"To James and Lily," said Sirius, raising his glass.
"To James and Lily," went the chorus.
Peter was sitting on the front most table, facing the bride, the groom, the best man and the bridesmaid. There were no parents, since Lily and James were orphans. In fact, no relatives were present. Peter could have invited his-neither James nor Lily would have minded since they liked Mr and Mrs Pettigrew, and Peter was funding their wedding, after all-but he hadn't wanted to be embarrassed, and they were bound to be embarrassing.
He dragged his eyes away from Sirius's face, from the smile that was given so naturally, as though he had nothing to weigh him down. Wine swirled in Peter's mouth as he mulled over how easily deceived humans were, and how quickly they forgot.
The wine was an expensive specimen; he had imported it from a virtually unknown rural part of France. No one he knew in the British wizarding world-and he knew all who mattered-had heard of it. The exquisite refinement and rarity of his choice would be lost on his friends-this also, he knew, and so he had not enlightened them. He watched the chief bridesmaid's lips connect with the rim of her glass. The wine travelled down her throat in long, obscene gulps, but after her thirst had been quenched, she gave no reaction of surprise. Nothing that suggested she had just consumed something that cost more than her dress, jewellery, shoes and bag put together.
A wave of nausea passed over Peter. He put down his glass and got up. Out of habit, he dusted off his silver grey robes, which were spotless and immaculate. Out of habit, he walked out of the sitting area with a slight spring in his step, as though he was pushing his height up just a little. Peter was a diminutive man with a thin, unremarkable face and slightly curly hair. His general appearance had that ridiculous ability to slide off one's memory as soon as the meeting was over. He was aware of it, and it was an awareness that sometimes stung him, and it was the sort of stinging he deeply resented. "You were born to stand out," his mother had told him from an early age, and everything he had done in his childhood, he did to fulfil her prophecy. He had read all the first year books before his letter arrived; he had practised most of the basic spells secretly with his father's wand. He had even dabbled in Muggle craftsmanship, a talent his liberal parents encouraged. He had painted and sculpted, and the first bit of magic he performed with his wand was making his handmade toy aeroplane fly.
He was utterly stumped when the Hat did not put him in Ravenclaw.
The Hat was wrong, he intoned as he approached the group of cloned mannequins he had created to act as servers. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
With a flourish of his wand, he animated the mannequins. They sprang to life, and like a trained army of waitresses, expertly arranged the food and started carrying them to the guests. James and Lily had told him all this extravagance was not necessary, Remus had shown a mild interest in the execution of the replicating spells, and Sirius had called him a show-off. But Peter did what he had to do. Though he was unnerved by the sight of several glazed, unseeing eyes considering him with obedient silence, he had spent two sleepless nights perfecting their functions. And so, the Hat was wrong. No Gryffindor he had met was cursed with that kind of dedication.
If I had been Sorted into Ravenclaw, he went back to musing, but he broke away from the thought, chastising himself for the wishful thinking. If he were to write an autobiography, that thought should have been the title of the book. If I Had Been a Ravenclaw. But the book would not be a faithful account of actual events; it would be a memoir of what should have been, and therefore, a retelling of his lost life. A re-imagined Peter. A better Peter. A Peter without James, Sirius and Remus. An individual Peter. A Peter without secrets.
xxxx
It started in the early weeks of the second academic year at Hogwarts. Peter had spent the better part of the previous year in the library, observing with well-hidden interest the growing friendship of the other three boys in his dormitory. Why he had not yet been asked to join the gang concerned him more than it should: he and they belonged to different species of wizards, and he was used to being a loner. He was an only child, as self-content and self-sufficient as they came. But so were James and Remus, and Sirius was as good as. Peter knew the Black boy's story. Though Sirius had a younger brother, he lived with an uncle.
Because none of the boys had said or done anything that might explain why they weren't his friends, Peter had harboured his own theories on the subject. Perhaps, they thought he was too rich. Perhaps, they thought he was too bookish. These were the only reasons he could build on, but here again, his logic was frustrated: Sirius's uncle was a wealthy man, James's family was wealthier than his, and Remus's fervour for reading sometimes outdid Peter's. In the end, he gave up, spending his energy on revising for the exams, which he meant to top. Whatever limitations they may have perceived, he was at least the superior student. Sure enough, during the summer, McGonagall sent a small note along with the results, congratulating him on scoring the highest in all the subjects.
The satisfaction of his victory outweighed all other disappointments, sustaining him happily, until the bullying started. It was a bunch of older Slytherin boys, whose parents were family acquaintances, although Peter was certain his father and mother did not enjoy their company or reputation. At first, the Slytherins did nothing overt, but after the fourth time, Peter was sure there was a motive behind their turning up in a gang everywhere he went, and glaring and muttering at him as he walked past.
They cornered him one night as he was returning from the library.
"Hello, Pettigrew," said the tallest boy airily.
Peter did not reply. He was thinking how he could retrieve the wand from his pocket without them noticing.
"Oh, no need to be scared off your tits," the boy laughed. "We just want to congratulate you on your recent success."
After a moment's silence, Peter mumbled a thank you.
"Say, there's this book from the Restricted Section that we need badly for homework. How about you get it for us, eh?"
"If you need it for homework, surely you can get a signed request from the professor?" Peter asked, momentarily puzzled.
"We just need to check some facts," said another boy, who was shorter and burlier. "Don't want to trouble her."
Peter was a lot of things, but stupid was not in the list. In a firm voice, he replied, "I'm sorry. I can't and won't do it." He made to move, then to his consternation, found his way blocked by a wall of bodies. They were converging on him.
"Times are changing," said the tallest boy. "Better pick a side now, Pettigrew."
"We know about your parents," said one of the others, but Peter forgot to move his head to check which one had spoken. His eyes were transfixed on the tall one, who was standing right in front of him. The boy was so tall he was blocking the light of the torch behind him. His features were strangely still clear in the semi-darkness. The acne-ridden face was split in the middle by a bulbous nose. The lips were thin and wide. Dark eyes considered him balefully under the shadows of two immensely bushy eyebrows. Years later, Peter would be crouching in a sparse closet with this boy, hiding from a battle raging outside their sanctuary. Every second of the few minutes they were trapped in the closet, Peter would debate killing him right there, but before he could act, the battle would have stopped with a final scream and thud, and they would both Disapparate-Evan Rosier, the boy, because he knew they were outnumbered, and Peter, because he couldn't risk exposure.
"They're Muggle-loving scum, aren't they? If your family isn't too careful-if you aren't too careful-there'll be consequences."
They pushed a folded piece of parchment into his sweaty palm and left him, alone and trembling. The rational part of him knew he should run to McGonagall or Dumbledore and inform them about what had just happened; although it was their collective word against his, Peter was a star student. Besides, why should he lie?
His instincts nevertheless kept him rooted to the spot. He was thinking of his parents, of their harmlessness, of their loosely protected mansion. That morning, there had been a story in the Daily Prophet about a murdered couple. They had been missing for two days. The Aurors discovered their bodies in the basement. The paper used a grainy-on-purpose picture of the crime scene, but Peter could make out the legs of the wife in the background, behind the Aurors, sticking out of her robes at incongruous angles.
He made his way back to the dormitory, ignoring the greetings of the boys on the way to his bed because he could feel the bile in his throat; if he opened his mouth, he would surely puke. After they had left for dinner, he wrote a letter to his parents, instructing them to set up wards around the house, telling them simply that he kept hearing rumours at school, that they couldn't be too careful these days. Then he opened the parchment. There was only one line written on it: A History of Magical Tortures and Curses, Persecus de Torquemada.
He floundered for a moment. What had the hat said?
You have plenty of courage. Your choices will always be the hardest.
He ripped the parchment into shreds. The rest of the night was spent silently memorising the defensive spells he had learnt, both within and without the school. When morning came, he felt prepared enough to take all five of them on his own, although he wasn't sure if it was his confidence or exhaustion talking. Nothing happened that day, or the next. A week passed without incident, then a month. At last, when Peter had begun to let his guard down, he was ambushed yet again on a similar night. He had unwittingly taken the same route from the library; the corridor where they had been waiting was the same dark and deserted one. Only, the expressions on their faces were fouler. Peter was sure, irrationally sure, that he would die; his wand was drawn before he himself registered it, and the Slytherins were blasted off their feet.
It took a few moments for all of them, Peter included, to recover from the shock of the attack. He finally came to his senses and started to make a run for it, but the tall boy tripped him. His ribs collided hard with the cold stone floor. There was no time to even howl in pain; the other boy had grabbed hold of his ankles. Before the rest of the posse could join the tussle, Peter made a quick decision. He turned around, and feeling simultaneously regretful and vindictive, cast a slew of hexes at the general direction of the Slytherins. The air was soon full of their screams and groans.
The tall boy, in whose grip Peter was still trapped, would not accept defeat easily. His already pockmarked face was beset upon by fresh angry pustules. "You little shit," he muttered as he raised his fist to punch.
Only one curse came to Peter's mind. He knew casting it might get him expelled, so lethal and abhorred it was. He had come across it in the very book they wanted him to borrow.
Curiosity had consumed Peter to the point that he had to wheedle Horace Slughorn, the Potions professor, to write him permission to browse the Restricted Section.
"Which one is it?" Slughorn asked, suspicion lurking behind the grandfatherly air. Although he adored Peter for both the boy's lineage and talent, the Restricted Section was no joke.
"Brunhilde's Art of Natural Healing." Peter had chosen the book after careful consideration. It was restricted only because it was the original copy, written by Brunhilde herself. It was three hundred years old and in severe danger of falling apart. The librarian did not trust the students to be careful enough with such a precious relic.
"Ah!" cried Slughorn approvingly. "Fascinating book, that one! I read it when I was a student here, you know. Do remember to lift the pages with minor levitation charms, not your fingers. Brunhilde was rather protective of her work. She wouldn't have any Muggles discover her secrets. You'll find the first few pages of the book are charred, because some Muggle tried to read it. The silly fellow received quite the shock of his life when the individual pages caught flame on their own, and he gave it away to the Wise Woman who lived in the woods. The Wise Woman, as you know, was Lorne Monkshood, the witch who prepared the first Veritaserum."
Peter, who had listened patiently, pretended to be surprised. He had already conducted an extensive research on Brunhilde and Lorne Monkshood, hating the idea of going on a mission half-arsed. Slughorn gave him the permission to read in the Restricted Section, which suited Peter just fine. Brunhilde's book was humongous. Coming out of the library-or sitting inside it-with the book on oneself would have attracted unwanted attention. He had no desire to let the Slytherins find out he was venturing into the Restricted Section.
The following day, he skipped Herbology, feigning illness, and went straight to the empty library. The librarian let him into the Restricted Section with a customary dubious look at the permission note. Peter took Brunhilde's book out of the shelf, placed it on a stool, and cast a self-rewinding levitation charm on it. As the pages turned on their own with a convincing rustle, he noiselessly searched for A History of Magical Tortures and Curses. He found it nestled against Moste Potente Potions.
The small size of Persecus's compilation astonished Peter, who had expected something as gigantic as the one he was supposed to be reading. As he skimmed through it, he realised the length and numbers of a book were irrelevant, when the little it contained was enough to cause so much damage. He felt sick just looking at the illustrations, all of which were moving in their own ghastly loop. On one page, a woman lay on the floor, her head rapidly devoured by a dragon, the long, scaly neck of which protruded from its victim's belly. On another, a man's body was being flung against a wall of rusty iron spikes.
What was Dumbledore thinking, keeping a book like that inside the castle?
This question had plagued Peter ever since. Was the book at Hogwarts because it was the safest place? But there were still risks. Anybody lucky enough to get a permission note could get into the Restricted Section and notice the book. Anybody could absorb certain details from it, and recall those details at the right (or wrong) moment, and fall into the temptation of using them.
Such as Peter, in that instant he was about to get a few teeth knocked out by a Slytherin boy thrice his size. His lips had almost started moving to utter the incantation, when the other boy was roughly pushed off him. Remus, James and Sirius were there, suddenly, it seemed, for Peter in his pain and humiliation had failed to notice their arrival.
It was five boys-hexed but still physically stronger-against four tiny second year students. They appraised each other.
"Sod off, Rosier," said Sirius. Peter was taken aback by how much force the young voice carried. He blinked and glanced at the three boys on his side. James had the same hardened look on his face as Sirius did; in fact, he appeared to be shaking with some terrible internal conflict. Next to those two, Remus's habitual composure seemed rather out of place.
Rosier, the tall one, laughed; it was the sort of laughter one used to cover fear and uncertainty. His eyes, and the eyes of his friends, were on Peter, who was feeling smaller now that his fleeting rage had deflated.
"You won't be so lucky next time, Pettigrew," said Rosier. He turned to his friends. "Let's go."
"Fucking Mudblood," spat one of the Slytherins in Remus's direction as they stalked off.
Remus, however, ignored the insult and rounded on Peter. "Did you," he asked, "hex the lot of them on your own?"
Peter nodded, seeing as evidence went against him, while Sirius gave a low, appreciative whistle. James, on the other hand, clapped Peter on the back and cheered. "Way to go, Gryffindor!"
From that night on, they were friends, and there was nothing Peter could do to escape the newly formed and eternally bound alliance.
xxxx
"Nice wine," Remus said. "Out with it! Where did you get it?"
Peter smiled. "You couldn't afford it," he said seriously, though there was no hint of malice in his voice.
"Upper class wanker," Remus replied with a grin.
Remus was, perhaps, the only friend he could contemplate without the urge to strike something hard. This lack of animosity itself amused him, for he was unsure what, precisely, separated Remus from Sirius and James; the points of separation were far too many. Was it the fact that he was Muggle-born, as opposed to his pureblood friends? Was it the lack of haste that set him apart from the impulsive forces of nature that the other two were? Or was it, thought Peter with relish, as a brief, electric thrill went through his body, the secret of the smiling young man, which deserved his pity?
Peter, like James and Sirius, had promised to keep Remus's secret, just as Remus had promised to keep the secrets of James and Sirius. Peter had sworn to keep it according to the terms of their oath, which were: do not answer when asked for confirmation by others, and do not divulge it on your own. At age thirteen, flushed with boyish love and devotion, the four of them had made their pact, binding it with spells that were only as strong as thirteen year old students could muster (although, in their credit, they were rather exceptional thirteen year olds). As they became older, they learnt more complex magic, and any one of them could have broken the oath successfully. But the Gryffindor sense of honour prevailed, and Peter, on his part, saw no reason to upset the balance on which their friendship hung. If necessary-if necessary-he would break it, though he very much doubted the information he had on the other three, so far as their pact was concerned, would prove useful.
Presently, Remus was approached by one of Lily's girlfriends for a dance. He graciously accepted it and walked off to the dance floor. Sirius was already there, the chief bridesmaid ensconced in his accommodating arms. The two of them were dancing so close they appeared to merge into a single, thrashing unity. Peter found the sight repulsive. His eyes travelled towards James and Lily, who were gazing lovingly at each other. There was a small twinge in his stomach. He returned to Remus and the girl, to the slight gap between their chests and bellies and thighs: the gap that was always noticeable between Remus's body and others', a sacrosanct space his friend maintained to assure no one else was contaminated by his shameful disease.
It made Peter jealous, the way the three of them continued showing their face to the world as though they had nothing to hide. As though they lived clean, honourable lives. Meanwhile, he had to struggle, just holding his own secrets at bay. They had each divulged one and been done with it, and the nature of their secrets had been such that others eventually found out on their own, or had known already, and didn't hate them for it. Neither James, nor Sirius, nor Remus, could be blamed for the horrendous demons they lived with. But Peter? He concealed so much he was sure he would implode one day, and then-and then-they would understand. When all was finished, they would begin to reflect. They would begin to remember, and they would know it had been Peter all along.
And they would begin with what happened in the sixth year at Hogwarts, though why it had happened would be beyond their intellect. They were two-dimensional that way, had always been, grasping at life with eager, uncouth hands, and seeing everything in predictable shades of black and white. But why would Peter do such a thing? What did they do to deserve it? Because they would look for specific examples, they would fail to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion. Peter's hatred couldn't be explained by one or two events, although, if push came to shove, he himself might respond that it all started on the night their friendship was sealed. The way they had bustled into the first decisive event of his existence.
He had had it under control, but when the story spread into their house, it was Sirius and James's manhandling of Rosier which took centre-stage. Pretty soon, Peter's part had been removed altogether, and his swashbuckling friends were rumoured to be the ones who had hexed the Slytherins. Who could blame them for this mistake? James and Sirius had been working hard at earning the reputation of master pranksters. Remus was notorious by association. Peter's existence was keenly noted only by his rivals in Ravenclaw and the teachers. In contrast, people adored James and Sirius; even the teachers found them irresistible, for although their intelligence could not match his, they were still brilliant and adventurous students.
Initially, Peter did not mind. The type of fame his friends enjoyed wasn't something he envied, and he was happy just to have them to talk to, to explore the castle with. Besides, their perpetual presence detracted any would-be bullies, so he was thankful for the extra protection. Then things changed. James and Sirius began to catch up with Peter in academics, though how they managed it without putting in the number of hours he did remained a mystery. Sometimes, he would point it out to Remus in amazement.
"How the hell do they do it?" he cried after one Potions class, in which Slughorn had waxed lyrical about Sirius's essay on the different uses of foxglove. "They were in detention on Friday! When did they even finish the essay?"
Remus shrugged. "Natural talent, I guess."
Peter loathed that explanation. Natural talent was something that needed honing, and whatever James and Sirius did wasn't honing, unless one counted their practical jokes. "I'm pretty sure his mother didn't sing to him about foxgloves when he was a foetus," he muttered miserably.
Towards the end of the third year, they signed their pact. One secret sacred to each person. Four people to bear the burden. James and Sirius beat him in that, too. They both had earth-shattering revelations, after sharing which, they turned to Remus and him and said, "What about you?"
Remus confessed he had nothing yet to share-at least nothing they already weren't aware of. "I will when I have one," he said solemnly. There was no embarrassment in that frank admission, but it wasn't the same for Peter. For reasons he could not explain, he was almost burning with shame. He came from a perfectly normal family.
His parents were well-off, and they were respected members of the society. They doted on him. He was, above all, a healthy boy, with no affliction worthy of complaint.
He shook his head.
The matter ended there for his friends. Not for Peter. It was the commencement of a slow and steady erosion of his mindset.
A dark shadow hung over his two friends, who Peter had realised were living double lives. They were differently coloured now, and the combined greyness of their persons often threatened to overwhelm the surroundings and blot out the sun, so that Peter saw the world revolve around them. For some time, he couldn't decide if he hated James and Sirius equally, or one more than the other. He thought it might be James, when he made captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team in their fifth year, but then it wasn't an achievement Peter desired. He was more annoyed of Remus getting the prefect badge, despite being the weakest link in their group. The decision was made for him in their sixth year, though Peter's bitterness towards Sirius was to intensify before that.
He had been so proud of being the first among the four to figure out the final step to becoming an Animagus. "This is the part they don't mention in the books," he explained. "Your spirit animal is a reflection of your personality. Until and unless you fully understand who you are, you cannot become one."
"I must be a dog then," Sirius said, laughing. It sounded like a bark. "You know, Sirius the Dog Star." In spite of that joke, Sirius wouldn't try. Neither would Remus, who had suddenly paled. James was the only one bold enough to step forward.
"All right," he said bracingly. "So, James Potter, Captain of Gryffindor Quidditch Team, slated to be champions of this year's Cup, steps forward to claim the Animagus form of a magnificent lion."
Sirius snorted. Ignoring him, James shut his eyes and concentrated hard, probably picturing himself kissing the Quidditch Cup. To everyone's surprise, he immediately began to change, not into a huge golden lion, but a majestic animal with a sleek brown coat and huge antlers sticking out of its head.
"A stag!" Remus yelled.
James changed back to human form to the sound of Sirius's whoops. He was grinning. Clearly, he didn't mind being a stag.
Peter couldn't wait any longer. He knew what he was going to be-had known since he was a child. It was the eagle, the wisest, most regal bird. The symbol of Rowena Ravenclaw's house, and thus, her totem. Being sorted into Gryffindor did not destroy the Ravenclaw in him, did it? Yet, when the transformation began, he felt less and less wise, less and less regal. He had always felt so little, so close to the ground, as though somebody had cursed him with a permanent shrinking charm. Was that why he loved everything that flew, and the first toy he charmed, an aeroplane? There was a lack in him, and it was a lack without edges or endings. It gave him pain that he could not endure on his own. He must distribute the pain, he thought as his body shot down in size and fur exploded through his skin; he must give it to others, to make them understand the torment of being him.
When he looked up, after his personality had been set in stone, he was greeted by the perplexed faces of his friends. He tried to spread out his wings so he could fly over them, but there were none. Instead, he had tiny paws. A strange sensation in his rear suggested he also had a tail. He opened his mouth, and out came a squeak.
In an instant, he was back as Peter, the human. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. He was terrified of hearing that squeak issue from his mouth again.
The silence in the room was broken by Sirius, who said, in an apologetic voice, "Ah . . . fuck." It was followed by a round of laughter.
Peter was too numb to join in, and too ashamed to consider that his friends' laughter could have been their own way of trying to make him feel better, to make light of the situation. He was busy wondering how to kill himself in the quickest way possible, taking Sirius along with him.
With time, his suicidal as well as murderous tendencies were replaced by a renewed passion for excelling. He conceived the idea of a map of the school, to help them explore the castle and grounds at will. He conceived it purely to satisfy his curiosity about Hogwarts, and he would have worked on it alone if he hadn't needed their help. His dependency on his friends irked him to no end; whenever he shared an idea with them, the ownership would extend to the group, and James or Sirius would think up ways for abusing it. Predictably enough, on being acquainted with Peter's idea, James announced they should use it for common benefit.
"It is for common benefit," argued Peter irritably.
"I mean, not just for your future bestsellers on the design and layout of Hogwarts's architecture," James said. "It's unfair how one of us has to transform into a . . . thingy every month." James's voice went down a few notches on uttering the last three words, as Remus had reminded him with a pained expression they were in the Gryffindor common room. "Think about it. We could use this map to get out of the castle and give our friend company."
"I veto this," said Remus at once.
"So do I," chimed in Peter.
"No way I'm letting you-"
But Sirius had brightened up. "Splendid, Prongs, old friend," he said, putting on a pompous voice and using the childish nickname James had come up with for himself. "You, however, forget a salient point. No map will help you if you've been out of bed-nay, out of the school all night, only to be caught by Madam Pomfrey. Or worse still, Filch. What it needs is an additional enchantment."
"Like what?" James asked.
"One that allows you to keep tabs on everyone in Hogwarts."
"No," Remus cut in before James could speak. "This is illegal, not to mention extremely risky. As your prefect-"
"-and friend," Sirius continued for him. He had moved his chair closer to Remus's, and was now ruffling the other boy's hair. "You agree to be a cheerful and willing part of it."
Remus was glaring at Peter, as though everything was his fault, but he couldn't have resented Peter any more than he resented himself at the moment. He heard the other boys resume the squabble, though he comprehended none of their words. The noise of their debate and the movement of their body were mere assemblages of voices and limbs, carried out to clockwork precision; there was déjà vu, then nausea, then hollowness. Peter felt empty, like the bottom end of an hourglass rendered purposeless because the sand had leaked.
He laboured on the map out of spite, not caring about his OWLs. It kept his brain sharp and focussed. It also made him restless. He pored over the plans when not in class, frequently assuming his Animagus form to traverse the forgotten recesses of the school. There were entire nights he did not, or could not, sleep. His friends, thinking it was the OWLs, shook their heads at what they thought was unnecessary exertion, since Peter was bound to get straight O's in every subject. He did not correct them.
At last, the map was completed. They were marvelling at it, the four of them, stunned by the feat they had just pulled off.
"The key," said James reverently, "to freedom."
"We need to protect it with an incantation," Peter suggested. He stood furthest from the map. He always contemplated his victories from a distance. "The Latin word for map is . . ."
"Too obvious," Remus said. "Let's think out of the box."
"What?" James asked, unaware of the idiom.
"I mean, let's do something different. Unexpected. Original."
"Something ingenious, but us," Sirius agreed, drawing his wand. "Give me a nickname, Peter."
"Excuse me?"
"A nickname. You are the only bloke without one."
"Because I don't want one. It's stupid."
"Excuse you," James coughed. "Prongs isn't stupid. Neither is Padfoot, nor Moony."
"Oh, for Merlin's sake!"
Sirius had earned the nickname 'Padfoot' because he had padded feet in his non-human form, and he had chosen 'Moony' for Remus. "Why?" Peter had asked, and Sirius had said, "Because he secretly likes to moon people! That's his secret."
"What about . . . Jerry?" Remus offered.
"Why the hell should I call myself Jerry?"
"Er-we have this cartoon show called 'Tom and Jerry'. Tom is a cat, and Jerry is a mouse-"
"I'm not a mouse!"
"-and Jerry is very clever. He always gives Tom the slip-"
"What's a cartoon show?"
"Can we watch it?"
"Enough!" shouted Peter. His head was whirling. He hadn't slept the previous night. "What's the most distinctive thing about my Animagus form?" he asked, wanting to get over the worst quickly.
"Your tail," said James. "It always acts as though it has a life of its own."
"It reminds me of a worm," Sirius said with a shudder. "Several worms, in fact. Uncle Alphard had a cat. We buried it a little way off the house, and one of the neighbours' dogs dug it up, and it had these worms coming out of every orifice . . ."
Peter pictured Sirius's dead body rotting away in a coffin, fat worms wriggling out of hollow eye-sockets and a half-eaten mouth. "Fine," he said. "Wormtail it is, then."
"Right." Sirius shook himself in an effort to get rid of the unpleasant memory, and raised his wand. Pointing it at the folded map, he cried, "Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs . . ."
"Why 'Moony' first?" Peter piped up, unable to help himself.
"It just sounds better that way," Sirius insisted, and so it was.
When sixth year arrived, Peter was more or less resigned to the order of things. James's Gryffindor team had lost the previous year's Cup, but they were the favourites for the new season. He was away most of the time, practicing and thinking up tactics with his teammates. Remus had proved to be a reasonably effective prefect, though Peter was privy to how lenient he was to his friends. Sirius was still Sirius, irresponsible, reckless and 'naturally talented' (this, Peter always inferred with a sneer). There was consistency in the world, Peter thought, and he could deal with it. This was, of course, just another classic miscalculation.
One of Peter's most debilitating weaknesses was his tendency to neglect those aspects of human existence that functioned outside of his outlook. He desired to be somebody's favourite, but not at the expense of his appearance. He had observed and noted, without envy, Sirius's undeniable attractiveness. By the time he was sixteen, Sirius had attained a startling amount of physical ripeness. He was tall, lean, hard, and often, Peter couldn't resist staring at the hair on his friend's skin. Inordinately long and black, they ran all over Sirius's forearms and legs and peeked out of his underwear. On hot days, Sirius would sport a ponytail-which Peter found absurd because Sirius could just cut his hair but refused to-and there would still be dark strands running down his neck, gathering into a tip. James, who was taller and worked out more and had messy hair, was not that mature. Remus, whose voice had been the first to change, was not that hairy. As for Peter, his skin was smooth, the hair transparent and meagre.
Six months into the term, Sirius had dated a number of the girls from their years, and a few who were older than him. He earned the epithet of 'The Beast', and Sirius, to Peter's disgust, took it in his stride. He would swagger into the dormitory and regale them with tales of his conquests, their soft lips and supple breasts, their warm thighs. They loved his scars, he claimed, and Peter was confused because to him, the ugly ridges were hints of a troubled past. The minds of females must work differently, he figured, and his hostility eventually extended to them.
There was only one girl, a Hufflepuff by the name of Betty Hargreaves, whom Peter respected. Their friendship began due to by their being students of Arithmancy, a class that had only four students. Peter's admiration for Betty was also cemented by her studiousness and cleverness. They spent a lot of time in the library working on their homework together, and Peter enjoyed the ready availability of a mind so eager to learn from him. It didn't hurt that Betty wasn't Sirius's type: she was wholesome and dressed conservatively, making it easier for Peter to see the person in her, not the breasts, waist, or thighs.
He didn't tell his friends about her. He supposed he could have told Remus. Unfortunately, Remus had his own issues when it came to girls. The boy avoided them like dragon pox. James, he was wary of trusting, since James was so accepting of Sirius's philandering, although he had one reservation: Lily Evans was off-limits. Sirius, he definitely did not trust. So, Betty came to be his secret, and if everything worked out well, Peter resolved he would tell them before leaving school. It would astound them that he managed to get a girl, after all. It would be a secret, not as shocking as James's or Sirius's, just one Peter would nevertheless be proud of.