T h e m
(because fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself)
You're eleven, the first time you see them. They are laughing, and, judging by the way they're pointing at the sallow boy over at the Slytherin table, you know they're planning something for him.
You want to jump up and scream and shout and tell him to watch out, but your mouth seems capable of nothing more than a quiet stutter, heard by no one. It's partially because he's a Slytherin, and you were warned on the train that all Slytherins are the epitome of evil, but it's also because of them. You don't want to end up on the wrong side of the powerful; you don't want to end up among the tortured or the weak.
A minute later, there is a bang, it's harsh and unforgiving and hurts your ears, and the boy (you find out later that his name is Severus) is shrieking. His underpants are on fire.
The smell filters throughout the Great Hall, it reeks of burnt marshmallows and dead birds, and he is hurting, you can tell, but it is not because of his charred skin or his smouldering clothes; it goes deeper than that.
Something burns inside you, too.
-:-
They approach you the next day, somehow managing to look both intimidating and pleading at the same time.
"We need your help," they say in unison, and something about their overconfident smiles, their overbearing manner tells you that they are not used to asking for help.
You nod, and their grins span wider than you ever thought humanly possible; it's like they're putting on a show. This is your chance; they've asked you, you and not that shy boy who shares your dorm and oozes 'secret agenda' and 'enigma' and 'nerd.' It's your chance to shine, to be recognised, to be loved and worshipped and adored. It's your chance to be popular.
"Okay," you say, trying to seem nonchalant, when really your heart seems to be running a race and winning, it's speeding up and getting further and further away from you.
"We want you to be our lookout in case any teachers come. We're going to pour slime on that girl over there."
The taller of the two, his hair is shaggy and he has the look of a wild dog, rough, harsh and uncontrollable, grins at you, before haphazardly thrusting his arm into the corridor and barely missing a fifth year. You recognise the girl from the train; her vivid red hair was overbearing but also rather enchanting, it was so bright that it demanded attention, seemed to speak to you, whispering, "Peter, Peter, look at me."
You scurry across the corridor, feeling trapped by the masses of people who batter you like an ocean wave crashing violently against the sandy shore.
"One, two, three," says the second boy, the one whose hair needs combing and tie needs straightening and yet he still manages to radiate handsomeness. There is an explosion, and for some reason dust is flying everywhere and the slime is dripping, not down the redhead's back, but all over the floor. You swivel your head around rapidly, checking that no-one is coming, before turning back to the scenario that is playing out in front of your eyes. If you weren't so embarrassed and ashamed of your new friends (Could you call them that yet? Or were they still acquaintances? Fellow dorm-mates in need of a helping hand?)
The girl glares first at the tall boy, and then at the short one, who seems impossibly happy, considering the chaos and mess that surrounds them; it's as they're the island in the middle of the stormy sea, and you're the helpless onlooker standing, numbed, upon the mainland shores.
"James," says Endearing but Cocky boy. "James Potter. I do believe we met on the Hogwarts Express."
The girl storms off.
Afterwards, they treat it as a success, laughing and cheering and high-fiving each other. They even manage to get that shy boy, who reveals that this name is Remus, to join in. It's infectious, and most of the common room is partying along, save the redhead and her friends. They and you are worshipped, not because of the idea, or the execution, though admittedly that was poor, but because you are considered heroes, brave first years with spunk and style. You wonder why anyone would want to worship people for that, but you go along with it all, because they are popular.
Two days later, they ask you for help again.
-:-
This time though, they're not so lucky. It's the first detention of many, but they shrug it off, make bold comments about how scrubbing trophies (without magic) will be fun. Filch caught them, and consequently, you.
It's incredibly tedious, and you would rather be writing a letter to your mother, but you go along with it. You have friends.
-:-
By the beginning of second year, they are loved, and you're appreciated, if not fully accepted by the Gryffindor crowd. They are the Jupiter of the planetary system (you're rather enjoying Astronomy, even if they hate it, mainly because they miss their beauty sleep), and you're the Venus or the Mars, still popular, but nowhere near as big and bright as them.
The other boy, the shy nerdy one, is friends with you now too, and you can't help but notice that he disappears every month, with various excuses. They have noticed too, but they shrug it off, pondering it only for the briefest of moments before moving onto other topics.
"Have you ever thought that Remus could be a werewolf?"
It's a fleeting thought, definitely not one you're taking seriously; it's too absurd, too strange, too unrealistic, too …
"He could be," they say, and suddenly they're running away with your idea, making comments and naming books to research and the air is filled with an ecstatic hum as they too start to ponder their friend's fate. For a minute you want to say something, such as "Hey, it was my idea," but you don't, because for once they are entirely thinking about something you said, even if it was only intended as a joke. It's not that they don't appreciate you, you know they do, but they appreciate a lot of other things as well, like girls and pranks and Quidditch, and sometimes it's easy to get lost in their list of 'likes.'
-:-
You're right, and incredibly proud of yourself, even if you once doubted your own opinion so thoroughly. Everything seems fine (even if your friend is a werewolf, something which you can't even begin to truly contemplate), until they bring up the idea of becoming Animagi.
You can't do it. It's impossible.
-:-
Eventually though, after three long years of pain and trips to the hospital wing and victories and amazement at their abilities, you manage it, but you're a stinking rat.
They laugh. They laugh until they realise you are useful.
-:-
Years pass in happiness, in misery, in pranks and tears and jokes and the love of two people, and then eventually, the sweethearts are getting married. One of your friends gets himself drunk as a mute and passes out in the middle of the dance floor, the other spends hours discussing literature with a girl you don't recognise, and the married couple run off somewhere private. That leaves you to help out, to watch guests and serve drinks. You do it, because he's your friend and it's his wedding and he deserves to be happy, and yet you know you shouldn't.
Later, Lily comes up to you, and says thank you.
"Thanks for everything Peter," she mutters. "We couldn't have done it without you."
"You're welcome."
-:-
In your mind, it's become Lily and them, and you realise, that, really, you've never referred to them as James, Sirius and Remus. It's always been the Marauders, or them. She's Lily because she appreciates you, thanks you. They scare you, and you don't mention their names. Someone once told you that fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself, and it's only now that you understand: you're afraid of them, because they are popular, and they treat you like a servant.
-:-
When you owl Lucius Malfoy three weeks later, you can't help but think "James, Sirius and Remus, it's your turn to be afraid." They are no longer the 'them' in your mind, because you've exposed them for what you believe they truly are.
fin,
-Cuba ...x