Midnight Conversation #3

Midnight Conversation #3

In his nightmares they left him alone in the Shrieking Shack. Not intentionally, of course. There was never anything malicious in what they did. It wasn’t like what they’d done to Snape. They simply forgot him and for some reason, try as he might, he never could figure out which way they’d gone and follow, and when he called to them they never heard. Still, he tried again and again, but all that answered him was the low hissing breath of the thing they’d left him with.

He made himself as small as possible, but it found him by the beating of his heart, and leaped.

He always woke before it caught him, so he never saw its face. Some nights he was sure of his killer’s identity; other times he was not.

Peter Pettigrew woke with a gasp, his face pushed against his pillow, his legs tangled in his bedding. He lay thus for a few minutes, trembling, waiting for the dream to recede and his heart to slow. It was only a dream, he told himself. Only a dream. He was in his bed, in his dorm in Gryffindor Tower, and his three best friends were asleep nearby.

Actually, he realised as he came fully to his senses, the latter part was not true at all. Raising himself on his elbows, Peter listened intently and was able to discern three distinct voices. One was raised in anger--or maybe, Peter thought, as he recognized the voice, desperation. The second was muffled--by the bathroom door, most likely. The third was telling the other two--loudly--to shut up or they’d wake Wormtail.

“I’m awake,” Peter informed them grumpily.

“Bollocks,” James muttered and--from the sound of it--flung himself back against his pillows.

“Moony, come out already,” Sirius said to the closed bathroom door.

“There’s a loo downstairs,” Peter groaned and realised unhappily that he had to go, too. He kicked back his duvet and rolled reluctantly out of bed.

“Moony, please.”

Sirius, Peter saw, had all but plastered himself to the bathroom door. One hand was pushed imploringly against the dark wood. The other was clenched around a wand.

“I’ll do Alohomora.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Peter crept toward them cautiously.

“You need help.”

“I don’t need help,” Remus snapped back. “I don’t need your help.”

Sirius kicked the door.

“You break your toes,” James mumbled from behind the bed curtains, “and I’m not rushing you to hospital.”

“Shut up,” Sirius snarled, sounding very doglike. Then, “Moony--”

Peter had reached him by then. “Isn’t he coming out?”

The other boy rounded on him, his eyes flashing even in the dimness. “Does it sound like he’s coming out? Honestly.”

Peter flushed and Sirius turned back to the door. “I’m sorry, Moony,” he wheedled. “I’m so sorry. You know I am. You know I never meant to hurt you. What the fuck do I have to do? Please let me help…”

Peter was tempted to say something about dogs and begging, but before he could come up with something properly witty James had roused himself from his bed and taken Sirius by the shoulders. The other boy jumped at the touch.

“Come on, Pads.”

“What are you doing?”

James was attempting to pull him away from the door. “I think someone needs to go for a walk. Downstairs. C’mon, boy.”

Sirius refused to budge. “I don’t want to.”

“Padfoot.” James dropped his chin onto his best friend’s shoulder and said with more patience than he was probably capable of feeling at that hour, “If we always got what we wanted Moony would not be a werewolf, Wormtail would not be a virgin, and I would not be awake and doomed to spend the rest of the night playing Exploding Snap with you. Let’s go, now. Moony, are you all right in there?”

“I’m fine.”

Sirius bowed his head, but still seemed very reluctant to leave. He touched the door again, lightly, with the pads of his fingers, opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, and sighed. “Geroff, Prongs, I’m going.” Then, when James had stepped back, he whirled on Peter, surprising the boy, who had become half-convinced that the other three had forgotten his presence. “Help him if he needs it,” Sirius growled, then turned and stalked away, James following at his heels.

Peter waited silently until he heard the door slam and the slap of feet against stone steps. Once those had faded he said, unnecessarily, “They’re both gone.”

Silence from the bathroom.

“Umm…” He shifted awkwardly, unsure of what to do. He wasn’t altogether keen to be alone with Remus, but he was far less keen to go use the loo downstairs and have to deal with Sirius again. “Prongs is funny, isn’t he?” he said jovially, and immediately felt even worse, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Imagine thinking being a--you know--is anything like being a--you know.”

Silence still. Then, humourlessly, “Having been both, I can honestly say I’d take virginity over being a werewolf, thank you very much. Especially now. Anyway, that’s not really what he was saying. Can you help me, Wormtail?”

He’d wondered if Remus had been telling Sirius the truth, and rather been hoping that he had. “Um… All right. Wh--what do you want me to--?”

Wearily, “Just open the door for me.”

The unpleasant knot in Peter’s belly uncurled. “Oh. Oh, sure.” He grabbed for the doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn. “It’s locked.”

“I know. Can you just do Alohomora? I left my wand out there and my hands are all slick--”

He felt like an idiot, but at least Remus wasn’t making it worse, as James and Sirius would have done. “Half a second,” he said, and went to get his wand. He came back, performed the spell, and Remus limped out of the bathroom.

He was naked from the waist up; his white skin glistened in the light that fell through the open doorway. Peter thought he looked like a ghost; darkness seemed to sink into his eyes, making their colour impossible to determine. “Thanks,” he said wearily. “There’s a spot I can’t reach. Could you--?”

“Half a second?” Peter said again, this time making it a plea. At Remus’ nod he ducked quickly and gratefully into the bathroom. He emerged a few moments later to find the other boy seated gingerly on the edge of his own bed, his thin shoulders bowed, his arms raised in front of him.

“Can you--?” he began when he saw Peter.

“Um, sure. Is your stuff--?”

“It’s on the sink. D’you--?”

“Got it.” Peter took the tub of ointment and carried it to Remus. “Um, where do you--?”

“Right here.” Remus twisted slightly and showed Peter his back. “Behind my shoulder blade? D’you see?”

“I see.” Even in the dimness the raw skin was visible. “How much should I use?”

“A lot. It really itches.”

“Okay.” Peter dipped trembling fingers into the goo, scooped out a sizeable glob, and applied it as lightly as he could to the discoloured skin. “Does that--does it feel better?” he asked as he spread the stuff around.

“It will once it’s sunken in. Takes a few minutes. That’s fine, I think. You can stop.”

Peter drew back his hand and wiped it clean on his pyjama bottoms. “How long do you have to keep doing this?”

“Until it stops itching.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore. It just itches.”

Peter swallowed hard, then asked the question that had been burning inside him for the past week: “Are you going to forgive him?”

“Yes,” Remus replied at once, bitterly. “But I don’t want to.” He was studying his hands and Peter found his gaze drawn inexorably in their direction as well.

At least they looked like hands again, Peter thought and felt his stomach twist painfully as the memory of what they had looked like a week ago came unbidden to his mind. When his nightmares were not filled with unseen, hissing monsters, they were filled with bloody, pulpy masses like the ones Sirius had gathered to his chest and whispered desperate spells over the dawn after he’d played his prank on Snape. Crunched bones could be mended, rent skin replaced, and blood transferred from one body to another. Pain faded with time, but not the memory of it. Peter was certain he’d never forget, even though he hadn’t felt it, had only seen what it looked like.

He also knew that were he not Peter Pettigrew he would be urging Remus to forget about Sirius Black, to forget about the Marauders and just leave Gryffindor House or at the very least find somewhere else to sleep, as cowardly as that would have appeared. Sirius was sorry, but he wouldn’t change, and James would never drop Sirius, not after this past Christmas when Sirius’ family had disowned him and he’d run--literally, and cut his hands and feet to shreds in the process--to James. They were brothers.

But Sirius and Remus had been lovers. From the start that had complicated things, and now it made things worse.

Peter had never understood it. He’d never had a problem with it--he hadn’t known any homosexuals growing up in Birmingham and his parents hadn’t really talked about it one way or the other--but it had always struck him as being a bit--much.

Sirius lived to go against the grain. The worse the stories that found their way back to his pureblood family in London, the better. He also lived to go to extremes. So of course it wasn’t enough for him to be seen at all the most exclusive clubs with a mixed-blood girl (or even, once or twice, a very open-minded Muggle girl) on his arm. No, he had to fall head-over-heels (or at least give the appearance of falling head-over-heels) for a bloke--albeit a pureblood. Peter would never suggest it to anyone, but he rather suspected Sirius of engineering his family’s discovery of that relationship. He’d described his parents’ reaction far too smugly. (Still, a little voice niggled in Peter’s head, Sirius had fled London without his Nimbus 1500. Sirius had loved that broom. But maybe that was just Sirius finding, against all odds, a means of taking things even further.)

As for Remus--well, he was a werewolf. That had been a surprising discovery. Peter’s parents had talked about werewolves--there’d usually been one or two in the bedtime stories his dad used to tell him--and Remus Lupin was nothing like what he’d imagined, listening to them. Still, by the time he’d found out, he’d grown so used to Remus being, well, Remus, that it had been very hard for him to think of the other boy as anything else--certainly not a bloodthirsty, irrational beast from out of one of his dad’s stories. The only times he ever saw Remus as a wolf, he himself was in the form of a rat, and a rat, James and Sirius had promised and promised him, had nothing to fear from a werewolf.

Peter knew that the overwhelming majority of the wizarding world was less accepting than he and his friends. For Remus to be gay as well seemed like the worst luck imaginable.

That Remus and Sirius had managed to be Sorted into the same house at the same time, become friends, and discovered they were attracted to each other boggled Peter’s mind. It was just too much. Lives weren’t supposed to be that complicated. Or at the very least, people with such complicated lives should not come so close to other people whose lives were just as complicated. Of course it had ended badly. Peter could have told them it would, had anyone at any point thought to ask him. He supposed they were very lucky it hadn’t ended in death. It nearly had.

What would Remus have done, had he woken to find he had killed Severus Snape or one of his friends? That was something Peter did not really want to think about, so he was grateful when Remus said, “Did you just hear footsteps?”

Peter hadn’t heard anything, but he’d been rather lost in thought. “Um, no. Did you?”

“I thought I did. I don’t hear anything, now.” Remus’ shrug became a deep shiver. “It’s cold in here. Is there a window open?”

“No, it’s just--cold. Do you want your shirt? I think I saw it on the floor in the--”

Remus shook his head. “S’okay. The goop is still sinking in.” He looked around vaguely, as though just becoming aware of his surroundings. “What time is it, anyway?”

“I don’t know--a little after midnight, I think. I could do a heating spell.”

“It’s all right, really. But thank you.” Remus turned his head and smiled up at him, faintly.

Peter found himself flushing again, this time with something close to pleasure. He couldn’t help it. There was something so very nice about the other boy’s smile. It made Peter feel as though they were sharing a secret, not like the other boy had a secret and was considering telling Peter, which was how he usually felt when Sirius or even James smiled at him.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and meant it.

The other boy’s smile deepened slightly and some of the colour returned to his eyes. They were warm brown, not the indistinct smudges they’d appeared a moment ago. “Thank you for everything, I mean. I’m sorry we woke you.”

Peter did not want to mention his dream, so he simply shrugged and smiled back helplessly. He wondered if it would be appropriate to tell Remus that he and Sirius were always disturbing his sleep, whether they were fighting or…doing other things. He wondered if Remus would take offence or if he’d laugh. It would be good to make him laugh, Peter thought. Then they really would be sharing something, and it wouldn’t have to include James and Sirius. On the other hand it would remind him that he and Sirius had been lovers, and even if Remus did forgive Sirius they might never be able to go back to being what they’d been before, and that might make him angry or sad. But, thought Peter seriously, it might be good for Remus to talk about his feelings. Then Peter could be there for him, sort of the way James had been there for Sirius back in December. Maybe Remus could come to trust him more and maybe then Peter would be able to share his own fears and thoughts.

He’d almost decided to say the words when Remus’ smile fell abruptly and the dark eyes lowered. “I don’t want to forgive him, Wormtail,” he said dully.

You don’t have to. The words fluttered on the tip of Peter’s tongue, but he held them back. Not now, not yet. “But…you’re going to?”

“Yes.”

Even though he was fairly certain he knew, “Well…why?”

Remus did not raise his head. “What else can I do? He’s sorry. He told me why he thinks he did it. I know why he did. I mean, I know why he’s been so angry and confused, lately. It’s not an excuse, but--at least I understand him. I think I do, anyway. It wasn’t malice. Not toward me. Not even toward Snape, really.” He looked at his hands again.

“He hates Snape,” Peter said.

“I know he does. You can hate someone and not want him dead. He wanted violence without consequences. He wanted to lash out, but not--at anything specific, really. It’s been hard for him, especially since Regulus started here.” He was talking too matter-of-factly. Even Peter understood that. “This past winter-- It had to happen. I just wish--” He made a swift, frustrated gesture. “I wish I’d never gone away, Wormtail. I shouldn’t have gone to France. I should have been there for him. Because maybe if I’d been there this wouldn’t have happened. But I wanted to go. I wanted to be with my parents. I’m not sorry I went. I just--” He made the gesture again, then tilted his head back and gazed ceilingward. “I wish I’d known. I wish he’d owled me after--everything happened. He didn’t want to ruin my holiday. Does he really think I’ll be able to look back on it and be happy about it now that I know that while I was meeting the portraits in the Louvre he was being rushed to the healer’s because his cuts got infected?”

He wasn’t talking about what had happened in the Shrieking Shack, Peter realised, because he could not. He’d thought he could, but clearly he was not ready. Or maybe he simply was not ready to talk about it with Peter. “You can’t blame yourself.” That, at least, he knew had to be said. “That’s stupid.”

“I don’t,” Remus said quickly and with a conviction that surprised Peter. “I don’t. I just--wish I’d been there. He’d have had one more person to turn to, and maybe--” He shook himself, as though to dislodge some unpleasant or unwanted thought.

While he waited for the other boy to continue, Peter shifted from foot to foot and shivered. It was cold in the dorm, and the brief flash of warmth that had touched him when Remus smiled had long since seeped away. He wanted the other boy to speak again, because then he would have something to distract him from the memory of his dream, which came back to him as the silence grew. When Remus did speak again, though, his words were less than comforting.

“He stayed in the Shack. He knew he’d get caught, but he stayed. Even afterward. Dumbledore had to order to him to go.” He was quiet again, for a moment. “There’s--a lot to forgive. I don’t know if we can ever go back to being what we were. I don’t know if I want us to. It’s just-- Wormtail, what else can I do? He reminded me of what I am. I’d--actually been forgetting. I’d actually been starting to think I was like the three of you. Who else am I going to find who’ll--” He sounded helpless, lost, like a young child.

You don’t have to forgive him. We could be better friends, maybe, without either of them, Peter thought. If they were, maybe he’d stop having these dreams. Maybe he wouldn’t need to feel so afraid. He knew, though, that he would never say the words. And even if he could manage it--it would not matter. Remus was not really listening. He’d barely glanced at him as he spoke and, as Peter watched now, his gaze went from his healing hands to Sirius’ empty bed, and back again.

8/31/03