad, mournful, and it's all the sympathy Peter wanted from his friends. "I know you are part of the Order of the Phoenix, but I shan't hurt you. How long have you been forced to pamper these Muggles? An entire year? Longer?" He sighs. "You've suffered enough."
He rises, as if to leave, and Peter squeaks, mournful. "I'm the last," he says. "The others have gone. You'll be fine."
But that's not what Peter meant, so he squeaks again and again, and Lucius' eyes narrow. "You don't want me to leave you here?"
Peter squeaks twice. Yes. He doesn't want to see the look on his friends' faces when they hear what he's done- when they see him, after the attack, the only survivor without a scratch on him. He can't bear for them to see his cowardice. Better that he goes missing, better they imagine him in a Death Eater prison, just another casualty of war. Better they imagine him as a hero.
"You'll be taken to the dungeons," Lucius says. "Loot from raids is examined. They'll find you and put you in the dungeons. But, Pettigrew- you may come, of your own free will. The gates of Malfoy Manor are always open to any pureblood who comes in peace."
He squeaks twice, then, to show he understands, and Malfoy slips away.
______________________________
At first, he thinks he may not need the Manor. He can make a go of it in the wild, living as any other rat. But within a few days, it begins to wear on him. Rats are prey for many, many creatures in Britain's forests. It's simply not tenable. So he changes back, and apparates to the outskirts of Wiltshire, and resumes his rat form. He needn't approach the Manor as Peter- it'd do well enough to approach as Wormtail. He's heard Lucius has a son- perhaps he would make a good pet for the boy, safe behind the Manor's walls. And afterwards, once the war is over and the Dark Lord is dead, he will escape, and make his way back to the Order, and tell them he was trapped in the dungeons for years. He'd be hailed as a hero.
So, he scurries through Wiltshire, and then finally on to the grounds of Malfoy Manor. The shiver in the wards must have alerted Lucius, for he appears before him with a pop. "Welcome, Pettigrew. Shall we?"
Squeak-squeak, and he starts walking. Lucius frowns. "Do you plan to crawl all the way to my front gate?"
As a matter of fact, he does, but it's too embarrassing at this point. He changes back. "I didn't want anyone to recognize me."
"It shan't matter. You're with me, aren't you? And if you were here for any malicious purpose, the ancestral wards would not have allowed you entry."
"I'm still- I wanted to stay a rat," he admits. "I don't want to be- to be drawn in. I just want to wait until it's all over."
At that, Lucius' eyes flash. "Even for purebloods," he says, "protection is not free."
"What?"
And before he knows it, he's in chains, lined up with the rest of the prisoners to see the Dark Lord, his wand safely in Malfoy's pocket.
__________________________
"Did you say he came to you, Lucius? My, my, how fitting..."
"Yes, my Lord," replies Lucius, bowing deeply. The ends of his hair brush his boots.
"Your silver tongue," murmurs the Dark Lord, "may be your greatest weapon. Pettigrew!"
At the sound of his name, an electric shock travels through his body. He isn't sure whether it's a spell or just adrenaline, but it hurts. "S-sir.. um, my- my Lord?"
The Dark Lord laughs, high and cold. "Tell us all you know about the Order of the Phoenix." And it must have been a spell, because his mouth opens as if on his own, and he tells them every detail of the days between joining the Order and coming to the Manor- except, of course, the Secret.
The Death Eaters are laughing at him, openly, mockingly. "Nursemaid to Muggles!" Dolohov shouts, raucous. "I couldn't devise a worse punishment myself!"
Even the Dark Lord seems to be enjoying the din, stroking the head of his snake gently. "Lucius," he says. "It seems our guest is in possession of the Potters' Secret. And he desires protection, does he not?"
"He does, my Lord."
"Pettigrew, my Death Eaters and I myself shall protect you. But you must offer us something in return."
He already knows what the Dark Lord will say before he says it.
"The Potters' Secret."
"I can't," he stammers. "Anything- anything else, I can tell you about Dumbledore, or, or the Longbottoms-"
"The Longbottoms are long gone," gloats Bellatrix. "Naught left but shivers and whimpers."
"O-okay, then perhaps the Fawcetts, or the Weasleys-"
"No," declares the Dark Lord. "The Potters' Secret. I will accept nothing else. But I am a fair man. I shall give you some time to think it over. Put him up in a room, Lucius. We shall be gracious hosts."
With that, the shackles he's wearing disappear, except one on his wrist that sinks into his skin. "Come," Lucius says, and hauls him to his feet. And with that, they make for his guest room.
_____________________________
It's an opulent room, all silk and Egyptian cotton, but all Peter cares about is the door closing behind him. The moment it shuts, he cries out in pain and drops to his knees. Why, why does it have to be this way? Why couldn't he have just been a rat, and- and lived? He should have gone somewhere else, anywhere other than Malfoy Manor. He could have escaped to France, stowed away on a ship, waited until the war was over, but instead, like an idiot, he came here.
He goes into the bathroom to collect himself, and fills up the tub with hot water and lavender-scented soap. The Malfoy guestrooms are stocked with high-quality products, and it reminded him for a minute of the Potter estate. Rubbing at his chest to soothe the sudden pang, Peter looks out the window and tries to make a plan. If he runs most of the way, and turns into a rat just as the hedge maze ends, he can escape.
But when he tries his route, that evening, Death Eaters surround him at the very edge of the wards. "Too bad, mousie," cackles Bellatrix. "Are you ready to tell your little secret now?"
"No." She scowls, at that, and raises her wand. "Cruci-"
"Bella!" and there's Lucius, pulling her back, and Pettigrew sighs in relief. "No."
She throws him a baleful glance and apparates away, and Lucius approaches him. "Come, Pettigrew. Don't get yourself into any further trouble." So he lets himself be returned to the room, and before Lucius shuts the door, he warns him. "Don't try that again. The second time, the Dark Lord himself will handle you. I can hold Bella back, but not him."
At that, he's almost touched. "I- sorry, thank you."
The next few days pass in a haze. House-elves deliver meals to his room, and they allow him to request books. The Dark Lord does not come again, but he's still tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Eventually, they will return and ask after James' Secret. When they return, he will have to be ready.
But, unexpectedly, Lucius pays him a visit that afternoon. "Hello," he says. "How are you, Pettigrew? Have you been holding up well?"
"I, um, suppose so."
"I confess I haven't been a very good host- remaining here can be isolating, but I'm sure you understand. If we were to provide protection for free, well-" he spreads his arms. "Imagine how many wizards would come running."
It doesn't seem worth it to disagree. "I suppose so."
"Would you play a spot of chess with me?"
Peter's bored enough to agree, and Lucius is a fun chess partner- not so skilled that he's unbeatable, but just good enough to pose a challenge. And so it happens, by and by, Peter begins to look forward to their daily chess matches.
One one sunny day (Peter has lost track of how many days he has spent at the Manor), Lucius looks outside as they're playing, and sighs. "You've been cooped up for so long," he says. "I don't understand why you don't reveal the Secret. If you did, we might go flying on this fine morning."
Peter glances at him, instantly suspicious. Noticing his expression, Lucius frowns. "I'm not asking in relation to the Dark Lord. I am asking as- if I am permitted, perhaps I am asking as something like a friend."
"A friend," he repeats.
"A strong word," Lucius agrees. "But we do have our own camaraderie. You must at least admit that."
Peter nods. "That's true," he says. "We do."
"So tell me," he urges. "Why won't you reveal the Secret?"
"I don't want them to die!" he exclaims. "The Potters! Why else would I keep the blasted Secret?"
"What?" Lucius' grey eyes widen. "As far as I know, the Dark Lord isn't particularly interested in the Potters. He's looking for the old Potter grimoire, to mine it for ancient spells."
"Really? But there was a pro-" He cuts himself off, shocked at his own loose tongue.
"A prophecy? Yes, I heard it as well. The Dark Lord believes prophecies and divination are absolute hogwash. None have the power to kill the Dark Lord."
"He truly wants naught but the grimoire?"
"Why do you think he hasn't tortured you, Pettigrew? It's naught but a bit of useful frippery for our research division."
"But- my friends-"
"Your friends." Lucius' voice is oddly heavy. "I do not wish to be the bearer of bad news. Up until today, I thought you knew."
"Knew what?"
"The Potters- James, Lily, and their child- they died in combat, two days after the Bones raid."
"What?" Peter's standing, now, chess pieces in disarray. "How can that be?"
"I'm sorry, Pettig- ah, Peter. They passed away quickly- we invaded the Burrow. They were there, with Dumbledore, and while the old man was distracted holding off the Dark Lord, Rodolphus, well- he dispatched the both of them."
It's little comfort that Lucius seems almost morose over the whole affair. "But- but," stammers Peter, "why did they leave their house?"
"I haven't any idea," admits Lucius. "Perhaps they were needed. They were both extraordinarily talented."
"Are they gone?" he cries. "Truly? Gone forever?"
"You're their Secret-Keeper," said Lucius. "The Order knows we have you- we proposed a trade, you in exchange for Eddard Parkinson. They refused. If the Potters were alive, I am certain they'd accept any deal to have their Secret-Keeper returned to them. Or, if that failed, storm the Manor like true Gryffindors."
"Do you have proof?" he repeats, but his mind is already churning. That makes sense. He isn't a valuable hostage, of course the Death Eaters would want to trade him for one of their own.
"This is all the proof I have," replies Lucius. "Whether or not you will reveal the location of the grimoire is up to you. But if you do, the Dark Lord will reward you well. No Death Eater is resigned to the care and feeding of Muggles."
And with that, Peter's stunned all over again. "He'd consider me?" Perhaps, if he would, then he can save Moony and Padfoot, prevent their deaths, be the leader for once. Lead the Marauders to- well, not victory. James is dead. Survival, just survival- and maybe Moony and Padfoot would come to see things his way. Sometimes, one must act as a rat, to survive. To continue living.
"They're dead," he says, to nobody, although Lucius is across from him. "Dead."
There's no harm in revealing the Secret, then, not now, and if he's able to gain some power in the process, that's all the better for their little band. He will serve the Dark Lord well, and in exchange, he can save Moony and Padfoot, and finally- finally- he can be who he was meant to be, all along. A leader. A savior.
"Take me to the Dark Lord."
______________________________________
It's not much later when his world turns upside down all over again. The Dark Lord leaves, that evening, and doesn't return, and Lucius assumes control and orders everyone to disband. A newly marked Death Eater, he asks Lucius if he might stay, but any camaraderie they had must have been false, for he ejects Peter from the premises. "So you're aware, the Potters weren't dead," he adds, just before he shuts the gates in Peter's face. "But they are now- thanks to you." The satisfaction in his voice makes Peter want to vomit.
He should have listened to the Dark Lord- he'd been warned, hadn't he, about silver-tongued Lucius, the sort of man who would pretend to be bad at chess in order to match your skill level, the sort of man who could convince you up was down and down was up. But it is too late now, much too late, and Peter's only saving grace is that Sirius is the only person alive who knows he was the Potters' Secret-Keeper.
Padfoot tracks him down just hours later, in the middle of a Muggle street- and no one can say Wormtail doesn't learn. For once, he's now the one with a plan- not Malfoy, not Sirius, not James or Remus or Dumbledore. Him. So he blasts the street apart, screaming about Sirius Black, cuts off his finger, turns into a rat, and scurries away. His friend will be going to Azkaban. It doesn't feel good, but it doesn't feel bad, either- the Dark Mark has already begun to spread its darkness through his skin.