A/N: This came to me after reading the fantastic 'Dear Prongs' on HPFF by dream_BIG. Read it!

Disclaimer: All belongs to JKR.

For everyone I've ever hated, even for a single moment. Maybe I understand doing bad things better than you think.

The Things That Can't Be Said

Prongs,

I'm not sorry.

They tell me that's what the brave people say. The Gryffindors. Sometimes I think they're mocking me when they call me that. You're not brave, they're saying, you're not smart, you're not wise. You're not even a Slytherin.

But you always taught me to be proud of it, Prongs. You always used to tell us all to yell louder from the stands when you played Quidditch, because you said we weren't proud enough of you.

I'm proud of you, now.

I wonder if you're proud of me. Probably not.

You resisted it all. You fought for what was good and right and just. You died for those things.

I could never do that. I'd never die for you. Deep down, I think we all knew that.

Padfoot and Moony and you were always so brave. You could say things and people would listen. You'd win things and people would congratulate you. All three of you were such a team, such good friends, and all I was was the other one. The fourth one. The rat.

Wormtail, you called me. Wormtail.

It used to be a name to wear with such pride. No one understood it other than you three, but that didn't matter. I'd never had anything to be proud of before then – no money, no power, no achievements. But when you gave me a name, suddenly I had something,for the first time in my life. It felt good to have something, to be someone. It made me proud, just a little bit, to be me. I'd never been proud before that time. I don't think I'll ever be proud again.

I'm not proud of what I did to you. But you know that, don't you?

No one else ever quite understood it, why three such talented, strong, popular boys would take in a person like me. I don't think I ever understood it either. I still don't.

That's what makes me angry, Prongs. I never understand it.

You and Moony would talk Transfiguration or Charms and I wouldn't know what you were saying. Padfoot would laugh with you about Quidditch moves and I'd sit there laughing along, never knowing what was so funny. Sometimes you'd even try to talk to me about it all – your life, our classes, my life, anything at all. But I'd never be able to keep up with you.

I could see it in your eyes, Prongs. The frustration and the anger. You always wanted me to be better, to be more. You could never see that I can't be more. This is who I am. Nothing has changed and nothing will ever change. Some people say I'm evil, through and through, and always have been.

Evil doesn't make me as proud as Wormtail did. But being evil means I'm something. That's always been important to me.

For people like you, being something is so normal that you don't realise how much it helps. Being something is effortless for Moony and Padfoot. Being nothing is hard. Being evil is easier than being nothing.

I did it because I needed to be something, Prongs. I can't live my life being nothing.

You all knew I wasn't Wormtail anymore. It had been a long time since we'd been Marauders. And without those names, I didn't know what else to be.

He handed it to me, Prongs, on a silver platter. It was like a Sugar Quill, the best one in all of Honeydukes. The expensive one that you'd only ever think of buying if you were going to give it to Evans.

Lily, I mean. She always told me to call her Lily.

When someone offers you evil like that, you don't refuse it. You don't say 'no, I'd prefer to keep being nothing'. When someone offers you a way out of the haze, Prongs, you never, ever refuse it.

No one has offered it to you before, have they? But you've never been nothing before, have you? So even if they did, you wouldn't know what it feels like.

Imagine being in the dungeons. Right down at the very bottom of the school. No Map, no people, no portraits. Nothing but yourself to lead you in the right direction. Now, imagine being me. A rat. A Gryffindor. A nothing. If you're me, you can't get out of there on your own, Prongs. You need someone to give you a hand. Someone who you can understand. Someone who doesn't look at you with frustration or mistrust or irritation.

Someone who just looks.

He did that for me. He didn't see what I could be, what I should be, what I would be if only the three brightest boys in school would take pity on me and give me a boost. He just saw me.

No one has ever just seen me before. No frills, no friends, no grand intentions. Just me.

No one has ever accepted me before, either. Not since you did, back at school. And that was a long, long time ago. I told myself that, if you had a choice, if you could go back, you wouldn't accept me again. I guess now we know that I'm right.

By telling myself that, by knowing that, I made myself do it. I made myself tell him what I knew, what you'd trusted me with. Talking is easy, I think, when you know exactly what to say. And for the first time, I knew what to say. I knew exactly what to say to him, Prongs, with a clarity that I've never known anything in before.

Can't you see why I told him? Can't you see how much I wanted that clarity? For the first time in my life, my path was clear, without being complicated by friends or feelings or other things that are beyond my comprehension. For the first time, I understood what I could do. So I did it. Is that really so bad? Does that make me evil?

I hope it does.

I hope I can single out an action and say that that was the moment when I became who I am now. That was the second when I went from being nothing to being something. The moment when the haze cleared, and I emerged from the fog, whole and real and evil through and through.

I'm not sorry, Prongs. I'm not sorry for what I did.

Maybe I should be. Maybe, one day, I will be.

But right now, I'm a coward, Prongs. I'm too scared to be sorry.

They say regret is what kills the evil, and I don't want to die, Prongs. I don't want to die from guilt. There's nothing good or epic or proud about dying from remorse, Prongs. People who die of remorse curl up in a corner and cry themselves to death. I know, Prongs, because I've seen it happen. I've seen a father cry as my Master tortures the family that he couldn't protect. That man didn't die like you, Prongs. He didn't die brave and proud and worthy.

When I die, I want to die like you.

I'm not sorry, Prongs, for giving you that death.

Good or not?

I really would like to know, because I'm tempted to write some Sirius and Remus POV ones as well.

Reviews will make those much more likely to appear.