Right. So, what shal I say... please review if you like this. I kinda did.
Anyway, I got the idea from a certain story I once read and I thought it
would be really cool to do it with Hogwarts instead. I hope you enjoy this
and I guess I 'm just writing this for writing's sake, sitting here,
waiting for someone to review...
Bon appetite!
* * *
Prologue.
No one really wondered what Pettigrew would be like when he grew up. Little Peter Pettigrew, blonde and unassuming, somewhat naive: his naivity was not conscious, however, although it often seemed like it. Rather, it was his complete unawareness of it that was something teethering to the edge of slightly annoying.
An example of this - indeed, many an example of this - could be shown during a class under the eyes of a particular master named Yeats.
Yeats was the senior Herbology master, a tall man of roughly fifty years, handsome yet strangely unappealing. During classes, Pettigrew would sit, gazing into theoretical space: occasionally, asking a question that would practically beg the exasperation and groans of the class. Then he would smile, as if pleased with the reaction he had caused but his naivity was the cause, and that was obvious.
However, I digress. This Yeats was not the nicest of masters, particularly to those as mentally ill-endowed as Pettigrew: He would make waspish comments and would often pretend to mistake the boys name for Lettigrew - the name of a rare enough plant that caused the swallower severe, occasionally permanent, forgetfulness.
Pettigrew had a round face, somewhat similar to the puddings often on display during the feasts that were laid out on the tables of the Great Hall. His blonde hair was often plastered to his round, babyish cranium, his cheerful blue eyes emphasising his painful lack of awareness; his tie would be neatly place, an elongatedrhombus resting between the triangular open of his school cloak and the stiff collars. His shoes would be shiny. And, besides being hopeless in classes, he was rubbish at games. Indeed, Pettigrew only became famous in Hogwarts because once, when asked by a frustrated McGonagall - "What are you planning to do with your life, exactly, Pettigrew?" - he had replied, "Dad's in the button business," that benign smile on his face. "Pettigrew's, you know."
But noone, of course, did know.
Bon appetite!
* * *
Prologue.
No one really wondered what Pettigrew would be like when he grew up. Little Peter Pettigrew, blonde and unassuming, somewhat naive: his naivity was not conscious, however, although it often seemed like it. Rather, it was his complete unawareness of it that was something teethering to the edge of slightly annoying.
An example of this - indeed, many an example of this - could be shown during a class under the eyes of a particular master named Yeats.
Yeats was the senior Herbology master, a tall man of roughly fifty years, handsome yet strangely unappealing. During classes, Pettigrew would sit, gazing into theoretical space: occasionally, asking a question that would practically beg the exasperation and groans of the class. Then he would smile, as if pleased with the reaction he had caused but his naivity was the cause, and that was obvious.
However, I digress. This Yeats was not the nicest of masters, particularly to those as mentally ill-endowed as Pettigrew: He would make waspish comments and would often pretend to mistake the boys name for Lettigrew - the name of a rare enough plant that caused the swallower severe, occasionally permanent, forgetfulness.
Pettigrew had a round face, somewhat similar to the puddings often on display during the feasts that were laid out on the tables of the Great Hall. His blonde hair was often plastered to his round, babyish cranium, his cheerful blue eyes emphasising his painful lack of awareness; his tie would be neatly place, an elongatedrhombus resting between the triangular open of his school cloak and the stiff collars. His shoes would be shiny. And, besides being hopeless in classes, he was rubbish at games. Indeed, Pettigrew only became famous in Hogwarts because once, when asked by a frustrated McGonagall - "What are you planning to do with your life, exactly, Pettigrew?" - he had replied, "Dad's in the button business," that benign smile on his face. "Pettigrew's, you know."
But noone, of course, did know.