Trapped in His Own Trappings

In all the seemingly interminable years of taking numerous Muggle medications and potions for his allergies and asthma, Peter had never once thought he would have been grateful for his many afflictions. His mother had always been overprotective, giving him something or other at the first sign of a sniffle. He'd had his temperature taken more times than he could remember, had to swallow mountains of tablets every morning at breakfast, and had gulped down enough phials of liquids to make his bladder feel as if it would burst within another hour.

He'd never been so happy as when his Hogwarts letter arrived, and he could finally dispense with his mum's "nurturing." The many medications she had sent along in his trunk and via owl were immediately flushed down the toilet. After being away from his mother and her daily health regimen for ten months of the year, he had started to put on some weight. She'd taken this as a sign that the pills and potions were working at last and only sent more. Those, too, he had flushed down the loo.

He'd been grateful to get away from mum and to finally have friends, but now ... Now he was actually grateful for his allergies and asthma. When he felt the Mark burn, all he had to do was fake a sneezing fit. Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs would never know the tears in his eyes were from the pain of his Dark Lord's searing sigil. They were concerned, of course, but Peter would calmly leave, saying he'd forgotten his inhaler at home again. And then he'd be off to see his Master.

Had they missed him whilst he was gone? Oh, no! Not Peter the Hanger-On. Peter the Weak. Peter the Liability. He was fairly sure the parties had always begun in earnest the second he Disapparated. Well, let them have their fun. Death Eater gatherings were fun, too—especially when planning James and Lily's eventual demise.

Tonight wasn't just another gathering of old school chums. Peter had a plan he'd set in motion. He'd been planting doubts in Sirius' mind for several weeks now about Remus' loyalties. He had had to play on all the old suspicions. Could werewolves really be trusted? So many of them had already joined You-Know-Who's side. How could they be sure Remus hadn't, as well?

It had not been easy. Sirius had protested vehemently at first. He simply knew Remus couldn't be the traitor in their midst. Peter had been forced to remind Sirius of every little bit of questionable behaviour their friend had exhibited, every unexplained absence from Order meetings, everything. The fact that someone had been passing the Dark Lord information, however, was all too apparent. Eventually Sirius had begun to believe him.

More often than not, Peter knew where Remus was, and tonight was no exception. The poor fellow chose the one person he should have trusted the least to convey his apologies about his absences to his friends. Of course, Remus couldn't have known Peter had been actively trying to turn Sirius against him. Whatever it took to make their werewolf friend seem untrustworthy, he'd do.

Peter wasn't worried that Remus would figure things out. It would all be over in a couple of weeks anyway. And if Remus pressed him, he'd simply say he'd forgotten. His horrid absentmindedness was something of a joke among the group, after all. For men who considered themselves so close-knit, Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs had a displayed a startling lack of communication. In some ways, they had made Peter's job all too easy just by virtue of trusting one another enough to never compare notes.

Strangely, though, Peter had never had to account for his own suspicious absences. Well, that wasn't too strange when one considered what Sirius thought of him: Peter, the idiot. The sycophant who needed James and Sirius and Remus' protection, who would be too scared to face He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on his own. The talentless nothing who would have had no skills to offer the Dark Lord, even if he'd shown the initiative to seek him out.

That's where you're wrong, Padfoot, old friend, Peter thought. I can offer him the thing he wants most—James and Lily's heads on a platter.

And tonight was the night he'd make the final suggestion ... the one that would mean the last nail in the Potters' coffins. He'd had to sit there and endure their good-natured teasing for the millionth time, smiling all the while. It was easier to smile somehow, knowing James and Lily were marked for death and Sirius would most likely be blamed. He'd even managed to smile when they'd cuffed him on the shoulder far too hard, bringing tears to his eyes, as usual.

An hour into the party, Lily had asked where Remus was, and no one knew—yet again. Peter had caught Sirius' eye and nodded slightly. Apparently that was all the confirmation Sirius had needed. There was no turning back now. A few minutes later, Peter asked if he could speak to Sirius in the kitchen.

"What's up, Wormtail?" Sirius asked jovially, again slapping his shoulder in the exact same spot as before. Peter winced. How much that hurt probably wouldn't have mattered to Sirius, even if he'd known. He would have thought unnecessary pain would somehow make Peter a man or some other such nonsense.

"Well, I was thinking about that charm ... The Filius— Fidelus— What's it called, again?"

"The Fidelius Charm. What about it?"

"How's it work?"

Sirius shook his head with a small, indulgent smile, and Peter shrugged apologetically. For some reason, playing dumb always seemed to draw suspicion off him immediately. They'd underestimated his intelligence from day one, and only because he'd had more trouble becoming an Animagus. That wasn't really his fault, though. James and Sirius had always known to what animals they had the closest affinity. Peter simply had to try several species before he'd settled on a rat.

After taking another sip of butterbeer and clearing his throat, Sirius explained how the Fidelius Charm worked, speaking slowly, as if Peter were a clump of Albanian knotgrass rather than a fully qualified wizard.

"And you're going to be the Secret-Keeper?" he asked, also slowly, once Sirius had finished.

"Yeah," Sirius answered, nodding. "Yeah, Dumbledore offered to do it, but James wanted me. Why?"

Play to his vanity, Peter thought. That was always the best approach with an egomaniac like Sirius.

"Well, I was thinking ... Naturally you're the obvious choice, you know? So big and strong and talented and all, but ... You-Know-Who would never s-suspect James and Lily w-would choose me, you know? Not when they could have you. He'd n-never come after me."

Sirius' eyes bored into him for a moment, and Peter thought he'd given himself away. Inwardly cursing himself, he found his eyes were reflexively drawn to the windows and doors as he planned for a hasty retreat. He was just about to make a break for it when Sirius threw back his head and barked out a laugh.

"That's brilliant, Peter!" he all but shouted, and clapped Peter painfully on the shoulder again. "I'd've never thought you were capable of such a stroke of genius!"

Peter smiled through his tearing eyes and laughed nervously. "I guess being such an incompetent came in handy for once, eh?"

Sirius laughed again. "Oh, you're not that bad, Peter. You'll have to go into hiding, too, of course..." He trailed off, frowned, and leaned closer. "I don't think we should tell James and Lily, though—not right away. They might not like the idea, especially since James specifically asked for me."

He could hardly believe his luck. Sirius was suggesting the very point he'd been about to make. Peter nodded fervently.

"That's fine. Y-you know best, after all. I..." He inclined his head toward James and Lily's sitting room. "What should I tell them, though? In case they want to know where I'll be?"

Sirius ran a hand through his hair. "Well ... Lily's always trying to set you up with that friend of hers. Why don't you tell them you've met someone, and that the two of you are going away for the weekend?"

Peter nodded again, smiling. "Oh, that's good. You're so clever, Sirius!"

And so handsome, Sirius. I'd really love to smash your face in, Sirius. I suppose I'll just have to be content with knowing you're dementor food, though, won't I?

Sirius continued, not really seeming to notice Peter's smile had become rather forced. "Her name's Mary, and you met her at the Three Broomsticks about two weeks ago. And you'll be taking her to the Isle of Wight for a couple of weeks—just until things calm down around here. Got it?"

He nodded again.

"We'll talk more about the details later," Sirius added with a wink, and they rejoined the others in the sitting room.

"What was that all about?" James asked, as they came back in.

Peter looked to Sirius. His quick-witted friend wouldn't expect him to have a ready reply.

"Just discussing what to get you two for your anniversary," Sirius answered without missing a beat, beaming a great smile. Peter nodded and smiled himself, sinking back down on the sofa.

"Peter?" Lily asked in a singsong voice, sitting next to him and handing him another bottle.

He took the butterbeer, smiled, and matched her tone. "Yes...?"

"My friend Cecilia told me about a smashing costume party she's been invited to on Halloween, and she's going as Josephine." She smiled sweetly. "Only trouble is ... she doesn't have a Napoleon."

Peter felt his cheeks burn. He was sure Lily's friend was a nice enough girl and all, but he simply didn't have time to date at the moment—what with his Master's plans for world domination and all.

"Ah, Lily ... I ... er ... I already have plans for Halloween."

Her eyes widened. "You have a date?" she asked, marvelling.

Don't look so shocked! he thought, clearing his throat to keep from snorting his disdain. "Y-yes. Yes, I do."

Lily grinned broadly before launching into a stream of rapid-fire questions. "What's her name? Where'd you meet her? Have you known her long? Where are you taking her?"

"Mary. At the Three Broomsticks. About two weeks. And a costume party, strangely enough." He frowned. "I do hope it's not the same one. That could be awkward."

"Oh, no—at least I don't think so. Cecilia said the party was in the Muggle part of Manchester."

Peter shook his head and smiled. "No, this—this party is in Hogsmeade."

As he lifted his bottle to take a sip, he noticed that across the room, Sirius rolled his eyes. He knew instinctively what his friend was thinking. I only gave him four things to remember, and he's already forgotten one of them. He caught Sirius' eye again and shrugged sheepishly. Truth was he'd remembered the weekend on the Isle of Wight, but Peter just wouldn't be Peter if he hadn't got something wrong.

* * * * *

"I don't know about this," James said uncertainly, shaking his head. Lily wrung her hands and paced. Apparently Peter was not their idea of an ideal Secret-Keeper.

His plan was not going well at all. Thinking his Master would not be pleased, Peter frowned intensely and resigned himself to another round of the Cruciatus Curse. As often as he'd bungled simple tasks in serving his Master, enduring Crucio had become almost routine. The Dark Lord had to punish him for his repeated failures, after all, and Wormtail had learned quickly to be more careful. The threat of the Cruciatus was a powerful motivation, and such pain was undoubtedly deserved—unlike being slapped hard on the back or shoulder as some sort of misguided attempt at affection.

This task had not been nearly as easy as any of the others. In fact, it had been extremely complex, and Peter had had to plan and execute things very carefully. Perhaps his Master would understand this time if he failed? His hands shook, and he quickly hid them in the pockets of in his robes as he mentally answered his own question. Perhaps not. He had just about given up on the idea when Sirius spoke in his defence.

"Well, I think Peter has a point," Sirius said, shrugging. "Neither of you can perform the charm, since you have to be in the hidden location whilst the spell is being cast—"

"What about Remus?" Lily broke in, stopping her pacing momentarily.

"I'm not sure we can trust him." Sirius sighed heavily. "Someone has been passing Voldemort information for nearly a year now, and all the evidence points to Remus. That leaves Peter and me. Of the two of us, I think I'd have a better chance of making the spell work." He turned to Peter. "No offence, Wormtail."

Peter gave him a wan smile and shook his head. "None taken, Padfoot. I know I'm not up to such complex magic."

"Not only that, but Voldemort would never think to come after Peter," Sirius continued. "Everyone knows how close we've always been, James. I'm sure I'll be his target, and Peter will be safely tucked away at the safe-house, with your secret inside him."

"Shouldn't we tell someone, though?" James asked, again sounding highly uncertain. "That we've switched to Peter, I mean."

Sirius shook his head quickly. "The fewer people who know, the better, I think."

"Not even Dumble—"

He raised a hand to quiet him when James started to object. "Look, Prongs—we know we've got a spy in our midst."

Peter wiped his forehead. He'd started to break out in a cold sweat at some point in this discussion, and he imagined excessive perspiration would make him look very guilty. Luckily no one paid him much attention—as always.

"And Dumbledore—while meaning well, I'm sure—might let something slip in front of the wrong pair of ears. I don't want to take any chances."

Lily and James looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, with one accord, they both turned toward Sirius and Peter and nodded.

"You won't regret this," Peter said, smiling. You won't live long enough to, he added silently, as Lily hugged him and kissed his cheek.

James shook his hand, and they both sat down on the sofa as Peter and Sirius went outside. Sirius pulled his wand and prepared to cast the spell. Peter helped where he could, although he couldn't offer much aid. An hour later, when Sirius finished the last rituals and incantations of the Fidelius Charm, a vortex of blue-white light erupted from the end of his wand and hit Peter full in the chest. The Secret surged inside him and warmth spread throughout his entire body.

"Did you see that?" he gasped, clasping a hand to his chest, and then looked at Sirius and smiled.

"That's what all the books say should happen, Peter." Sirius gave him a smug grin whilst shaking his head. "Didn't you read them?"

Peter smiled back, again apologetically. "Sorry, Padfoot ... I forgot."

His friend clapped a hand to his shoulder, and Peter tried not to cry out. "C'mon—let's get you to the safe-house. The sooner we're there, the better I'll feel about all this."

Peter nodded, allowed himself to be led to Sirius' huge flying motorbike, and hopped on the back. After Sirius had started up the motor, he put his arms around Sirius' waist, and off they flew. He was thankful his friend's back was to him. He didn't have to fight to keep the sly grin off his face for the duration of their journey—only at the very end.

"You've got enough provisions here for nearly three weeks," Sirius said, unlocking the door and leading Peter inside. "And there's a pile of Galleons in the writing desk, but call me if you need anything. I don't want you wandering around outside any more than you have to, all right?"

He nodded fervently. "All— all right, Padfoot. I'll call you. I'll ... I doubt I'll need anything, though. I can live on bread and cheese if I have to."

Sirius smiled warmly, again clapping a hand to Peter's shoulder. "You're very brave to do this, Peter. I'm proud of you."

Peter smiled and blushed, suddenly becoming very interested in his feet. "Oh, I'm nothing of the sort, Padfoot. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will come after you, not me. All I am is..." He shrugged. "Convenient."

"You're that, too." Sirius smiled again and turned to go. "I guess it's a good thing you didn't say you'd go to that Halloween party with Cecilia. I'd hate for the poor girl to be wondering why she's been stood up."

Peter laughed and Sirius stepped outside.

"Lock up securely after I leave. I'll check on you in a week."

A year ago, he might have felt remorse. The Dark Lord had shown him, however, that his friendship with these people had been an illusion. And the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. They'd needed him to press the knot on the Whomping Willow, nothing more. Those midnight wanderings might have been the best times of Moony's life, but they weren't all that fun for Peter. He'd rode along, clinging to Prong's antlers, terrified that he'd be trampled underfoot if he fell.

No ... as his Master had explained, they had needed him. They hadn't wanted him. Peter felt much more important with his Death Eater family, who never teased him (and thankfully weren't the backslapping sort). Shortly after Sirius left, he sent an owl to the Dark Lord, although he couldn't say what had happened in the letter. Two nights later, the summons came. Peter gripped his forearm, eyes tearing, as the pain shot through his Dark Mark, but he calmly stood, gathered his cloak and mask, and Disapparated.

"What news have you, Wormtail?" the high, cold voice asked from the shadows.

Peter knelt and shuffled forward on his knees to kiss the hem of his Master's robes. "It has happened, My Lord ... The Potters have made me their Secret-Keeper."

The Dark Lord began to laugh, high and shrill—an unearthly sound that raised the hairs on the back of Peter's neck. His laughter then stopped as abruptly as it had started.

"You've done well, Wormtail. Your reward will be great. Now ... Where are they?"

"G-godric's Hollow, Master. In Potter's parents' home."

"Good. I shall strike them down, and their wretched brat, four nights from now. Halloween is only fitting, wouldn't you say?"

Peter nodded quickly. "In-indeed, My Lord."

* * * * *

He didn't wait around. When Halloween night came, he had already gone. He'd packed what food he could carry in a small bag and set off with only that, Sirius' gold, the robes on his back, his cloak, and his wand. Sirius would realise who had been the spy soon enough, and Peter's best chance for survival was to simply not be there when his former friend came calling.

He'd planned to go Bulgaria, to stay with Karkaroff. Apparating over long distances was not safe even for much more talented wizards than he was, however, so he'd have to fly. The only problem with that plan was he didn't own a broom. He'd got as far as Diagon Alley before he realised something must have gone wrong—terribly wrong. People were dancing in the streets, not even caring if Muggles took notice of them. Snatches of conversation all around him told him what he'd feared most: something had happened to the Dark Lord. Peter knew he was now a wanted man, most likely wanted by both sides.

He'd just grabbed the handle on the door of the racing broom shop when an ear-splitting yell made him stop in his tracks.

"PETER!"

Praying his damned asthma wouldn't completely freeze his lungs, Peter bolted. He ran and ran and finally ducked down the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron. His hand shook as if palsied as he tapped his wand against the bricks to open the secret door. He squeezed through when there was only just enough room, ripping his robes in the process, and dashed out into Muggle London on the other side. Sirius would be mad to curse him in the middle of a street full of Muggles. Then again...

Even as he ran, clutching his chest, Peter began to form an escape plan. He pulled his wand from his sleeve and awaited the inevitable, as Sirius' yells followed him only a few streets behind and gaining fast.

"PETER!"

He stopped in the middle of the crowded Muggle street, his wand behind his back, and turned slowly to face Sirius. Working up tears hadn't been too difficult, considering the pain of the dagger already cutting into his finger.

"You betrayed them!" Peter shrieked for all the Muggles to hear, before Sirius had a chance to utter another word. "Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?"

Sirius reached for his wand, but he wasn't fast enough. The street exploded behind Peter's back as he transformed, his body concealed by his collapsing, blood-covered robes. The blast hadn't completely missed him. He felt stinging pains all over his body, and a bit of debris had apparently sliced off part of his ear. After the explosion, which cracked open the pavement, Peter picked up the bloody dagger in his jaws. Apart from Sirius' hysterical laughter ringing out in the demolished street above, the wet thud of his own finger hitting the ground beside him was the last sound he heard before scurrying down into the sewer.

* * * * *

"Mum! Mum! I've found a rat and—and he's hurt!"

Six days of trudging through sewers finally led him to this place where a red-headed, freckle-faced boy of around six scooped him off the ground after tucking a toy wand into the belt of his robes. He was too tired and hungry to fight, and besides, the wand ... this might just be a wizarding household. Peter sincerely hoped, if they were wizards, that they were pure-bloods. He wasn't sure he could tolerate living with the other kind.

"What's that, Percy?" A dumpy witch came to the back door of the dilapidated house, wiping her hands on her apron.

Peter's rat-eyes widened. Unless he was very much mistaken, that was Molly Weasley. He'd found a wizarding home at last, but not just any wizarding home: some of Dumbledore's favourites lived here.

"I've found a rat, Mum! Can I keep him?"

The boy's mother wrinkled her nose in distaste, although whether at her son's delight at finding a rat in the garden or at Peter's fetid aroma, he couldn't be sure. She looked undecided as she eyed his blood-encrusted fur.

"He doesn't look very well, Percy."

The unspoken "And rats carry all sorts of nasty diseases" was all too apparent from her expression. Peter crossed the minute fingers of his left hand—his right was still too swollen and painful—and hoped against hope that her son might be able to persuade her.

"No, Mum—he's hurt. Can't we help him? Nurse him back to health?"

She didn't appear to think that would work, but nodded, apparently not wanting to disappoint her son, or at least resigned to teach him a lesson about the death of a beloved pet. Peter shuddered.

"All right, Percy. We'll see what we can do."

"I think he's cold, Mummy. He's shivering."

"We should put him in a warm bath straightaway."

The boy dubbed him Scabbers, due to all his various injuries. Peter had squeaked loudly and twisted uncontrollably when they'd pulled off many of his newly-formed scabs in the process of bathing him and tending to his wounds. Then—after sating himself on bread, cheese, and milk—he settled down in a nice, comfortable, straw-lined cage. A worse family could have adopted him, he concluded, curling up and laying his head on his tail. This was just as good a place as any to live out his days, awaiting news of his Master's whereabouts.

THE END.