All I Want For Christmas
Peter Pettigrew wants one single day of golden popularity.

Peter Pettigrew is sitting by himself in the common room, listening to the snowball fight outside. He can hear Lily Evans shrieking as her boyfriend- James Potter- throws a snowball at her. He can hear Sirius' barking laugh, Remus' mellow voice, joking around. He feels outside the circle, well, he's always felt outside.

The common room is empty except for the single rat animagous in the corner, sitting on an armchair, sulking, wishing. His heart is filled with that green monster; it's attacking his mind; and he's dying inside.

They like him for his uses; his tiny paw to push in the knot on the Whomping Willow, his knowledge of dark secrets he doesn't like to share. His easy amusement. They like him for those few moments, and then they ignore him. Detest him. He grimaces. They are probably repulsed by him. Peter Pettigrew. Wormtail. Rat.

Sirius, dark and handsome and brave and funny, turned into a dog, large, intimidating. Remus, the werewolf, smart and resourceful and practical. James, the stag, smart and cool and brilliant. And Peter. Peter the rat. Stupid and blockheaded.

He stood up, although it did not make much of a difference in his height, and shuffled to the window that overlooked the grounds. A good foot of snow covered the ground, and he spotted the Marauders quite quickly, plus Evans. Evans. He loved her more than James ever would. Didn't Lily understand that? But no. She threw it in his face. She said no. He hated her for that. And hate is more powerful (in his mind) than love.

He imagined James in the common room, the rat, with no fire in the grate, watching Peter and Remus and Sirius and a happy, loving Lily enjoy themselves. He was popular. James was not.

Because all Peter Pettigrew wants for Christmas is a single day of golden popularity.

s.t.