ambiidexter

[ambiidexter]

THIS BLOG HAS MOVED TO @basstardz  

[ambiidexter]

THIS BLOG HAS MOVED TO @basstardz  

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the-immortals-assistant​:

“Nice to meet you too”, she replied energetically, her cheeks still red from the sprint she had ran to join him -almost- on time.

She grabbed his hand and shook it, her grip firm and spirited.

“Again, I’m so sorry, I’m really terrible with time. In France, it’s alright to be fashionably late, so I guess I’ve gotten some bad habits from that,” she explained joyfully, speaking perhaps a bit too fast. She always rambled.

Putting down her bag on one of the desks, she rummaged through her stuff -a mess of books, quills and empty vials- and grabbed a notebook.

“I got some books from the library, too,” she explained, motioning towards the numerous books overflowing from her bag, “I didn’t know what subject caused you the most trouble.”

A friendly smile curled her lips.

“So, shall we get started?”

His hand is limp before, during, and after the handshake, and he hates himself for it. Fish seems stronger than him, but he still doesn’t want to squeeze too hard so he doesn’t hurt her. Besides, it would leave the wrong impression of him. He doesn’t want to seem too assertive for what he’s worth.

“It’s okay,” he manages a weak smile. It is really okay, he is used to being the one who comes too early or too late. Never in time, because others either don’t care or wake up later.

“As it happens, umm… Defence Against the Dark Arts is the hardest for me…” he braces himself for a snicker on her part. He’s a coward, and all of Hogwarts knows that he’s in the wrong House. But Fish, perhaps, is gonna learn it today.

He sits down to pull out the well-thumbed textbook and dog-eared parchment from his bag. Opening on the bookmark, he points at the Curses chapter.

“This uh… this is kind of too spooky for me… I know I’m gonna hurt myself if I try the counterspells alone.”

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hvbris​:

“Your friends….” pondered The Dark Lord slowly, the words rolling on his tongue like a nectar he wanted to savor, “what miserable friends they are, then, my dear boy…”

His hand slid from Peter’s shoulder onto his face, in a grotesque masquerade of comfort. Cold and bony fingers pressed against the pudgy cheek. There was no tenderness in the gesture, nothing but a distant and inhumane caress.

And yet, Pettigrew craved even the most cruel forms of affection, didn’t he?

“I have seen your mind, Peter, you cannot lie to me,” warned Voldemort, his piercing red eyes glancing at him with cold-blooded condolence, “they despise you… They detest you… When have they ever treated you with kindness? When have they ever treated you with dignity?”

The spectacle hidden in the memories of this poor boy were pathetic, nothing but the life of a pest, a parasite surviving in the shadows of those stronger than him. And Lord Voldemort was the strongest.

“They don’t deserve your loyalty,” he whispered, and his voice was as soft as it was implacable, dripping from his lips mercilessly, “they have never deserved it. Would you really die for them? They won’t weep for you, you know…”

Nails digging in the soft flesh as he grabbed him by the chin.

“You’ll die here, alone, forgotten. They’ll probably be quite pleased, to be rid of you.”

Truth hurts, doesn’t it. It’s why he’s always been such a little liar. Start with mother, tell her nothing happened. Continue with the friends, tell them you’re worth something. End with yourself, tell yourself you’re loved. Those moments, the moments when his whole life tapered and sizzled into non-existence because nothing else mattered, he’s still holding onto them. All four at Three Broomsticks, drunk and screaming Christmas songs, or James in his Gryffindor uniform making the victor’s circle above the tribunes with the Snitch in his hand, or the outline of Sirius’ body against sunlight in the locker room. Those are things that keep him alive.

The Dark Lord plucks them out one by one, like nerves. Pettigrew feels each tear, leaving thin ringing in the air. He can’t bring himself to look, to see that terrifying, but still beautiful face. The serpent lies, he’s been told. Then why do lies feel so heavy, so solid? His chin trembles in Voldemort’s hand, tears streaming down his face.

“No…” he whispers, gathering up the rest of his strength, the strength it took him to be born. “No, they…they love me… And they’d die for me…”

His short-fingered, soft hands wrap around the Dark Lord’s wrist, and Pettigrew feels how cold his skin is, and how firm his grip is. He wants nothing but to pry these fingers off himself, to crawl into a corner and become small, so small no one would notice him, even James.

“I beg you…please, let me go.”

[ambiidexter]

vivaciousandcharming​:

           She can see the fear in his eyes of course. And Lily feels immensely guilty all over again for asking. She is a horrid friend for doing this, asking this of anyone. But Harry…he comes first above all others. He could be the hope for ending the war after all.

           Despite this fear, Peter readily accepts, and Lily feels a weight lifted off her shoulders for just a moment. She half expected him to decline, because what kind of friend would ask that of another. He would’ve been right to tell her to sod off, cut ties, and never look back. But Peter loves Harry, she knows. As Sirius knew too, for this was his plan. And Lily trusts the smaller one just as much as his firebrand friend.

          Lily pulls Peter into a hug, letting out a breath of air she’d been holding while waiting on pins and needles. “You’re a better friend than we deserve,” she said, kissing his cheek. “And braver than anyone has any right to be. This…won’t be easy, but we, James and I, we trust you. Thank you so much.”

He clings instantly. Not gonna waste a moment so rare. Like finding a rainbow-colored pebble on the shore of the Lake. Like a sunspot in a dark room where cold hands hold all the power. His face scrunches up as he tries to hold back the tears, and he’s not sure he can tell where they come from, love or despair. His long nails dig into the fabric of her dress, and he’s trying to be careful and not squish her belly. This moment, he’ll carry it through his life no matter what happens. When he’s on the stone floor again, with his body contorted in a fit of agony and his forehead leaning against a slab, he’ll shed a tear of his memories, and Lily and James’ fates will be sealed. And their child’s, he always forgets about their child because he’s trained his ability to erase painful things from his mind to perfection. Now it is most important to keep doing it. He can’t afford to care, can’t afford to love.

“Of course. I can’t say no to you.”

And it’s the holy truth, it’s the most true thing he’s ever said. He never said no, to James, or Lily, or Sirius, or Remus. He’d die for them. Except he won’t.

“I’m sure everything will be okay.”

[ambiidexter]

hvbris​:

@ambiidexter / closed starter

His hand moved slowly, like a spider stretching its legs, bony fingers reaching for his wand. The motions were calculated, soft, and almost gentle. Why rush into things? There was an elegance to these gnarly affairs, a beauty to the horror. He walked around the young man, nothing but a pathetic shadow, shaking, curled up on the cold stones as if there was some comfort to be found in the rocks suffocating him.

Voldemort was circling him, robes floating in a horrifying caress. A vulture, patient and imperturbable. Soon, the boy would crack -he was hardly a man despite the years, after all the Order was nothing but an irritable army of kids playing dress-up. It suited Dumbledore, the old fool, really, to use child soldiers as cannon fodder.

"I understand, Peter, I do..." murmured the towering silhouette, his voice nothing but a cold shiver, "how could you even consider betraying your friends..."

He pressed the boy's shoulder with the palm of his hand in a mockery of tenderness. The Secret Keeper. Oh, but it was the only secret he could keep, for the Dark Lord's mind was invasive, sliding in every little crevasse.

"They... Are your friends, aren't they? Please, enlighten me, dear boy... The things I have seen, the memories you cherish so fiercely... I wonder, do they love you like you do?"

Vultures had no need for impatience, dinner was always served.

There were times he thought he’d become something. In the company of James, Sirius, and Remus, who soared so high in the sky of success it was easy to imagine he could fly too. And it didn’t matter, he thought, that he displayed no genius in the classroom or on the broom, the collective power of the Marauders would magically and seamlessly transport him into adult life. But where he wanted to fly, he had to crawl, and hide, and feed on the bread crumbs life threw his way. Life has scattered the Marauders like autumn leaves across the Clocktower Yard, and each one has found an anchor to attach them to some solid foundation. Each one, except Peter. The tenacious fingers of boyhood wouldn’t let go of him, and the horrible, nasty kind of nostalgia gnawed on something under his breastbone incessantly. The Marauder magic was gone, and with it went his adamant faith in some things.

In a way, they stayed connected, but it was not the sort of connection Pettigrew desired. They saw each other at the Order meetings, where the faces were as grim as the news they brought, received their tasks and got dispersed again. Pettigrew’s life filled with danger, not the kind they were in during their school year, the somewhat amusing risk of being sent to polish silver in Filch’s lumber-room, but real, actual danger, that had flesh and name. He started spending more time as a rat than human, expecting an attack in his back at any moment. Sometimes spending all day nibbling on a hardtack in the dusty space behind the walls of respectable London citizens didn’t seem that bad.

And he’d continue to do it, had he not been yanked out of his shelter by a Death Eater’s hand and forced back into human skin. It didn’t fit him anymore. He felt too small, insignificant, too damn weak to put up any fight. Bound and gagged, he was Apparated into a cellar full of unknown smells. He could tell, because he’s been to dozens of cellars. Dropped on the floor like a broken doll, he hid his face against the stone slabs, feeling his heart tremble like a taut string. No, no, please, no…

And presently he’s having a rendez vous with death itself. Strange, he was hoping at least death wouldn’t demand anything of him. Voldemort wants answers, quickly, quicker than Pettigrew can think. Those are questions he has no answer for, though he’s spent so much time trying to find them.

“They are… my friends, sir…” a sob flares and dies against the coldness of stone. “I love them…”

[ambiidexter]

the-immortals-assistant​:

@ambiidexter / Plotted Starter

As the Clock Tower rang 6PM, Fish cursed silently. She was late. Grabbing her bag, she jumped from the low tree branch where she had been sitting. If she ran fast enough, she'd only be a few minutes behind. She put on her school cloak -blue, the colors of Beauxbatons, and started racing towards the Astronomy Tower, where she had agreed to meet Remus' friend, Peter.

She had promised to help him with his Defense Against the Dark Arts homework, and it wasn't a great look to be unpunctual to a thing she had agreed to do.

Her sprint left her breathless at the top of the stairs, but a quick glance at her watch let her know that it was barely 6:08 PM. Not too bad, right?

She walked into the empty classroom where they had planned to meet, a smile plastered on her face.

"Hi, Peter!" She exclaimed, her breath still short, noticing he was already sitting down at a table, "sorry, I'm a bit late!"

Pettigrew is used to spending time alone. In his mother's house, he is often left to his own devices, and here, in Hogwarts, he sometimes steals time to get away from the Marauders, a noisy, crude lot, if you don't count him, and presently he is scratching a class desk with his long nail, watching the thin fissures appear on the black surface. Sitting in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom is not the most pleasant thing, what with marinated demon-looking beasts in jars and a dragon skeleton under the ceiling. Remus told him it would be okay, and Wormtail believes him, so there's really no excuse for the slight tremor in his hands or the rabbit-foot thumping of his heart. It's not like he's the most popular student in Hogwarts, and tolerating jeers and jabs from a Beaubaton as well is not very attractive. She's late. He checks his watch and starts to ponder the peaceful perspective of not meeting Fish at all. He can tell Remus that she didn't come. So simple. But just as he begins to put his textbook and parchment back into his bag, the door opens. He bounces around, like a rat ready to bolt. Blue hair. How...beautiful. She must be a Metamorphmagus. He swallows and smiles quite miserably. "That's okay! Ummm... Hi, I'm Peter." She already knows your name, idiot. "I mean, nice to meet you." He offers his quivering, short-fingered hand for a shake.

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vivaciousandcharming​:

           “It’s…unconventional,” Lily says slowly. Now that the moment is here, her anxiety over revealing the plan is through the roof. It’s one thing for someone like Sirius to volunteer to be Secret Keeper, but quite another to ask someone to carry such a burden. To put themselves at such a risk. She glances upstairs where Harry is safely napping.

          Sirius’s plan will keep Peter safe. And by extension, keep Harry safe.

           “And it’s dangerous. James and I think it’s a good plan, but we would never try to force it on anyone…” She ran a hand through her hair, mussing it up slightly. “You know Sirius is our current Secret Keeper. But he’s had an idea, double protection, in a way.           “To everyone else, he would remain our Secret Keeper. If anyone were to try and get our location, they would come to him for it. But he thinks that if someone else–you–were to take up the burden, it would keep us and Harry safer. You would be safe too, since nobody would know you’re the real Secret Keeper.”

          She feels horrid for even asking. But Harry…his fate. He needed to be kept safe and whole at all costs. Peter loved him, cared for him. Perhaps he would be proud to take up this important role? “You are free to reject it, or to think on it. I know this isn’t an easy thing, but I wanted to know your thoughts on the matter. You’re important to us, Wormy.”

He wants to think he’s sleeping. That the war and the cold touch of a beautiful hand are just a dream. Along with what he hears. He draws a shuddering breath, trying desperately to command his legs not to give out. The serpent on his forearm seems to be sinking its venomous fangs into his flesh. This, this is the turning point of his life. He always thought that he’d end up nowhere, and die nothing. He hoped for it. No, he is something now. A spy, a traitor, a Death Eater. He’s about to become something else too. He’s still their friend. Still their friend. Sometimes he forgets this, thinks they’ve abandoned him the second the Dark Mark spread under his skin. Oh no, James, don’t invite me to your party. I’m the one who’s helping to kill you, remember?

He looks into the pure emerald green of Lily’s eyes. There’s apprehension, and hope, and trust. Everything he cannot handle. Of course Sirius would come up with something like that. Something humiliating, something beyond Pettigrew’s strength. Sirius slipped away from his grip earlier than James did. All his life he’s been trying to hold onto them. The Secret Keeper. The one who now has their very life in the palm of his hand. He cowers before the sharp fangs of double duty. He’s not going to survive this burden. Neither will they.

His eyes look up, two wells of fear. His trembling hand reaches for her shoulder. Like being born anew.

“Of course, Lily. Of course I’ll your Secret Keeper.”

[ambiidexter]

Peter your a loser

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

[ambiidexter]

As the war pucks up the pace, it seems to Wormtail that he gets slower. It is harder as days pass to keep up with the events, the news, the danger. He tries hiding, but invariably duty pulls him out of the corners and throws him back into the boiling torrent of life. The Death Eaters gain allies and enemies quickly, but the advantage is on their side. It should be good news, but leaves a bitter taste in Wormtail's mouth. Every day the hope for Voldemort's fall is waning, and so does Wormtail's courage. He goes through days lurking, creeping, hiding, delivering messages, getting as much attention and respect as dirt underfoot. It is good, for having the Dark Lord's gaze on him is much worse than being invisible. Pettigrew tries to say as little as possible, for every extra word is one extra reason to be judged and scrutinized.

So when he receives an order to reach out to a distant branch of the Black family tree, he says nothing and nods instead. He is terrified of the Blacks, as he was terrified of Sirius alone in his school years. They all bear the mark of insanity as far as he knows, and certainly won't take kindly to a little half-blood boy whose only merit is spilling one ultimate secret. They will never know what it was like to cradle the Dark Lord's frail shell to his chest every night, what it was like to milk venom from a giant beast that could kill him at any moment.

He arrives to the place by Floo network, as he's always been afraid of using brooms. Besides, flying would attract too much attention. He walks out of the fireplace at one of the secret hideouts, slinks out into the streets and proceeds to walk, occasionally taking a look at the map. The house is not far away, so soon Pettigrew is faced with its great bulk looming ovet him in darkness.

There is no telling how these particular Blacks will greet him, but he mentally braces himself for a hex as he knocks on the door. In the woman that opens it he immediately recognizes Cassiopeia. The heir, the Healer. A strange pursuit for a member of a family notorious for its affiliation with the dark arts. Offering an abject smile, he links the fingers of the metal and flesh hand together.

"M-miss Cassiopeia? I'm Peter Pettigrew. Coming with a message from... from the Dark Lord." @gachcuid

[ambiidexter]

pcripeteiia​:

Is this a reward or punishment?

Severus does not know. No longer can he tell the difference and if he were to be honest, not once had he ever known. Reward a foreign concept that alluded him for all these years. His home now well known among the Death Eaters where it was not before. Far from uncommon is it for them to live discreetly among the masses, but Severus’ own is quite unique.

It harbors items unfavored by those who pledged loyalty to the likes of the Dark Lord. Their world views limited and narrow minded, whereas Severus’ was not. He who lived among muggles all his life, broke bread and slept with one all his life. The hands of his father well known to cradle just as much as it could strike. 

And here he is, harboring Peter Bloody Pettigrew. Gifted to him by their Lord under some twisted plot, Severus is sure. As grateful as the Dark Lord may be when it came to he, a good mastermind would always remain doubtful. 

Obsidian eyes raked over this ill man, trembling, pitiful. A coward who hid among the so-called lions of their youth. A tilt of his head as he eyed Peter ever so carefully. Not once does he bother to hide nature of his home. Pictures –unmoving– remained hung where they were. The local Cokeworth’s paper occupied space on his table next to the Daily Prophet. Muggle appliances littered every inch of his home. 

Severus has no worry or fear of his status becoming known. Not a secret kept between him and their Lord for that is the nature of their relationship. 

No lies. 

A deep breath is taken on his part, bird cage ribs on a slender figure far too thin rose ever so slightly. Painted nails to rake the length of his wand with much consideration. As much as he would love to torture and maim, Severus must be the better, as his other master would say. Peter may be the reason their original plan had failed, but he will now be the reason it will succeed. His purpose here to watch Severus as much as Severus is to watch him. The memories of the past set aside, a lost of a dear friend he will never have again. 

He must give their Lord what he wants: trusts, loyalty and honesty. All things Severus is no longer. Although, if he were to be honest, was he ever before? Alone in the world, desperate for a place to belong. 

A role. 

“Out here,” the head of Slytherin house replied, “You will sleep out in the open, Pettigrew.”

Quite generous of him, truly. Peter could sleep on the floor for all he cared. He will not be permitted above the ground floor. His mother’s belongings locked within her room and his own quite secured with wards. 

Expression neutral, Severus continued, “And you will follow the guidelines of my home accordingly, do I make myself clear?”

The apprehension is suspended in the air like a poisonous compound, and Pettigrew finds it hard breathing. Severus is overbearing, towering over him like an overgrown crow ready to rip a chunk of flesh out of Wormtail's body. Peter's lip trembles as he aims his eyes downwards, unable to resist the dark potential in Severus' gaze. It's like staring down a well where old sins are drowned. Fingers looped over his metal wrist, Wormtail throws another glance around the room. A bachelor's nest where loneliness swarms in every corner. Peter knows what it's like, being alone, or being with someone whose company is unbearable. He regrets every ill word, every instance of abuse aimed at Severus during the school years, but he also can't get it out for the life of him. And what is the point of it now, when the damage has been done and had the time to settle in. It's corrosive, like acid, and Pettigrew is sure there's nothing left inside Severus that can forgive, but oh, how he'd beg if there was any hope!

"Yes, of course. I understand."

It comes out more pitiful than he intends to trying to maintain a certain degree of importance as Voldemort's proxy. But Severus is infinitely more valued, and doubtlessly knows more than Wormtail. There are sessions Pettigrew is not allowed to, as if it's not him who cradled Voldemort's frail shell to himself every night for a year, as if he's not the one who divulged the most important secret. "C-can I have something to eat?" He lowers his head, as though in expectance of a blow to his face. He'll have to watch his back, for it has always attracted hexing of all sorts, every time the rest of the Marauders weren't around. Yes, he and Severus have a lot in common, and shame on him for not realizing it back then. He sighs, picks his nails. "I'm uh... really tired."

[ambiidexter]

All people have moments of desperation. When one did not receive a Hogsmeade pass, or only remembers about an assignment on the day the teacher collects them. Nasty stuff, it happens, and most of us get over it and move on. For Peter Pettigrew, however, desperation is a continuum, at various ends of which he finds himself depending on the day, circumstances, mood of those who hold power over him - and that means everybody. Frankly speaking, he doesn't exactly mind this state, because he's never known any other. Can't miss what you never had, right? At times Peter doubts it, for his days are full of pining and longing. For different things, like Chocolate Frogs or James Potter's lips against his, the point is, they are rarely obtainable. His guess is he should be grateful for what he already has, but that, too, can slip away from his hands at any moment.

Today's main problem is exactly the lack of what he needs, badly. Academically successful Gyffindors aren't exactly a rarity, but not at this hour, when everyone in their right mind is enjoying a Quidditch training. James Potter strutted onto the field with a long retinue of fans of all sexes, and, Peter knows it for sure, is currently killing it on the broom. Seeing James fly is akin to epiphany. A miracle that keeps repeating, and Peter stashes every time it happens in the treasure section of his mind. Today, however, he finds himself in the Clocktower courtyard instead of tribunes, because he's several chapters and spells behind on Defence Against the Dark Arts - by virtue of sleeping through the classes in March - and needs to study. But eveyone who always helps him catch up are either up in the air with James or on the seats yelling at every turn of the game. To be quite honest, no one likes to help Peter that much, but Remus is more gentle about it, and Sirius...well, several hours worth of accepting his quips eventually does buy his willingness to assist. But they are gone, and the class is the first tomorrow, and Peter is all out of points.

His gaze sweeps the space in search of a good spot to occupy. It is hardly the best place to practice DADA, but, when dealing with dark magic, Peter prefers sunlit places to the hushed shadows of the Forbidden Forest or the library, where ghosts are aplenty and just waiting to spook you out of nowhere. One could hex oneself pretty badly like that. In other words, it's easy to invent excuses.

The place is empty, save for... oh Merlin. Marlene. Peter doesn't have the best history with her, or purebloods in general. Though a half-blood himself, he is three hundred times removed or something like that. Nothing to be proud of. And he isn't exactly popular for other aspects of his personality either. Peter realizes with perfect clarity that, if not for the Marauders' collective wing, he'd end up like Severus or worse. He doesn't forget to thank the gods or whoever is up there for his friends every night.

Now, though, Marlene is the only living soul available, and Pettigrew knows she's good, and he'd rather approach a dragon than their professor for help.

Gnawing on the tip of his pencil, he sidles up to Marlene who is perusing a piece of parchment. He throws a glance at it, and his eyes widen - it's exactly the topic he's hurting for. A look around to check if there are any Slytherins hiding to prank the most pathetic Gryffindor in history of Hogwarts, and he goes for it.

"Ahem... Hi, Marlene..." Words like stones in his throat, he nudges a completely innocent pebble out of the way. "I was wondering if... if you had free time? Because I..." A deep breath. "I need help with... you know, the Dark Arts." @redemptioninterlude

​

[ambiidexter]

@pcripeteiia​

It was harder than he thought it would be. Standing in front of him, alone. At the gloomy home at Spinner’s End, Snape had nothing to hold back all that black bile, all that sorrow. No Dark Lord. No watchful eyes of the Death Eaters that meant something. Nothing. Just a shriveled ruin of a man whose body owed more to a rat than a human. Sharpened by habit, Pettigrew’s furtive eyes darted across the room, taking note of exits and entrances, heavy objects, glass that could shatter and drive itself into his soft flesh. Snape himself was the most jagged shard of them all. Shrouded in black, bitter and vengeful and miserable, he reminded Pettigrew of the fate he’d barely escaped two years ago. But Severus was no wraith of Azkaban, and he had nothing to rip from Wormtail’s chest. He could inspect the acid burn of guilt with thoroughness of the expert he was, and prod the spots of red that were still throbbing and aching, but nothing more. Can’t rob a beggar. Pettigrew would gloat over that dubious victory as soon as the day would come to an end.

Long claw scraping against metal, Pettigrew’s fidgety hands went up to his middle in a half-warranted defense. Mustering up the nerve to look at that face, he wheezed, sharp teeth tormenting the shaking lip. He’d laid his hands on a giant serpent whose fangs stored agony, and cradled an abomination of dark magic to his chest like his own child, but somehow this – the ghost of the past, the festering hate, the righteousness of it – felt worse.  

A cornered rat in its despair, he attempted barefaced disguise.

“Where will I sleep?”

It was nothing but a squeak, a pained and frightened one, but the remorse was chewed up and swallowed.

[ambiidexter]

I followed a few new blogs, so please if you follow back and decide you’d like to interact, like this post.

[ambiidexter]

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐖 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐞. 𝟏𝟖+

Written by Sasha

𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 & 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐞

[ambiidexter]

[ambiidexter]

vivaciousandcharming​:

           Lily holds back a glare. There was a strict no smoking policy inside the Potter’s home. Even before Harry was born. Just because the car crash killed Lily’s dad before the lung cancer could, did not mean she needed to be reminded of her father’s stupidity. It was a very firm rule, and under normal circumstances, Lily would have managed a retort. But things were not normal, and Peter hadn’t actually lit the cigarette after all. 

          This secret keeper business was dangerous. Sirius was already noticing more tails put on him and had taken to greater pains to hide himself. James didn’t seem to worried, about Sirius keeping safe. And Sirius didn’t seem worried about his own safety. No, he’d risen to the duties of a godfather more than Lily would’ve expected. Which was where this idea had come from. Lily wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it, but she figured talking to Peter would help settle her mind. He had to be ok with the plan too after all.

           “I’m just glad you’re safe,” and she was. Nowadays, tardiness was of an extreme cause for concern. Lily had felt her anxiety go into overdrive for those three agonizing minutes. She reached over and pulled Peter into a hug, glad that nothing had happened to him. After a long moment she pulled away, taking a deep breath. “Sirius has come up with an idea. It’s dangerous, but it could protect Harry.”

For the moment the hug lasts, he closes his eyes in delight. He hasn’t had a hug in a long while. His mother doesn’t count. Her embrace was lukewarm and awkward, especially since he graduated Hogwarts. Oh, but he loves her all the same, after all, it was her hand he was holding when he was learning to walk. Lily is just as good, if not better. They never talked about it but it was clear to him that she was a substitute mum to the Marauders. Sometimes he regretted Lily not being there for him when he first fell and scraped his knee, or when his mother’s boyfriends gave him a cold, cold handshake. Not a lot of strength in that grip. Is he like this all the time?

Oh, dear. He doesn’t like danger, and if Sirius came up with it, it is undoubtedly dangerous. Sirius was everything a true Gryffindor must be. Pettigrew would kill to be half as brilliant as him. Kill, kill… Was he ready to kill, in this war, on this day? Both sides expect it from him, while Pettigrew cowers from a simple Vermillious. And he’s seen the effects of worse, much worse spells.

“Has he?”

He bares his teeth in expectance of hearing something awful. Something that will require some strength from him, the Pettigrew boy. He has realized not a single soul has asked him if he was ready for all this. The part of the Dark Lord’s conscious that was left in him stirs and slowly comes into bloom. It is a brilliant opportunity to work for both sides. For Merlin’s sake, just don’t make him choose! It’s been long since he grew fond of Harry, though he wasn’t sure what he was to the kid. An uncle? An adult who’s still a child. He throws an agitated glance around him and perhaps grows a little smaller.

“What is it?”