FIC

Title: Dear Ronnie
Author: ladynutmeg
Rating: R
Summary: A letter to Ron
Pairing: One-sided Peter Pettigrew/Ron Weasley
Warnings: This is SLASH. That means it contains homoerotic content. In this case of an exceedingly dark nature. Also warnings for borderline sanity, underage (no actual contact, but Ron was thirteen when Pettigrew was his pet. Do you really think he didn't dream?)
FB: Loved it? Hated it? Concrit? Tell me. Pwease?
Archive: Ask and ye shall (most probably) receive.
Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling, writing this for profit, and I don't own Ron (he'd be naked and chained to my bed if I did) nor Scabbars. Please don't sue me, I'm a starving college student.

x-posted to my journal

"I let you sleep in my bed"

I know.

Gods how I know.

Sweet young boy, second rate and second best but beloved by your James - Harry, Harry, son and murderer, can't forget, must never forget - as I never was. You're not like him, you know. You smile in your sleep, loose-limbed and peaceful, and nightmares only rarely disturb you from your comfortable sprawl. I used to curl up at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, so bare and smooth - you never could stand the heat that a t-shirt or blanket would provide. Your face turned against me, cheek nuzzling the pillow, all sleepy sighs and smelling of innocent boy.

Wasn't I a good pet?

You were a good master, no matter how many times you said I was useless. And I could hear the love in your voice when you said it, if they could not. But I knew they could.

You'd rub your cheek against my fur before you went to sleep at night, such a child still. Young enough to hoard letters from Charlie and Bill under your bed, to press your rose petal mouth to the top of my head without shame. A born sensualist, tactile, the oral fixation from birth never leaving you. You felt - feel - everything with your lips. There's still a scar there, a small thickness to the left curve of your too-tender cupid's bow. You tried to taste the heat of a kitchen skillet at the end of your second year of life. Molly was scolding the twins for something, could have been anything really. I tried to nibble your fingers, to warn you - you'd always cared better for me than Percy had, and I don't forget a loyalty nor a kindness. Harry will learn that, in time.

In your sleep you were all sweet sighs and snuffles, cuddling the pillows, the blankets. Me. Anything within reach, really. I nibbled and cuddled back, naturally. Any good pet would.

Sometimes you called me Hermione. Sometimes Harry.

But I was the only one who knew what your freckles taste like.

That might have change by now, of course. You're far from unattractive - so beautiful, my sweet little flame, only I ever saw you truly burn - and I know the kind of tension stretched between you and the girl. I saw it often enough with my Jamie, with Lily. With beautiful Sirius. Poor lad, he never knew who he wanted, only that it wasn't me. Remus kept his secrets well, oh deary, yes, but I could taste his wanting in the flick of my whiskers. And that wasn't for me either.

Much like you, Ronald, far less appealing than a secondhand wand was a secondhand pet, a familiar good for nothing but sleeping. Oh I know you wanted better you always did and who wouldn't. Who ever had any use for a slinking, slimy--

That's not fair, I know. You never showed me your resentment, afraid of hurting my feelings, probably. Kind boy. And your pity might have turned to true affection, I flatter myself and think it so. So like James in that, if no other. You never had his casual cruelty, like the twins. Oh you loved them and defended them, because they did the same to you - when they weren't scaring you with spiders and baby names, sending you to your room where you'd barricade the door with your dresser so they wouldn't hear you crying, see you write a letter to Bill or Charlie, lonely and sad, only to tear it to pierces, unsent. But you trusted me with your tears, holding me close to your cheek, weeping into my greasy, patched fur and tugging a pillow over the both of us. But then George, always more gentle than Fred, heard a muffled whimper through the pipes and barged his way in, hugged you, rocked you in his arms, didn't even push me away, for it would have further bruised your sensitive heart. Fred had just watched from the doorway, but when your tears had slowed, he'd ruffled your hair and gave you a hug of his own, then settled you back into George's arms and stolen a plate of cookies for the three of you. He'd shooed me out the door when you tried to give me a crumb, saying sweets weren't good for rats, and you let him.

It wasn't them who licked your hands when the shook with fear or excitement for Hogwarts. Wasn't I a good friend? They were the ones who made you cry, not cuddled away the tears. They stole what was mine. For you are mine, Ron, even if you abandoned me as James did, for Lily. Remus for... whoever his kept secret was. You. Are. Mine.

No, that's not fair to you, sweet, gentle, good boy. I was only a rat, after all. And no pet, no matter how beloved, can compare to brothers. The twins, no less. As casually beautiful as Bill or Sirius, as effortless cool and mischievous as James.

And they had arms, my Ron. Could hold you and surround you and protect you and sandwich you between their bodies, squashed familiarly on a a narrow twin bed of Chudley Orange; I never could. Oh I would have, sweet boy, if I could. Do you not think I would have cherished your delicate strength as they never did, if only you'd let me?

For you said, whispered to me at night, that the pranks were more affectionate now, that you were one of "them" - You knew you could never really be one of them, of course, theirs was a bond since forever, youth two doors apart, in each other's pockets since infancy or the womb. But they let you close and that was enough for you, even if I saw the truth, their identical, selfish spirits.

In a month you'd start Hogwarts, more of the same. You might have been there first, but there was something about that girl, wasn't there. A lovely surprise for you, when you fell out with her, over me, and that Harry sided with you. I'd be flattered, but I knew you fell out over tea leaves or homework, and Ja-- Harry had his broomstick to consider, and Lilly's sweet screaming. Traitor, that girl was. Clever and Gentle, yet still it was Jamie's ring she wore. Cold that one was, in life and death. Like ice and cleverness that could melt in our fire.

But I knew, with Sirius returned and Remus as well, that my days in your bed were coming to an end. How I wished they weren't, not now with your dreams changing, sleepy thrusts and squirms, sighs of Hermione or Lavender or Padma or Dean. Or Fred or George or Harry or all of them. Oh, I could have taught you things, sweet boy, clever boy. Things they'll never know. We could burn together, Ron, couldn't we. A world too cold to us to survive without our own heat. our own light.

Don't scoff, sweet boy, though I know you wouldn't aloud, too unconfident of your flame. But also you don't believe in my fire, that I shine. Oh, who could, around James and Sirius and poor little beloved mysterious Remus. Around the Boy-Who-Caused-My-Jamie's-Death and her royal brilliance, Miss Granger. because who could ever notice my wishes my pranks and plans. But oh no it was always we'll do your idea later, Wormy, or, yes, brilliant Petey, but what about this. Sorry Scabbers, have homework and invisibility cloaks and friends and brothers and friends. Friends who don't see you or care or care about anything other than themselves and they never put up silencing charms so you can hear their nasty filthy touching, filthy animals rutting. And you didn't care about privacy either, did you, dear, sweet boy. You touched yourself and writhed and squirmed and it was a sin, it was wrong, but oh no, you didn't care a whit I was under your pillow - I came I came of course I came so beautiful like fire and cinnamon. And you were dirty and filthy - hiding in the dirt, in the sewers, greasy slimy coward and beautiful clean sweet young boy, smelling so innocently of sex, dirty and clean and young and sweet, cinnamon chocolate freckles and lust - oh sweet boy, how I could have showed you to touch, to prolong, to taste, all the places you don't know yet, the secret places inside. Then we'd both be filth, dirty and rotten together, as we were meant to be.

You're still reading, aren't you, Ron? Sweet, cinnamon and cream Ron? You're on my side, aren't you? You would have been in the shack, too, but you were upset, weren't you? Ron? I know I must be up setting you, dear boy, but its all for the best, truly. I was a good pet, Ron, and you loved me, loved me as a boy loves his pet, I was a good pet. And you loved me as a a pet.

Do you ever think Harry will forgive you that, loving the one who gifted his parents to Glorious Dark Lord? Do you think he'll ever really trust you again, if he ever really did? No, he won't. Because I was a good pet, little Ronnie. And you loved me.

And you'll have to answer for that someday.

-Scabbers