Rating:
PG
House:
The Dark Arts
Characters:
Peter Pettigrew
Genres:
Angst Darkfic
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Prizoner of Azkaban Order of the Phoenix
Stats:
Published: 11/30/2006
Updated: 11/30/2006
Words: 1,376
Chapters: 1
Hits: 234

Imprisoned Here

mekelon

Story Summary:
"Which ever man said that hell was all flames and fire must have been highly delusional. I repeat,

Chapter 01

Posted:
11/30/2006
Hits:
234


Ever they watched it hovering near

That mystery 'yond thought to plumb,

Perchance sometimes in loathèd fear

They heard cold Danger whisper, Come! - Walter de la Mare, How Sleep the Brave

~*~

Sometimes you see the wind rifle through the branches of twisted trees. And the trees do nothing but let their branches sway, their leaves flutter and for birds to dislodge their perch and fly far, far away.

Well. Not all trees. Not the Whomping Willow.

But even that tree, bound to me and my memories in some inexorable means, seems so far away when I am down here.

Here. Where it is cold, and damp, and dark; where the shadows are sinister and ever so long. It's the sort of imprisonment I've lived my life praying and planning and spending both waking and dreaming moments desperate to avoid.

Which ever man said that hell was all flames and fire must have been highly delusional. I repeat, highly delusional.

~*~

Different?

His head rested lethargically against a pile of books. Peter was unable to comprehend how Sirius could find this even remotely comfortable. But then again, Sirius wasn't exactly normal. None of them were. Not a single one of them.

And it was comforting to know that his friends were just as different as he was. It was comforting in a highly alienating way. It made him self-conscious at times. It made him insecure and afraid that because his three best friends were so different, his own voice was lost in the sound of theirs. And so it had become that way. But Peter didn't know how to fight it.

How do you compete with a popular Quidditch player; a charming, rich, tall, handsome young man; and a kind, tactful, intelligent werewolf? What did he contribute?

Sirius yawned, bringing Peter rather unwillingly out of his reverie. "What's the time, Mr. Wolf?"

"Er, Sirius? Remus isn't here."

"I know that." Sirius rolled his eyes pointedly as only Sirius Black ever could. "It's an expression. Don't you understand?"

Peter looked away. He didn't know why Sirius was so edgy. It probably had to do with the fact that James was busy with Head Boy duties and Remus was in the infirmary for an illness completely unrelated to his lycanthropy. For once.

He used to ponder on why Sirius couldn't just be happy hanging out with him instead of growing so irritable at his company. But he'd given up on that a long time ago. He'd also given up on getting Sirius or James' attentions by becoming their number one fan. That was a lost and immature cause. A very lost and immature cause.

And besides, they were on the edge of a war. People were dying. It was time to grow up. Just a little bit.

Maybe that's why James was Head Boy. He had an enviable ability of being able to rise to the occasion.

"I do." A voice unknown to either boy suddenly escaped from Peter's lips.

Sirius turned his face slowly to meet Peter's eyes, a thought forming dramatically in his mind.

Peter knew exactly what it read. He's being assertive.

And it was bloody well time.

"You know what, Wormtail?"

Peter didn't say anything.

"We ought to do something."

"Like what? Study? Organise a prank? Find Snape and hex him into next year?"

"No, I meant about the war."

Peter saw the Daily Prophet lying an inch or two away from Sirius' hand. He didn't know how his friend could bear to read it these days. The front cover seemed to only ever be a long list of names belonging to people whose gravestones were being cut and engraved for.

"Like what?"

"We ought to fight. We ought to do something other than sit here in these walls and work for some bloody NEWTs that aren't going to matter too much. Not with what's going on out there."

Peter found Sirius' words a little paradoxical, as they were not inside, but rather outside in the remnants of what little warmth the end of September offered them. But he chose to ignore this, and said instead, "I thought you wanted to be an Auror. Isn't that doing something?"

"I'll get the NEWTs for it. But I mean something other than just that."

Peter was getting slightly frustrated. He had no idea what Sirius was hinting at. No idea whatsoever and it had become incredibly infuriating.

"Well, you might get the NEWTs for a placement in Auror Training, but I won't."

Sirius said nothing. It was awful and awkward. Sirius - failing in his attempt to be tactful, and Peter knowing exactly what was going through his mind.

"I know what you're thinking," he said simply.

"I'm not trying to insult you, or anything."

"No. We're both being realistic."

"You've got plenty of other talents, Wormtail."

Peter sighed. "Are you trying to turn into Moony, or something, Padfoot?" He joked. "Because I really don't think that having two werewolves is a good idea. People might start thinking it's contagious again."

"Well, it is. In a way."

Silence.

"The point is, Wormtail, you have other talents. You're not like me, or Prongs, or Moony. You're different. We're all different."

"Have you ever wondered if we're all too different?"

Sirius looked at Peter for a very long time, before finally saying, "I hope not."

~*~

Ironically, death seems to be the only avenue of escape, the only form of surrender. Death - which I have tried to cheat for years and years. More years than people who didn't deserve to die ever got. I've had more years, but less of a life.

I try to trace back to where I became a coward.

~*~

Isn't enough.

I remember the night well. Too well.

There I was, cloaked in a black hood, hidden in my mask. The Dark Mark that was etched onto my skin burning like hell. It took whatever resolve I still had to not cry out in pain.

And he expected to duel him. To duel James.

Apparently, it wasn't enough that I had just sold out my best friend, his wife and his one year old son to a megalomaniac murderer. Apparently, it wasn't enough that I had just manipulated the trust of three men, a woman and an innocent baby for his cause. Three men I had known since I was eleven years old.

I remember the look on James' face. He was surprised, so surprised.

He'd always been good at dodging hexes and curses. He'd always been good at that sort of thing. But seven long years of watching how he duels gave me an incredible advantage. And he didn't know who I was. He didn't even have a chance of a slight moment to suspect.

I couldn't kill him. I couldn't torture him. I could keep his attention on me and block his spells, but I could not murder him.

Even though I already had.

But he must have died hating me. I hope he died hating me. But even his hatred isn't enough to purge my regrets.

~*~

I pay the penance. Here, in this hole. Here, knowing; and here, remembering faces long lost.

And I thought I was brave - because I'd finally done something. But I was a coward, a dishonest traitor. A man not worthy of life, but having one anyway. A man not even worth killing off properly. A man condemned to half and existence, a pitiable status, and imprisonment in this dank, dark, damp hell of hiding away.

And now I wish I could see the wind rifle through the twisted, grey branches of trees and make green leaves dance in the breeze - flutter and sway, before finally succeeding into a pendulum rest. Perhaps if I had made the right choices, I wouldn't be here wishing to see the wind in the trees. Perhaps if I had walked down the right path, I wouldn't be here at all. Perhaps. And perhaps that would have been the better way to live. But I am a coward who wishes to see the gnarled bark of a tall, slender tree sway in the wind.

And I have lived this life, which was different, but wasn't enough.