Work Text:
Sometimes Peter regretted what he’d done.
He remembered their faces whenever he confronted them about anything. How surprised everyone always was whenever he blew up.
The whispers. “Did you hear? Pettigrew lit up a desk in front of Potter.” “I heard he did it on purpose... ” “Pettigrew? Peter Pettigrew? That can’t be right.”
He’d always wanted to walk up at them and scream. So what if he wasn’t as fit as any of the marauders? So what if he hadn’t dated anyone yet? So what if he never had been interested in anything even slightly romantical?
That didn’t mean he didn’t had feelings.
That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
But he pushed everything deep down and never thought about it. He went out to see Hagrid if it ever got to be too much. To see someone that was also underappreciated, he supposed now. Someone who understood.
And then, there was the war.
The self-doubt he’d always had about really belonging in Gryffindor only doubled when he realised how much of a coward he could be.
And he hated himself even more. And hated how much it showed. How everyone noticed, from his closest (sometimes he wondered if that’s what they really were) friends, to the Order, to Dumbledore (he tried to give him “easy” missions. He hated himself for feeling relieved.), to Voldemort.
Sometimes he looked back to what he considered his darkest time, and wondered how he did it.
He’d wanted so hard to say yes. To end everything. To prove everyone he wasn’t just good, old Pettigrew (he supposed the hat had been right, he really had a slytherin side). And he was also scared. He’d always been scared.
Sometimes he looked back to that moment and realised he really did belong to Gryffindor (whatever he’d done he still belonged. He always had.) And then he’d look to what his life had become, to James, and Lily and baby Harry (who wasn’t such a baby anymore). To Remus and Sirius, who finally had their shit together. To his apartment, where he was alone but not lonely anymore.
Sometimes he regretted he hadn’t said yes to Voldemort. But that was ok, he remembered. Because he’d said no, and more importantly because he was working on his issues and asked for help if he needed it.
Because he was Peter Pettigrew, god damnit, and he was the main character to his own story.