Summary: One day, Christopher died and woke up as everyone's favorite character-Peter Pettigrew. "Don't suppose there's a return policy on this kind of thing? 'Cause...I think I want a refund." With Christopher as Peter, how much will change? Semi SI(Self Insert)/OC. undecided pairing, Slash, m/m, m/f, bi, multi-shippings
Warnings: Swearing! abuse for our poor characters, some gory description, mentions of drugs, angst, sometimes suicidal tendencies, sexual stuffs…..
I don't own Harry Potter. J.K Rowling owns it.
"I'm kind of like Buddha."
The first life was a daydream.
Christopher Templeton was a skinny boy with chestnut brown hair neatly combed around his ears. He had a couple freckles across his otherwise pale face. He wore a preppy green vest over a button up shirt. Well-fitted trousers and knee-high socks. He wore glasses as he walked across the street, nose stuck in a book.
It was 1940 and Christopher was thirteen years old and on his way home from school when he was killed in the London Bombings.
The second life was a bore.
Marui Sakamoto was a skinny boy with chestnut brown hair swept to the side. He was wearing a black button up school uniform for the prestigious Takegawa High School of Tokyo, Japan. He wore smart glasses and his school bag brushed his side as he walked, earphones in his ears. He waved goodbye to his friend.
Marui picked up the phone in his pocket. He knew his foster mother would be calling him to tell him he had just been accepted to Tokyo University. As expected. Marui pulled out his earphones and said, "Yes, Mother," and smiled politely as he walked across the street.
He never made it to the other end.
It was 2007, and Marui was fifteen years old, a renowned genius, and on his way to cram school when he was a tragic victim of a hit and run by an ambulance and died five minutes later.
The third life was a delusion.
Adrian Weston was a skinny boy with chestnut brown hair messily tousled around his ears. He had a couple freckles barely visible on his sun-kissed face. He wore sweatpants that sagged around his hips and loose T-shirt. He covered his messy hair with a gang bandana. He was bobbing his head to EDM in his headphones, and he was smoking weed in the middle of New York City.
It was 2016, and Adrian was seventeen years old when he overdosed on Heroin and died in a back alley in his own vomit.
The fourth life wasn't worth description. Neither were the fifth, sixth, or seventh.
The only thing that remained the same was that every time, he had the same body, his first body, his "Christopher" body, with skinny limbs and a boyish face and chestnut hair. It seemed reincarnation did not care for genetics.
This was the cause of many unfortunate happenings in his many lives, such as frequent accusations of infidelity ("Why does he not look like us! He is not our son!"), frequent actual abandonment ("I'm taking that bastard child to the orphanage. I don't know what man you screwed around with but that is not my child") and even exorcisms ("That child is the devil, I'm telling you! He's freakishly intelligent, he knows everything I know he does, and he looks nothing like us!").
One time, he was born white-skinned into an Indian family and he was taken to a temple and worshiped as a God. On the flip side, he had also been scalped by an African Tribe for being cursed. Well, they weren't wrong. He was cursed, indeed.
Christopher found it morbidly amusing.
His lives were simultaneously heinously boring and heinously intriguing. Sometimes he was born in different timelines, in different dimensions, in different parallel universes. But no matter what, when it came down to it, all his existences were the same, over and over, born again, dead again.
Eventually, it came to where he was now. Dead and born again.
The seventieth life was magical.
Peter Pettigrew was a skinny boy with chestnut brown hair falling softly around his ears. He had a couple freckles fading across his unhealthily pale face. He wore a baggy worn shirt that fell to the middle of his stick thighs and shorts sticking out from underneath brushing the knobs of scraped and bruised knees. He often went barefoot but today he was wearing torn up sneakers he'd found in the trash.
It had been nearly eleven years since he had been born into this world, replacing JK Rowling's Peter Pettigrew with his own body, memories, and existence. And now, Christopher-Marui-Adrian-blah-blah-blah-insertNamesHere-Peter-fucking-Pettigrew was lying on the ground, philosophizing.
I'm kind of like Buddha.
He stared up at the ceiling.
Maybe this is some sort of spiritual journey. Like a reaching-Nirvana kind of thing.
Through his swelling pregnant eye and the warm blood water creeping across his vision, and falling from his nose into his throat, he saw spots on the ceiling that looked like snow.
Then his father's shoe came into view.
His nose crunched.
...Or not. He didn't wince, simply stared as though he were watching television.
Christopher examined the boot as it came up again. Those familiar markings. The designs on the sole of the boot looked like a maze, and Christopher-Peter traced the design with slow blinks. Left, right, turn up-
The boot came down again. His eyes blurred.
Well, that's inconvenient.
As usual, whenever he got close to solving the maze that was the bottom of his father's favorite boots, he would pass out. Or his father would get new ideas, that involved things other than kicking.
Like punching, Christopher thought as his father's ring slammed into his cheekbone.
Oh. Nice. New facet, definitely. That made it 9. 9 different facets he had counted on his father's ring. His face was very well acquainted with that ring. He knew it quite intimately, even though his father had only had it since three days ago.
The other had broke. So had Christopher's nose. (Unfortunately, his father got a ring, but Christopher did not get a new nose.)
As he laid there, he zoned out. Christopher had read Harry Potter before, in his second, third, and thirty-third lives. It wasn't so much that he was a fun, so much that it was so ingrained in pop culture it was impossible to not read them.
He had watched the movies too. In his fifty-second life, he had been invited to the movies with his fanatic girlfriend and she had insisted on marathon watching all of them. At least her boobs had felt nice on his arm. The popcorn was too popped.
He supposed he was thankful, sort of. The good thing was that since he had read and watched Harry Potter, he knew what world he was in. The bad thing was he knew what world he was in.
And, as Peter Pettigrew, indeed what a world of fuck fuck fuck he was in for.
Oh, Peter, Christopher thought to himself. He sighed heavily, staring at the ceiling. This is one hell of a life you've got here, mate…
He turned over on his stomach and puked. Water. There was nothing in his stomach. His arms wobbled, his eyelids were heavy. Well, it wouldn't last forever, he thought. Hogwarts was coming, and then...oh right. Christopher's hair soaked in the expelled acids of his heaving stomach. After Hogwarts, Peter joins the Death Wieners. Or whatever their name was... His faltering breath fluttered the stray strands of chestnut hair above his nose. And then he cuts off his finger and lives 7 years as a rat...Through his hair he saw the yellow light of the sun filtering in the broken window. He chuckled wetly. What the fuck, Pete...all that after this childhood of god fucking hell torture? And apparently your "best mates" the Marauders either never knew or didn't care about it. He rolled onto his back. Fuck, man….I always thought you were just a pathetic fucking loser. But you weren't, huh.
He stared at his fingers. The index finger twitched. The others wouldn't move. His thumb was kind of broken, he thought. It looked crooked. You were a goddamn fighter, his body ached. A traitor, a loner, a rat, yeah, whatever. He thought of Peter Pettigrew and how he had self-mutilated himself, prostrated himself, betrayed his friends, spent years as a pet rat, never talking to anyone, never revealing himself, yet through all of that, he had not given up on living. Peter, you rat...
You're one damn determined survivor.
He had always wondered what made Peter Pettigrew into such a twisted son of a bitch. After eleven years of this bullshit, Christopher thought he had a pretty good idea why.
He couldn't see well, but considering the place was quiet and he was no longer being beaten to a pulp, he was pretty sure he was alone now.
"Hey, Peter mate…" he choked out as he pushed himself onto his knees. "Don't suppose-" he coughed blood, "there's a return policy on this kind of thing."
He stared out the window, but there was only a blue sky. It was the ugliest thing he had ever seen. No rain. No clouds. No God.
Just a bright fucking sun and an empty blue sky.
He sighed and sunk into the wall. He was almost eleven. Just a couple days. Just a couple days, and Hogwarts.
Hogwarts...and then terror and destruction and pain. There really was no end in sight, was there?
"Nice going, Peter," he said to himself. "We're officially fucked."
Hey, God. If you're out there at all, do you think I could get a refund?
. . .
I just starting writing this and I'm not sure where it's going. But it's fun to write, so here we go.