Wormtail

"Wormtail."

I used to like my nickname. It meant my rat form, and my rat form meant excitement. It meant sneaking out late at night, running to the pub in Hogsmeade and laughing over firewhisky until three in the morning. It meant exploring hidden tunnels so old that even the spiders had forgotten where they were. It meant enchanting the ceiling in the Great Hall to show scenes from the most recent Quidditch match, the one where Slytherin lost to Gryffindor by three hundred points. It meant never being afraid, because I was never alone. I was one of four. I used to like my name; it meant belonging.

It still means belonging, but now I belong to something very different.

"Wormtail."

He knows I'm an Animagus. That's one of the first things I told him; I knew he would find it useful, and therefore find me useful. Being useful is protection when you're part of the dark. Being useful is what will keep you alive.

I don't think he's told any of the other Death Eaters. I've heard them mutter about my nickname, I've heard them wonder. Only a few know who I am, and even they don't know why I'm called Wormtail. My master likes to have secrets. Knowledge has always been power; the more secrets you know, the more power you have.

And a secret's power is in being kept.

"Come here, Wormtail."

How did this begin? I can't remember. Did he come to me, or did I go to him? Did I have delusions of being a double agent, of spying on the Dark Lord, of being a hero? Or did I go willingly, wanting power of my own? Was there a point where I chose, where I had a choice? Did I choose this?

I don't remember. The past year is nothing but a haze of confusion and deception. I've lied so much that I don't know what's real anymore. All I know now is fear. Fear, and pain.

"You move so slowly, Wormtail. One might almost think you...reluctant."

I am his now. We both know it. He can toy with me as much as he likes, because I am his. I never knew terror could bind you to someone like this, could possess you so completely. There's nothing left of me, nothing that doesn't belong to him.

Almost nothing.

"Closer, Wormtail. I want to hear all about this latest development."

There's a little bit left of who I was. Just a little. Every time he says my name, I remember what it used to mean, and remembering means a bit of that person is still alive. Wormtail was the best part of Peter Pettigrew's life, once. Wormtail belonged to Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. One of four. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot.

And Prongs.

"You know where they're hiding."

Lying won’t help. His senses are half serpentine, now; he can taste emotions in the air, he can taste lies. There is no way out, no way to deceive him. He can force me to answer if he wants. The outcome of this discussion is inevitable.

I don't want to believe that. The small part of Peter Pettigrew who remembers what Wormtail used to mean wants to fight this, wants to deny that things can possibly have come this far, and the internal struggle between denial and despair keeps me silent.

Of course, even that silence is an assent.

"You can tell me how to find them."

I tried to warn James. I did. I couldn't tell him outright, but I tried to warn him. He wouldn't listen. He's never been good at listening, he's always been so sure of himself, so sure he could get away with everything. He's become more serious since Lily and the baby, but that blind self-assurance is still there. So I tried to warn him. I tried! I don't know how I got here, in so far over my head that I can only breathe fear, but I never wanted to hurt James. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Maybe it's not too late. Maybe there's still a way for me to make things right, if I can only find it. Maybe there's a way to protect him.

"You will tell me how to find them, little rat."

I can hear my master's impatience. James is a fighter, always has been, he doesn't understand that there are some powers you can't fight. I tried to help him. He asked us for advice, all of us, and I had advice. The answer was so easy, so obvious. He could hide in plain sight, transform into a stag and wait for everything to be over. That would have been perfect, unbreakable camouflage. No one suspects James is an Animagus. Even if the Dark Lord guessed I wasn't alone in the ability, what could he do? Kill every stag in Britain? Even then he'd never be sure. James has the perfect hiding place available to him.

But he wouldn't hear of it. Wouldn't even consider it. "I won't abandon Lily and Harry," he said, when I told him what to do, and there was no arguing with him. "I won't run away from this."

"It's your life, James!"

"I know. But I can't leave them, Peter. And if the worst happens, I want to die as myself, not an animal. I'll find another way." My anguish must have shown on my face, because his expression softened. "It'll be all right, Peter. Sooner or later, Voldemort's going to lose. Don't worry about me. You should be protecting yourself, anyway; he'll come for you and the others soon enough, he'll be after everyone who's standing against him. We all have to find a way to fight back."

But I think it's too late for me to fight back.

My master is growing tired of waiting. He twirls his wand in his fingers, his eyes never flickering from my face. I won't meet his eyes. I won't look at him. It's a small defiance, but it's the most I can do.

"Shall I use force, Wormtail? Shall I force you to tell me what you know? You know I can."

I do know. The Cruciatus curse is suffering like nothing I ever imagined in my life before this, suffering that drowns the world, crowding out all thought and awareness until all that remains is agony. I do know. I shiver involuntarily, but I won't meet his eyes.

He leans forward, and his voice is almost caressing.

"Pain is a disease, little rat. The mind goes first, of course; all your personality is reduced to that one single goal, the desire to make it stop, until nothing remains of who you were before the pain began. But eventually the body begins to deteriorate as well, until all that’s left is a quivering heap of flesh. Pain will eat you alive, all of you, until nothing remains. Unless you tell me what I want to know."

I know it's true. I know it will be true. I can't fight him, I can't hide from him, I can't run.

But James could run. James can still run. James, please, for the love of Merlin, this once, just this once...just this once forget you're a Gryffindor, forget all your courage and loyalty and optimism and run.

Because if you die...if my master succeeds, if he finds you...if you die, Peter Pettigrew will die too. There won't be anything left of Peter.

There'll only be Wormtail.

"Where are they, little rat?"

I must answer. I can't not answer. There is no way out of this trap, not for me. Perhaps there will be a way to tell you, to warn you, before my master hunts. Perhaps it's not too late for me to save you. But there's nothing I can do to keep myself from answering.

Run, James. If you run, then it isn't too late. There's still a chance I can make this right. It's not too late.

"I'm waiting, Wormtail."

Is it?

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