It was harder than he thought it would be. Standing in front of him, alone. At the gloomy home at Spinner’s End, Snape had nothing to hold back all that black bile, all that sorrow. No Dark Lord. No watchful eyes of the Death Eaters that meant something. Nothing. Just a shriveled ruin of a man whose body owed more to a rat than a human. Sharpened by habit, Pettigrew’s furtive eyes darted across the room, taking note of exits and entrances, heavy objects, glass that could shatter and drive itself into his soft flesh. Snape himself was the most jagged shard of them all. Shrouded in black, bitter and vengeful and miserable, he reminded Pettigrew of the fate he’d barely escaped two years ago. But Severus was no wraith of Azkaban, and he had nothing to rip from Wormtail’s chest. He could inspect the acid burn of guilt with thoroughness of the expert he was, and prod the spots of red that were still throbbing and aching, but nothing more. Can’t rob a beggar. Pettigrew would gloat over that dubious victory as soon as the day would come to an end.
Long claw scraping against metal, Pettigrew’s fidgety hands went up to his middle in a half-warranted defense. Mustering up the nerve to look at that face, he wheezed, sharp teeth tormenting the shaking lip. He’d laid his hands on a giant serpent whose fangs stored agony, and cradled an abomination of dark magic to his chest like his own child, but somehow this – the ghost of the past, the festering hate, the righteousness of it – felt worse.
A cornered rat in its despair, he attempted barefaced disguise.
It was nothing but a squeak, a pained and frightened one, but the remorse was chewed up and swallowed.
