A/N: Nyeren here with a Pettigrew ficlet. Not sure where it came from, save the persistent idea that Peter was not nearly so dense as he is frequently made out to be. Inspiration also sprang from a line in the song quoted below: 'It doesn't mean that much to me/To mean that much to you.' Sums up Peter rather perfectly, really…
A person one day wrote a drabble
She's part of the fanfiction rabble
She cried 'Please don't sue, I've got nothing for you!
In real copyright fraud I don't dabble!'
In other words: Own it? Not me.
Inferences of Gold
Love lost, such a
Give me things
That don't get lost.
Like a coin that won't get tossed
Rolling home to you.
I didn't understand it. I was not that different, really; the only dissimilarity between us was a name and a tattered hat. But that hat, the name, protected me. That made me one of you. I wasn't sure if I wanted that. I would rather be safe than brilliant.
And the hat, then name – if I'd been in Slytherin, would it have been little Peter Pettigrew you saw, instead of a nameless talent-less rival? Would any of you even have given a damn? Not likely. It was Gryffindor, Gryffindor, gold and scarlet and flair and vows of eternal friendship. But really, you were never so different as you liked to think. Boys will be boys, whether they think themselves brave or wise or cunning or kind. It never did matter. I never understood the images you loved so.
And because I didn't understand, I threw myself into the role. I stopped asking why. I was one of you: the small one, the slow one, the one you patronized and protected. I followed, stepping in your footsteps as precisely as I could. Merlin, Merlin, how I hate all of you sometimes.
And that's the way the years go by.
And now it strikes me, when I cower before my Lord, that I no longer care. You went your ways, had your adventures; I went mine. I don't blasted well care for your stories and shine. Yes, you might say I was frightened into being where I am now, but I've found I can't bring myself to mind much.
Because you – dazzling ones, the ones who never had to try - you can't see what's obvious. It only took a hint, a shadow of panic, and you all believed me.
I never thought you were that blind. I thought it would take a little more effort. I thought I'd have to struggle, like I did for seven years with you…but this, it seems, might be my hidden talent. You were intelligent and dashing – I came behind and I, it seems, have an aptitude for betrayal. And I don't care – it doesn't mean anything to mean anything to you. Not anymore, you see. It doesn't mean that much.
Sometimes, when I'm alone, that almost makes me laugh. There's something I can manage now, can manage beautifully without your kind instructions and humiliating interference. I can do this, and I will.
And so when old memories come to mind, the ones I actually care for, and doubts gnaw at me, I shove them away. I've found my own bravery – I'm not your shadow any longer.
It takes a kind of courage to kill everyone who ever cared for you, you know. Perhaps I did belong with you – perhaps I belonged in Gryffindor after all. All those things implied by the house, all the things I'm not…It can mean something different, I've found.
This takes a kind of courage.
Reviews are truly happy things. They spread joy and light throughout the net. That are harbingers of joy, messengers of jubilation...You take my point, I think.