Fic: "The Falling of a Teacup" for gehayi
Title: The Falling of a Teacup
Author: das_kabinett
Recipient's name: gehayi
Rating: PG-13 for dark themes and occasional language
Character(s): Peter Pettigrew, James Potter
Warnings: Secondary character death, slight language.
Author's notes: I hope you enjoy my take on Peter, gehayi, it was a lot of fun to write! Thanks so much to my lovely beta cinnamon_sakaki and my good friend Sar for moral support.
We are the creatures of imagination, passion, and self-will, more than of reason or even of self-interest. Even in the common transactions and daily intercourse of life, we are governed by whim, caprice, prejudice, or accident. The falling of a teacup puts us out of temper for the day; and a quarrel that commenced about the pattern of a gown may end only with our lives. -William Hazlitt
It was absurdly simple for Seventh Years to be turning snapping turtles into teacups, so of course, Peter messed it up. Peter was bad at simple things as he got easily distracted. This time it was because of James’ new Quidditch magazine. He had nicked it during History of Magic last class and it had a special on the status of the Golden Snidget. Peter had been thinking about what it would be like to be chased like that all through McGonagoll’s instructions.
Normally, Remus worked with him, but James had vetoed that this year. James now refused to work with anyone but Peter, forcing Remus and Sirius to talk to each other. Peter didn’t really want to explain their problems and probably couldn’t. All he remembered from that night was the rocky scent of Hogwarts mud and stealing a piece of meat from the kitchens for James’ eye -Pomfrey refused to heal black eyes for the Marauders any more, even if it was from a whomp instead of a punch. Peter thought that James was like the charm that stuck them together or the planet they orbited around, both vital and helpless.
The others thought Peter was weak for thinking so, but he wasn’t. He was just particularly attuned to James’ gravity.
This time, though, not even James had time to fix Peter’s disaster. The cup quivered, beginning to move. Peter thought it was tragic; it so obviously was animate, so obviously wanted to scuttle and do whatever turtles did, but cups couldn’t do what turtles did. They didn’t have any of the right appendages.
Peter raised his wand (Peter’s wand was made of ivory and phoenix feather and it was a good bit heavier than the wooden wands. It was also quite temperamental and didn’t work very well in Scottish winters. Peter read once that elephants lived in warm climates and thought that might be why) to try to give it a pair of legs or something, but James snapped, “Don’t try to fix it.”
“I wasn’t,” Peter said, but he lowered his wand.
Sirius snorted and muttered, “Liar.”
Remus looked at Sirius reprovingly, his brow furrowed. Even though Peter hadn’t been lying at all, he was glad to see that interaction. It was refreshingly normal and Remus wouldn’t have been so casually scolding if he still despised Sirius.
They might not know it yet, but everything was going to be fine.
Except, perhaps, James and Peter’s Transfiguration mark. McGonagoll was stalking towards them and James winced at her expression. Peter watched the cup rock and considered blaming its behavior on possession by a very specialized ghost.
It was too late for excuses. She picked it up and examined it, eyebrows shooting upward at the trembling. Peter thought it looked like a scared little bird, though it had been a turtle. Peter imagined it must be a rather traumatic traumatizing experience for any animal to suddenly become a teacup.
She looked at it more closely, sticking her face right near it. Without any warning, the mouth of the cup clamped shut and effectively bit her nose. Peter thought that was quite reasonable of it: it had been a snapping turtle after all and animals always bit when they were frightened (or at least, they always bit him). McGonagoll didn’t seem to think anything was reasonable about it at all, however, judging by her shriek.
Sirius and James were shrieking too, though their shrieks were laughter and even Remus was holding back frantic giggles. Peter rescued the teacup from a certain death by stone floor before he joined in the hilarity.
“Forty points from Gryffindor!” she screamed, ignoring James’ chuckled excuses. It was hardly new that she ignored his excuses. Peter would be hard pressed to think of a time that she didn’t ignore them all together, except for that one time during fourth year where she caught them all dancing in a fifth floor corridor in Muggle woman’s evening gowns. For that, she wanted excuses, if only to mitigate the horror.
“Out of my classroom, you disgusting brats!”
They gladly complied, Peter still clutching the cup. No one seemed to notice its presence until they were out in the hall, but then James fastened his eyes on it with a look of growing wonderment. Sirius sneered at Peter a bit, but didn’t comment. It was obvious why; James was clearly having an Idea. He had Ideas a lot, and they were always capitalized. Sirius loved them because they tended to result in the amusing sort of mayhem that he fed on and even Remus would respect their secret workings. It was the one expression of James’ that Peter could count on the others to understand as easily as Peter did himself.
“Cor,” James said, breathlessly, “Imagine if we could make teacups that did that on purpose.”
---
“What exactly is the point of a nose-biting teacup?”
“Not sure, exactly, but it’ll be pretty wicked.”
“You don’t know how you’re going to use it but you know you are going to like it?”
“It’ll bite the noses of unsuspecting victims; what’s not to like, Remus?”
Peter and James were ignoring the two of them, Peter too focused on the array of stolen cups to even bother feeling pleased over Remus and Sirius’ interaction. James didn’t seem to care at all -- he didn’t seem to care about much anymore. He had grown an disturbing amount of focus this last year and tended to fixate on trivial tasks, almost like distractions.
The original cup was in Peter’s pocket, causing him to sit gingerly. He had given it a pair of legs, but it was sleeping now. Peter never had a familiar and he supposed that china would work as well as anything.
“This is not working!” snarled James, flinging his book of runes to the floor with a dusty thump.
Sirius and Remus exchanged a glance and Remus picked up the book, opening it to its previous page. Sirius opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to try to distract him with a pick-up Quidditch game. James pushed his glasses back up his nose, glaring at him. Sirius shut up.
“Right,” he said, in a different voice, “you look up the Runes, Moony, I’m shite at that. I’ll work on the bit that will make them bite properly.”
“And what should I do, oh master?” Sirius said, wrinkling his nose.
“Be decorative, mate; you’re useless at this.”
“Oh, fuck you,” he said, but settled back into his corner casually.
Sirius was incredibly magically adept, Peter knew, but not in an academic manner. He had been born, raised and taught absolutely saturated in magic. There was no other world, to Sirius. James was a pureblood too, but the Potters weren’t the Blacks. Sirius had trouble with theory, because it seemed ever so pointless. Peter supposed it was like reading a book on how to breathe.
Sirius watched them all, Remus glancing up periodically to smile at him. Peter thought that was rather interesting, but didn’t bother focusing on it. They had talked last evening and the newness of their renewed friendship was emanating from them so much so that Peter could almost smell it.
Peter touched the china in his pocket gently and felt its hum of magic. One could really do all sorts of things with a teacup.
---
It was late and Peter should have left the library already. It was no difficulty avoiding the librarian’s check: he just transformed into a rat and scurried away. He sat crouched against a grimmoire that gave off warmth and seemed to shift in its sleep. It was like a living thing beside him , exuding a tangible malevolence. It made Wormtail’s teeth ache to chew.
Finally, the beady-eyed woman left, satisfied that her library had been properly vacated. She was a horrible woman. Peter didn’t like her at all and she didn’t like him. He thought she loved print and binding more than she liked the words inside and she thought he mistreated his books. They were both right, and she especially so. Peter was always getting scolded for spills, dog-ears and doodles - people thought he hated to read, but he didn’t. He just treated his books like old friends -able to be used and abused, no matter how comforting.
He climbed out of the books and transformed back into a human, nose still twitching. The smells were less intense in this fleshy body and every creak was far less ominous.
He still remembered the feel of that book, even through the ratty filter, and bent to find it. It almost certainly wouldn’t be any good to either the Potions essay or the Care of Magical Creatures essay, but both had already slipped Peter’s mind.
He ruffled and snuffled, rubbing his fingers on the spines, trying to equate the sensation to the feel of fur. It was easy to find - no other book seethed so.
Taking it out of the shelf, he placed his palm on the front. His skin prickled and he suppressed the sneeze the dust produced. Peter didn’t really know what Dark magic felt like, but he knew this had to be it. The fact that it was in the wrong section gave him no pause; all libraries had reshelving problems and Hogwarts more than most. In their third year, James had royally buggered up the runes in the card catalogue and books had flippantly changed location. Peter figured they’d need another full decade to properly repair the damage.
He opened the book, still uneasy but tempered with excitement. The cover page said, “Magical Stability and The Dark Arts.” A silver stain of what he hoped was quicksilver and not unicorn blood marred the creamy paper and there were glittering fingerprints that ought to have faded by now. This book had absorbed a lot of magic in its time and Peter fancied he could feel it growl underneath his fingers. It was the type of book that was useful to both practical wizard and academic magician - stability was crucial in all the most powerful, Dark or delicate magic. Peter imagined it kept close at hand during the final stages of any great magical work, sitting in the corner and soaking in energy.
Peter flipped through the preface, picking out words and intriguing sentences. The author seemed to like to see his own quill move and the prose was shockingly self-conscious. But the introduction wasn’t the important part: it was what followed that could be useful to the Marauders’ experimentation. He turned to the first chapter, entitled “Infusing Magic through Strong Emotion”, and began to read.
---
They were having problems. The spells to make the china capable of biting were rather simple and they just etched very specific Transfiguration spells translated into runes on the cup. (Remus had written them, he had the steadiest hand.) The problem was teaching the cup when to bite. Teacups were not apt at distinguishing the difference between fingers and noses. They couldn’t just write a new layer of runes; they had tried that and they had acted with seemingly random volatility. Out of five trials, three had exploded, one had been rendered completely absent of magic and the third had turned into a bowl of petunias.
But even still, James would never use the book. James hated Dark magic, he would never do something so patently dark, even if Peter knew it was the only way to finish the teacup and finish it properly.
Peter was always the one who knew things like that --he was the detail man. He was good at watching, observing. He was particularly good at tangents and wondering, both of which excelled at figuring out unique solutions to problems. Sirius had the bursts of ideas and James was the passion pushing them through. Remus was brilliant at “public relations”, and lied, bluffed and distracted their way through all sorts of situations. But Peter was the one who twisted the spell just a bit and found the answer. He wasn’t very good at the spell itself and he probably didn’t understand anything particularly, but that was all right. He’d keep his intuition and his peculiar creativity and let the others have their brilliance.
Ripping the page out of the book, he stuffed it in his pocket. Remus would have died, which is why he did these sorts of things with Remus gone. The boy hated abusing books, whereas Peter took it as a matter of course. Books weren’t important themselves; it was the information inside of them that was important. Besides, it was hardly as if Remus hadn’t nicked books in his time.
---
The Letter dropped into James’ plate during lunch and the owl didn’t even wait for a treat. The Letter was opened with sticky peanut-buttered fingers and Sirius leaned forward to ask what it said.
Peter wasn’t looking at Sirius, though, he was staring at James, James who had grown up loved and loving and showed all his feelings on his face. He was shaking. The streak of cherry jam was startling red against his cheek like a yawning gash. All Peter could see was James trying so very hard not to cry, and they were so focused on that that they both jumped at Dumbledore’s hand.
“James,” he said, “come with me and have some sweets in my office.”
Lily touched his hand as he stood, her eyes confused. Peter thought the redness of her hair was even more garish than James’ cherry jam, which he smeared on her cheek when he leaned down to clutch at her in a quick hug.
No one learned what happened from James, not even Peter. Some of his childhood had melted from his features, leaving them a little less flexible and a little more determined than before.
James returned from the Headmaster’s office just before dinner and the other three boys followed him wordlessly. They spent the meal watching both the sunset and the parchment burn, with vibrant pieces of red blazing and fading into ashy gray.
The letter had been a politely worded note from the illness ward in St. Mungo. Mr. and Mrs. Potter fell down with a virulent flu virus, which was eventually fatal. Peter had summoned the ashes and performed a spell they had found in their fifth year that allowed him to read it. He never told James that he knew, but a few years later, he had brought tea and biscuits for him when Mediwizards finally linked this particular strain to a curse developed by English research wizards in World War I. The previous version of the curse had raged out of control, devastating the wizarding population of Europe to a point that they hadn’t yet recovered from and killing millions of Muggles besides.
Later that evening, Sirius incited James into a wrestling match, Remus did his essay for Binns and Peter approached him and handed him a small vial of liquid.
“That should give those cups some sense,” he said, gruffly.
James didn’t ask what it was; he only smiled a little. Peter noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Thanks.”
---
Peter’s little sister got really grumpy, really easily. She would soil her new robe or break her toy wand and go into massive, histrionic sulks. She reminded Peter of no one so much as Sirius.
Peter’s parents tried cajoling her and his older siblings could ignore her, but Peter was too close in both age and distance to tolerate it. When he was younger, he’d hit her and it would escalate into enormous, inflated affairs.
Once Peter had figured out Sirius, however, he knew how to deal with her. He would ignore the issue and act like he didn’t care about her emotions. She would settle down ever time, or, at the very least, engage herself in convincing him about how much he loved her.
---
Since there really wasn’t much else left to do on the cups, Remus and Sirius were always slipping off, cheeks pink like the sheen of new scar tissue, healing over their scraped friendship. James barely noticed, but James didn’t notice anything anymore, save the soft scent of Muggle shampoo and the cramped light of a forgotten hallway near the statue of the Warring Goblins. Peter never learned which warring goblins they were, even though he made an effort to find out once. It turned out that so many goblins had warred over the years that art historians had given up and attempted to justify their lack of knowledge by vague mumblings of Archetypes and the artist’s thematic genius. Peter found that art historians did that a lot.
Lily had taken to coming, a state of affairs that Peter wasn’t sure he liked. She was good at Charms, brilliant even, but he wasn’t sure they needed her. At first she just sat in the corner, knees pulled into her chest and watching.
“Here,” she said once, standing and raising her wand, “try it like this.”
She flicked her wrist with admirable form and Peter faded back a little to watch. James glanced up at her and said, smiling, “That worked better.”
They had all the pieces, now they were just putting it together. Everything was coming together and Peter had no place here anymore. Only charms for safety were left to go and he was no good at Charms.
He took Lily’s place, the cloak she had been sitting on warm and sweet-smelling from her body, but still damp from the stone floor. He took the teacup out and settled it on his lap, watching it twitch as if it was waking. It was still animate and still incapable of moving; he wasn’t sure why he didn’t just end the transfiguration or adjust the legs until it could walk, but he kept it captured in the china and listened to James’ and Lily’s quiet discussion.
Suddenly they were kissing over the cauldron of Peter’s potion, Lily’s hair three inches from its bubbling top.
Peter jumped up.
“Hey!” he said, with joking displeasure, “Don’t get distracted, you plonker, stop molesting Evans and start finishing our joke, yeah?”
James flipped him off, but they all laughed and Lily retreated just long enough for James to finish the spell on the demonstration copy.
As he sat back down, he realized that the teacup had shattered as it hit the floor.
---
Another letter came, but it was for Peter this time.
My only son,
I hope everything is going well and thank you for writing. Your marks have improved this year and the number of notices from your Head of House have decreased rapidly. Less mischief than usual, it seems. I’m pleased with this, I must admit, because it shows much-needed maturity. As I have always told you, Peter, if you have incentive and focus you could do anything. I’m proud that you seem to have found your own focus, but now that you are older, let me say this: You are the future of the Pettigrews, Peter. If anything happens to me (like the poor Potters; is James doing alright? Invite him at Christmas) you will be the man of the house. You must promise me you’ll protect your mother and your younger sister. Your older sister seems to think she’s fine without us; that is her choice, however wrong it may be. I hope Sirius, Remus and James are all well and your mother sends her love.
Yours,
Joseph Pettigrew.
Peter wrote back thanking him vaguely, trying to hide his edge of confusion. With that owl, he sent another one, asking a dozen different questions. He had an older brother, he wasn’t the only son, he wasn’t the man of the house. He was just little Peter and there was no reason to fear for anything. Dad was an Auror, but he did paperwork all day. There was no danger, he insisted.
His mum never wrote back.
---
“I can’t believe we actually sold it!” Peter said, breathlessly.
“I can,” Sirius replied with a haughty sort of arrogance. His grin betrayed his excitement, though, all lopsided and goofy.
“Well, you are notoriously gullible, Pads, of course you’d believe anything,” said Remus, ducking just in time to avoid his tackle. Sirius ended up running into the wall laughing and slipping on a wet patch of mud. He was all elbows and shoulders and puppylike hair; Peter was glad to see him romp properly, he had been growing far too much dignity of late.
Speaking of dignity, James held himself back from them all, arm slung around Lily’s waste and watching them. Peter didn’t like that one bit. Glancing at Remus and Sirius and figuring that they were too busy tussling to be any use, he knew he’d have to do it himself.
Stopping dead, he turned and smiled sweetly at James, hand absently thrust in his bag and searching as he spoke.
“Why James! Aren’t you excited?”
He grinned and nodded, running his free hand through his hair, “Of course, Pete, but I must say. I never expected any less of myself.”
Lily punched him in the arm and he winked at her, saying, “After all, I got the bird; I can do anything!”
Peter tossed the teacup at him and it flew at his face, clamping down on his nose. James yelped, letting go of Lily and ripping off the enraged piece of dining ware. Remus and Sirius had been distracted from their fight and were laughing at him, while Peter had scurried off.
“Anything, of course, ’cept expecting the obvious! Stupid sod!”
James gave a bellow and followed, nearly running over an unfortunate third year.
---
Late that night, they sat in the Gryffindor common room with piles of food sitting in the middle. Sirius had claimed the couch, only reluctantly budging over for Remus and James and Lily were sharing the armchair.
Every once in a while they retreated to some secret world, touching noses and enchanted little whispers. Sirius would look at Remus and make gagging noises, wrinkling his nose. Remus would hit him and Sirius would yelp and break the spell.
Peter was sitting on the floor and was in charge of toasting the bread. Peter was brilliant at it and easily the best cook of them all. The scene was cozy and warm and familiar, too: Peter had always toasted bread for his littlest sister and she would try to eat it when it was far too hot. It was the sort of situation that would normally attract a ridiculous amount of fellow students, but Sirius had successfully scared them all away.
“We can’t stop with that, you know,” James said, curling his fingers in Lily’s hair.
“Stop with what?” she said, unable to follow his train of thought as easily as the rest of them did.
“But what else are we going to make?” Sirius asked, “A whole nose-biting series? Or perhaps a version that bites arses, yeah?”
Lily, having been filled in by Remus, said, “You’re foul.”
Sirius blew her a kiss. James raised his eyebrows and said, “Trying to steal my bird, mate?”
“Don’t call me that, it’s patronizing.”
“Are you honestly surprised, Lily?” Remus said, a half-smile on his face. She shrugged.
“Not trying to steal her,” Sirius said, giving her a critical and evaluating look. “Not worth the effort.”
Lily shrieked and James laughed (which only earned him another whack).
“Don’t be offended, Lils, he just means that he knows I’d kill him in his sleep. He loves his beauty rest too much.”
“At least I’ve got beauty, you ugly plonker.”
“I think it is a great idea,” Peter said, in a soft voice. The bickering lasted a few more seconds unperturbed before Lily asked,
“Me dating Sirius?”
“No, what James said.”
Sirius rolled his eyes and settled backward, looking decidedly unsurprised, “Well of course you would, Wormy.”
“Well, it is a good idea. I mean, we are good at pranks, right?” he said, his eyes darting from face to face to gauge reactions, “Why not do something with that? Like, continue it after school?”
He would never admit how much that would please him, to stay together. He wasn’t looking forward to disrupting this order.
There was a moment of consideration. Remus met his eyes and Peter saw some of his own enthusiasm echoed in there. Sirius looked displeased, probably at being reminded he was going to have to leave his haven. Sirius loved the school. He was the only Gryffindor who would sulk just before every holiday and he always took ages to pack. Peter sometimes thought that the incredible chaos of his things every term was purposeful; it gave him an excuse to linger at the end. Peter imagined him methodically strewing socks in the most unlikely of places and it always made him giggle.
It was James who broke the silence.
“Because there is a war going on,” he said, a note of harshness in his voice, “I didn’t mean after school, I meant here. You know, for a bit more fun. But we can’t continue joking while people are dying.”
Lily put her hand on his arm, her pale skin contrasted against his deep tan. Peter averted his eyes and examined the fire.
---
The rat saw things in smells and sounds, movements and the sense of vibration. The clum-thud of Prongs’ hooves were felt more than heard, rattling his bones and causing his feet to clutch into the rough fur. The stag snorted, huffing mildewed and stagnant air through his nostrils, nervous at the confinement.
The mud smelled metallic, rough, like rocks. Prongs’ weight and Padfoot’s exuberance shook the walls of the tunnel, sending remnants of it scattering from the ceiling, crumbling down upon them.
The end of the tunnel was close, Padfoot obviously knew it. His tail, strings of dirty hair waving like a banner, whipped frantically and Wormtail couldn’t help but watch it. He couldn’t help but watch and smell and attempt to ignore the odor of offal somewhere near, wafting near him unusual sweetness.
A scream sounded and shifted, cracked, mutilated itself into a howl. The night was beginning. And Wormtail would watch the play and smell the forest, despite the unsettling strength of Prongs’ bounds and the predator scent of the other two.
Padfoot’s bark clattered around the entrance to the shack and into it, answering the howl.
Wormtail heard Moony scratching at the door; the wolf always seethed and crackled with energy, this early in the evening. He needed to run and they’d run with him. Padfoot twisted out of himself, turning into Sirius, black fur shifting/retreating/lengthening and turning into hair.
Wormtail recoiled instinctively and Prongs snorted.
Human.
Moony’s howls took on a new ferocity and a slight desperation. Prongs leaned against the door, throwing his considerable weight against the wolf’s efforts. Sirius grinned, fire and mischief, and unlatched the door with nimble fingers laced with his innate magic.
Dust and pebbles littered down, the wolf had heard the latch. Leaping away, Sirius shifted back into Padfoot before he hit the ground. Prongs let the door open and Moony came snarling out, hackles raised and fur bristling.
Wormtail didn’t understand this part (Padfoot showing his neck and Moony biting/playing/stomping, pleading with each other); neither human nor rat could follow the canine play. But he watched it all the same, until the light returned and the fresh wet smells of dew overpowered Moony, birthing him from the moonlight back into Remus.
---
In the morning they left Remus, slipping away under James’ cloak.
James’ eyes were fever-bright. There was a scrape of mud across his cheek and his grin was infectious and manic. Sirius kept on glancing over his shoulder, back at the sad looking Shack. It was always so intimidating in the evenings and so utterly pathetic each morning.
“I have an idea for another Product,” James said and Sirius didn’t respond.
“Yeah?” Peter replied, biting his nails and spitting out the ends, “What is it?”
“What if you made a bomb that spread fire everywhere?”
Sirius glanced at him and raised an eyebrow, “We know spells that do that, don’t need a Product.”
“Yeah, but they are bloody difficult,” Peter said, “And that’s the point of magical things, innit? Make difficult spells doable for idiots?”
“Only difficult for you, dumbarse.”
“Fuck off.”
---
The parchment was crinkled and had grubby baby fingerprints all over the page. Long streaks of colored wax cut across his sister’s penmanship, which was far more harried and rough than her usual elegance.
Peter,
I hope everything is well, thank you for writing. (His family always began their letters like that. His mother, who had no knowledge of etiquette but a strong sense of propriety, had instilled in her children a series of little rules and quirks. They always tucked their serviette underneath their chins and put the top back on the jar of Floo powder. She also instructed grave little eleven year olds on the way to the train, owl cage clutched in their hands, the fine art of letter writing. ) I’m writing you to let you know that Richard and I are moving to America; we’ve decided we don’t want to raise our son in this environment. I don’t know how much you know about the war (I remember my time at Hogwarts, don’t get me wrong. We were so worried about everything there that the real world seemed positively imaginary) and I’m quite sure you don’t know about the war and us. Our parents have abandoned Andrew. They call him awful names and say terrible things; terrible things that my twin would never do. He’s a good man, Peter, no matter if he has silly ideas sometime. I know we are all frightened of the Voldemort character, but I thought the point of this country was freedom to have whatever political views we like? This hysteria is infections and devastating; the war is terrible but it is equally bad to trust the Ministry absolutely. But I go on so, it isn’t even worth it. Don’t let Mum and Dad bully you; do what you want with your life, believe what you want to believe. As much as I love you, Peter, I’d prefer if you didn’t contact us over in the States. I want to make this as clean of a break as possible.
With my fondest affection, Helen.
PS: If you hear from Andrew, tell him I love him and miss him. And, sorry about the mess; I look up for a second and Johnny has already made it all filthy. And give Sue loads of kisses from me and make sure she eats something other than sweets.
---
Sirius always seemed to have a black eye, nowadays. He had gotten into three fights since Thursday, all of them with fists and Slytherins. Peter wondered when Sirius had stopped using his wand with his enemies and wondered why.
He wore the injuries proudly, tossing his head back and forcing everyone to acknowledge them. The other Marauders had quickly learned that they were obligated to ask about them every time a new one manifested to be regaled with the story. After three of them, nobody had asked him and Sirius went into a massive sulk. It was only after repeated protestations by Remus that they did care, they just thought he might be sensitive of the subject, that he would talk to them again.
“So, I’m walking down the hall actually minding my own bloody business-“
“-for once.”
“No wonder the Slytherins attacked you, you frightened them.”
“Quit it and let me continue. Anyway, I was walking and I had just past Filch’s office when Regulus and a bunch of his cronies, Avery and the ilk, showed up. They were obviously looking for trouble.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Shut the fuck up, Remus, seriously. Well, Regulus was lurking in the back, sort of wilting like he always does. He seemed to be behind it, though, because they were all looking at him. It was weird.”
Peter could imagine it. Regulus would be near the wall, touching it gently with his fingers and trying to stay in the shadows. Regulus had always been very bad at that; he came from the light-haired blood of the family, sharing genes with Narcissa. His hair gleamed, even in the low light, making that pale Black skin seem ridiculously translucent.
His eyes always seemed purpled and bruised, like his brother's, even if it was only weariness as opposed Sirius’ aggression.
“Do you think he was egging him on?” Peter asked, having developed some idea of what this was about.
“Possibly, you know how they all share a brain. Anyway, they ask me - me, Sirius, Gryffindor-extraordinaire-what I thought of the Death Eaters! Do you believe it! Not only are they evil little shits, but they’re dumb too. I’d already refused them a couple of times and I told them what was what. So, I told them to go Eat Death cunt or something and they fucking flipped.”
“You actually said that?”
“Yeah, do you like it? I thought of it the other day in Charms.”
“Wicked, I’ll have to remember it.”
“Any-fucking-way (Merlin, you fellows are easily distracted), they leapt on me. There must have been five of them or so and pummeled me. Hell, if it would have been any one of them, I would have pounded them, but five? Shows you the Slytherin spirit, that does.”
“Did Regulus attack you too?” Peter asked, interrupting Sirius crowing about how he asked Pomfrey to keep the black eye. Sirius paused, looking considering and an unfamiliar veil shifted over his expression. It grew colder, for a moment, and developed what James referred to as Sirius’ “Black Face.”
“He’s my brother,” Sirius said. “He wouldn’t do that.”
---
No one ever approached James or Remus for the Death Eaters. James was violently, unvaryingly opposed. He had written letters to the Prophet, making up for his father’s column and took every opportunity to go on a rant about the vileness of their beliefs.
He was also dating a Mudblood, which didn’t do anything for his pureblood pedigree.
The reason they never approached Remus was a bit easier to suss out. He was both half-blood and half-breed. Peter had a suspicion that Snape didn't keep the knowledge as secret as anyone would like, but he didn't know enough to prove it.
---
“Hey, look,” Avery said, “It’s little Petey Pettigrew.”
Peter snorted and flicked him off, causing him to gasp in mock horror, “Petey! What sass!”
“Just fuck off, yeah?”
“Why should I?” he said, his voice was oily and confident, with an undertone of sneering throughout. It was amazing how obviously he thought he was better than Peter. It was strange, Peter thought, that these were the people the Death Eaters sent to recruit. They had to be pretty confident in his fear.
“After all, Petey, I think you might have an interest in our organization.”
It was sad, really, that they were recruiting in a school. Did Voldemort really want school boys? Was he that eager to destroy everything?
“Why would you think that?” Peter said, trying to move past him and get to his charms class. He was stopped by Avery’s arm and a few cronies eased into position behind him. From this proximity, Avery’s cologne could gag him. It was oversweet and heavy, curling in the back of his throat. If he had to describe it, he would say it smelled like decay.
“People don’t respect you, Peter. They laugh at you, say how queer it is you are always hanging around Black and Potter,” he said, his voice suddenly soft and kind, “Like I laughed at you before, but for real. I was just making a point, you know?”
His voice was slick, like James’ hair the first time he asked Lily out, like the stairs to the Slytherin dungeons their third year. He was smooth and he was slick and there was an underlying current of utterly annoying disdain.
“I’ll show you how to get respect, Peter.”
“I can get respect on my own,” he said, tasting the chemical flavor of the cologne in the air.
“We are very powerful, Peter.”
“You’ll never win, that’s not the way these things work.”
Avery laughed, stepping back. Peter took a deep breath, finally free from the oppressive scent.
“That’s only the way things work in stories, Peter. Talk to you later, okay?”
He walked off at a languorous pace, his two lackeys trotting to catch up. Stopping suddenly, the burly dark bloke nearly ran into him.
“Oh and Peter? Say hello to your brother Andrew for me, would you?”
---
Peter,
I know it has been a while since we’ve spoken and you probably know why that is. I’ve been a bit busy… I suppose you could say that I’ve had a bit of a career change. In actuality, I’ve joined the followers of the Dark Lord.
Merlin, it sounds a little odd stated straight out like that.
Don’t be horrified with me, Peter. You won’t be, once I tell you why. They were going to attack Helen and her family (you know how I told her not to marry a Muggle, you know I did. Look where it has gotten her now) and I had to do something. They offered me a position in exchange for her life and I accepted. What’s a life compared to a bit of politics? I mean, all politics is unsavory and their cause is good.
It isn’t extermination or any nonsense like that; we just have to be careful. We are a minority, Peter, they out number us to an insane degree. If some overloud Muggle-born lets the wrong people know or we send a fanatic a Hogwarts letter by because she has magic, Godric only knows what would happen. They have bombs, Peter, that can destroy whole cities. We could possibly defeat them one to one, but their numbers are huge and their tecknologogy is incredible.
And it isn’t as if our fears are unfounded; look at our past. Hundreds of thousands of innocent wizards and witches burned at the stake! And sure, we could evade that, but some punishments we couldn’t. They used to crush them with nail filled boards or drown them or countless other horrific deaths.
The Death Eaters are for isolationism, but that isn’t a bad thing. It is common sense, you know?
But anyway. That’s not really what I was trying to say. I’m digressing and that’s dangerous considering what a situation we are in.
Yes, we. Peter, you don’t have a choice in this one.
Father is making a nuisance of himself (he’s so good at that, isn’t he?) and the Dark Lord wants him dead, as a warning. He may despise me, but he’s still my father. Also, he’s sending another Death Eater, one that is very fond of children. I’m worried about little Susan. This one, well. He’s a bad egg, really. A real bad egg.
Anyway, the Dark Lord wants him dead but he wants you more. He says the Pettigrews have given him good service and you have fantastic Gryffindor connections. You really don’t have a choice, Pete. Think of your sister.
With love,
Andrew.
Peter took the parchment and tore off a corner, before folding the rest of it in his pocket carefully. He had to read that more thoroughly in a different situation, without Sirius and James and Remus being boisterous and noisy beside him.
Sirius had tried to read over his shoulder three times, but he was put off by Peter’s out of character snarling.
He stole a quill form Lily’s bag and wrote in firm, block letters.
no.
The owl didn’t even have time to get a snack before Peter sent him off again.
---
When Peter was younger, his sister used to collect the wrappers of Chocolate Frogs. Her older siblings had already claimed all the cards and would steal each other’s collections with hardly a twinge of conscious.
She was the littlest, always the littlest, and so didn’t have much of a chance on that account.
So, with her unique brand of ingenuity, she decided she was going to collect the wrappers.
Within a few years, the others had abandoned their compilations (Helen and Andrew because they were “much too old for that sort of thing” and Peter because Sirius had belittled it on the train) but she still had all her wrappers.
Last Peter saw, she still kept them neatly folded in a shoebox underneath her bed.
---
Three days later, he receives a note from a Great Aunt who lived in Birmingham. It was on a scrap of paper, too small to fold, and she had put the Pettigrew seal in the corner. It gave the ratty little piece an odd sort of dignity and solemnity.
Peter knew it was about the moment he smelt it; that particular Great Aunt had a fondness for sandalwood. She was also his godmother.
Peter,
I’m sorry to have to inform you that there was an attack on your family .Your father and younger sister unfortunately died. I will be making arrangements, as your mother is devastated.
All my best and condolences.
It was short, almost terse. As if she didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there was anything she could say at all.
Peter didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what to think, all he could see was the seal in the corner in red, blood wax. It was a terrible color, a garish color, as overblown and overdone as Lily’s hair and the Gryffindor seal. What did the color even mean? Red, terrible red.
The note fluttered from his hands without him even noticing and he felt a curious disassociation. He heard a first year down the table tell his friend about his mother’s cat. It had been black and it had died.
Remus picked it up and read it and Peter was too numb to stop him. There was a scratchy feeling behind his eyes and a horrible ringing in his ears. He had to get away from all these people, where was Dumbledore’s hand on his shoulder?
He stood up, ignoring Remus’ whispers and entreating hand. He had to get out of here now before he did something a boy wasn’t supposed to do.
---
His littlest sister’s first sign of magic had been to make numbers dance. She had found Andrew’s old Arithmancy text and opened it with chubby, baby hands. Peter had been the one to find her, leaving wet gummy spots on the corners and giggling with personal delight.
Numbers and variables shifted and twirled, ignoring any rules in their bliss. She wailed bitterly when he took the text, so he gave it back to her.
---
He ran to the Owlery and amidst the shit and feathers, down littering the floor and clinging to his hair. Reaching up to feed his owl (he had taken some other poor fool’s owl treats), he tied a note to her leg.
It was to his brother.
Author: das_kabinett
Recipient's name: gehayi
Rating: PG-13 for dark themes and occasional language
Character(s): Peter Pettigrew, James Potter
Warnings: Secondary character death, slight language.
Author's notes: I hope you enjoy my take on Peter, gehayi, it was a lot of fun to write! Thanks so much to my lovely beta cinnamon_sakaki and my good friend Sar for moral support.
We are the creatures of imagination, passion, and self-will, more than of reason or even of self-interest. Even in the common transactions and daily intercourse of life, we are governed by whim, caprice, prejudice, or accident. The falling of a teacup puts us out of temper for the day; and a quarrel that commenced about the pattern of a gown may end only with our lives. -William Hazlitt
It was absurdly simple for Seventh Years to be turning snapping turtles into teacups, so of course, Peter messed it up. Peter was bad at simple things as he got easily distracted. This time it was because of James’ new Quidditch magazine. He had nicked it during History of Magic last class and it had a special on the status of the Golden Snidget. Peter had been thinking about what it would be like to be chased like that all through McGonagoll’s instructions.
Normally, Remus worked with him, but James had vetoed that this year. James now refused to work with anyone but Peter, forcing Remus and Sirius to talk to each other. Peter didn’t really want to explain their problems and probably couldn’t. All he remembered from that night was the rocky scent of Hogwarts mud and stealing a piece of meat from the kitchens for James’ eye -Pomfrey refused to heal black eyes for the Marauders any more, even if it was from a whomp instead of a punch. Peter thought that James was like the charm that stuck them together or the planet they orbited around, both vital and helpless.
The others thought Peter was weak for thinking so, but he wasn’t. He was just particularly attuned to James’ gravity.
This time, though, not even James had time to fix Peter’s disaster. The cup quivered, beginning to move. Peter thought it was tragic; it so obviously was animate, so obviously wanted to scuttle and do whatever turtles did, but cups couldn’t do what turtles did. They didn’t have any of the right appendages.
Peter raised his wand (Peter’s wand was made of ivory and phoenix feather and it was a good bit heavier than the wooden wands. It was also quite temperamental and didn’t work very well in Scottish winters. Peter read once that elephants lived in warm climates and thought that might be why) to try to give it a pair of legs or something, but James snapped, “Don’t try to fix it.”
“I wasn’t,” Peter said, but he lowered his wand.
Sirius snorted and muttered, “Liar.”
Remus looked at Sirius reprovingly, his brow furrowed. Even though Peter hadn’t been lying at all, he was glad to see that interaction. It was refreshingly normal and Remus wouldn’t have been so casually scolding if he still despised Sirius.
They might not know it yet, but everything was going to be fine.
Except, perhaps, James and Peter’s Transfiguration mark. McGonagoll was stalking towards them and James winced at her expression. Peter watched the cup rock and considered blaming its behavior on possession by a very specialized ghost.
It was too late for excuses. She picked it up and examined it, eyebrows shooting upward at the trembling. Peter thought it looked like a scared little bird, though it had been a turtle. Peter imagined it must be a rather traumatic traumatizing experience for any animal to suddenly become a teacup.
She looked at it more closely, sticking her face right near it. Without any warning, the mouth of the cup clamped shut and effectively bit her nose. Peter thought that was quite reasonable of it: it had been a snapping turtle after all and animals always bit when they were frightened (or at least, they always bit him). McGonagoll didn’t seem to think anything was reasonable about it at all, however, judging by her shriek.
Sirius and James were shrieking too, though their shrieks were laughter and even Remus was holding back frantic giggles. Peter rescued the teacup from a certain death by stone floor before he joined in the hilarity.
“Forty points from Gryffindor!” she screamed, ignoring James’ chuckled excuses. It was hardly new that she ignored his excuses. Peter would be hard pressed to think of a time that she didn’t ignore them all together, except for that one time during fourth year where she caught them all dancing in a fifth floor corridor in Muggle woman’s evening gowns. For that, she wanted excuses, if only to mitigate the horror.
“Out of my classroom, you disgusting brats!”
They gladly complied, Peter still clutching the cup. No one seemed to notice its presence until they were out in the hall, but then James fastened his eyes on it with a look of growing wonderment. Sirius sneered at Peter a bit, but didn’t comment. It was obvious why; James was clearly having an Idea. He had Ideas a lot, and they were always capitalized. Sirius loved them because they tended to result in the amusing sort of mayhem that he fed on and even Remus would respect their secret workings. It was the one expression of James’ that Peter could count on the others to understand as easily as Peter did himself.
“Cor,” James said, breathlessly, “Imagine if we could make teacups that did that on purpose.”
---
“What exactly is the point of a nose-biting teacup?”
“Not sure, exactly, but it’ll be pretty wicked.”
“You don’t know how you’re going to use it but you know you are going to like it?”
“It’ll bite the noses of unsuspecting victims; what’s not to like, Remus?”
Peter and James were ignoring the two of them, Peter too focused on the array of stolen cups to even bother feeling pleased over Remus and Sirius’ interaction. James didn’t seem to care at all -- he didn’t seem to care about much anymore. He had grown an disturbing amount of focus this last year and tended to fixate on trivial tasks, almost like distractions.
The original cup was in Peter’s pocket, causing him to sit gingerly. He had given it a pair of legs, but it was sleeping now. Peter never had a familiar and he supposed that china would work as well as anything.
“This is not working!” snarled James, flinging his book of runes to the floor with a dusty thump.
Sirius and Remus exchanged a glance and Remus picked up the book, opening it to its previous page. Sirius opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to try to distract him with a pick-up Quidditch game. James pushed his glasses back up his nose, glaring at him. Sirius shut up.
“Right,” he said, in a different voice, “you look up the Runes, Moony, I’m shite at that. I’ll work on the bit that will make them bite properly.”
“And what should I do, oh master?” Sirius said, wrinkling his nose.
“Be decorative, mate; you’re useless at this.”
“Oh, fuck you,” he said, but settled back into his corner casually.
Sirius was incredibly magically adept, Peter knew, but not in an academic manner. He had been born, raised and taught absolutely saturated in magic. There was no other world, to Sirius. James was a pureblood too, but the Potters weren’t the Blacks. Sirius had trouble with theory, because it seemed ever so pointless. Peter supposed it was like reading a book on how to breathe.
Sirius watched them all, Remus glancing up periodically to smile at him. Peter thought that was rather interesting, but didn’t bother focusing on it. They had talked last evening and the newness of their renewed friendship was emanating from them so much so that Peter could almost smell it.
Peter touched the china in his pocket gently and felt its hum of magic. One could really do all sorts of things with a teacup.
---
It was late and Peter should have left the library already. It was no difficulty avoiding the librarian’s check: he just transformed into a rat and scurried away. He sat crouched against a grimmoire that gave off warmth and seemed to shift in its sleep. It was like a living thing beside him , exuding a tangible malevolence. It made Wormtail’s teeth ache to chew.
Finally, the beady-eyed woman left, satisfied that her library had been properly vacated. She was a horrible woman. Peter didn’t like her at all and she didn’t like him. He thought she loved print and binding more than she liked the words inside and she thought he mistreated his books. They were both right, and she especially so. Peter was always getting scolded for spills, dog-ears and doodles - people thought he hated to read, but he didn’t. He just treated his books like old friends -able to be used and abused, no matter how comforting.
He climbed out of the books and transformed back into a human, nose still twitching. The smells were less intense in this fleshy body and every creak was far less ominous.
He still remembered the feel of that book, even through the ratty filter, and bent to find it. It almost certainly wouldn’t be any good to either the Potions essay or the Care of Magical Creatures essay, but both had already slipped Peter’s mind.
He ruffled and snuffled, rubbing his fingers on the spines, trying to equate the sensation to the feel of fur. It was easy to find - no other book seethed so.
Taking it out of the shelf, he placed his palm on the front. His skin prickled and he suppressed the sneeze the dust produced. Peter didn’t really know what Dark magic felt like, but he knew this had to be it. The fact that it was in the wrong section gave him no pause; all libraries had reshelving problems and Hogwarts more than most. In their third year, James had royally buggered up the runes in the card catalogue and books had flippantly changed location. Peter figured they’d need another full decade to properly repair the damage.
He opened the book, still uneasy but tempered with excitement. The cover page said, “Magical Stability and The Dark Arts.” A silver stain of what he hoped was quicksilver and not unicorn blood marred the creamy paper and there were glittering fingerprints that ought to have faded by now. This book had absorbed a lot of magic in its time and Peter fancied he could feel it growl underneath his fingers. It was the type of book that was useful to both practical wizard and academic magician - stability was crucial in all the most powerful, Dark or delicate magic. Peter imagined it kept close at hand during the final stages of any great magical work, sitting in the corner and soaking in energy.
Peter flipped through the preface, picking out words and intriguing sentences. The author seemed to like to see his own quill move and the prose was shockingly self-conscious. But the introduction wasn’t the important part: it was what followed that could be useful to the Marauders’ experimentation. He turned to the first chapter, entitled “Infusing Magic through Strong Emotion”, and began to read.
---
They were having problems. The spells to make the china capable of biting were rather simple and they just etched very specific Transfiguration spells translated into runes on the cup. (Remus had written them, he had the steadiest hand.) The problem was teaching the cup when to bite. Teacups were not apt at distinguishing the difference between fingers and noses. They couldn’t just write a new layer of runes; they had tried that and they had acted with seemingly random volatility. Out of five trials, three had exploded, one had been rendered completely absent of magic and the third had turned into a bowl of petunias.
But even still, James would never use the book. James hated Dark magic, he would never do something so patently dark, even if Peter knew it was the only way to finish the teacup and finish it properly.
Peter was always the one who knew things like that --he was the detail man. He was good at watching, observing. He was particularly good at tangents and wondering, both of which excelled at figuring out unique solutions to problems. Sirius had the bursts of ideas and James was the passion pushing them through. Remus was brilliant at “public relations”, and lied, bluffed and distracted their way through all sorts of situations. But Peter was the one who twisted the spell just a bit and found the answer. He wasn’t very good at the spell itself and he probably didn’t understand anything particularly, but that was all right. He’d keep his intuition and his peculiar creativity and let the others have their brilliance.
Ripping the page out of the book, he stuffed it in his pocket. Remus would have died, which is why he did these sorts of things with Remus gone. The boy hated abusing books, whereas Peter took it as a matter of course. Books weren’t important themselves; it was the information inside of them that was important. Besides, it was hardly as if Remus hadn’t nicked books in his time.
---
The Letter dropped into James’ plate during lunch and the owl didn’t even wait for a treat. The Letter was opened with sticky peanut-buttered fingers and Sirius leaned forward to ask what it said.
Peter wasn’t looking at Sirius, though, he was staring at James, James who had grown up loved and loving and showed all his feelings on his face. He was shaking. The streak of cherry jam was startling red against his cheek like a yawning gash. All Peter could see was James trying so very hard not to cry, and they were so focused on that that they both jumped at Dumbledore’s hand.
“James,” he said, “come with me and have some sweets in my office.”
Lily touched his hand as he stood, her eyes confused. Peter thought the redness of her hair was even more garish than James’ cherry jam, which he smeared on her cheek when he leaned down to clutch at her in a quick hug.
No one learned what happened from James, not even Peter. Some of his childhood had melted from his features, leaving them a little less flexible and a little more determined than before.
James returned from the Headmaster’s office just before dinner and the other three boys followed him wordlessly. They spent the meal watching both the sunset and the parchment burn, with vibrant pieces of red blazing and fading into ashy gray.
The letter had been a politely worded note from the illness ward in St. Mungo. Mr. and Mrs. Potter fell down with a virulent flu virus, which was eventually fatal. Peter had summoned the ashes and performed a spell they had found in their fifth year that allowed him to read it. He never told James that he knew, but a few years later, he had brought tea and biscuits for him when Mediwizards finally linked this particular strain to a curse developed by English research wizards in World War I. The previous version of the curse had raged out of control, devastating the wizarding population of Europe to a point that they hadn’t yet recovered from and killing millions of Muggles besides.
Later that evening, Sirius incited James into a wrestling match, Remus did his essay for Binns and Peter approached him and handed him a small vial of liquid.
“That should give those cups some sense,” he said, gruffly.
James didn’t ask what it was; he only smiled a little. Peter noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Thanks.”
---
Peter’s little sister got really grumpy, really easily. She would soil her new robe or break her toy wand and go into massive, histrionic sulks. She reminded Peter of no one so much as Sirius.
Peter’s parents tried cajoling her and his older siblings could ignore her, but Peter was too close in both age and distance to tolerate it. When he was younger, he’d hit her and it would escalate into enormous, inflated affairs.
Once Peter had figured out Sirius, however, he knew how to deal with her. He would ignore the issue and act like he didn’t care about her emotions. She would settle down ever time, or, at the very least, engage herself in convincing him about how much he loved her.
---
Since there really wasn’t much else left to do on the cups, Remus and Sirius were always slipping off, cheeks pink like the sheen of new scar tissue, healing over their scraped friendship. James barely noticed, but James didn’t notice anything anymore, save the soft scent of Muggle shampoo and the cramped light of a forgotten hallway near the statue of the Warring Goblins. Peter never learned which warring goblins they were, even though he made an effort to find out once. It turned out that so many goblins had warred over the years that art historians had given up and attempted to justify their lack of knowledge by vague mumblings of Archetypes and the artist’s thematic genius. Peter found that art historians did that a lot.
Lily had taken to coming, a state of affairs that Peter wasn’t sure he liked. She was good at Charms, brilliant even, but he wasn’t sure they needed her. At first she just sat in the corner, knees pulled into her chest and watching.
“Here,” she said once, standing and raising her wand, “try it like this.”
She flicked her wrist with admirable form and Peter faded back a little to watch. James glanced up at her and said, smiling, “That worked better.”
They had all the pieces, now they were just putting it together. Everything was coming together and Peter had no place here anymore. Only charms for safety were left to go and he was no good at Charms.
He took Lily’s place, the cloak she had been sitting on warm and sweet-smelling from her body, but still damp from the stone floor. He took the teacup out and settled it on his lap, watching it twitch as if it was waking. It was still animate and still incapable of moving; he wasn’t sure why he didn’t just end the transfiguration or adjust the legs until it could walk, but he kept it captured in the china and listened to James’ and Lily’s quiet discussion.
Suddenly they were kissing over the cauldron of Peter’s potion, Lily’s hair three inches from its bubbling top.
Peter jumped up.
“Hey!” he said, with joking displeasure, “Don’t get distracted, you plonker, stop molesting Evans and start finishing our joke, yeah?”
James flipped him off, but they all laughed and Lily retreated just long enough for James to finish the spell on the demonstration copy.
As he sat back down, he realized that the teacup had shattered as it hit the floor.
---
Another letter came, but it was for Peter this time.
My only son,
I hope everything is going well and thank you for writing. Your marks have improved this year and the number of notices from your Head of House have decreased rapidly. Less mischief than usual, it seems. I’m pleased with this, I must admit, because it shows much-needed maturity. As I have always told you, Peter, if you have incentive and focus you could do anything. I’m proud that you seem to have found your own focus, but now that you are older, let me say this: You are the future of the Pettigrews, Peter. If anything happens to me (like the poor Potters; is James doing alright? Invite him at Christmas) you will be the man of the house. You must promise me you’ll protect your mother and your younger sister. Your older sister seems to think she’s fine without us; that is her choice, however wrong it may be. I hope Sirius, Remus and James are all well and your mother sends her love.
Yours,
Joseph Pettigrew.
Peter wrote back thanking him vaguely, trying to hide his edge of confusion. With that owl, he sent another one, asking a dozen different questions. He had an older brother, he wasn’t the only son, he wasn’t the man of the house. He was just little Peter and there was no reason to fear for anything. Dad was an Auror, but he did paperwork all day. There was no danger, he insisted.
His mum never wrote back.
---
“I can’t believe we actually sold it!” Peter said, breathlessly.
“I can,” Sirius replied with a haughty sort of arrogance. His grin betrayed his excitement, though, all lopsided and goofy.
“Well, you are notoriously gullible, Pads, of course you’d believe anything,” said Remus, ducking just in time to avoid his tackle. Sirius ended up running into the wall laughing and slipping on a wet patch of mud. He was all elbows and shoulders and puppylike hair; Peter was glad to see him romp properly, he had been growing far too much dignity of late.
Speaking of dignity, James held himself back from them all, arm slung around Lily’s waste and watching them. Peter didn’t like that one bit. Glancing at Remus and Sirius and figuring that they were too busy tussling to be any use, he knew he’d have to do it himself.
Stopping dead, he turned and smiled sweetly at James, hand absently thrust in his bag and searching as he spoke.
“Why James! Aren’t you excited?”
He grinned and nodded, running his free hand through his hair, “Of course, Pete, but I must say. I never expected any less of myself.”
Lily punched him in the arm and he winked at her, saying, “After all, I got the bird; I can do anything!”
Peter tossed the teacup at him and it flew at his face, clamping down on his nose. James yelped, letting go of Lily and ripping off the enraged piece of dining ware. Remus and Sirius had been distracted from their fight and were laughing at him, while Peter had scurried off.
“Anything, of course, ’cept expecting the obvious! Stupid sod!”
James gave a bellow and followed, nearly running over an unfortunate third year.
---
Late that night, they sat in the Gryffindor common room with piles of food sitting in the middle. Sirius had claimed the couch, only reluctantly budging over for Remus and James and Lily were sharing the armchair.
Every once in a while they retreated to some secret world, touching noses and enchanted little whispers. Sirius would look at Remus and make gagging noises, wrinkling his nose. Remus would hit him and Sirius would yelp and break the spell.
Peter was sitting on the floor and was in charge of toasting the bread. Peter was brilliant at it and easily the best cook of them all. The scene was cozy and warm and familiar, too: Peter had always toasted bread for his littlest sister and she would try to eat it when it was far too hot. It was the sort of situation that would normally attract a ridiculous amount of fellow students, but Sirius had successfully scared them all away.
“We can’t stop with that, you know,” James said, curling his fingers in Lily’s hair.
“Stop with what?” she said, unable to follow his train of thought as easily as the rest of them did.
“But what else are we going to make?” Sirius asked, “A whole nose-biting series? Or perhaps a version that bites arses, yeah?”
Lily, having been filled in by Remus, said, “You’re foul.”
Sirius blew her a kiss. James raised his eyebrows and said, “Trying to steal my bird, mate?”
“Don’t call me that, it’s patronizing.”
“Are you honestly surprised, Lily?” Remus said, a half-smile on his face. She shrugged.
“Not trying to steal her,” Sirius said, giving her a critical and evaluating look. “Not worth the effort.”
Lily shrieked and James laughed (which only earned him another whack).
“Don’t be offended, Lils, he just means that he knows I’d kill him in his sleep. He loves his beauty rest too much.”
“At least I’ve got beauty, you ugly plonker.”
“I think it is a great idea,” Peter said, in a soft voice. The bickering lasted a few more seconds unperturbed before Lily asked,
“Me dating Sirius?”
“No, what James said.”
Sirius rolled his eyes and settled backward, looking decidedly unsurprised, “Well of course you would, Wormy.”
“Well, it is a good idea. I mean, we are good at pranks, right?” he said, his eyes darting from face to face to gauge reactions, “Why not do something with that? Like, continue it after school?”
He would never admit how much that would please him, to stay together. He wasn’t looking forward to disrupting this order.
There was a moment of consideration. Remus met his eyes and Peter saw some of his own enthusiasm echoed in there. Sirius looked displeased, probably at being reminded he was going to have to leave his haven. Sirius loved the school. He was the only Gryffindor who would sulk just before every holiday and he always took ages to pack. Peter sometimes thought that the incredible chaos of his things every term was purposeful; it gave him an excuse to linger at the end. Peter imagined him methodically strewing socks in the most unlikely of places and it always made him giggle.
It was James who broke the silence.
“Because there is a war going on,” he said, a note of harshness in his voice, “I didn’t mean after school, I meant here. You know, for a bit more fun. But we can’t continue joking while people are dying.”
Lily put her hand on his arm, her pale skin contrasted against his deep tan. Peter averted his eyes and examined the fire.
---
The rat saw things in smells and sounds, movements and the sense of vibration. The clum-thud of Prongs’ hooves were felt more than heard, rattling his bones and causing his feet to clutch into the rough fur. The stag snorted, huffing mildewed and stagnant air through his nostrils, nervous at the confinement.
The mud smelled metallic, rough, like rocks. Prongs’ weight and Padfoot’s exuberance shook the walls of the tunnel, sending remnants of it scattering from the ceiling, crumbling down upon them.
The end of the tunnel was close, Padfoot obviously knew it. His tail, strings of dirty hair waving like a banner, whipped frantically and Wormtail couldn’t help but watch it. He couldn’t help but watch and smell and attempt to ignore the odor of offal somewhere near, wafting near him unusual sweetness.
A scream sounded and shifted, cracked, mutilated itself into a howl. The night was beginning. And Wormtail would watch the play and smell the forest, despite the unsettling strength of Prongs’ bounds and the predator scent of the other two.
Padfoot’s bark clattered around the entrance to the shack and into it, answering the howl.
Wormtail heard Moony scratching at the door; the wolf always seethed and crackled with energy, this early in the evening. He needed to run and they’d run with him. Padfoot twisted out of himself, turning into Sirius, black fur shifting/retreating/lengthening and turning into hair.
Wormtail recoiled instinctively and Prongs snorted.
Human.
Moony’s howls took on a new ferocity and a slight desperation. Prongs leaned against the door, throwing his considerable weight against the wolf’s efforts. Sirius grinned, fire and mischief, and unlatched the door with nimble fingers laced with his innate magic.
Dust and pebbles littered down, the wolf had heard the latch. Leaping away, Sirius shifted back into Padfoot before he hit the ground. Prongs let the door open and Moony came snarling out, hackles raised and fur bristling.
Wormtail didn’t understand this part (Padfoot showing his neck and Moony biting/playing/stomping, pleading with each other); neither human nor rat could follow the canine play. But he watched it all the same, until the light returned and the fresh wet smells of dew overpowered Moony, birthing him from the moonlight back into Remus.
---
In the morning they left Remus, slipping away under James’ cloak.
James’ eyes were fever-bright. There was a scrape of mud across his cheek and his grin was infectious and manic. Sirius kept on glancing over his shoulder, back at the sad looking Shack. It was always so intimidating in the evenings and so utterly pathetic each morning.
“I have an idea for another Product,” James said and Sirius didn’t respond.
“Yeah?” Peter replied, biting his nails and spitting out the ends, “What is it?”
“What if you made a bomb that spread fire everywhere?”
Sirius glanced at him and raised an eyebrow, “We know spells that do that, don’t need a Product.”
“Yeah, but they are bloody difficult,” Peter said, “And that’s the point of magical things, innit? Make difficult spells doable for idiots?”
“Only difficult for you, dumbarse.”
“Fuck off.”
---
The parchment was crinkled and had grubby baby fingerprints all over the page. Long streaks of colored wax cut across his sister’s penmanship, which was far more harried and rough than her usual elegance.
Peter,
I hope everything is well, thank you for writing. (His family always began their letters like that. His mother, who had no knowledge of etiquette but a strong sense of propriety, had instilled in her children a series of little rules and quirks. They always tucked their serviette underneath their chins and put the top back on the jar of Floo powder. She also instructed grave little eleven year olds on the way to the train, owl cage clutched in their hands, the fine art of letter writing. ) I’m writing you to let you know that Richard and I are moving to America; we’ve decided we don’t want to raise our son in this environment. I don’t know how much you know about the war (I remember my time at Hogwarts, don’t get me wrong. We were so worried about everything there that the real world seemed positively imaginary) and I’m quite sure you don’t know about the war and us. Our parents have abandoned Andrew. They call him awful names and say terrible things; terrible things that my twin would never do. He’s a good man, Peter, no matter if he has silly ideas sometime. I know we are all frightened of the Voldemort character, but I thought the point of this country was freedom to have whatever political views we like? This hysteria is infections and devastating; the war is terrible but it is equally bad to trust the Ministry absolutely. But I go on so, it isn’t even worth it. Don’t let Mum and Dad bully you; do what you want with your life, believe what you want to believe. As much as I love you, Peter, I’d prefer if you didn’t contact us over in the States. I want to make this as clean of a break as possible.
With my fondest affection, Helen.
PS: If you hear from Andrew, tell him I love him and miss him. And, sorry about the mess; I look up for a second and Johnny has already made it all filthy. And give Sue loads of kisses from me and make sure she eats something other than sweets.
---
Sirius always seemed to have a black eye, nowadays. He had gotten into three fights since Thursday, all of them with fists and Slytherins. Peter wondered when Sirius had stopped using his wand with his enemies and wondered why.
He wore the injuries proudly, tossing his head back and forcing everyone to acknowledge them. The other Marauders had quickly learned that they were obligated to ask about them every time a new one manifested to be regaled with the story. After three of them, nobody had asked him and Sirius went into a massive sulk. It was only after repeated protestations by Remus that they did care, they just thought he might be sensitive of the subject, that he would talk to them again.
“So, I’m walking down the hall actually minding my own bloody business-“
“-for once.”
“No wonder the Slytherins attacked you, you frightened them.”
“Quit it and let me continue. Anyway, I was walking and I had just past Filch’s office when Regulus and a bunch of his cronies, Avery and the ilk, showed up. They were obviously looking for trouble.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Shut the fuck up, Remus, seriously. Well, Regulus was lurking in the back, sort of wilting like he always does. He seemed to be behind it, though, because they were all looking at him. It was weird.”
Peter could imagine it. Regulus would be near the wall, touching it gently with his fingers and trying to stay in the shadows. Regulus had always been very bad at that; he came from the light-haired blood of the family, sharing genes with Narcissa. His hair gleamed, even in the low light, making that pale Black skin seem ridiculously translucent.
His eyes always seemed purpled and bruised, like his brother's, even if it was only weariness as opposed Sirius’ aggression.
“Do you think he was egging him on?” Peter asked, having developed some idea of what this was about.
“Possibly, you know how they all share a brain. Anyway, they ask me - me, Sirius, Gryffindor-extraordinaire-what I thought of the Death Eaters! Do you believe it! Not only are they evil little shits, but they’re dumb too. I’d already refused them a couple of times and I told them what was what. So, I told them to go Eat Death cunt or something and they fucking flipped.”
“You actually said that?”
“Yeah, do you like it? I thought of it the other day in Charms.”
“Wicked, I’ll have to remember it.”
“Any-fucking-way (Merlin, you fellows are easily distracted), they leapt on me. There must have been five of them or so and pummeled me. Hell, if it would have been any one of them, I would have pounded them, but five? Shows you the Slytherin spirit, that does.”
“Did Regulus attack you too?” Peter asked, interrupting Sirius crowing about how he asked Pomfrey to keep the black eye. Sirius paused, looking considering and an unfamiliar veil shifted over his expression. It grew colder, for a moment, and developed what James referred to as Sirius’ “Black Face.”
“He’s my brother,” Sirius said. “He wouldn’t do that.”
---
No one ever approached James or Remus for the Death Eaters. James was violently, unvaryingly opposed. He had written letters to the Prophet, making up for his father’s column and took every opportunity to go on a rant about the vileness of their beliefs.
He was also dating a Mudblood, which didn’t do anything for his pureblood pedigree.
The reason they never approached Remus was a bit easier to suss out. He was both half-blood and half-breed. Peter had a suspicion that Snape didn't keep the knowledge as secret as anyone would like, but he didn't know enough to prove it.
---
“Hey, look,” Avery said, “It’s little Petey Pettigrew.”
Peter snorted and flicked him off, causing him to gasp in mock horror, “Petey! What sass!”
“Just fuck off, yeah?”
“Why should I?” he said, his voice was oily and confident, with an undertone of sneering throughout. It was amazing how obviously he thought he was better than Peter. It was strange, Peter thought, that these were the people the Death Eaters sent to recruit. They had to be pretty confident in his fear.
“After all, Petey, I think you might have an interest in our organization.”
It was sad, really, that they were recruiting in a school. Did Voldemort really want school boys? Was he that eager to destroy everything?
“Why would you think that?” Peter said, trying to move past him and get to his charms class. He was stopped by Avery’s arm and a few cronies eased into position behind him. From this proximity, Avery’s cologne could gag him. It was oversweet and heavy, curling in the back of his throat. If he had to describe it, he would say it smelled like decay.
“People don’t respect you, Peter. They laugh at you, say how queer it is you are always hanging around Black and Potter,” he said, his voice suddenly soft and kind, “Like I laughed at you before, but for real. I was just making a point, you know?”
His voice was slick, like James’ hair the first time he asked Lily out, like the stairs to the Slytherin dungeons their third year. He was smooth and he was slick and there was an underlying current of utterly annoying disdain.
“I’ll show you how to get respect, Peter.”
“I can get respect on my own,” he said, tasting the chemical flavor of the cologne in the air.
“We are very powerful, Peter.”
“You’ll never win, that’s not the way these things work.”
Avery laughed, stepping back. Peter took a deep breath, finally free from the oppressive scent.
“That’s only the way things work in stories, Peter. Talk to you later, okay?”
He walked off at a languorous pace, his two lackeys trotting to catch up. Stopping suddenly, the burly dark bloke nearly ran into him.
“Oh and Peter? Say hello to your brother Andrew for me, would you?”
---
Peter,
I know it has been a while since we’ve spoken and you probably know why that is. I’ve been a bit busy… I suppose you could say that I’ve had a bit of a career change. In actuality, I’ve joined the followers of the Dark Lord.
Merlin, it sounds a little odd stated straight out like that.
Don’t be horrified with me, Peter. You won’t be, once I tell you why. They were going to attack Helen and her family (you know how I told her not to marry a Muggle, you know I did. Look where it has gotten her now) and I had to do something. They offered me a position in exchange for her life and I accepted. What’s a life compared to a bit of politics? I mean, all politics is unsavory and their cause is good.
It isn’t extermination or any nonsense like that; we just have to be careful. We are a minority, Peter, they out number us to an insane degree. If some overloud Muggle-born lets the wrong people know or we send a fanatic a Hogwarts letter by because she has magic, Godric only knows what would happen. They have bombs, Peter, that can destroy whole cities. We could possibly defeat them one to one, but their numbers are huge and their tecknologogy is incredible.
And it isn’t as if our fears are unfounded; look at our past. Hundreds of thousands of innocent wizards and witches burned at the stake! And sure, we could evade that, but some punishments we couldn’t. They used to crush them with nail filled boards or drown them or countless other horrific deaths.
The Death Eaters are for isolationism, but that isn’t a bad thing. It is common sense, you know?
But anyway. That’s not really what I was trying to say. I’m digressing and that’s dangerous considering what a situation we are in.
Yes, we. Peter, you don’t have a choice in this one.
Father is making a nuisance of himself (he’s so good at that, isn’t he?) and the Dark Lord wants him dead, as a warning. He may despise me, but he’s still my father. Also, he’s sending another Death Eater, one that is very fond of children. I’m worried about little Susan. This one, well. He’s a bad egg, really. A real bad egg.
Anyway, the Dark Lord wants him dead but he wants you more. He says the Pettigrews have given him good service and you have fantastic Gryffindor connections. You really don’t have a choice, Pete. Think of your sister.
With love,
Andrew.
Peter took the parchment and tore off a corner, before folding the rest of it in his pocket carefully. He had to read that more thoroughly in a different situation, without Sirius and James and Remus being boisterous and noisy beside him.
Sirius had tried to read over his shoulder three times, but he was put off by Peter’s out of character snarling.
He stole a quill form Lily’s bag and wrote in firm, block letters.
no.
The owl didn’t even have time to get a snack before Peter sent him off again.
---
When Peter was younger, his sister used to collect the wrappers of Chocolate Frogs. Her older siblings had already claimed all the cards and would steal each other’s collections with hardly a twinge of conscious.
She was the littlest, always the littlest, and so didn’t have much of a chance on that account.
So, with her unique brand of ingenuity, she decided she was going to collect the wrappers.
Within a few years, the others had abandoned their compilations (Helen and Andrew because they were “much too old for that sort of thing” and Peter because Sirius had belittled it on the train) but she still had all her wrappers.
Last Peter saw, she still kept them neatly folded in a shoebox underneath her bed.
---
Three days later, he receives a note from a Great Aunt who lived in Birmingham. It was on a scrap of paper, too small to fold, and she had put the Pettigrew seal in the corner. It gave the ratty little piece an odd sort of dignity and solemnity.
Peter knew it was about the moment he smelt it; that particular Great Aunt had a fondness for sandalwood. She was also his godmother.
Peter,
I’m sorry to have to inform you that there was an attack on your family .Your father and younger sister unfortunately died. I will be making arrangements, as your mother is devastated.
All my best and condolences.
It was short, almost terse. As if she didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there was anything she could say at all.
Peter didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what to think, all he could see was the seal in the corner in red, blood wax. It was a terrible color, a garish color, as overblown and overdone as Lily’s hair and the Gryffindor seal. What did the color even mean? Red, terrible red.
The note fluttered from his hands without him even noticing and he felt a curious disassociation. He heard a first year down the table tell his friend about his mother’s cat. It had been black and it had died.
Remus picked it up and read it and Peter was too numb to stop him. There was a scratchy feeling behind his eyes and a horrible ringing in his ears. He had to get away from all these people, where was Dumbledore’s hand on his shoulder?
He stood up, ignoring Remus’ whispers and entreating hand. He had to get out of here now before he did something a boy wasn’t supposed to do.
---
His littlest sister’s first sign of magic had been to make numbers dance. She had found Andrew’s old Arithmancy text and opened it with chubby, baby hands. Peter had been the one to find her, leaving wet gummy spots on the corners and giggling with personal delight.
Numbers and variables shifted and twirled, ignoring any rules in their bliss. She wailed bitterly when he took the text, so he gave it back to her.
---
He ran to the Owlery and amidst the shit and feathers, down littering the floor and clinging to his hair. Reaching up to feed his owl (he had taken some other poor fool’s owl treats), he tied a note to her leg.
It was to his brother.