Blame

Author's Note: I've had this idea for awhile now, and this is one of those fics that's been in the making for several months, but never actually *worked* on a great deal, until now. Originally, it was just going to be a little drabble, then it became a one-shot, and as of right now, it's a planned three-shot, with each chapter starring a particular character. Now, I present for your enjoyment, Part I of Blame, entitled, Run.

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Blame

By ForeverSirius77

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Part I: Run

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A bright moon provided most of the light in the densely wooded area where a single figure could be seen stumbling through the undergrowth. Even the stars seemed blighted out by the darkness of the night, for their twinkling comfort could not be seen by the people awake at this time, especially by the one man wandering through the forest. Only a slight breeze blew through the branches, rustling the autumn leaves and providing the only bits of sound that pure nature gifted to the world on this night. The air stirred the piles of fallen leaves and branches that dotted the well-worn dirt path, the eerie whistling sounds of the wind causing shivers to race up and down the man's spine as he ran.

The man was not like many others who stalked through dark forests in the middle of the night. He was not walking proudly and confidently, knowing that all in his wake - both human and creature - would tremble in fear at his presence. He did not show the self-assuredness and pride of a natural leader, nor did he show the strength and power of a warrior. Neither did he sneak furtively from shadow to shadow, taking care not to be either seen or heard. Rather, this man was behaving quite the opposite of those many expected to see in dark forests.

His breathing was heavy and ragged, sounding like he had ran hard and fast for quite awhile, (which, of course, he had). This man's only furtive movements were the quick glances over his shoulder, making anyone who might have been watching him think he feared being followed. This man was short, a little on the chubby side, and his clothes made one think more of a worker in one of the Ministry's departments ... perhaps one of the diplomatic ones, like the Department of International Magical Cooperation - The man seemed to have a kind face, at least, one that seemed nice and trusting, like you could not help but believe him when he made a promise. Overall, he seemed more like a respectable gentleman than someone who runs through forests.

But tonight, any and all of that respectability was gone from the man. Sweat littered his round face, and dirt clutched at the edges of his robes, the brown colour staining that of the grey cloth. Dirt and mud also mixed with the sweat on his hands and face as well, but the man seemed to pay it no mind. His short, blonde hair, while normally nicely combed and cleaned, was now plastered to his sweaty forehead, the ends getting even further tangled as he ran.

And he ran and ran, never seeming to cease in the effort, regardless of how his breathing grew heavier and his heart began to feel like it wanted to burst from his chest. Not even when he looked behind him, insuring that he was alone in the forest, did the man pause in his running. He couldn't afford to, he believed. But it was just this 'not-watching-where-he-was-going' aspect that stopped him. As the man took another glance over his shoulder, he missed seeing the thick tree root that was raised slightly, protruding from the earth and interrupting the path right in front of him. The man was caught by surprise and, his foot catching on the root, stumbled and fell face first onto the dirt path. Several leaves sought to enter his open mouth, but he spit them back out.

For a moment, the small man just lay where he was, breathing heavily and wondering why he should keep running. After all, didn't he deserve to be found? Wouldn't everyone claim that he was no better than the dirt upon which he lay now? That he was utterly and truly worthless?

And wouldn't at least a part of their words be right?

"What have I done?" muttered the man as he sat up. He manoeuvred himself around a bit and, leaning his back up against the rough bark of a nearby tree, held his blonde head in his trembling hands, shaking it back and forth as thoughts overwhelmed him. There were too many thoughts swirling in his mind; too much had happened in the past few hours. At first, he tried to stop the tears that he felt prickling at his eyes from coming. He did not want to cry; he was too old to cry; crying is something he had not done since he was a boy at Hogwarts. Not even at the deaths of Marlene, Dorcas, Gideon, or Fabien had he shed tears ... He had not known them very well, though.

But this time, he knew the dead. Oh, yes, he knew those who had died very well. He had known them for over ten years, and they had been his friends - best friends. James, who had always been so sure, so confident, and so proud. Nothing could touch James; he was invincible. He had been popular, too; everyone loved James, and everyone wanted to be like James. And Lily, who was beautiful. Lily, who was smart, nice, and always caring and understanding. Lily, who had always been kind and helpful, even to him. She had always smiled, too, and her bright laughter had always lit up a room with joy, no matter how dark things had become.

But now, neither of them would ever be like the people that the man remembered. James would no longer be proud, and Lily would no longer smile. They were not invincible anymore; the darkness had left them marred and fallen. He had seen their cold bodies in the burning rubble that had once been their grand home, and he knew, then, that nothing would be the same. Lily would never smile at him again, nor help him out, and no one would want to be like James now. His friends were gone. They were dead ... and it was his fault.

Tears fell from the man's eyes as images of his friends' bodies flashed through his mind. He saw James's black hair and round glasses that lay broken on the ground next to his friend; he saw Lily's fiery tresses and emerald eyes that had lost their glittering light. The man saw the looks of fear, of horror, on their faces, and the expressions were so unlike the confidence and smiling that he remembered. It was not supposed to have happened like this, the man thought, not bothering to wipe the rivers of salty liquid that ran down his cheeks, although he knew he was too old to cry.

Well, what did you expect would happen? hissed a cold voice in his mind. The man jumped almost as if the voice had actually spoken out loud, rather than just as an internal conscience. His conscience had been silent for so long, after all, that the man had almost believed it had vanished. When has the Dark Lord ever not killed those that he says will die?

"Tonight," the man whispered. The word came almost immediately, without any thought, to respond to the internal question. Why he felt the need to respond aloud to the internal voice of his conscience, he did not know. And a strange emotion came over the man: he didn't know if it was fear or something else ... in a way, he could almost have referred to it as happiness, but such a thing just did not feel very right. Surely, the feeling was something other than 'happiness'. "He didn't kill them all tonight."

Yes, he didn't, but that still doesn't alter the first question, said the voice. What did you think would happen when the Charm was broken?

There was silence, still and complete silence in the forest after the question was posed. When the man did not answer, the voice continued. Did you expect Lily and James to survive? And, once again, there was no answer. Had the words been spoken out loud, then they surely would have echoed and reverberated around the forest, not wanting to be forgotten. Did you even want them to live?

An answer of "Yes, of course I did," was on the tip of the man's tongue, but he did not speak it aloud. He wanted to: the part of his soul and conscience that still lived inside of him made him want to say those words, more than anything in the world. He wanted to say that he never wanted his friends to die, that he never planned on it happening ... But that was only a part of him, and it was the part of himself that he had stopped listening to months ago. As the man sat there, leaning up against the cool tree's trunk and not giving any notice to the fact that his robes were becoming more stained and covered in dirt, he realised that he couldn't honestly say those words.

"No," he said, the single word seeming to echo all around him. Even as he spoke the word aloud, that 'good' part of his soul was silenced, repressed and pushed from his mind. He had been ignoring it for so long, doing so once again became easier each time, and this time was no different. The word, so simple in its two letters and single syllable, destroyed one of the most powerful things in the man - the good part of his soul was no more. That single word, "No", had caused it to vanish, to fall forever silent.

But in a twisted sort of way, the word also seemed to give him some strength, and the man expanded his answer to his conscience - No, the inner voice was not the same thing as his conscience; he knew that, now. He had destroyed his conscience, but the voice was something else - a doubt, maybe, or a part of himself that all of the darkness in the world had brought to light. Regardless of what the voice really was, the man knew that he needed to answer it, needed to deal with the questions. "No, I didn't," he said softly. "At least, not all of me did; a part of me didn't want them to live.... I wanted the Dark Lord to succeed."

And he did, whispered the voice. The Dark Lord did succeed.

"He didn't," said the man, panic suddenly overtaking him once again as he stumbled back up from the ground, glancing repeatedly over his shoulders. Why had he stayed still for so long? Someone was sure to catch up to him, find him, now. All traces of his previous sadness were instantly taken away, vanished as if wiped away with a magic wand. One would not even have been able to tell that the man had just spent half of an hour sobbing in the forest and dealing with thoughts upon thoughts of the previous few hours. The tears had already mixed with the sweat and dirt on his face. "He fell, defeated, and that wasn't supposed to happen," the man hissed, looking over his shoulder again. "They will know it's me -"

No, they won't, the voice uttered. The plan was flawless, remember? No one knew it was you ...

And the man did remember; he remembered it all like it was yesterday.

"We've thought everything out, mate," said the long-haired man sitting across from him. "There's a multitude of wards on the house, but they're just there as a precaution; the wards will be completely unnecessary."

"Are you sure?" he asked, glancing at the three people in front of him - his friends.

"Of course," whispered the woman, brushing her long, red hair from her face.

"No one will know about you, not even Dumbledore ... Everyone will think it's Sirius, so you'll be completely safe," said the other man sitting next to him as he looked at him through his glasses. "Like Sirius said, the wards on the house won't get to do anything, as the Death Eaters will never know about you."

"The Order will think it was Sirius," the man muttered, stopping suddenly before he took off in another run. Was it possible that such knowledge could save him? Was it even a possibility that he could use the fact that no one knew the entire truth as protection? However, his train of thought was abruptly cut off as the other side of the truth came crashing into his head. "But Sirius will know the truth," he said. "The Death Eaters will know the truth ... and they'll all come after me -"

Then run, said the voice. Flee, and they will not be able to catch you. Leave. You can get away before anyone finds you.

The man listened to the voice, whose words seemed so obvious. It was a simple conclusion, really, that would, undoubtedly, work. Surely, everything would work out just fine. There would not be any problems for the man if he managed to get away fast enough. No one would find him that way, he knew, and he would be safe. Protected.

And with that thought, Peter Pettigrew ran. He ran from the forest, he ran from the fear, he ran from those who he knew would be chasing him.

And in running, he left his guilt behind.

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Author's Note: Well, thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this little look into Wormtail, everyone's "favourite" little rat. Stay tuned for the second part, in which the starring character is the one and only Padfoot! *Orders everyone to give loud cheers of joy at the news that her favourite character is in the next part.* And, as much as I hate Peter and wish he'd die a very slow and agonising death, I tried to be fair to his character here, and not *just* portray him as a snivelling, cowardly, traitorous, evil rat-boy - OK, I'll stop the ranting, I promise.

Please, let me know what you think.

~Megan