Pairing: Pettigrew/Ron.

Rating: R.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters owned by J.K. Rowling.

Summary: The traitor remembers.

My name is...

I had a name once, but the sound of it I do not recall. No one has called me that for years. How many years? Were they two or three or a hundred or a thousand? Counting pebbles on an endless beach.

My mind is going. I can feel it, my mind is going. It was different at the beginning; as I crawled through muddy gutters, as I got soaked, shivering and trembling under the vicious rain, I could still remember. Faces, lips moving, muttering spells, hands holding mine. My human hands.

There was a betrayal, a traitor, a lie. A dark figure rising, rearing a ghastly spectre over the world. And the skies bore a thunderstorm of blood.

My name is...

Try harder. Try harder. This little brain, there are memories hidden in its rotting cells. But it cannot remember any more.

The sun has sunk beneath the rim of the hills. The evening breeze is fresh, a gentle embrace, bringing a fragrance of damp soil and green leaves. I strain my blurry glass-bead eyes, struggling to see beyond the Burrow garden. My vision swims, narrows, sharpens only slightly. Some time passes. When will you come?

A lonely pale moon sails from behind a cloud, bathing the land in cold silver light. There was a werewolf once, beautiful beast. Whatever happened to him? Has he been tamed yet, lead-bound and house-trained?

Two hands lift me gently from the window frame, I’m floating in the air, little feet kicking helplessly, searching for firm ground. A little dry piece of cheddar is shoved under my muzzle.

Cheddar, Stilton, greenish Roquefort, white goat cheese, melting between your fingers, staining them with grease. I like cheese. Which is natural, since I’m a rat. And you are here at last; I can hear the rustle of your robes, the quiet footsteps, while you get ready for sleep.

You let me crawl into your bed, sniff under your covers. The minty taste of your toothpaste as I nuzzle near your lips and you laugh; you’re ticklish.

A light film of sweat covers your golden skin, you’ve been playing Quidditch again. The acid scent of your armpits, a trail of soft silky hair just beginning to grow under your bellybutton. Innocent, wholesome teenage boy. You love your little rat. Don’t you?

I want to sink my teeth in your shoulder, gash the skin, crunch into your flesh, it must be sweet, like Holy Communion and lazy summer afternoons. Is there any darkness hiding in the whorls of your mind, any green poison curdling the blood in your veins? Deep inside, in that intricate web of muscles, valves and tendons that pulses and breathes and lives, deep inside the marrow of the bones, the black smudges of your envy are growing. Aren’t they?

My name is... I remember now.

You are like me Ron, youngest son, faithful sidekick. Second rate, lower quality, faulty goods sold at bargain price. No limelight for us, no wild cheering and clapping from the frenzied audience. We ran and ran on that endless marathon, till our ribs hurt and our heart bled but someone else always got his hands on the trophy first.

Didn’t you ever wish to wake them up in the middle of the night, your perfect immaculate brothers, to shatter the darkness with their screams? Hear them choke in their blood as the tongues of your whip scribble an alphabet of pain on their flesh?

Perhaps you didn’t. But there’s still time. Time to let them know, let them know, that you don’t need their sympathy. To leave that scarred boy behind and search for darker masters.

Growing taller, aren’t you? Long limbs entangled in the sheets, the pattern of your freckles, your red hair straggling on the pillow. Sugar-candy confection of a boy. You sigh in your sleep, your index finger patting my little head affectionately, stroking the greasy fur.

Don’t be afraid of the bogeyman hiding in the closet. Don’t be afraid of the monster creeping under the bed. If we lie real still and play dead they will not come out till sunrise. As you sink deeper into velvet black oblivion I come closer, seeking sweet warmth in the folds of your pajamas. I wish I could hold you in my human arms. I love you. Your hair is liquid copper.

And James’ hands were poetry, Remus’ heart was gold, Sirius’ hair was midnight. I loved them too. In love I was, in love with all three of them.

My name is... My name is Peter.

And before the cock crow, I shalt deny you thrice.