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Peter Pettigrew, upon boarding the Hogwarts train, quickly realizes he does not have an answer for the question he, in retrospect, should have known he would be asked.

“What house d’you think you’ll be?”

The boy with the unkempt hair and glasses asks Peter directly, staring at him with such expectant intensity Peter feels a bit like he’s withering under his gaze. James, Peter thinks he’s said his name was. But Peter’s awful with names, and knows he’ll have to ask at least thrice more to be certain of himself.

“Um,” says Peter. “Not sure, really.”

“Oh, come on,” the other boy in the compartment says. Where James (James?) is sunny and wild with something of sharp streak, this boy is cool and aloof, blue-gray eyes piercing and black hair neatly combed. Yet the two still share a certain manic energy, a social attraction, that Peter has never been able to mimic and, even this early in his life, is certain he never will. “You have to at least have a house you want, don’t you?”

Peter thinks, and thinks some more. He’s not sure he does.

“The Hat’s supposed to tell you even when you don’t know yourself, right?” Peter ultimately blurts out, desperately grasping for at least something to say.

James looks at him weirdly for another moment, then shrugs. “Fair enough, mate.”

He turns back to the other boy (Peter heard him introduce himself, too, but it was something odd and Peter knows he has absolutely no hope of recalling it if he tried) and the two chatter back and forth for the rest of the train ride like they’ve known each other all their lives, despite it only having been a few hours.

How he ended up in their compartment, Peter would never be able to guess, but is just grateful he did. Peter sits, laughing when appropriate and interjecting a rare comment when he thinks he’s come up with something passable to say. Mostly, though, he’s just happy to be there next to them.

- -

“PETTIGREW, PETER!”

The Hat is never wrong, Dumbledore had said before the first name was called. Peter doesn’t know how to feel about that. He doesn’t feel particularly brave, or hardworking, or smart, or ambitious. He doesn’t feel like much of anything, really. Life has not demanded enough of him thus far for him to really know.

He treads up to the stool, limbs jellylike, as the stern-faced witch plops the Hat down onto his head. The brim covers his eyes, plunging him into welcome darkness. He feels his legs swinging, unable to fully touch the ground.

“Ah,” the Hat says, and of course it is the Hat, even though the voice is inside his mind. Peter would never have a voice in his head sounding that knowledgeable or sly. He lets out a squeak, thankful the Hat is covering enough of his head to muffle it.

“Interesting,” the Hat muses. It doesn’t ask for Peter’s name. It doesn’t need to. “You have different facets to you. Everyone does. You’ve lived a life, after all. But in you… I sense something almost fluid, almost moldable.”

Up until now, Peter has stayed silent even in the confines of his own mind, rather intimidated by the formidable presence that has made itself at home within it. Now, at the tone that Hat is taking, he’s concerned. What does that mean?, Peter thinks now, desperate.

“It could mean many things,” the Hat continues, unperturbed. “You can stand up for things when necessary, but also are often ruled by fear. You tend to stay loyal to yourself, rather than others or to pursuit of greater knowledge. I would consider Slytherin, in that case… yet I don’t sense ambition within you either, and under the right circumstances, you can be a loyal friend indeed. You tend to live for yourself, not a bad thing, not a bad thing in itself… but interesting.”

Peter stays quiet. He wonders if his mind is simply too much of a blank slate, if he is too much of a non-personality and the Hat will simply fail to call out a house, sending him right back home.

“You fit nowhere. But in another sense, this means you fit anywhere.”

Maybe he should be offended by that, but Peter has never been the type to be offended by much. He listens.

The Hat continues. “You fit nowhere. But this also means that there is potential. Potential to grow in any direction, as it were.”

Peter’s never really been told he has potential, outside of his mother. It feels rather good.

"So, how would you prefer to proceed?”

Peter thinks of the boys he’d sat with on the train. Sirius (that had been his name, Peter had recalled it with the BLACK, SIRIUS called out by the Hat at the beginning of the alphabet), already so sure of himself, even when he walked across the Great Hall in stunned silence resulting from the house name the Hat had ultimately shouted out. James, who hadn’t yet been sorted, but had told Peter his expected house with such a cocky, wide-grinning surety, Peter didn’t know how the Hat would be able to say no. And then there's the other student sat with Black—Lupin, or some such name. Peter hasn’t talked to him yet. But even though he sits with his shoulders rounded, staring down at the place on the table in front of him, quiet save for polite applause, he has a certain sense of gravity about him.

Peter isn’t like any of them, not really. But he thinks he’d like to be.

He doesn’t think it consciously, but the Hat picks up on it all the same. “Your choice is made, then. Better be… GRYFFINDOR!”

The other Gryffindors smile as Peter shakily clambers off the stool and over to the table, welcoming him enthusiastically as their newest member, and Peter smiles back, knowing he made the right choice.

- -

Peter Pettigrew does not have many secrets at the age of eleven. He doesn’t have many himself, nor is he the type of person to whom others confide secrets of their own. But he does, for some reason, keep the true nature of the Hat’s deliberations on his proper house to himself.

“Was between Slytherin and Gryffindor for me,” Sirius ultimately shares a day later, after his tenseness and frigidity upon being placed with the lions instead of the snakes has finally receded. “More because it knew my family, though. It compared me to all of them. Said that it couldn’t in good conscience put me there.” He says it easily, like the rebellion had been his idea all along, but Peter remembers the whiteness of his face when the Howler from his family had shown up during first-day breakfast.

James had been nearly-immediately sorted to Gryffindor, describing (perhaps untruthfully, but entertainingly regardless) how the Hat had barely said two words to him before shouting out the house for all to hear. And upon prompting, Remus—the fourth and most subdued member of their dorm room, whose first name the other three had finally learned the evening before, when they had sorted out the beds—looks up from the book he is hidden behind and contributes that the Hat had also considered putting him in Ravenclaw. “Makes sense,” Sirius says, gesturing to the book on Remus’ lap. Remus looks down at the book, as if surprised, haltingly agrees, and buries his nose back behind it, dropping out of the conversation.

“How ‘bout you, Peter?” James says, turning on him with wide eyes behind smudged glasses. “Took a while for the Hat to decide for you, didn’t it?”

For some reason he can’t voice, even to himself, Peter hesitates. “Oh, um.” He thinks a bit more. “It nearly put me in Hufflepuff. But I wound up here in the end. Couldn’t miss out, right?” That seems the right thing to say, with James’ obvious enthusiasm for the house that they now share.

James grins. “Good lad.” Then he takes out the snitch kept in his trunk and immediately forgets all about the conversation, roughhousing with Sirius over who can reach the tiny, flittering orb first.

Peter just watches them, eyes wide as he follows the movements of the two other boys back and forth. Remus also stays quiet in the corner. Only later, in one of those flashes of insight that sometimes come with time, does Peter wonder if Remus was hiding some of the details of his own sorting himself.

- -

Remus is a werewolf.

That is the answer, the answer to the Mystery of Remus Lupin the three of them (or rather, James-and-Sirius, and then Peter) have been working to solve since halfway through their first year. The disappearances, the wounds, the avoidance, the stories that just don’t add up (even for Peter, who has fallen for the gullible-written-on-the-ceiling gag at least three separate times in his life).

Peter isn’t sure how to feel. It’s still Remus, yes, the same friend who tutors him patiently in History of Magic and Charms when others have long since given up, who answers too softly in class and has to be reminded to speak up now and then by the professors, who had slept in the bed to the left of his for the better part of a year and a half now. But apparently, Remus is also a monster Peter’s mum had warned him about since he was a young child, a Dark creature who could rend him limb from limb if he so chose.

Peter isn’t stupid, despite what people often say. He knows Remus doesn’t actually pose any danger outside of the full moon. But it’s the what-if of an accident and the up-in-the-air question of the full extent of Remus’ humanity the other twenty-seven days of the month that gives Peter pause.

“What do we do?” Peter whispers anxiously that fateful full moon where the pieces finally have clicked into place. The three of them look out the Gryffindor tower window, threads of their friend’s mournful howls inexorably burrowing into their ears from across the silvery cold night of the school grounds.

“We tell him,” says James, jaw working as his eyes stay fixed on the shack in the horizon.

“But,” says Peter, voice a bit tremulous both from the revelation and from bringing up the point at all, “do we need to do something else? Isn’t he… dangerous?”

James wheels on him then, as does Sirius, both of them glaring incredulously at him. “Remus is our friend,” James says, acid in his voice. “We have to help him!”

“He’s still the same person,” Sirius adds, eyes full of fire in that way they get sometimes. Sirius is nothing like his cousins in many ways, but his mercurial moods often betray the fact that, in certain moments, they can be much the same.

“Okay,” Peter says quietly.

“If you don’t get your head on straight,” Sirius adds, “we’ll do it for you. No mentioning this to Remus. He’s our friend. Remember that.”

Peter nods, chastened. James and Sirius are usually right, after all. They’re the leaders of their little band, and for good reason. Peter pushes the niggling doubt in his mind away and listens to the two of them as they outline the plan for breaking the news to Remus. It will all turn out fine.

When Remus returns to their dormitory the next day, white-faced and horrified as James and Sirius lay out their discovery, Peter is right alongside them in convincing Remus that they don’t care, that it will be fine, that his secret is safe with them. Peter believes it, too, ensconced in the strength of James’ and Sirius’ convictions. Eventually, he almost forgets his original thoughts on the entire matter.

- -

Peter emulates each of his friends in turn throughout the years, only half-consciously. He’s never fully fit into a group, never has since childhood, but maybe that has just been because he’s never fully found his niche.

Earlier on, he tries being like James and later Sirius, the former cocksure yet personable, the latter smooth yet reckless. He tries speaking up, mirroring their confidence, their way of holding themselves. But most of the time, the words trip when they come out of his mouth, and even when he does pull off a turn of phrase or gesture, it never quite comes off the same coming from Peter as it does from either of them. Peter doesn’t even know where to start with the magnetism of a leader James has had since day one, or the degree of teenage cool Sirius seems to radiate without even trying.

Even Remus has a certain energy Peter simply can’t put his finger on. While more reserved, and usually kinder than his peers, Remus also has a wicked sense of humor that always shows itself at just the right time, and can think of subtle pranks reaching a level of hilarity that supersedes the brasher schemes Sirius and James tend to favor. And despite his more subdued personality (at least compared to James and Sirius), Remus still manages to have a sort of presence that James and Sirius pay attention to. Peter tries to achieve that contented quiet and accidental mysteriousness Remus always seems to have, only to find that if he is quiet, people often forget that he’s there at all.

Peter continues his forays into trying on aspects of other personalities for a while, but eventually, he stops trying. He supposes he simply has to be Peter Pettigrew—whoever that is. It isn’t a name that conjures up a persona like James Potter or Sirius Black or even Remus Lupin under the right circumstances, but it is his. He is with them, and he can be with them, and maybe that is enough. He is still there while charting the castle, after all, still a lookout scout during planting dungbombs in all the professors’ offices, still part of the trio tonguing mandrake leaves and stirring the vials of potion under the swollen moon. He is still a Marauder. That is more than many others in the school can say.

He, Peter has ultimately come to realize, is not a starring character. But he is alongside them, he thinks, a solid member of the group, and that is a position good in its own right.

- -

Snape nearly dies at the hands of the wolf, their group is torn along enemy lines, and Peter, all of a sudden, isn’t sure what to do.

It’s normally James (and Sirius) leading, and Remus and Peter along with them. But now it’s James sticking to Remus’ side like glue, glaring at Sirius and almost refusing to talk even as Sirius desperately tries to apologize. The dynamics are all wrong, and Peter no longer knows where he’s supposed to fit.

Ultimately, he ends up with James and Remus. As much as he follows and James and Sirius, Remus is probably the one who has paid the most attention to Peter anyway. And two against one, Sirius is obviously the one in the wrong. Even Sirius admits that he’s in the wrong, it’s just a question of if and when and how much to forgive him. Peter’s still on Remus’ side regardless, of course he is. Remus didn’t almost kill Snape, after all, no matter how much he blames himself for doing so.

The chill lasts for months before finally, slowly thawing, many conversations between Sirius and Remus as well as Sirius and James slowly inching them back towards normal. Peter does not play a particularly active role in fixing this upheaval. He simply stays next to James and Remus, murmuring condolences to Remus in particular and being a shoulder for him to lean on when necessary. If nothing else, he’s simply a body on their side of the battlefield.

The entire affair has had the unpleasant side effect of reminding Peter of his initial reaction to Remus’ secret, years ago. Sitting next to him now, the taller boy focused as he carefully writes out his History of Magic notes (the only reason the four of them haven’t entirely failed, at this point, and probably the only reason Remus keeps taking them with the care that he does), and wonders if that niggling doubt had ever really been successfully quashed.

He eventually dismisses the thought. He can be a friend to Remus, Peter reasons, while also being wary of the disease he carries. It’s logical.

Peter is glad when things return to normal. For Remus’ and Sirius’ sakes, of course, he is glad they’ve found a truce and way to move forward without each of them thinking of themself as a monster in their own regard. But privately, Peter is also glad the group dynamics have returned to their old selves. He doesn’t know what he would do if the Marauders were to break up. Peter isn’t stupid, and he knows that it’s really only the four-pronged structure of their friendship that keeps it stable, with a place carved out for Peter within it.

- -

“They tried to get me to take the mark,” Sirius says.

The three of them are quiet at that, Remus finally breaking the silence. “God, Sirius.”

James’ face is drawn, as it has been since he had stepped back onto the train after winter break, a pale Sirius in tow.

Sirius is with me. Can’t say much more. Talk when we get back. - J

James had sent the same copy of the note to both Peter and Remus over break, prompting a flurry of messages back from them both for more information. Remus, for his part, had apparently nearly Flooed over without invitation, had James not sent a follow-up letter pleading with them to just give the house some space, just for now. Until he was safe.

“I mean, it’s not like I hadn’t seen it coming,” Sirius shrugged. “My damned cousins joined up ages ago and already wormed their way into Riddle’s inner circle. My parents have been attending the meetings for months now, did you know that? Once they saw he finally had enough power to pose a substantial threat, they made their move.” Sirius spits out the last part bitterly, face twisting in disgust. “It’s not like it’s a surprise. It was always going to happen, and as soon as it was politically advantageous, it did.”

“So did they… did they try to do it right then?” Peter’s face is ashen.

It’s James who speaks up then. “No,” he says, voice low and focused. “But they told him about it and had a massive row.”

“The row to end all rows,” adds Sirius with a wry smirk, and it would be funny if not for the hollows under his eyes. “My dear old mother and I had it out once and for all. Curses were thrown. Mainly at me, of course. Father watched.”

James looks harrowed.

“They finally left me in my room and. Well. That was it, really,” Sirius continues. “There was already nothing left for me in that house. Hasn’t been for years. But now I’ve finally fucking gotten up and left.”

“And he showed up at mine,” James says. “Looking like the dead. Thought Mum would faint, when I brought him in.” He turns to Peter and Sirius then, face turning apologetic. “Sorry about not writing,” he says. “I could get a couple of letters out, but Mum and Dad didn’t want too much communication inward or outward, they were trying to get wards on the house to hide it a bit more because. You know.”

“My mother’s a fucking maniac,” Sirius finishes flatly. “Nothing new. But now I’m officially disowned because of it. Sayonara, House of Black.” He throws his hands up, two middle fingers pointed high as he falls back onto the bed.

Peter stares at Sirius, then, lying casually on his four-poster despite the story that's just exited his mouth. He imagines how the scene might have gone: Sirius, long black hair swinging and eyes flashing, up against the old walls and portraits of his house. His mother, trim and buttoned up and casting curse after curse at her son, expression barely moving an inch. The two shouting like they’ve never shouted before, neither willing to give up until the other fully submitted or collapsed.

He can’t imagine himself doing such a thing. Peter adds to the already bountiful respect and awe he holds for Sirius inside his head.

The four sit in silence for some minutes, until Remus finally breaks it.

“They’re so much stronger now than even a year ago, if your family is making their move,” Remus says quietly.

“Yes,” Sirius says, voice hollow and all traces of mockery gone.

“The war,” James says. The three of them don’t need many more words than that. They’ve discussed it sporadically over the past five years, quietly over the headlines at breakfast, in the dark when they can’t sleep. An abstract concept, something for the future. But this time, it feels much, much more real.

“Yeah,” says Sirius. “It’s coming.”

It’s a terrifying prospect. Peter wants to shut his eyes until it goes away.

- -

He isn’t surprised to find out that he is a rat.

“Sociable,” James says after Peter finally turns back—the last of the three to successfully do it—responding to Sirius’ look of skepticism. “Cheerful. Get along with a lot of people, you know.”

“Smart, too,” Remus chimes in from across the dorm room. He tends to do that, a sort of leftover behavior from when it was often Peter-and-Remus and Sirius-and-James, their quartet somewhat split along some invisible social fault line. Peter is grateful, in a way, even if by now he’s long-accepted his intellectual rung within the group. Remus tries and succeeds. Sirius and James don’t try, and still succeed. Peter tries and fails.

“Still,” Sirius says, nose wrinkling, “a rat? Sorry, Pete.”

“Come on,” James protests. “He’ll be useful! How else are we supposed to get past that bloody tree? And can you think of how useful he’ll be as a lookout? He wouldn’t even need the cloak!”

Sirius considers this a moment more, finally nodding his head in assent. “Alright, then. Fair enough. Still have to come up with a name, though.”

The three others immediately start arguing about the best name for Peter. Peter catches Littlefinger and Whiskers and Carrier (the last provided by Sirius, who shrugs and says he’s only drawing from the history books, you know, the plague and all that, before getting shot down by a look from Remus). Peter stays quiet, basking in the focus.

Maybe Peter is sociable, moreso in recent years as he’s gained a bit more confidence. Maybe sometimes he’s even smarter than people give him credit for, like Remus says. But those aren’t really the reasons why Peter isn’t particularly surprised. Rats are small, often overlooked. Rats can be found crawling around a sewer in London, an alley in Morocco, a trodden street in India. They are always there, and while possibly unwelcomed, are never really out of place anywhere.

“Wormtail,” James finally crows out triumphantly, and Peter rapidly nods in assent.

They mark the cover of the map, nearly finished now, with their four newly dubbed monikers in blood-red ink, and Peter feels the glow that comes from being part of something meaningful.

- -

The newspapers are full of death. It seems like each day someone’s aunt, cousin, neighbor has been tortured, or killed, or simply lost. The Death Eaters, the papers are calling them now.

“The second we get out of here,” James has taken to saying in a hushed voice amongst the four of them, “I’m joining up. To fight. I have to, you know?”

“Not without me,” Sirius always says, face fierce as he stands shoulder-to-shoulder with James.

Remus nods in assent, face set and grim. “Yes.”

Peter searches within himself and wants to say the same. Wants that courage that seems to come so naturally to the other three, that willingness to put their lives on the line for something greater than themselves. But no matter how he spins it, no matter what words he uses to convince himself, he just can’t draw up that same level of conviction it’s plain that the others have.

Peter wants to live. Is that really so bad?

“Me too,” says Peter. “As soon as we leave.”

- -

In their earlier years, the war had been something far away: a story mainly existing in the columns of the newspapers, a subdued topic of conversations between adults at parties. Now, it's evident even within the Hogwarts walls. An invisible boundary has been drawn between the students as the weeks churn on, the headlines piling up and the death toll with them. Small knots of students whisper in low tones in the hallways, levity gone, staring at other students across the way. They speak in low tones about their plans, some discussing a mark and purity and a lord, the others whispering about an order and resistance and duty to fight. The numbers of the rest, those in the neutral zone, dwindle by the day.

In the fall of their last year, two muggleborns in their year don’t return. Lily is the only one left. “A number from other years haven’t either,” Remus says, voice solemn. Peter hopes that they are simply lying low.

“Why are we even here?” Sirius’ voice is impatient as always. His heel is tapping against his bedframe as he lies on his back, absentmindedly spinning his wand like a baton through his fingertips. “The lines are already fucking drawn. Dumbledore’s all but told us about recruitment for the Order after graduation. We’re all just waiting to leave so we can actually do something.”

Privately, Peter is glad they are still here. He can’t ignore the war anymore like he could even a couple of years ago, none of them can. But being still in school means there’s at least that last level of ignorance he can still cling to before he’s supposed to fight. Unless, of course, the war comes for him anyway, turning him into one of the many students who have been summoned into their head-of-house’s office only to exit in tears. (Or, simply one of the few who have vanished from Hogwarts' halls themselves.)

But he will stay with his friends, naturally. He will fight with them. He’s chosen a side, or at least fallen onto one. He’s glad to be there, to fight alongside them for what’s right. Peter nods along as Remus and James add their own thoughts, musings on life and loss and war that seem far too mature for their seventeen years. He sees Sirius’ point, sees all of their points, really. Peter agrees.

- -

In the winter, there is an attack in Hogsmeade. An entire family, one running a small bakery out of the first floor of their small house along the main street, was found dead in their bedrooms. Both parents were muggleborn. They looked almost as if they were sleeping. The smoky green mark curling above the roof told otherwise.

Peter realizes, after reading the article, that the house is one of the ones he can faintly see from his tower window. It often has a small curl of smoke rising from the chimney, making the squat stone-masoned house look solid and cozy even in the depths of winter. No smoke rises from the chimney now.

He is sad for the family; it’s a horrific tragedy. He is shaken and discusses the matter in hushed tones with the rest of the students at breakfast that day, listens solemnly to the headmaster’s short announcement about it later in the meal. But he also, deep down, can’t help thinking he is grateful he was up here, through wards and up a tower through a thick stone wall. It was close. Much closer than the war has been to him before.

Peter wonders how he will react when he is on the other side of that wall. Sometimes, he isn’t sure.

- -

The four of them are out of school for barely a month before Peter is squashed between Remus and James around a too-full table in someone’s heavily warded basement, listening to Alastor Moody speak. The faces around the table are too solemn and too young.

“You all know,” Moody starts, eyes boring into each and every one of the new recruits sitting around the table, “why you are here.” 

Moody goes on for at least twenty minutes, describing the founding of the Order, the general structure, what will be expected of them, the training they will be expected to go through before being considered full participants in the organization. Peter is caught up in the swell of the speech. Moody is a blunt speaker and makes no exaggerations, but Peter finds himself feeling buoyed by it anyway. They face difficult odds, a long road ahead, pit-fallen with pain and loss. But they are together, says Moody, and that can mean strength, if not safety.

“They will have to kill us all before we give up,” Moody says grimly, “and even then, the movement would still survive. This isn’t like your schoolbooks. That’s the heart of what fighting the Dark Arts is, and you are here to continue that never-ending battle."

“Nothing said here leaves this room,” Moody finishes as a parting quote. “Constant vigilance.”

With that, he moves to the corner, and after a moment, subdued chatter finally starts breaking out around the table.

“Merlin,” says James, eyes wide. “They really weren’t kidding when they said Moody was like that.”

Sirius nods, eyebrows furrowed. “Wonder if the Ministry just pays him for the amount he scares new recruits.”

Remus’ eyebrow raises in amusement. “I will admit being impressed that you didn’t flinch when he yelled five inches from your face about how status doesn’t matter here.”

“I held my cool,” Sirius says in a mock-haughty tone, nose in the air. “Serves him right, really. Picked the wrong Black to yell at. My mother already threw me down the hierarchy seven times harder years ago.”

This causes James to snort, and then the four of them are bantering back and forth like they always have, lightly pushing and shoving each other as they make their way out of the room. They end up spending the entire evening together, laughing and talking and just being until night has solidly turned to early morning. It’s the last time it’s like that for a long while.

- -

Peter is given easy jobs at first. He stays around headquarters, helping run messages back and forth and sorting out communications, handling portkeys and spelled radios and being on-call for patronuses.

James and Sirius, of course, chafe nearly instantly at their bonds when sitting back, and are being trained for reconnaissance and offensive missions within a month, are full team members within three. Lily, joining a few weeks late after settling affairs with her parents, manages to be right there alongside them a month later. She spends half her time in the field, the other half brewing potions with steps so complex Peter gets a headache trying to read one of them, filling up vials of Polyjuice and veritaserum as fast as she can.

After the first month or two, Peter is moved to surveillance. Peter excels at this, of course, beyond what Moody and Dumbledore could ever expect. They don’t know about the rat. They don’t know about any of them, except Remus, who of course they know about. Once, when Remus was drunk, he had let slip a bitter remark about wondering whether Dumbledore only ever admitted him for the sake of having a useful soldier in his pocket. None of them had had any response to that.

Alone amongst them, Remus went through hardly any training at all. A week into joining, Dumbledore and Moody had swept him into a private room where they spoke in hushed tones for several minutes until finally dropping a silencing charm upon the door. Remus had emerged after an hour, face sober and eyes far away. Peter had asked him how it went.

“They plan for me to take on some special missions,” was all that Remus said.

“Just you?” Peter hadn’t heard of such a thing.

Remus’ face grew grim. “Just me.”

Peter didn’t have to ask what that meant.

Remus hadn’t left immediately after that, but soon started disappearing for days on end, coming back quiet and unable to divulge any details of where he had been.

Peter surveils. Lily brews. James and Sirius fight. Remus comes back rougher-looking every time.

Peter watches the others change. He wonders how much he might be changing himself.

- -

The Order isn’t losing, but it certainly isn’t winning, either.

A year into the war (Peter, and he knows the rest of them, all count it as starting that last year of Hogwarts, though they all knew it had been coming long before that), little seems to have changed. They’ve won a number of battles but seem to have lost just as many. For every faceless death there’s been on the other side, there’s another face they know too well disappearing from the table in the meeting room at headquarters.

Remus is gone more than he’s here these days, looking stringy and terse when he finally makes an appearance. They all notice new scars on him in places he’s never been able to reach on himself before. None of them comments.

Sirius and James and Lily (the latter two now married, in a beautiful ceremony that was the best day Peter can remember having in months) return from missions grim-faced and silent. Alongside them are the motley of other usual field team members—McKinnon, Meadowes, Dearborn, and any number of rotating faces Peter can hardly keep straight. Even if he doesn’t know a face, though, Peter can tell where they’ve been. They all share that same look. The one that, when he occasionally thinks about volunteering for more offensive missions, rather than his usual reconnaissance and jobs closer to headquarters, holds him back from doing so with a sickly sense of unease.

The vials of potion are emptying faster than Lily can brew them. They ran out of ingredients for veritaserum six weeks ago, the last batch will expire in the next two. A handful of the necessary ingredients are rare, and the supply lines have been interrupted for months now. Lily makes do with what she can, brewing veritaserum-adjacent potions to help coax out truths, but even with her deft hand, the effects are nowhere near as potent.

Moody gives his updates. Dumbledore makes his rare appearances, and it’s like a dark facsimile of his speeches at the Great Hall. The Order is technically of all ages, but is skewed so far young Peter sometimes feels like half the people he knew from Hogwarts have shown up at some point. (The other half is on the other side of the battlefield.)

He often thinks back to Remus’ comment about Dumbledore recruiting him specifically. Peter doesn’t think he’s wrong, but he also thinks that Dumbledore needs fresh blood in general and had eyes on a far wider pool than just Remus alone.

Peter would say it’s as if they’ve all aged ten years in the span of one, but he doesn’t, since that’s not quite right. He doesn’t feel ten years older. He is nineteen, and he is in a war, and it is only now that he’s really learning what that means.

Peter knows it is war, has known it for years. It’s only now, though, that he's started to fully consider what it would mean if his side weren’t the one to win.

- -

More months pass. More dead pass with them. Amongst it all, Lily and Alice announce that they are pregnant.

Lily and James and Alice and Frank all beam with joy, and so do the rest of them. Lily with her red hair and her face so bright is like the sun, Alice with her cropped, dark pixie and beaming smile, the moon. It’s contagious. There’s been so much bad news for so long, any scrap of happiness is something to cling onto and magnify by a million.

“This is what it’s about, you know,” James says to the three of them later in the corner of an impromptu party that’s been thrown at headquarters in celebration. He’s grinning brighter than Peter can ever remember seeing him, including the time Gryffindor finally won the inter-house quidditch tournament. “This is what we’re fighting for.”

Sirius clasps him in another hug, and even Remus smiles genuinely, back from one of his long odysseys just in time to participate.

“Congrats, mate,” Sirius says from his position with his arm slung around James’ shoulders. “A mini Prongs… and a mini Evans… the world isn’t ready, I fear.”

Maybe the world isn’t ready, Peter wonders, the way it is now, for two new children to enter it. In every sense of the phrase.

But maybe, he also thinks, watching James and Sirius hug even tighter and Remus look the most relaxed Peter has seen him in months, that’s why they’re needed the most.

It’s a short reprieve. They’re all thrust back into their usual day to day soon enough, of course, minus James and Lily, whose fighting-a-war lives now are also those of expectant parents. But it’s a beautiful one.

- -

Peter runs, feet pounding against the cracked, uneven pavement. James is shoulder-to-shoulder with him, his left pressed against Peter’s right. The harsh sound of James’ breaths fills Peter’s ears, even over his own, gasping ones. The afternoon light in the city is gray, the stratus clouds uniformly overcast; the air is cool, yet humid. The only thing that moves is the light breeze, and them, tearing through a car park away from the Death Eaters who caught on to what was supposed to be an undercover operation.

“Get down,” James says suddenly, and Peter does, half of his own accord, half due to James’ suddenly pulling him to his knees alongside him. A bolt of purple light shoots over them (Diffindo, Peter’s brain supplies, the long-ingrained Charms memorization resurfacing automatically). He dares a glance behind them as they both get back to their feet, seeing the black-robed individuals tearing around the corner of a building.

“Dorcas and Benjy are up ahead,” James gasps as they run. “With the portkey. We just need to make it another block and—” James cuts himself off as the hairs stand up on the back of Peter’s neck, jerking his wand behind him in a slash to block the curse that’s ricocheting towards their backs. Peter’s heart gives a leap beyond the marathon it’s already doing. “—we’ll be safe. They can’t follow us there—Peter, shield!”

Peter is stunned for only a moment before the authoritative tone of James’ voice spurs him automatically to action, doing a half-turn as he runs and throwing up a protego as the Death Eater on the left fires another volley of curses towards them both. It overlaps with James’, the two rippling shields shuddering a bit where they connect, but staying strong for some long moments, weathering the onslaught. Peter catches the corner of James’ eye as the two of them run. There is no nod, no expression exchanged—their current situation is far too dire for that—but there is that reassurance there, in the look in his eye, in the set of his jaw, the bravery despite the terror, that makes Peter feel a little bit braver too.

“Almost there,” Peter gasps out, tossing a curse of his own over his shoulder and catching one of the Death Eaters on the arm. James does the same, the two of them firing blindly, as they round the corner of the old brick building to the rendezvous point they had agreed on ahead of time.

Peter runs, chest heaving, towards Dorcas and Benjy, who are holding an old boot and motioning rapidly for him to come closer. He doesn’t need to be told twice and sprints the last distance across the pavement towards them, slamming his hand onto the boot like he’ll never let go.

“James, let’s go!” Dorcas yells, and it’s then that Peter notices James is no longer beside him. He’s still ten-something meters away, somehow maintaining a shield charm while simultaneously letting off a volley of curses of his own, trying to hold their two pursuers at bay as long as he can.

James lets off one more round and then turns, maintaining the shield behind him as he sprints over to join them. He slaps his own hand onto the toe of the boot, face and wand still turned away to face the Death Eaters who are gaining on them rapidly, close enough for Peter to see their angered expressions.

“Now!” Dorcas yells, and Peter feels the fishhook tug of the portkey deep in his gut and is whisked away in a whirl of color and sound to Order headquarters, behind their layered wards, behind their anti-apparition line, behind where their pursuers will be able to follow.

Suddenly, everything is quiet, and it slams into Peter like a brick wall. He blinks, groaning and extricating himself from the pile of limbs and wands that the four of them have become in the parlor of the house the Order is currently calling home. Dorcas mutters a string of curses under her breath as she stands up, massaging her shoulder. James, of course, is somehow standing before them all, eyes narrowed and assessing of the lot of them as they ungainly find a standing position.

“Everyone alright?” His tone is strong, yet genuine. Somewhere, in the last year, James has gone from a boy to a man, and the capacity he’s always had for leadership has realized itself along with it.

Peter nods. “Yeah. You, Prongs?” He keeps his voice as level as he can. He doesn’t think he succeeds very well.

“Right as rain,” James confirms. Shockingly, he appears to be so.

“Still don’t understand those stupid fucking nicknames you all use,” Benjy mumbles under his breath as he rubs his fingers into the corners of his eyes, the picture of long-suffering.

James smirks. “No need to, Fenwick, my good man,” he says. “Mind reporting into Moody? I’ll make my portion of the briefing later.”

“Fine by me,” Benjy says, and exits the room. Dorcas follows quickly, claiming a desperate need for a cup of tea, leaving Peter and James alone.

“Good job out there, Pete,” James says, clapping him twice on the shoulder and then clasping him in a hug. Peter desperately hopes James cannot feel the way his shoulders still tremble. “We kept each other safe.”

No, Peter wants to correct. James kept Peter safe. He’d’ve been out of commission at that first diffindo had he been alone, and if not then, ten times over after that without James’ direction. James directing, Peter along for the ride. Just as it’s always been.

The rat was always the superfluous part of their full moon excursions, the tree's knot always having been reachable by a spell or even a branch, regardless of what James and Sirius said.

“Thanks,” Peter says. “You were there. So.”

James gives him a long look, hazel eyes narrowed behind the thick frames of his glasses. “Don’t sell yourself short, Pete,” he says. “And even when you’re not. We’ll always be there for each other, after all.”

Peter wants to shudder at the thought of facing what they faced that afternoon without James. Thinks of the desolate grayness of the day, of the cloud in his mind that has engulfed any and all thoughts of the war, of the way through it. He desperately hopes James is right.

- -

Lily’s twentieth birthday comes the day after a raid on a muggle couple's house kills both people inside. The party still goes on; the raid was the third one of its kind that month alone. Perhaps it's insensitive, but if they stopped everything every time a tragedy occurred, they would never be living at all outside their wartime roles.

It’s a small affair, with only a small dinner, drinks (although not for Lily, who by now is already three months along), and their closest friends for conversation. Peter remembers Lily’s birthday just two short years ago. Her walking into the streamer-bedecked Gryffindor common room packed with people shouting SURPRISE!, a grinning James Potter standing in the middle of it all. Her expression exasperated at first, but quickly curving up into a smile she couldn’t hold in. Them going until the early morning, a number of people falling asleep in the common room until late afternoon. But it is not Lily's eighteenth, it is her twentieth. This party is more subdued, both in format and conversation, and so are they.

Peter finds himself next to the guest of honor late in the night. He’s a number of drinks in by now, as is Sirius. They’d drunk a fair bit at Lily’s eighteenth as well, he remembers. He ignores the fact his lack of sobriety is now for an entirely different reason. He’s sitting on the step, absorbed in his own thoughts until someone sits down alongside him. Lily nudges him a bit in the shoulder, face expectant.

“How are you, Peter?” Lily asks. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

Had he? “’M alright.” He takes another sip. He doesn’t mean to say it, but the words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “As much as any of us can be when these are our lives.”

Lily turns to look at him fully, and before Peter can apologize (it’s her birthday, he shouldn’t be saying those kinds of things), she’s giving a short nod. “Yeah,” she says. “Things are fucked.”

Peter turns to look at Lily in surprise. Her auburn hair is long around her shoulders, her hands clasped around her drink, forearms resting on her knees. She gives him a wry smile. “Not to be crude, or anything,” she says. “But it is my birthday, so I can say what I want.” Peter chuckles at that.

They sit in silence for a bit, quiet enough to hear each other’s breathing. The low beat of the music and murmurs of the party in the other room trickle in in a subtle ambience.

“I’m scared, Peter,” Lily says, finally speaking again. Peter turns his head to look at her. Her face is solemn. “Finding out about the baby was… I can’t even describe it, really. Even though we hadn’t exactly planned it, when I found out, I can hardly remember being so excited. And then I told James, and he felt the same, and now even though I’m not far along I can’t wait for them to be here. It’s to a frightening degree, really.” She takes another sip of her water, pausing before she continues. “But…  every time I think about meeting them, I can’t help wondering how soon it will end. How many more skirmishes before they get taken, or James?“

That’s pure Lily, Peter notes. Always putting everyone else in front of her. It’s James too, and Remus and Sirius. Their unflinching selflessness is something Peter has always admired.

“This war has taken so much from us,” Lily finishes. “And I do believe that we will eventually come out ahead. Tilt the hand of history towards justice. But sometimes I wonder if to get there, it will just take and take until it’s all gone.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say at that. He’s not James, who would know the perfect blend of reassurance and understanding, or Sirius, who would agree with fiery quickness and validation, or Remus, who has had a level of friendship with Lily longer than any of the other three. So instead he just puts his hand on her knee in solidarity, murmuring assent. They stay that way, quiet, until the rest of the party finds them again.

- -

It’s the summer again, Harry and Neville born weeks earlier to joyful parents on the same day, before Peter finally sees combat alone.

He’s held back from it somewhat, made himself useful to the Order in other ways; his spellwork’s never been the best, and his dueling skills are honestly rather shite, so no one’s called him on it. He’s been caught in plenty of skirmishes, sure. Thrown out some curses with his friends and comrades alongside him, one amongst the throng. But never leading the charge, never himself alone up against the enemy.

He and Bernard McLaughlin, a scruffy Hufflepuff Peter had never really spoken with until they had both ended up in the Order, are sitting on the curb of an alley next to a nightclub, waiting for known associates of Voldemort to arrive. They are both disguised, polyjuiced up to the gills and new wardrobes to boot. Normally, Peter would simply wait in the gutter as the rat, silent and unobtrusive as anything, listening in to conversations. But McLaughlin does not know about the rat, cannot know about the rat, so instead Peter sits in a skin that’s not his own, feeling itchy and exposed and like a raw, tingling nerve.

“A nightclub?” McLaughlin is saying, borrowed face screwed up in confusion. “Why the hell would Voldemort pick a nightclub for a rendezvous point, of all places?”

“Shh,” Peter says, swiveling his head around. “They could hear you.”

“Nah,” McLaughlin says. “They haven’t shown up yet. No one’s walked by looking all pureblooded and evil.” Peter laughs.

They sit for another minute or two, McLaughlin quietly rattling on about quidditch cancellations and how badly he could go for a pint right now, when Peter sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Two figures stride out of the alley across the street. They move purposefully towards the entrance of the establishment, postures straight-backed and faces cool.

“Bernie,” Peter hisses. “Quiet.” He points, subtly but hard, at the pair.

“Alright,” McLaughlin mutters, lips twisting as he subtly reaches for his wand. “Let’s get— “

They don’t see the two coming from behind.

One moment McLaughlin is there, and then the next, there is a flash of green light, and he is not.

There is a beat where nothing happens. Peter thinks a moment and a lifetime pass in that beat. He looks down at the body next to him, cooling on the pavement. Its eyes are open, glassy. They stare sightlessly into Peter's own, offering nothing but a distorted reflection of his own face back.

Then Peter remembers the two figures still behind him, lurches upward, and runs.

Adrenaline thrums through Peter’s system as his thoughts spiral faster and faster into hysteria. McLaughlin is dead, McLaughlin is dead and cooling on the cobblestones behind him. No one else is there to see except the two Death Eaters chasing him, chasing him and stretching out their wands towards him and Peter should turn around he should he should that’s what James would do, that’s what Sirius would do, that’s what Remuslilymarlenealicefrankmoody anyone else in the Order would do, and maybe what Peter would do too if he were alongside one of them. But Peter is finally at the tip of the knife for the first time entirely alone, and this is what Peter has feared the whole time, and so what Peter ultimately does is spin on his heel as he runs, runs, runs, sprawling forward towards the ground as he cracks out of reality, away from the ones who are chasing him, into safety.

“I couldn’t,” gasps Peter when he cracks back into existence outside headquarters, stumbling and breath heaving as he attempts to stop panicking. “I couldn’t, I couldn’t.” He gulps in air. It tastes sweet.

Moody eyes him later, after his stutter-filled debriefing, after the memorial services for McLaughlin have started to be arranged, and Peter feels himself being scrutinized on more than just a physical level. Moody has always had a way of seeing into his soul, Peter thinks, and the magical eye he’s recently acquired makes the feeling even more uncanny. He swallows, waits for him to speak.

“Move along then, boy,” Moody eventually says in his gruff voice, turning away.

- -

Peter sits alone at home, half-deep into a bottle of whiskey before the sun has even set.

McLaughlin is dead, he’s dead, he is dead. Peter knows this is war. Peter knows people die in war, Peter knows people who have died in the war. But he's found that knowing something and feeling it miss you by a hair's breadth are two entirely different things. Peter has learned that lesson before, but he’s learning it again.

If he’d been a meter to the left, that would have been him, not McLaughlin. If they’d swapped spots sitting on that curb, that would have been him. If Peter had tripped, been a second later, made any number of other tiny, alternate calls, that would have been him. He sees his face, again, warped and reflected in the sightless eyes.

Memento mori, he thinks Remus called it once. It burrows under Peter's skin. He takes another long pull on the whiskey bottle, trying and failing to forget.

He knows he’s on the right side of things. And it’s not like Peter doesn’t want to be on the right side of things. He wants to stand with his friends. He wants to stand with the Order. But with the way the war is going... what cost is that ultimately going to take?

He hears a knock at the door.

Before Peter is even up, wand in hand, it is opening, despite the multitude of locks and wards and enchantments Peter has staffed it with over the past months in his paranoia. Peter’s heart is in his throat, sure that the ones on assignment in the afternoon have come back for him, to finish the job they started with McLaughlin and clear them both off of this mortal plane.

Through the doorway step two men, both cloaked in black, silver masks grotesque yet elegant as they stare at him. One removes their mask slowly, gaze still fixed upon him, wand pointed and ready. They are not the same men as before. This pair is far too elegant, far too smooth for the sort of grunt work the others had on display.

Peter suddenly realizes his wand is upon the floor. The taller of the two has easily ripped it from his hand with a wandless, silent expelliarmus. He stands frozen, the only motion the trembling of his limbs.

“Hello, Peter,” says Tom Riddle in a soft, dangerous voice, still-masked companion standing silently at his side. Both of their wands are pointed at Peter’s heart. “I have a proposition to discuss.”

- -

Rats are nothing if not adaptable. Rats survive. Peter does too. It’s now, with some small amount of hysterical humor, that he remembers Sirius’ joke, four years and a lifetime ago.

Carrier, he’d mocked. Y’know. Like the plague?

Peter starts small. He spreads tiny pieces of information, slight falsehoods in one direction, small jewels of secret truths in the other. It goes unnoticed for months. The others, the ones he’s reporting to now after that conversation in his house with the metaphorical wand being held to his temple, are working him in slowly, avoiding building suspicion. The infection spreads slowly, not enough for anyone to realize. Peter is relieved by this. His going-between isn’t changing anything, not really, besides ensuring that sweet promise of safety that they had left him with before turning, all whirling black cloaks as they swept out the door. He’s just tilting the odds, every so often, something the Order can just chalk up to bad luck, poor information on their part. He can play both sides. He’s just doing it from the side with the better position right now, that’s all.

Peter rarely finds things come to him easily. He is surprised at how easily this does.

Once upon a time, Peter Pettigrew had no real secrets. Now, he is full of them.

Peter wishes he felt worse about it than he does.

- -

James and Lily invite them all over for dinner one night at the end of September. Peter knocks on the door, which is opened almost immediately by James.  

“What are we celebrating?” Peter asks, squinting at the party hat on James’ head. “I thought this was just dinner.”

“Harry’s two-month birthday,” James says, grinning.

“Do people celebrate that?”

“We do now,” says James. He steps aside and waves Peter genially through the doorway, where he can hear talking and laughter emanating from further inside. Stepping through, a mouth-watering smell wafts from the kitchen, smelling strongly of garlic and onions and whatever else James surely has cooking up. The entryway is small, only the stairs and a small (stationary) painting on the wall to his left.

“Peter! So glad you could join!” Lily emerges from around the corner, baby Harry cradled against her chest. She’s smiling, expression open, wearing a green sweater and lounge pants, so evidently at peace in the small home she and James have managed to build over the past year, despite everything. “Everyone’s in the other room.” She disappears into the indicated door, leaving Peter to follow.

Something clenches in his heart at the sight in the room before him: Sirius, sprawled lazily across the couch with a drink in his hand, guffawing loudly at something Remus has just said. Remus, reclining in the armchair next to him, all his usual tension gone from his limbs, his mouth curved up in amusement. James, having entered behind Peter with a spatula still clutched in his hand, holding out a finger for Harry to grasp and cooing gently, Lily looking on at him tenderly as she laughs at a joke Sirius has told. The room is messy, James and Lily busy as they are, all mismatched pillows scattered around the room and old newspapers and magazines strewn across the table. It is filled with more warmth than Peter has felt in weeks.

These are his friends. He knows their hopes, their fears, heard their nightmares when they sleep. He knows Remus still dislikes sleeping next to a window, how Sirius still wonders late at night where Regulus went wrong, that James lost something after his parents’ deaths that he’s not sure he’ll ever get back. He’s broken rules and broken laws for them. They are his everything. What is he doing?

He could walk away, Peter thinks. He could walk away and never return to his contact hidden in the shadows at their meeting point again.

But then he remembers the power he felt, terrifying yet intoxicating, and he shivers.

You will find, Peter, Voldemort had said, that I can offer more than the other side ever could. And those who disregard my suggestions, or depart from my company, find that they regret it.

Peter had wished he had reacted indignantly, righteously, steadfast until the end. Instead, the words were like the last nail in a long, slowly encroaching coffin, one he hadn’t even realized had been closing around him until he found himself nodding in agreement.

“Alright, Peter?” Remus asks, face furrowing a bit in concern. Peter suddenly realizes he’s been standing in the entryway, frozen, for some time now.

Peter remembers his dismal prospects with the Order before that meeting, the way the war has been tilting in recent months. He thinks of that jagged bolt of green light. He thinks of those softly, dangerously whispered words. Part of him says to hell with all that, to stick with his friends and the Order until the end in stubborn, stupid bravery. But the other part can only feel the heartbeat, precious and tenuous, thudding fast underneath his own ribs.

“Sure am,” he says.

- -

The second winter after they all joined up, they find themselves at the all-Order meeting. (The all-Order meeting is much smaller than the same meeting even a month ago. People remain undecided on whether it is worse to leave conspicuous holes where members usually sit or move to fill them, and so they hover between the two, a tense and tragic limbo.) Dumbledore clears his throat.

“I have reason to suspect,” Dumbledore says gravely, “that there is a spy within the Order.”

Murmuring breaks out in the room. Remus looks stricken. Sirius clenches his jaw. Peter sweats under his cloak.

“The Death Eaters are basing their operations on more information," Dumbledore says. “More than would be precedented for them to uncover of their own accord, without help on the inside. It is primarily small pieces of information, at least for the moment. But this does not mean that this does not constitute a serious threat to our operations. All of us were saddened to hear of the raid on the Bones residence last week, which although avoided casualties thanks to the Aurors' quick work, was nonetheless a tragedy for the family. I believe this was the result of information passed along about their secure location, which until then had been withheld from all but necessary individuals. I fear more events like this will be to come.”

Peter’s stomach twists, but knows his face remains unchanged. He looks as shocked and upset as the rest of them.

Dumbledore elaborates upon how he plans to address the issue for a few minutes more, then schools his face again into the familiar performance of kind but unsparing leader. “I trust,” Dumbledore says, “that we will all be cautious in this time as more information as to the identity of this individual emerges. ‘Constant vigilance’, as we all know Alastor would say.” Dumbledore’s eyes are twinkling in slight humor on the last sentence but are betrayed by the graveness remaining on the rest of his face, mirrored in the faces of the Order members gathered at the table around him. “These are dark times, not just for the world, but within all of us as well. Such threats are canny. We must continue standing together in order to defeat them.”

Dumbledore stops talking then and is quiet, looking out at the stricken faces staring at him from around the table. His blue eyes are steely as he scans the faces present, one by one. Peter is quite sure, suddenly, that one look from those eyes alone will burrow into his mind, hook onto his terrible secrets, drag them out and him with them for all to see. He clenches his fist under the table, fingernails digging into the palm. Dumbledore’s level blue gaze arrives at Peter, lingering for a long moment, before moving on, saying nothing. Peter unclenches his hand. Deep half-moons are left in the pink skin, slowly re-filling with blood as Dumbledore’s gaze moves further away.

He doesn’t relax for days.

“It is crucial that you divert any suspicion before it begins,” his contact says, when Peter finally comes to him with this new development. “Find another, a likelier suspect than the likes of you. This should not be difficult, I imagine. Deflect their suspicions onto them.” Peter nods. He rarely contributes anything beyond his high-pitched, rapid reports in these conversations, still too scared to do much else. “Think on the matter, and do it fast.”

Peter doesn’t have to think long. He thinks of an old friend, who for all his kindness and mild-mannerisms, is, when you come down to the heart of the matter, an easy receptacle for blame.

- -

Peter begins to drop small comments, seemingly innocuous, but targeted to point suspicion towards Remus.

As before, it isn’t nearly as difficult as Peter thought it would be. Remus makes it easy, his secretive missions already warping him from the mature and world-wearied, yet still young boy he was at school to someone more hardened. The distrust spreads like an infection, sickly black threads of doubt creeping from tiny seeds through the heart of the Order and eventually, even Peter’s friends. Tensions from the others, Sirius and James and Lily and all the rest, are on high alert, everyone’s hackles raised and eyes peeled for odd behavior.

“Have you heard from Remus, lately?” Peter says, being sure to keep his voice casual, to the three of them after yet another meeting with Remus missing from his usual spot at the corner of the table.

James’ expression darkens. “No.”

“He’s on a mission,” Lily says, but at this point, even she only sounds half-convinced.

“I thought he would have at least said something to us, by now,” Peter says.

“He’s undercover,” Sirius offers.

“Yeah, I guess,” Peter says. “Just thought I would try more to get something through in the midst of a war, though. If I wasn’t sure who was ever coming back.”

James and Lily exchange a glance, and Sirius’ brow furrows. They all say nothing. War has changed them all, and they’re all still not sure how much. Suspicion and tension tugs on the threads tying all of them together, and no one is quite sure whose, if any of them, might have snapped.

“It’s probably nothing,” Lily finally says. “We’ve all had trouble communicating out in the field at points.” But there’s a dark shadow in her eyes, mirrored in James’ and Sirius’, that Peter has seen slowly growing over recent weeks. Not enough to believe he's the spy, Peter knows nothing he could say would fully convince any of them of that, at least not yet. But enough doubt to make them pause. Enough to put a tiny fracture on their trust, the kind that slowly spiderwebs under stress.

Many of the others in the Order are easier to convince. While a good number know Remus as a person, many only know him for his status. The latter group have maintained a certain level of wariness, and with Dumbledore’s announcement making them all doubt even the closest among them, a member they don’t know well and already trust less does not fare highly in their esteem.

Remus attends fewer meetings upon finally returning from his missions. He is met with a subtly but notably cooler reception by many in the Order. Peter knows Remus knows why they act this way. He just sets his jaw and doesn't comment, continuing to deliver his reports calmly, as if nothing is wrong. But he grows quieter, stays away longer, looks more hardened, even compared to the rest of them.

Peter wonders whether he would have done so anyway, his time parlaying with the werewolf packs taking its physical and mental toll, or if it’s that he knows that even his friends, the ones who have always been the ones he can count on not to do so, have shadows of doubt when they look towards him too. Peter tells himself it’s the first reason. He knows it is the latter.

- -

“Moony,” Peter says one day as he catches the back of Remus’ jacket heading out of the door as soon as the meeting has finished, the quick departure having become his custom.

Peter isn’t sure why he does it. He inwardly curses himself for voicing the word almost instantly. Attracting Remus’ attention is the last thing he wants to do right now. But Remus has heard him, and pauses, turning around, scarred face wary but soft as he scans Peter’s own.

“What is it, Peter?” Remus asks.

“I, uh,” Peter says. He hasn’t gotten this far. The gears spin in his brain, trying to come up with a plausible excuse that isn’t the confession he always half-fears could bubble up out of his throat of its own accord. “How have you been doing?”

Peter still isn’t sure why he’s doing this, but now he assumes it’s just a sick sort of masochism. Seeing a bruise and poking it, picking off a scab to see it bleed. He knows exactly how Remus is doing and why.

Remus gives a dark chuckle at that, but rewards Peter with a small smile. “How are any of us doing, Wormtail?”

“Yes, but,” Peter starts. “You seem more… distant, than the rest of us.”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, the part of Peter shouts that he’s managed to ignore, the part that sat with Remus watching James and Sirius play quidditch, the part who studied with him late into the night, the part that wrote cheerful, silly letters back and forth to him over summer breaks when they were young. It’s what had to be done, the other, dominant part reminds him, forcing the other back down under the water where Peter’s tried to drown it. It doesn’t work. The two twist his stomach in opposite directions in a queasy type of dance.

Remus’ face, tentatively open, closes off at that, grows cold. “I suppose I have,” he says, tone clipped. “Haven’t we all?”

“Right,” Peter mumbles. “I didn’t think.”

“I’m sure you all have,” Remus says, bitterness leaching into his tone in a way he never usually allows, with the iron grip on his emotions he normally employs. Peter, in shock, almost thinks he’s about to bring up the issue directly, ask about Sirius, ask about James, ask how the three of them have been faring with this line that has been drawn in the sand between him and the rest. But Remus, as is his custom, doesn’t. He lets the unspoken matter hang on its tense thread, big and bloated in the room, before moving on to more neutral ground. “Lily’s said Harry’s started to crawl.”

“Oh,” says Peter in a gasp, “wonderful.”

“That it is,” Remus says, and gives Peter a soft smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s still there. Still real.

They stand for a moment, silent, before Remus turns to leave.

“Moony,” Peter suddenly says again, seized by that same something within him to say something, regardless of the impossibility of doing so.

“What?” Remus says, turning around once more and looking at Peter strangely.

Peter pauses, mouth hovering open, grasping desperately for something to say.

He thinks of the boy who was so terrified of his three friends knowing the truth. He remembers long nights in the Gryffindor common room, the two of them poring over spells or history notes in front of the warming fire. Remus, always patient with him, the one most willing to reach out within their own group of four. Remus, who has spent so much of his life being defined by his curse, and finally found people who saw him without it. He thinks of how he has taken that trust and twisting it until it is warped beyond recognition.

I’m sorry.

“I… nothing. Take care.”

The corner of Remus’ mouth turns up in a melancholy sort of expression, and he lets out a little huff of breath through his nose. “Take care, Peter.”

- -

Months pass. Tensions are wound tighter than ever. Peter still has little contact with the rest of the Dark Lord’s followers.

“You are our secret weapon,” his contact tells him, in a rare bout of commendation. “You will be rewarded greatly. But you must prove yourself first.”

Peter doesn’t think there is a reward beyond his continued existence, and perhaps his solidification into the Dark Lord’s ranks. In all reality, though, that would be enough for him.

The war has continued to take its toll, a stalemate of death on either side. But Peter has seen the desperation in Order headquarters, knows the tenuous position they hold. As much as the Dark Lord’s side also suffers losses, they still have something of an edge, always seem to come out slightly ahead.

Once upon a time, Peter imagined the war as some sort of storybook tale. They would be the heroes, fight hard and long, but ultimately come through with a victory in the end. He shivered at the thought of what they might have to endure, yet was also a bit thrilled at the idea of emerging as some sort of hero, his friends at his side. But eventually, he’d come to the point where he couldn't imagine anything but the dull gray reality of Dementor-ridden skies, the rusty stains in the floorboards, and the flashes of green light that cut like a knife. Looking at his face in the mirror, weathered and drawn like all of his friends', he couldn't imagine any of them ending up anywhere but cold in the ground. Or worse.

Peter Pettigrew has always hero-worshipped his friends, always sure that they could do anything, and him along with them. But he’s no longer so sure. The Dark Lord is so powerful, his influence intoxicating, his promises intriguing. Peter understands why many have turned to him, has begun to truly see their point of view himself, even as deep down, he knows he originally came out of fear. He finds himself wishing to find a way to get into his good graces, under that dark and dangerous wing.

Peter just wants to be safe. He wants to live. He’s taking the best path he can to do that. Is that really such a bad thing?

Peter tries not to think about it.

He delivers vital pieces of information and watches them slowly turn the tide of the war even further. Peter watches the wedge drive itself further between Sirius and Remus, between Remus and James and Lily, between their close group of five and everyone else in the Order. Remus disappears for weeks on end without so much as a note. Sirius goes on more and more missions, throwing himself so recklessly into danger even James sits him down to have a conversation about it. James and Lily wear grim expressions most of the time, perpetually exhausted, only breaking into a smile around Harry and during the now few and far between times their little group of friends gets together.

The table looks so empty now. McKinnon and her family were killed last week. Dearborn hasn’t been seen in months. Alice and Frank are now in St. Mungo’s, and it’s looking less and less likely they’ll ever leave.

Peter didn’t have a hand in the latter two, at least to his knowledge, but he was the one who tipped off the Death Eaters about the McKinnons’ location. They’d gone into hiding after a first attack, tucked away in a far-off corner of Scotland.

Peter tries not to think about it. They’d likely have gotten the information one way or the other, anyway.

“Motherfucker,” Sirius bites out the evening after a battle, Death Eaters having suddenly shown up at a supply run there is no way they should have known about. “When we catch that fucking spy,” Sirius growls, eyes blazing, “they are going to pay.”

Peter takes a sip of his drink from his place on Sirius’ left. “Absolutely,” says Peter with conviction. “They can’t keep getting away with this forever.”

“Damn straight,” says Sirius, knocking back the rest of his whiskey. His tone is challenging, but his eyes are shadowed.

Peter says nothing else, and just lets the echoing murmurs of assent from the remaining Order members wash over him in a sickly tide.

He tries not to think about it.

- -

They are all gathered one night, Peter and Remus and Sirius and James and Lily, all of them gathered once again in James and Lily’s house. Once Harry came, their meetings in Sirius’ rather nice flat or Remus or Peter’s tiny ones came to a halt. Babies need their sleep, after all, even during war.

Dumbledore has said he needs to meet with the both of them in the coming week, says it’s concerning them, says it’s urgent. The man has not bothered to elaborate beyond that. Sirius hates him for it, and Peter rather agrees. Peter dislikes Dumbledore for a variety of reasons, these days. He wonders if it’s still fair for him to dislike him for this one, considering what he himself has been doing recently.

The last time Peter saw all of them, together like this, was during Harry’s first birthday party. It’s been over a month since then. Harry himself (as the aforementioned reason for them gathering at the Potters’ once again) is soundly asleep upstairs.

The five of them are in the sitting room. It is quiet. More accurately, it is different. The lazy sprawl Sirius always used to default to is now replaced by a hunched posture, fingertips tapping rapid-fire against his thigh. Remus’ shoulders are tense under his worn jacket that Peter knows used to be brown, but has been washed and worn so many times, is now not really any color at all. James is uncharacteristically quiet; Lily's shoulders wound tighter than a coiled spring. The easy conversation they all used to find, a familiar track well-worn since age eleven, is suddenly fraught with roots and thorns.

They’ve all changed, Peter sees. He of all of them should know.

James moves around the room, filling up each of their glasses with wine, dark and blood-red as it splashes out of the bottle. He cracks a joke or two, but they fall flat, even to him, and he eventually grows silent. Remus gives him a hint of a smile out of the corner of his mouth as he passes by, and Peter forces a dry chuckle. It’s almost easier to pretend, here. Everyone’s pretending to be alright anyway, a poor, bleached imitation of the vibrant, colorful selves they used to be. They have been bled dry.

Peter remembers his conversation with Lily what feels like an eon ago but is now only last year. Her certainty that ultimately, things would turn out right, but her fear that their side would have to lose everything to do it. That certainty is still there; if anything strengthened in her now that Harry is here. Now, under the gray sky outside, Peter can only see the amount to which the latter prophecy has come to pass, and hopes he will avoid the fallout as much as he can.

He still cares about his friends, despite it all. It’s something he would never voice to his contacts on the other side, though he knows they know it of him. He knows they think lowly of him—a useful tool, perhaps, but weak-willed, there half out of self-preservation and half out of fear. It’s why they had sought him out in the first place, why he was the one to whom they made their offer. The weakest link. (Sometimes, he tries to believe if he were to face the same choice again, he would have chosen otherwise. Mostly, he knows that he would take it again.)

It was always really James-and-Sirius, and often even James-and-Sirius-and-Remus, and most rarely was it truly James-and-Sirius-and-Remus-and-Peter. Always a separation of sorts, some kind of barrier Peter was never quite able to cross. Now, that wall between them, though it remains invisible to the others, is just more permanent. More final.

And yet he still cares, in some strange way. It makes sense to him, is justified in his own mind. Peter is just doing what he needs to do, and tries to avoid thinking about how it might (how it will, a darker part of his mind whispers) damn them. The two coexist strangely. Peter will never voice this unless he has to. He knows well that upon being exposed to the harsh air of the physical world, the twisted logic will shatter, reforming into something new. Peter doesn't know what. He is scared of what it might be.

“To not yet being dead,” says James, drawing Peter's focus back to the room, “and whatever Albus has to tell us that'll fuck everything all up even more.”

“I’ll drink to that,” mutters Sirius.

“Cheers,” says Remus, and they all clink their glasses, then drink.

Gallows humor, sure, but they all take a strange sort of comfort in it. Peter most of all. He’s been walking a tightrope for almost a year now, and he’s not enough of a fool to think he can continue doing so forever. Something will come eventually, that storm cloud he knows to be gathering on the horizon, and will collapse the tenuous pile of cards Peter has been managing to balance upon.

Looking around at the faces surrounding him—at his friends—Peter wonders how much he has the right to worry for their livelihood when the storm finally arrives. Peter regrets it, of course, any hand he might play in their harm. But his friends chose their side, are doing what they need to do, and eventually—much later than any of them—so has he.

In his miasma of thoughts, Peter knocks over his wine. Blood-red drops spill onto the carpet, the stain spreading slowly through the pale fibers.

“Oh,” Peter says softly, almost as in surprise.

“’S alright, Peter,” says Lily. James whips out his wand and performs a quick scourgify, and suddenly the stain is receding, the crimson blotch shrinking back into itself before finally evaporating, as if nothing has happened at all.

The room starts moving again, though Peter hadn’t fully realized it had paused. Remus and Lily murmur back and forth about something, voices quiet, but warm. Sirius is loudly telling a rather long and complex dirty joke to James, who has almost certainly heard it before, but is indulging him both for Sirius’ sake and his own. Harry wakes up upstairs, the sounds of his fussing ringing down the staircase, and James gives Sirius one last laugh and a playful slap on the back of the head before getting up to tend to him. Remus and Lily laugh too, a real laugh, surely from whatever story Remus has just finished telling. They sound like music to Peter’s ears.

Peter stares at the spot on the carpet. The clouds roll slowly in. The static of the storm builds up in the air.

- -

It’s almost autumn when finally, at their meeting spot in another shadowed, deserted location, after weeks of more lies and half-truths and friends slowly splintering apart under the pressure, there is a different look in his contact’s eye behind the silver mask.

“There is a prophecy,” his contact tells him with urgency, “that has come into clarity.”

Peter tenses. He knows what prophecy he’s speaking of, was at the meeting alongside James and Lily when Dumbledore finally deigned to inform them of it, saying it was the right time, given the new information of Voldemort’s plans surrounding it. Saw their pale and scared faces as they learned it referred to their year-old child sleeping peacefully in his crib in the other room. He slept through the entire thing, as they planned a way to keep Harry safe, to keep all the Potters safe. Locked away, inaccessible for all but one. But safe.

Peter may not have been told exactly what plans the Dark Lord has in mind, but he knows what single outcome any plan must come to.

Peter thinks of his status amongst the Death Eaters, of how much he could be rewarded. How much he would be secure. Be safe.

He swallows hard before speaking, his mouth dry, voice coming out roughly, but steady.

“Tell me what I need to do,” he says.

- -

“We should switch,” Sirius says, without preamble.

Peter stays impassive. The two of them are alone in Sirius’ flat, Sirius having checked and double-checked for eavesdroppers before finally pulling Peter close to him and whispering the words that are the opening that Peter has been told to take. His stomach gives a lurch with an emotion he cannot identify. He plays dumb. “What?”

“The secret-keeper for the fidelius,” Sirius says, and Peter has never seen him as utterly grave as he is right now. “For James and Lily and Harry. Moody knows it’s me, Dumbledore knows it’s me, everyone else on the exceedingly short list of people who know knows it’s me. But I… James and Lily and I, we thought it could be safer to switch. Add another layer. Not that you aren’t great, Peter, you’re like a brother, but… you’re less of an obvious choice. You understand.”

“Of course,” Peter says.

Peter Pettigrew has never been the type to be easily offended. He understands.

Peter is unobtrusive. People’s gazes skate over him when he stands next to those greater than him and often even when he stands alone. He fits everywhere and he fits nowhere. He accepted this knowledge readily at age eleven and he knows it still to be true now.

He had potential, the Hat had once told him. Once, Peter had believed that potential could lead him to become someone better, someone like the people his friends have all grown to be.

I’m sorry, thinks Peter.

“So, you’ll do it?” Sirius asks. His voice is level, face utterly sober, but his eyes shine with fear and tension.

Peter breathes in. He thinks about the four of them roaming the grounds of Hogwarts, creeping through secret passageways, ranging through the Forest, lounging on their four-posters talking late into the night. He thinks of them now, along with Lily, battle-hardened and weary and jumping at shadows, taking solace in the small, snatched moments of warmth and light in the form of small dinners and rounds of firewhiskey and Harry’s first birthday party, precious hours where they can ignore the tension and secrets and suspicions that have grown between all of them like a cancer. He thinks about the pale face in the black cloak with power unlike any Peter’s ever known, of the security that awaits him if he is to succeed, of the tattoo hidden under his skin, of the pain and emerald light that he surely faces if he fails to carry out the mission that’s been asked of him.

Peter is moldable. Peter is sorry. Peter doesn’t want to die.

Peter loves his friends. But maybe not enough.

“I will,” says Peter.

- -

Peter Pettigrew stands in front of the Potter house, gripping his wand in his pocket. The plan is set. The Potters have said their goodbyes, they know what comes next. They’ll hide as the war rages on around them. Outside their protective bubble, more people will die, and they can do nothing. But Harry will be safe. Today is the day Peter will help hide them away, protected not only with one, but two secrets.

He hears baby Harry cry out somewhere in a back room of the small house, the sound tapering off as one of his parents shushes him, soothes him. One of Lily’s records is playing softly in the background. A warm glow spills out of the windows, the rectangle of light on the pavement stopping just in front of Peter’s feet.

Peter takes a breath, then knocks.

He hopes someday, someone will forgive him.