(belated) Week 2 topic - New Year's Resolutions
A/N: takes place a few weeks after 'Sharing Secrets', the week 4 topic (love at first sight).
Christmas and New Year 1975
From where Peter sat sprawled on the carpet in the hallway, the house seemed quieter than he could ever remember. Christmas Eve was usually party night in the Pettigrew household, self-important Ministry officials and a few social climbers lower down the scale vying for attention in all their drunken finery.
It wasn't just the unusual silence, however. This time, everything about the house felt, and looked, different. Not just in the way that it seemed smaller every year when he came home from school having grown another few inches, but suddenly shabbier and a little old-fashioned. For the first time he noticed the wallpaper was starting to fade a little out here in the hall, and pale winter sunlight streaming through the glass-paned front door highlighted the thin layer of dust over everything. Even with just one house elf the place had always been spotless and hospitable; now the carpets could do with a clean, and he knew the sweet jar in the kitchen was still empty even though he had been home for two days already. He'd never come home to a house so unprepared for the holidays.
He pulled the Pettigrew family Christmas ornaments out of their box and spread them on the floor under the tree. He laid aside the tastefully expensive magical ornaments carefully stored in their boxes - without a seasonal social occasion planned to show it off at, he had permission to decorate the tree as he liked.
Right at the bottom of the cardboard box were old-fashioned coloured glass baubles and an assortment of oddities that took him back to his childhood in an instant. The peculiar red rubbery sleigh that hardly had any paint left on it; the spindly-legged reindeer with a broken antler and a mysterious piece of gold string tied round its neck; a silver plastic rabbit that had no appreciable connection with Christmas except that possibly a Peter of many years ago had picked up the pretty shiny thing and reverently put it on the tree. It still held more Christmas spirit for him than all the high-priced but soulless baubles his mother had bought in Diagon Alley over the years. He smiled as he lodged the decorations in the tree and hung the old-fashioned ornaments on the tips of the branches, memories of handing them to his mother coming back from times when he could barely reach the very bottom branches by himself.
The smile quickly faded as the footsteps on the stairs brought him back to the present. Faded lipstick, too heavy powder around the eyes, sensible heels instead of too-high strappy sandals - somehow middle age had found his mother while he hadn't been looking.
"Come on up now, Peter. He's feeling a bit better." Her voice too was duller these days, not the shrill bright birdsong he remembered.
- - - - -
It wasn't till he reached the doorway of the bedroom that he realised how much he was dreading this moment. At first glance it seemed he had been…well, not worried about nothing, but at least building himself up for a greater shock than he received. There was colour in his father's cheeks, and he was alert and lucid, even though his once round face was strained and thin above the crisp white sheets. He seemed much frailer than he had a few short months ago.
Peter stood awkwardly by the bed, not sure what he should do. Tibby the house elf smiled at him and pushed a chair forward for him to sit.
"H...how's school?" His father's voice was hoarse and exhausted, but stronger than he'd feared.
"It's all right. You know." Although Peter suspected he very likely didn't know. Life at Hogwarts in his experience pretty much consisted of pranks, kitchen raids, running a book on the house Quidditch cup, and late night butterbeer contests. If any of those had been regular pursuits of his sober and respectable father at school he'd eat the house elf.
Edward Pettigrew seemed pleased enough with the general pronouncement though, nodding gently until his eyes closed and his breathing became steadier. Peter couldn't take his eyes off what now appeared to be an unnatural flush to the skin, and the increasingly obvious hollows that lent the face a skeletal look in repose.
He tiptoed out of the room, unsure if and when he would summon up the will to return.
- - - - -
'…going to let us loose in London on New Years Eve, Sirius wants to celebrate in Trafalgar Square but I daren't tell Mum that or she'll never let us out of the house! See you soon, can't wait to see what you make of the new broom in action,
James'
Peter put the letter down. He must have read it thirty times since it arrived, full of an excited account of presents, Christmas treats and plans. It would have made him envious any other year, but this time it made him ache to be so cut off from them, and from a real holiday. He wished he were with them instead of…here. Or even back at Hogwarts - he knew Remus was going back early, either today or tomorrow as it was the full moon just before term started.
Remus. For the first time it occurred to him how bad the transformation must be for him at home if he preferred the shack as a refuge. He shuddered. The bites and scratches, the wounds he'd seen on Remus no matter how well he'd tried to hide them…he knew logically that a werewolf change was different from the Animagus transformation they were all trying to master, but the idea that it might be anywhere near as painful as Remus' experience had held him back; he knew he was the only one truly afraid of it. James and Sirius swore it wasn't so bad, but they had been pale and trembling the first time they had succeeded, just a couple of nights before the holidays.
The clock behind him chimed the hour gently, echoed seconds later by fainter chimes from the clocks scattered around the house. Eight o'clock. James and Sirius were probably on their way out already. Four hours until the new year, and where was he going to be? He glanced at the upright winged armchair where his mother had sat down to 'rest her eyes' half an hour ago. Head to one side, her mouth was slightly open, breathing the irregular rhythm of shallow sleep that might jerk back into wakefulness at any moment.
He considered waking her - lunch and dinner had been forgotten today and his stomach was complaining it had been too many hours since breakfast. Instead he tucked the letter back in its creased envelope and headed off to the kitchen in search of a snack. His mother's idea of cooking tended to be a sandwich washed down with a gin and tonic anyway.
Even before he reached the kitchen he could smell something delicious. Tibby was stirring a large pan of soup, arms clearly tiring as she reached over the stove. He took the wooden stirrer from her and sniffed deeply as she smiled at him.
"Thank you, Master Peter. You a good boy, so kind to Tibby." She pulled herself up onto a kitchen chair, legs dangling.
"It smells good." His stomach rumbled loudly.
"Master Peter, there is plenty! The Master can only have soup, but if you is wanting anything else, Tibby can make it when Master is sleeping." She jiggled on the chair, eager despite her obvious exhaustion.
"Soup's fine," he assured her. He reached for another bowl and filled them both, placing one on the silver tray nearby. He paused for a long moment before putting the second bowl on too, and two spoons. It had been days since he had been upstairs, but right now it seemed like a good time. "I…I'll take it up. You - I don't know - maybe have a bit of a break?"
Tibby blinked up at him, her eyes suspiciously damp. "Master will be pleased to see you."
- - - - -
The room was in near-darkness, the heavy curtains drawn to block out streetlights and a smattering of early fireworks. The fire was blazing, the only light in the room and the source of a suffocating heat that buffeted him as he entered.
He nudged a doorstop into place with his foot to allow more light in. The room was being constantly rearranged these days, making for too many unexpected obstacles in the dark.
Once the tray was settled on one of the many tables scattered around, he lit the lamps quickly and turned to the bed. A grey face stirred against the white starched pillow. His mother had never had white bedding in here when it was a bedroom rather than a sickroom, just rich dark reds and jewel-like blues and greens that made a dramatic backdrop to her fluttering bright blonde presence. Now the old four-poster looked as stiff and clinical as a hospital bed.
Peter moved a table closer to the bed and set the soup bowls down. He pressed his father's stiff fingers around the spoon and steadied his hand, waiting until the first mouthful had reached its goal before starting on his own bowlful. He ate quickly once he remembered how hungry he was, his eyes darting from his bowl to the shaking hand holding the other spoon, hoping he was getting this right. Should he have offered him more help? He had no idea what Tibby did up here, but he was unaccountably scared that he would have to spoon-feed this fragile man that bore so little resemblance to his father.
The colour seemed to come back into the sick man's tired face as if the soup thawed and warmed him through. The thick drowsy heat of the room hardly seemed to touch him; in fact even the sheets still felt cool by some miracle. Reluctant to start a conversation until the soup was finished, Peter fidgeted with some loose jigsaw pieces by a half-completed puzzle, turning a couple round to try to fit them. He couldn't really see what the picture was yet, but it seemed to involve more sky than seemed strictly necessary, most of it thankfully in the completed section. He shook a few more pieces from the box and shuffled them around idly, looking for edges of bright blue sky to begin expanding into the more interesting part of the picture.
"Not there. Over here." He followed the unsteady finger to where it pointed and tried the piece he was holding, moving it around until it fitted. Sky, tree, something red…he moved more pieces over to the other side and let his father examine them.
With just an occasional grunt or exclamation they worked in companiable near silence for what might have been hours, until a telephone box and part of what was possibly some sort of London landmark appeared on the board. Curious, Peter finally looked around for the box lid. It didn't even appear to be a famous landmark, just a building with a telephone box nearby and a bridge over the Thames in the background. The only things that moved were a boat along the river and a couple of birds that flapped disconsolately towards the edge of the box now and again. He threw the lid down in disgust.
A creaky laugh made him look up as his fingers were drawn in spite of himself to rifle through the smooth pieces of the puzzle again.
"I did all the more interesting ones months ago. I think your mother-" he paused for a coughing fit. "I think your mother is sick of looking out puzzles for me."
"Isn't there anything else you want to do?" Peter was rapidly reaching the limit of his patience with the annoyingly irregular pieces of cardboard.
The scrawny shoulders shrugged slightly. "Fly out to a mountain top and watch the sun come up. Take your mother out dancing again. Be your age again and spend even more time in detention than I did first time round."
Peter was still in shock from the first pronouncement when the final bomb dropped. "You had detentions?"
A ghost of a smile twitched at the pale lips. "Probably not as many as you from what your mother tells me, but I was no saint. I was in Gryffindor too, after all. I know what it's like."
Peter looked down at his hands. "'M not all that bad."
"You are, but you'll grow out of it. God knows I did." His father's eyes were more focused than he had seen them yet, and looking sadly at him. "Live a bit first though, take a few chances before it's too late. Do what you want to do, even if you don't have a good reason for it. Not the most profound advice in the world, but it's all I've got."
Peter wasn't sure what to say. Man to man talks between them were a rare occurrence; the last one he remembered was before he left for Hogwarts the first time, something about choosing the right friends, working hard and not causing trouble. It was hard to believe this was the same man.
For the first time he could remember, he wanted to do, or have done, something that would make his father proud of him. His achievements were limited, he was the first to admit, even as he desperately searched for something vaguely laudable among his abilities. Schoolwork he got through with a bit of effort and some help from his friends, but he was never going to be a brilliant student. He wasn't any good at Quidditch like James, or…well, anything much really. He was the very definition of average, he thought glumly. Although…
"We've been-" He stopped, wondering if it was a good idea to mention there was anyone else involved. Just in case, he started again. "I've been trying to learn something. Something I wanted to do." His heart was thudding against his ribs and his voice was verging on the squeak it turned into when nerves got the better of him. Could he really tell him? More to the point, could he really do it?
"I could try and show you but…you'll have to keep it a secret? I don't want anyone to know yet." He looked nervously at his father until he nodded slowly.
Peter closed his eyes and concentrated, praying he could do this. He could hear his father take a wheezy breath as if he was going to speak, then presumably think better of it as no words came. He repeated the phrases James had drummed into him in his head, over and over and over until they set up a rhythm of their own and he could move onto the next stage.
He tried to shut out the squish and give of the bed under him, to ignore the press of the soles of his bare feet on the floor. He didn't have human feet after all, not any more. But what were they? Maybe they were paws like Sirius. Or hooves like James? What could he feel under bare padded paws, what would he smell with a far more sensitive nose? He felt the vague itch start, something catching and tugging at the back of his neck. That was quicker than normal. It was also as far as he'd ever got. Imagine you can feel your skin shrinking, James had advised. Just let it pull you under when you feel it grab hold, was Sirius' contribution. He found it frustrating, but he knew instinctively it was difficult for them…like trying to describe colours to a blind man.
He screwed his eyes shut tightly and blocked out the fear; the flashes of Remus' injuries, the visions of the horrors that could occur if this went wrong. He was afraid…no, he wasn't afraid, he was in control, he was going to do this if it killed him…and something snapped, gave way, his body suddenly as light and fragile as an eggshell, breaking open and throwing him free, suspended for a split second in mid air.
His hands…paws…landed on the bedspread, clawing and scrabbling as he pulled himself up the slope of hard legs under blankets drawn up quickly in sudden shock. He felt his tail drag and bounce along the covers as he scrambled up to the summit of the uneven hill to see his father open-mouthed but apparently none the worse for the surprise. Slowly he turned his head towards the mirror, wondering just what he was going to see. The reflection of a large grey rat twitched its whiskers and a shudder passed through it from pointed pink nose to tip of scaly tail before an astounded Peter found himself back in a flash, shell-shocked and pale as he slid off the high bed to the floor with a remarkable lack of grace.
The sound of appreciative croaky laughter broke in as clocks throughout the old house began to whirr and click their way up to chiming the final hours of the year.
- - - - -
Peter was still buzzing with the excitement of his achievement as he ran up the steps of the castle, ignoring startled comments at his hurry. He didn't stop until he reached the fifth year Gryffindor dorm room where he knew at least Remus would be, resting after the full moon the previous night.
"Remus! I did it! I transformed, it was incredible!" Peter was almost breathless after the dash to the room, and he perched on the edge of his bed as he pulled his notebooks, homework and parcels out of his bag excitedly.
"Peter-"
"You'll never guess what I am, oh and I can't wait to tell James about it!" He stopped bouncing for a moment, remembering the only thing that had dampened his enthusiasm at all since New Year's Eve. "Where are the others, they weren't on the train?"
"No, they're coming by car; James sent me an owl this morning. Something about Sirius, a new broom and a neighbour's greenhouse." Remus forestalled him with a hand as he opened his mouth, panicked. "He's fine. They'll be back as soon as Sirius has had a check up. But-"
"Oh. All right. It was a bit boring on the train without any of you; I even did my Muggle Studies homework." Peter pulled a face. "I could only think of one New Year's resolution though, do you think that's enough?" He rifled through the loosely rolled parchments on the bed and pulled out some hastily scrawled notes. "I put down 'Visit home more often' - I really want to as well. Do you think Dumbledore would let me go one weekend if I could arrange it? I'd like to see my dad again soon, and Easter is ages off. He's really bored, stuck in bed ill all the-"
"Peter."
Remus' voice was low and serious, and finally caught Peter's attention. His face was wearier and paler than usual after a transformation, and Peter stepped closer automatically, wondering what was wrong.
"This arrived a couple of hours ago." Remus was holding out an envelope. An envelope addressed to him. Addressed to him in his mother's handwriting. Not her fancy curly writing that was the written equivalent of her affected socialising voice, but the plain writing she used for shopping lists or private notes on the mantelpiece that strangers would never see.
But there was no earthly reason she would be writing to him so soon. Maybe he'd left something behind…no, he knew he hadn't. He didn't pack much for the short holiday, just the one small bag, now emptied messily all over his bed. He looked up at Remus, hoping he would laugh and tell him not to worry about it.
But he didn't.
Peter fumbled at the envelope, his chubby fingers numb and clumsy. Remus took it gently from him and opened it, placing the letter back in his hands a moment later. The sparse words swam in front of his eyes, and he blinked. It didn't help. Somehow his face was wet, and his vision was a bit blurry, but he wasn't sure why. The paper slipped from his fingers to the floor.
Instantly Remus was next to him, tentatively putting an arm around him. He let his head fall sideways onto the thin shoulder and let the soothing voice wash over him as warm hands stroked his hair and patted his arm. Something wasn't right here. Remus never touched anyone if he could help it. He almost shrugged him away; but what the hell.
If everything else had changed, then maybe Remus was allowed to as well.
Muse - Peter Pettigrew
Fandom - Harry Potter
Words - 3500