Spy Pumpkins, or Something Happened to Me Yesterday
The Spy Pumpkins were watching him again.
Guilty conscience? he tried to laugh to himself, only to choke on his own hysteria and nearly cause a fit.
At 14, Peter Pettigrew was still the same short, plump boy that he had been at 13, 12, and 11. Sometimes he felt as if he had grown a little by now, but as he still only came up to the second tassel on the third-lowest tapestry hanging from the common room ceiling, he couldn't believe that for very long.
He hadn't grown in spirit, either. Despite the sterling examples of recklessness, inventiveness, and sheer gumption that his three-best-friends-in-the-world showed daily, Peter had remained a bit of a coward. Admitting it at least had given him some much-needed privacy; after all, if one were always going to stammer, "Er, I don't know Sirius, should we...?" one would soon stop being expected to join in. One could just go off and sit and think and dream in quiet corners, such as Superfluous Greenhouse No. 3, where even Professor Sprout had never been seen.
For Peter knew things about himself that no one else did, things that could only come out when he was alone. He knew he had all the gumption and ingenuity and bravery of his friends, and more. Inside, he was teeming with promise and executive ability and daring and - and he was just biding his time to Reveal All and it was just too bad for all the fools who wouldn't see that until it was too late...
An orange-tinted rustle drove all thoughts of noble escapades right out of his head. Maybe he could make it to the door in time. Maybe not.
It had been such a grand plan at first, too. After finding out that most quiet corners of Hogwarts were occupied by either Remus, romantic sixth years, frantic seventh years, or shifty-eyed Slytherins, Peter had been forced to go far afield to find a haunt of his own. Well, not too far afield, he thought scrupulously, banishing for once his preferred story of traveling day and night through sundry battles just to find the Haven of Glory.
He had just about decided to hole up in a creaky tree near Hagrid's hut when he overheard a chance remark by Professor Sprout during class. Hagrid had just come nonchalantly into the greenhouse, which for Hagrid meant he was far more conspicuous than usual, and Professor Sprout had rounded on him before he even had a chance to speak.
"No, Hagrid, you may NOT use Greenhouse No. 3, I've told you time and again that you shouldn't keep things like that around here, and besides, it's quite full up! Quite!" And Professor Sprout glared like a crotchety sunflower from beneath her bulbous hat.
"Not so full up that ye can't see clear shelves from miles aroun', ye never use that glorified ou'house anyway," muttered Hagrid as he stomped off with his slightly squirming sack.
His friends hadn't noticed the byplay, being rather engrossed with the Deceptively Adorable Yet Ferociously Vicious Hanging Basket (where Peter was the designated note-taker), but Peter felt as if he had suddenly been awash with golden sunlight from inside out.
Superfluous Greenhouse No. 3, one of a set that had seen better days. Superfluous to all of Hogwarts except for him, now, Peter was instantly sure. The trees that grew around and over the old buildings, shading the panes of glass to dull glimmers of sunlight, suddenly became perfect secret-keepers. And they were a fair distance from the current greenhouses in use today.
Lost in a daydream of a whole building all to himself, he only came back to the present when one fuzzy, many-eyed tendril of the Hanging Basket wrapped itself coyly around his ear, and had to be burned off by Sirius's Quick-Thinking Incinerator Hex.
The next afternoon, when James was off practicing Quidditch, Sirius was perfecting his I Wasn't Sleeping! lounge, and Remus was sequestered in one of his envied nooks, Peter slipped out through the portrait door with his book bag, ostensibly to go to the library.
"Wait up, I'll join you!" someone called after him, but even if it had been Alice, he pretended he was too preoccupied about studying to hear. As soon as he possibly could, he thundered off through the castle and outside, taking the oblique path to the greenhouses that his friends had mapped out in their second year.
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Peter the Equally Quick-Thinking came to a thankful halt on the far side of an old oak. He needed to stop anyway to make sure the surrounding area was safe, didn't he? Greenhouse No. 3 was just beyond, easily picked out through process of deduction, not to mention the cracked tile that listed off the building with a large "3" painted on it.
And there was the door not five paces from him – yawing quite open.
"Well," said Peter to himself, instantly wishing he hadn't spoken out loud, "There's no sense in locking an empty building, is there?"
After wiping his palms on his trousers, Peter the Daring Yet Intelligently Cautious crept forward to the door, flattening himself against the rough old windowpanes just before he reached it. Edging forward ever so gingerly, he finally admitted that he really should have his eyes open for this kind of reconnaissance.
He screwed up all his courage and peered around the open doorway and – nothing.
Peter the Invincible laughed out loud. Nothing much of anything in there at all, just as Hagrid had said! There was enough light to see quite clearly that there hadn't been anyone in here in years. Three rows of long, dusty tables on rusting legs extended down the scuffed earth floor, one row along each side, and one down the middle. An old sink with half its plumbing missing resided next to a pile of thick burlap sacks. A litter of broken flowerpots, tools, and cans was piled in the far corner. Professor Sprout never let things get to this state in the greenhouses she was using, so obviously she never came near this place at all.
Peter was about to step inside when a nasty thought assailed him. What if Hagrid, never known for being exactly law-abiding, thought he'd use this greenhouse anyway? And why this particular one, in the first place? Greenhouse No. 1 was technically closer to Hagrid's hut after all. What was so special about this greenhouse?
Don't borrow trouble, Peter, a voice suspiciously close to his mother's resounded in his head. Reflexively, he hunched his head into his shoulders, then was disgusted at himself. His mother was miles and miles away.
Besides, now that Professor Sprout knew he was interested in No. 3, even Hagrid would be sure not to come near it. Peter conveniently buried the thought that Professor Sprout might keep a closer watch on No. 3 for awhile, herself.
Confident now, Peter, Lord of his Domain, stepped over the threshold. He walked around the tables, surveying his new quarters with pleasure as the sunlight shafted through cracks in the panes to illuminate the dimness. Those burlap sacks looked handy, stuffed full as they were, and would do well as a seat...
He bent over the pile of sacks, poking them gingerly. Probably just potting soil in there, and for who knows how long, but at least no rotting dampness met his nose. He wrestled with the topmost one and finally succeeded in pulling it off, panting a little more than he should. Must be his book bag; it insisted on swinging around and thumping him in the gut.
He dragged the sack over to a semi-smooth spot in the floor next to the far table; there was enough space between it and the middle table to make a nice little lair. He settled down cross-legged with a grateful sigh, belatedly unslinging his book bag. Begrudging the necessity, he took out quills, books, and parchment, so he would be seen to be studying on the off-chance anyone came around. Leaning quite uncomfortably against the rusty leg of the table nearest him, he took out a jellybean tart and munched contentedly, looking about him from his vantage point.
This really was a great place, he thought, licking his fingers. Sure, it smelled a little musty, and the encroaching rust wasn't attractive, but it was peaceful, and he was alone. He should bring a pillow next time, or at least a blanket; he could learn that Diminishing Spell Remus had been wanting to teach him so he could smuggle them out, and Remus would never ask about his sudden interest, only be pleased he finally wanted to learn. Surely, no spells were too great for Peter the Ingenious to learn...
The rustling sound from somewhere above his head had been going on for some time. He was sure of that now, too sure to stay asleep any longer, even as he fought to keep his dream from sliding away. It had been a brilliant one, too, full of clashing swords and battle cries, and himself solely defending Sirius, James, and Remus, who had been tied to a stake by the opposing forces and were slowly cooking in a roaring pyre.
"Help us, Peter, help us! You're the only one who can save us!" they were all wailing at once.
"What, me?" Peter said mock-demurely, fighting off three muscle-bound trolls with one hand and seven snake-shaped wizards in the other. "Peter the Plump? Peter the Pustule? Peter the-" and here he tossed a sly glance over his shoulder at Sirius -"Party-Pooper?"
Sirius's face took on a sickly smile, though that might have been because of his smoking boots, and –
Skritch, skritch, scratch. Peter nearly jumped out of his skin. It sounded for all the world like a giant ant clicking its mandibles in glee at such a juicy prey. Remus had had an old magazine – pulp, he had said – and at the time they had all laughed at it, but now…
No. Peter the Daring would stand up and face them, Peter the Brave would chop them all into bits!
He just had to open up his eyes, first.
His hand started to crawl towards his bag, where his wand had been shoved when he'd pulled out that tart. Maybe whoever it was would think he was still asleep. Maybe. The rustling, scratching noises grew louder, and thicker, as if the giant ant had been joined by twenty more giant ants, and he really, really had to stop thinking about such things if he ever hoped to face his foe, and – ah, there. His hand closed around the welcome mottled wood of his wand.
One. Two. Three!
Peter launched himself up as if he had springs, ripping his wand out of his bag and forcing his eyes open at the same time.
"Avast ye – ARRRGGHH! Sirius! James! Help!" He was caught! Clamped in an iron vise! Jaws of steel surrounded him, and –
Ah. Unfortunately, his bag had come up with his wand and expertly twined itself around the table leg.
What a fool he'd been.
"All right, now I'm really angry!" grumbled Peter, face flaming with embarrassment. He yanked himself out of the bag's grip, stumbling against the table behind him as he did so. Unfortunately, his wand went skittering across the floor, rolling beneath the table nearest the door. Well, that was just great. He straightened up cautiously against the kinks in his back, looking around him as he did so. Something had to have been making that noise before even if it wasn't a colony of giant ants. There was nothing but a few pumpkins with trailing vines sitting on the table next to him, and –
Peter started, yipping in spite of himself. Pumpkins? In spring? In here? The place had been empty of all plants, he'd have sworn it!
It could only mean one thing. The Slytherins had found him. Or worse, his friends.
He affected to make his voice bored and disgusted. Maybe they hadn't heard his squeal. Or his anguished howl just before. Or, in fact, anything up until this very point.
"Pumpkins, lads? Really? Well, that just takes the cake. Or maybe pie. Want some pumpkin pie, do you, right in your bloody faces?"
A rustle seemed to come from the direction of the pumpkins, but Peter ignored it, sure it was from his friends crouched just outside.
"Anyone think to bring a knife? Oh, no, of course not, you're not known for thinking, are you. I'll just go get my wand, and Transfigure this little pumpkin into a nice, sharp, butcher knife – "
"So you think you're brave, do you, boy?" rasped a singularly unpleasant, slightly squelchy voice. A voice that came from the largest pumpkin, which now had dark, frowning eyes, a triangular nose, and a jagged, toothy mouth...
No.
"Oh, yes," said the pumpkin, as if it could read his mind, as if such a thing were possible, if anything that looked like that could possibly have a mind, but then, it was speaking, wasn't it...and speaking to him.
All right, Peter thought, trying to quell his anxious heart, so it's a talking pumpkin. So what? He'd seen worse in Professor Sprout's working greenhouses, though admittedly not of the conversational type. Nothing to be afraid of. And yet suddenly he was quite sure he shouldn't have mentioned anything about knives or cutting, and now all the pumpkins had those dark eyes and sharp mouths, and were all looking at him…
"Going to cut me up, then, were you boy?" snapped the large pumpkin, effectively stopping Peter's line of thought.
"Er, no, no, of course not!" stammered Peter, wiping his hands nervously on his trousers. "It was just a joke, see? On my friends."
"A joke. On your friends. Friends?" asked the pumpkin, turning this way and that as if looking for them in the shadowy greenhouse. The other pumpkins did the same.
"Well, yes, you see, my friends like to play tricks. Lots of tricks. Sometimes on me," Peter finished lamely, as the pumpkins all turned back to face him.
"But they're not here now," said the pumpkin matter-of-factly.
Peter thought about calling out again, but decided against it. If they were there, he would never hear the end of his calling for help; if they weren't…Peter shivered. Suddenly he didn't want to contemplate what it would mean if they hadn't been there at all.
"I guess not."
"You guess not. Well, then, that makes this mightily interesting, doesn't it? You, all alone here in this forgotten greenhouse, with us…anyone know where you are?"
The pumpkin had fired this last so quickly that Peter was caught off guard. "No one," he said, and winced, wishing he hadn't said anything. Sirius would never have made such a mistake, he thought glumly.
"But I have to get back, they'll be expecting me for dinner," he added hastily, half-turning so he could reach down and gather up his books and bag. As long as he moved slowly, he shouldn't startle them…
A horrendously malicious, creaking sound made him shoot straight back up again in terror. The greenhouse was suddenly much darker, the shadows reaching for him where he stood. He looked around shakily, but didn't see anything that could have made such a noise, except – ah. The door was now closed. The only door. The door that led outside.
"Did you see that?" Peter gabbled. "Was that the wind, or something? I hope it's not stuck, I-"
"It's not stuck," said the large pumpkin, just as Peter started to move down the line of the table.
"It's – it's not?" asked Peter, pausing uncertainly. "How could you know?"
"Because I shut it."
Peter spun around to face the pumpkin, gaping. "You – but – but how?"
The pumpkin smiled. Something in the pumpkin's smile made Peter stop edging towards the door.
"I don't think that's nearly as important as what you're doing here in the first place, boy, do you?"
"I'm not doing anything here, honest!" Peter gabbled. "I just...I just needed a place to stay. To think, that is. I won't be back, I promise you, there are lots of other places I could go..."
"No, there aren't," said the pumpkin companionably, as if this conversation weren't entirely forced from his side.
Peter considered insisting that there were, and that he knew where, but he couldn't muster up any confidence, especially as this pumpkin seemed to know quite a lot for a pumpkin. Oh, where was Peter the Dauntless when you needed him! he wailed inside.
"In fact," the pumpkin continued, "you had to choose this place. Your coming was foreordained."
"What are you, a Seer?" snapped Peter, rankled enough to forget his situation for a moment. Divination was so far beyond him that James had declared him an Anti-Seer.
The pumpkin barked a short, squelchy laugh. Peter didn't know that pumpkins could laugh either, but that was a sound he could live without. The other pumpkins smiled nervously behind him. Perhaps they were scared of the big pumpkin too.
"Nothing so simple, boy. We are-" and here the pumpkin drew himself up proudly, managing to encompass the other pumpkins in a gesture Peter felt more than saw – "Spy Pumpkins."
"'Spy Pumpkins?'"
"Bit deaf, are you, boy?" commented the pumpkin, drawing himself back down. "You heard me. Spy Pumpkins. It's our business to know these things."
"How come I've never heard of you before? Or seen you?"
The pumpkin snorted. "Not much good in being a Spy Pumpkin if you're seen." The other pumpkins nodded sagely to each other.
"I'm seeing you now," Peter blurted, then wished he hadn't. All of the pumpkins's eyes narrowed.
"By our choice, boy. Remember that."
"Right," said Peter hastily.
The large pumpkin regarded him for awhile longer. Peter fidgeted, and tried not to fidget. Just as he thought he would scream from the suspense, the large pumpkin sighed in resignation.
"Well, let's get down to it, shall we?"
"Down to...to what? What do you want with me?" Peter said in alarm. As if by some hidden signal, all the other pumpkins took out parchment, quill, and ink. Peter had the impression that they'd been writing on them just before he'd gotten up. He didn't see where they'd kept all these items, let alone how they could write with them in the first place, but he suddenly realized he didn't really want to know.
The large pumpkin said, "Your stories, boy. You."
"Me?"
"We've waited a long time to have our own person. And now we have. So you see, it's quite all right that you're here; you can stay. In fact, you can stay forever. That's what we've got, after all."
Peter felt all the life drain out of him. He teetered backwards away from the pumpkins, only to come up short against the table behind him. This was worse, much worse, than a mere colony of ants.