AN:ThisisforxxFlutterStutterBOOMBOOMxx'sWordsI'llNeverSaychallenge.Mypromptwas"Whyarewedoingthis?"Reviewswouldbewonderful!

"Why are we doing this?" was a question that Peter Pettigrew wanted to ask his friends, James, Sirius, and Remus, many times. He never dared to ask. He was afraid. Afraid of being shunned by his friends, his only friends, for being an idiot. Afraid that they would turn on him. Afraid they would realize how completely uncool he was. How he wasn't made out to be popular.

That being said, if he had to pick one person to ask, he would most likely ask Remus. Remus was the kindest of the trio, the one most likely to answer his questions without making him into a public display of stupidity. But he still didn't dare to ask.

He wanted to ask that question when Sirius and James taunted Snivellus. The boy hadn't done that much wrong, right? James claimed it was because he was friends with Lily and because he was a Slytherin, but lately the whole mudblood incident had been added in as extra incentive. Sirius would just call him a greasy git and then jokingly ask Peter if he felt sorry for the Slytherin. Remus would just smile uncomfortably. At least, that's what he anticipated. There was still that niggling fear that they would leave him. He wasn't cool or popular or handsome or smart. He had barely got the hang of Animagus transfiguration after James tutored him for hours. If the rest of the Marauders left without him, he'd be nothing. No one. He wasn't like them. So he kept his mouth shut for fear that he would become like Snape. Bullied. Hated. Ridiculed.

He knew he would've ended up like poor Snivellus Snape, too, had luck not placed him in the same house as those three. They had taken him under their collective wing and thrust him into the popular crowd, but he knew he was only there because of his friends.

He wanted to ask that question when he and his friends risked their lives every full moon for Remus. They were only teenagers. Teenagers who were fighting for control with a fully-grown werewolf. A werewolf who forgot that they were his friends once the wolf took control. And him? He was a rat. What could a rat do against a werewolf? Nothing, that's what. He could only cower in fear as the stag, the dog, and the wolf romped around in the forest and in the Shack. All he was useful for was freezing the Willow- a task that could be done with a stick. But the boys were intent on helping Remus. Peter admired that loyalty, but he secretly questioned whether it was leading towards stupidity and recklessness. It was a huge risk. And sometimes, they were hurt. Badly.

He knew if he asked the boys would shun him. Remus was their friend, they would say. We should help him. Remus would frown and say he didn't deserve it, that it was too dangerous. Then Sirius and James would put Remus in the spotlight of their attentions in order to bring him back up. It made Peter feel left out. He knew they didn't do it intentionally- or maybe they did- but it still made him feel like an outsider. And in a way, he was an outsider. He wasn't like them. They were friends first. He was just the fourth wheel that they had taken in for convenience.

In fact, he wanted to ask "Why are we doing this?" whenever the Marauders cooked up one of their grand schemes, from pranks to James's elaborate plans to ask his Lily-flower on a date. He knew what the answer would be, of course, but he sometimes wondered if there was more to it than that.

And then, after he gave the location of the Potter household to the Dark Lord, he wanted to ask "Why are we doing this". But he dared not question his Lord's plans. That could lead to torture. Excruciating torture. He was a little surprised to find that he felt no remorse over the death of his best friend and his wife. But he realized that he was never truly a Marauder. He was one of them mostly in name.

By the time he helped revive the Dark Lord, he no longer even wanted to ask the question. The answers were bone-chillingly cruel. No. Peter Pettigrew was a follower. Always had been, and always would be up until the day he died.

He would never ask the question.

Urgh.TryasImight,Ican'tgetthistobemorethanathousandwords,whichisusuallymylowerlimit.Ohwell.Iapologiseforthelength,but…yeah.