Disclaimer: None of the characters, places, and things mentioned below are the property of the author. No money is being made from this story. No money will ever be made from anything the author writes, but from this least of all. Since, as mentioned above, the Potterverse is the property of J. K. Rowlings. Who is not the author in question here.
A/N: I'm basically posting this as an apology for not updating "No Higher Praise" recently … and for the time it will be until I actually do update it. The next chapter is coming along slowly, and my health has not been behaving itself properly. I wrote this some months ago, originally as a prologue or first chapter for a massive, far-too-ambitious work detailing the Marauders years at Hogwarts through the eyes of Peter Pettigrew. I came across it recently and thought that there might (just possibly) be someone out there who'd enjoy reading it. It is basically my view on how Wormtail could have been sorted into Gryffindor when he so evidently lacks Gryffindorish traits. 'Tis more-or-less in the same … ah … "universe" as NHP.
THE RAT
The robes were a little too long. Peter frowned at the mirror and shifted his feet, envisioning himself treading on the black fabric and falling in an embarrassing tangle of limbs. They were too long, but his mother insisted he would grow into them. Privately, he doubted it. He had never been a tall boy, and now, at the age when other children started to get tall, he seemed to be growing out rather than up.
Squinting at the mirror on the back of his door, Peter tugged at the black cloth, wishing, not for the first time, that robes didn't make him look so … fat. He wasn't fat, not really, just chubby – but what was the point of worrying about it? He ran a hand through his hair and peered at his face, checking for spots.
He didn't like his face – chubby, round, and freckled, it might have been attractive in a small-boy way if it weren't for the long pointed nose. He didn't like his hair – it was thin and sparse, rather lifeless, a brown so pale that it was almost blond. He didn't like his eyes – they were small and black, which was bad enough, but they seemed red-rimmed and became watery at the slightest provocation. His only comfort was that his teeth were straight. But were they clean? Peter opened his mouth and breathed on the glass. Reaching out, he managed to trace a small unicorn head in the steam before it faded away.
Hogwarts. Maybe he'd get to see a real unicorn. That would be –
"Peter!" His mother's fist rapped sharply on the door. "Peter, are you coming? I'm waiting on you!"
Peter gave his robes a hasty final twitch and glanced wildly around for his shoes. "I'm coming, Mum!"
He sat down on the edge of the bed and tugged at his loafers. His mother called again. "Peter, you have your birthday money, don't you? If you forget it, you may not get another chance to buy a pet before September. Did you remember it?"
"Yes, Mum, I've got my money!" Peter snatched the pouch off of his pillow and tucked it into his pocket.
"Do you have your list of supplies, your Hogwarts letter? This whole trip will be for nothing if you forget it!"
Peter touched his pocket, feeling the corners of the heavy parchment envelope, then headed for the door. "I've got it, Mum, don't worry. I'm coming!"
Adelaide Pettigrew was not much taller than her son – a short, plump woman, plain-faced, with Peter's small black eyes, round chin, and freckles, though her hair was thick, black, and curly. She gave her yellow cloak a sharp twitch and cocked her head to one side like a bird, eyeing Peter from the tips of his short hair to the toes of his shoes, barely visible under the black robe. "Those robes do look nice on you – I thought they would."
Peter plucked at a sleeve moodily – it came down to his knuckles. "They're too long, Mum. Not," he added hastily, "that I'm not grateful to you for making them."
"They're fine," Peter muttered, touching his pocket again to verify that he had everything, "but I don't know why I have to wear them today. We're just going to Diagon Alley."
"I want
you to look nice,"
"Mum," Peter sighed, fidgeting from foot to foot. "Can we go?" He hated it when she started going on about how good-looking he really was. He didn't understand it – half the time she made critical comments about his hair and his weight – the other half she told him that he had his father's nose and hair and said he'd make some lucky girl very happy someday. Why couldn't she stick to the topic at hand? "Let's go, all right? I have everything."
They
went. Peter followed his mother up a
flight of stairs to get out of their small
In the Owl Post, Peter examined a shelf of tiny screech owls while his mother paid a Sickle apiece for the use of the fireplace. As always, Peter only spared a moment to wish that they had their own fireplace – after all, he enjoyed coming to the Owl Post. His mother sometimes said that that was the Hufflepuff in him – being contented with what he had. He supposed she ought to know, being a Hufflepuff herself, but he wasn't really sure if what he felt was contentment or just – fireplaces weren't as important as other things, like intelligence, like friends, like good looks, like everything else that he didn't have.
"Peter,
come along,"
Peter snatched a bit of powder and hurried to the fireplace, trying to tune his mother out. He'd traveled this way a dozen times, and had never gone wrong – except, of course, for the very first time, but that didn't really count, did it? "Diagon Alley," he called, firmly, and stepped into the dancing green flames. He remembered why he disliked traveling that way as he staggered out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, dizzy and disoriented.
As his
mother appeared behind him, Peter straightened up and dusted off his robes, glancing
around the dim interior of Wizarding London's most
famous pub. "Hello, Tom,"
The slightly stooped man nodded
back at her, greying hair bobbing amiably. "Hello,
"Yes," Peter's mother replied proudly, putting a hand on Peter's shoulder. He reddened, wondering if the bartender was one of those who believed Muggles tainted magical blood, who believed that halfbloods were usually Squibs and could never attain the same heights as pure-blooded wizards. When his mother started through the bar to go out the back, he hurried after her in relief. Something about the small, dark room and the low buzz of chatter unnerved him.
He had been to Diagon Alley once before, when he was eight, but as the brick above the trash can squirmed and shivered and widened into a large archway, he felt a prickle of excitement and awe at the view before him. His mother gave him no time to stop and gape; she took his hand firmly and marched through, her feet slapping smartly on the cobbled stones. She briskly purchases a pewter cauldron, then spun Peter around and dragged him toward the Apothecary. He fished the crumpled parchment envelope out of his pocket, running a finger lovingly across the Hogwarts seal on the back, and extracted the list of first-year supplies while his mother greeted the shopkeeper. She twitched the paper out of his hand and bought his potion ingredients for him while he stood by the door and tried to breath through his mouth. The Apothecary, Peter felt, was a decidedly unpleasant place.
"We're not going to buy you a
broomstick, Peter,"
"I just want to look," Peter began, but his mother whisked him inside the stationary shop and he dropped the subject. When they crossed the street to buy his telescope, scales, and phials, he cheered up and stared round-eyed at lunascopes, sneakoscopes, talking mirrors, and an immense globe of the solar system while his mother made indignant noises over the prices.
From there, they proceeded to Flourish & Blotts. He felt his mother's hand tense suddenly as they entered, and glanced curiously up at her. She seemed to be staring fixedly at a group in front of the Divination stand; Peter turned his attention to them. They seemed a normal enough bunch – the mother was short, blond, and thin, the father not much taller but a good deal chubbier. He had a good-natured face, black hair, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that made Peter place him as a former Ravenclaw. Their daughter, paging through a book that seemed to involve mirrors and cards, looked to be thirteen or fourteen years old. Nothing about them suggested a cause for his mother's sudden discomfort.
She let go of his hand and nudged his shoulder. "Go find your books, Peter."
"Me?" he asked in surprise and some alarm. "I … I don't know where …"
His mouth remained open in shock as his mother left him standing there and made her way toward the divination group. She pasted a sudden smile onto her face, stopping where they could not fail to see her. "Albert! How are you?"
The black-haired man, startled,
lowered a book and stared at her. His
mouth tightened suddenly and he narrowed his eyes. "
Mr. Fawcett's voice filtered through the shelves of bright volumes, thick with anger. "If you care such a lot about family, why did you run off and marry that Muggle wastrel?"
Peter swallowed hard and clutched at Magical Drafts and Potions. He didn't think he liked "Uncle Albert" very much. Sure, his father had been a Muggle, and sure, he had divorced his wife shortly after his son's birth (causing quite a scandal, since divorce was hardly common or accepted), and certainly they had not seen a penny of support from him since that time, but what business was it of the Fawcetts?
His mother's voice, shrill with indignation, broke through his thoughts. "My son is not a Squib, Albert! He was accepted at Hogwarts and has the ability to be just as powerful a wizard as any of your children!" Next, Peter thought moodily, they would start yapping about what a disgrace it was for an old Ravenclaw family to have a Hufflepuff - oh, the horror! – as a relation, then they would start twitting his mother about her job training owls. He shut his ears and started groping along the shelf for his Herbology book.
He was bent over, peering along the lower shelf, when he realized the Fawcett girl was standing right behind him, and straightened so suddenly that he stepped on the hem of his robe and dropped his books. Scrambling to grab them up, he tried to ignore her. For her part, she seemed to consider him beneath her notice, and stepped daintily past to pick up the third-year potions book. Peter backed out of the aisle, cheeks burning, unsure whether he would have been more insulted or less if she had spoken to him.
Then he came to with a start and hurried after her. "Mum!" he hissed. "I've got my robes! Why are we here?"
His mother smiled warmly at the squat, smiling woman in front of her. "Cygna! How lovely to see you again! It's been too long." She seized Peter's shoulder and pulled him in front of her. "This is Peter, my son. He's starting Hogwarts this year."
"My," the other lady sighed, "how time does fly. It seems only yesterday that we entering Hogwarts ourselves." She smiled down at Peter and offered a square hand. "Hello, dear. I'm Cygna Malkin – not THE Madame Malkin – that's my aunt, helping the young gentleman over there – but it's a family business, after all. I was at Hogwarts with your mother."
Peter ducked his head shyly and tried to back away. "Er – how d'you do – pleased to meet you."
"He's here for his hat and gloves,"
Much to Peter's discomfort, Miss Malkin stepped forward to finger the hem of his sleeve and peer at his cloak's collar. "Very nice, very nice. You've a very tidy hand at stitching. These will hold up well. What pattern did you use?"
As the women delved deep into an inscrutable conversation involving yards, threat, fabric, hems, and backstitching, Peter glanced across the shop at the other customer, and froze in bewilderment.
Madame Malkin didn't much resemble her niece, and her frizzled white locks were certainly eye-catching, but the boy she was fitting was not just eye-catching – he was blinding. Peter knew nothing about clothing, but even he could have ventured the opinion that that particular shade of brilliant orange clashed horribly with its wearer's smooth blond locks and sky-blue eyes. He winced, but could not look away as the other boy, spotting him, flashed a smile whiter than snow and waved. Madame Malkin pushed his arm down, looking distinctly irritated. Peter continued to gape as she magically lengthened the hem of the robes, then straightened, whipped them off of him, and motioned the boy off the stool. Peter blinked, dumbstruck. The young customer was wearing magenta and aqua underneath, and – great heavens – did he REALLY have a lemon-colored cloak?
Madame Malkin seemed to be wrapping the orange robes – and some red robes, and some gold robes, and some that were a peculiarly revolting shade of bright purple – in brown paper. The blond boy eyed the package over her shoulder, then sauntered toward Peter, beaming happily. Peter blinked at the even, impossibly white teeth, then focused on the rest of the face. "Hullo!" the boy chirped cheerfully. "Hogwarts, eh?"
Peter squirmed uncomfortably, shy as always. "Y-yes."
"First year, I suppose," the boy continued patronizingly.
Peter nodded mutely.
"I'm a second year," the boy announced, his tone suggesting that living through the first year and being asked back was a major accomplishment, worthy of a commendation from the Minister of Magic himself. "Gilderoy Lockhart," he added, deigning to extend his hand. "Hufflepuff."
"Hullo," Peter mumbled, clutching at the other boy's fingers. "I'm P-peter Pettigrew."
"If you need any advice, or any help getting around once you're at Hogwarts," the older boy declared grandly, "I will, of course, be happy to assist you. Especially if you enter Hufflepuff. Best house there is."
Peter found himself hoping desperately that he did not have what it took to be a Hufflepuff.
"We were second place for the House
Cup last year," Gilderoy went on, oblivious to
Peter's longing glances at his mother and Miss Malkin,
deep in conversation. "I will not say
that any part of that is due to my own poor contributions, but Professor
Viridian said I was an absolute marvel at Defence
Against the Dark Arts – said he'd never seen anyone like me before." The white teeth flashed again in a proud
smile. "I'm going to try out for our Quidditch team. We've got Gerald Whisp as our flying
instructor, you know. He's a relation of
Kennilworthy Whisp himself
– not that I think Quidditch is really very
interesting, but I'm quite good at it, you know, and I really feel that it's my
duty to try out. I think I'll be Seeker
– it's very important for a team's Seeker to be talented since he's the most
important player. I might play Quidditch for
"Peter! Come try on this hat, will you?"
"Sorry, got to go. Good-bye, nice meeting you." Peter edged away.
"Oh, rather. Terrific. Hogwarts is a great place. I say, are you here to shop? If you're getting dress robes, I suggest -" Peter fled across the floor to his mother as Gilderoy's blinding smile lit up the whole shop again.
Five minutes later, his mother shepherded him out of the shop. "Do you still have everything, Peter? You didn't leave your bundle of books in there?"
Peter glanced hurriedly down into his cauldron – yes, potion ingredients, books, telescope, phials, scales, parchment, quills, ink, dragonhide gloves and hat were all present and well. "Yes, Mum, I've got everything. Er – is it time – can I – are we going to get my wand now?"
"What?!" Peter squealed in alarm. "By myself? But – Mum!"
"Peter, you're elven years old. Am I going to be there to hold your hand at Hogwarts?" She frowned down at him, fumbling in her bag for money. "Ollivander's shop is all the way down at the end. Just go in and get a wand – here's ten galleons, I'm sure it won't cost more than that, and don't lose the change – and then go to the Magical Menagerie and get yourself a pet. Nowhere else, mind. I don't want you anywhere near Knockturn Alley, and you're liable to waste money if you get near Gambol & Japes."
Peter stammered incoherently for a moment. The mere thought of going into a shop by himself, of being forced to make decisions and speak to shopkeepers, left an icy ball of fear in his stomach. With something as important as a wand …! "Mum, I - I can't!" He knew he needed to get over his shyness, but this was completely unnecessary torture.
She frowned, hesitating, and he suddenly realized how childish he sounded. Blood rushed to his face and he dropped his head in embarrassment. "I – all right."
He wished the words back almost immediately, but kept his mouth shut as his mother's form disappeared behind a gaggle of shoppers. Slowly, he turned and trudged down the cobbled street, shoulders hunched. He felt oddly small and alone, and could not shake the ridiculous notion that each witch or wizard passing him was giving him a long, penetrating stare. When he finally reached Ollivander's, he stood outside the door, staring at the two polished wands lying on a pale blue cushion in the window for a good five minutes before nerving himself to push the door open.
Inside, his eyes were promptly drawn to the two people in the center of the tiny, dim room. One had to be Mr. Ollivander – an old man with large silvery eyes and a silent, unnerving stare. The other seemed to be a student – a girl, taller than he was, with dark brown hair in a long braid. Peter edged over to the single spindly chair and stood behind it, eyeing the towering stacks of boxes with apprehension. They seemed to lean forward, looming in the dusky darkness, emitting a humming magic almost thick enough to feel. Peter shivered and looked back to those in front of him. Ollivander was darting back and forth with swift, noiseless steps, fetching narrow boxes, thrusting wands into the girl's hand, then snatching them back almost before she had curled her fingers around them. Peter started violently and barely kept himself from ducking when one erupted into a fountain of red and blue sparks. The girl paid and left, beaming, and smiled at Peter as she exited. He stared after her for a moment, then leapt around with a squeak as Ollivander touched his shoulder.
"And your parents would be…?" the old man murmured, pale eyes fixed unblinkingly on Peter's smaller black ones.
Peter fought down a wave of panic and managed to frame an answer. "A-a-adelaide Pettigrew."
"
"Yes. Yes, Fawcett. I – Hogwarts – I'm going – a wand?" He felt his face turn bright red and clutched the back of the chair convulsively.
"A wand. Of course." Ollivander drifted away, pulling boxes down, as Peter nervously watched the eerily animated tape measure. "This should do," Ollivander mused, returning with a stack of narrow boxes in his hands. The tape measure tumbled into a motionless heap on Peter's shoes. "Take it," Ollivander continued softly, removing a wand and running long fingers lovingly down the smooth sides, "and give it a wave. Eleven inches, whippy – elm."
Peter took it limply and stared at
the end, wondering what the point was. Ollivander removed it from his hand and snatched another
up. "
The
wood had barely touched his hands when a jet of red sparks spurted out the
end. Peter yelped aloud and dropped it,
then hastily snatched it back up. Somehow, Ollivander's expressionless face
suggested that dropping a wand was a crime almost bad enough to merit
Azkaban. "Ten and three quarters
inches," he said quietly, keeping his eyes riveted on Peter's. "
Peter paid six galleons for it and almost ran out of the door. As it swung shut behind him with the slightest of clicks, he realized he had not thanked the old man. He hesitated on the walk for a moment, debating whether he should walk on or stick his head back in to thank Ollivander. On the one hand, he would look and feel like an idiot, on the other, his mother always said it was rude not to thank people… He braced himself and turned the handle again, cringing at the chime of the bell. "Th-thank you, Mr. Ollivander, sir," he stammered, and ducked back out before his eyes had even adjusted to the change in light.
He trotted back down the street to the Magical Menagerie, stopping only to stare wistfully through the windows of Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop, feeling a good deal more optimistic about this shopping business. Inside, he gaped at cages of ravens, puffskeins, enormous tortoises, and a box of fire salamanders before recollecting that he was allowed only an owl, a toad, a cat, or a rat. It wasn't really a difficult choice. He didn't have enough money for an owl (and wasn't planning to send many letters anyway), and he had had bad experiences with cats. His mother had owned a fluffy tabby who had detested him with a whole-hearted passion he would not have believed a cat capable of showing. And toads …
"They've gone out o' fashion a bit, dearie," the red-haired witch behind the counter told him, looking up from her examination of a very off-color crup. "Three, four years ago, everyone wanted a toad, but … well, dearie, they aren't really that interestin', are they? You'd be better off with a nice cat. Or -" (and here her eyes lighted with the prospect of a sale) "Or a nice rat. Look at these 'ere. Lovely creatures, aren't they?" She hoisted a cage of large, common grey rats onto the counter and watched him hopefully.
Peter blinked at them. "Well … er …" He somehow couldn't bring himself to contradict a strange adult. "I … er …"
"No?" She squeezed past a pile of empty owl cages and dipped her hand into another box. "'Ere, a lovely white rat. Go on, 'old 'er." Peter frantically tried to hold onto the tiny white rat – or mouse, he thought darkly – but it was plainly a losing battle.
"Somethin' a bit larger?" The woman inched past Peter and grabbed at yet another display case. "Now ,these 'ere are the cleverest rats I've ever seen." She dumped a medium-sized, sleek black creature into Peter's hands. "Can be trained to do all sorts o' interestin' tricks. Nice an' resilient, too – this'n 'ere will live a good five, six years."
Peter looked down into the rat's beady black eyes and felt a goofy smile spread across his face. "Er … yes. I … how much? And what is it? Is it a … a …" He blushed, cleared his throat, and finished, "is it a boy?"
"Yes, dearie. Three galleons an' five sickles for the rat an' a couple months' worth o' feed."
Peter dug through his pockets for his birthday gift – money to purchase a pet. Unfortunately for him, his new rat was indeed as intelligent as the saleswoman had said; it knew an opportunity for adventure when it saw one, and as Peter's grip loosened – it saw one. "Oy!" Peter yelped in alarm as the rat whisked free of his grasp, fell several feet to the floor, and made a beeline for the nearest small dark space.
He dived after it. A moment later he was lying on the floor, entangled with another boy, wondering feverishly why he never listened to wise sayings such as "Look before you leap." Burning with embarrassment, he started to scramble up. "I'm sorry -" A yelp of pain stopped his words cold, and he realized with horror that he had just trodden very hard on the other boy's fingers. "I didn't mean to -" A violent shove sent him tumbling backward. He picked himself up with a distinct lack of dignity and a distinct increase of dust upon his person, then turned to apologize.
The other boy had regained his feet and was glaring at him through a pair of intense, wild blue eyes. Peter took a moment to notice that the stranger seemed to be about his own age, though several inches taller and a lot skinnier, then opened his mouth and began his apology again. "Shut up," the other boy interrupted, almost before he had begun. He was shaking with anger. "You – you -"
Peter took a step back, unnerved. His eyes turned involuntarily to the wand in the other boy's hand, then flicked across to his own wand, still ensconced firmly in its box in his cauldron. The stranger moved toward him like a wolf stalking a plump rabbit, and Peter gulped audibly.
"'Ere's your rat, dearie!" The menace melted away, the tension snapped out of existence like a taut cord cut by a knife. The other boy spun on his heel and stalked out of the shop; Peter turned gratefully to the shopkeeper and dug out his money again. "What're you goin' to call 'im, eh?"
"Er …" Peter searched his mind frantically for a clever reply.
"'Ow about Bolt?" queried the woman brightly. "'E's fast as a bolt o' lightnin', for sure. What d'you think?"
"Yes! That's a great name. I -" Peter abruptly realized that he was talking to a strange woman and shut his mouth, crimsoning yet again. "I – I -" He shoved the money at her, babbled something that might have been an expression of gratitude, and snatched the rat. Forcing it into his pocket proved something of a chore; it nearly escaped again when he tripped over his cauldron. Made clumsier than usual by his frantic desire to get out of the shop, away from the shopkeeper's amused gaze, he tugged his wand free from the jumble of other school supplies in his cauldron, spilling packs of herbs on the floor. Moments later he staggered outside the shop, cauldron (potion ingredients successfully crammed back inside) in one hand and wand in the other.
Three
steps down the sidewalk, he came to a startled halt. The
Peter had never claimed to be a genius (at least, not since he had been three years old and thought himself the first child to ever discover that red and blue paint made purple), but spotting a bully didn't take a genius. Peter did what any frightened eleven-year-old boy would have: he froze in place.
"You knocked me over," said the boy in the middle, voice colder than the surface of a pond in mid-January.
Peter identified him as the thin boy from the Magical Menagerie and swallowed hard, unnerved by his darting eyes. Suddenly recollecting his wand, he raised his arm, planning to say something along the lines of "Stand back or I'll hex you out of your socks!" but the third boy stepped forward and snatched it out of his hand.
"Nice wand," he drawled, spinning it between his fingers. "Brand new, eh? Be a shame if it got … damaged …" Peter noted absently that his fingernails had been chewed on badly, then took another step backward. His shoulders bumped into the wall and he froze again.
"W-w-who are y-you?" he asked, trying without success to control his voice.
"More to the point," the thin boy snapped, suddenly focusing on Peter's face, "who are YOU? I've never seen you before. What's your name, chubby?"
Peter opened his mouth, fully intending to snap "I'm not chubby!", but caught himself in time. "P-Peter Pettigrew."
"Oh," the thin boy said, somehow loading the single drawn-out sound with an infinite amount of scorn and comprehension. "You're a muggle-born."
Peter frowned at him, feeling slightly more confident as he remembered that they couldn't very well attack him right in the middle of Diagon Alley. "My f-father was a muggle, but I'm still a h-half-blood. Who are you?"
His fragile courage melted away again under their glares of disdain. "Aren't you polite," murmured the one holding his wand. "I suppose fat kids never have impeccable manners. A half-blood – how sweet. What d'you think, Will? Would it be demeaning ourselves to much to talk to this clumsy weakling?"
The thin boy's lips curled into a sneer. "I'm William Lestrange, Pettygroove. And you still haven't apologized for running into me in that boorish manner in the store."
"S-s-s-s-orry," Peter stammered, not bothering to correct the mispronunciation of his name.
"Emmet Wilkes," growled the big boy. "You'd better be sorry. Nobody ticks off one of my friends without wishing they hadn't."
"Evan Rosier," the third boy said flatly, continuing to twirl Peter's wand between his fingers. He gave Peter an appraising once-over, then smiled nastily. "I suppose I don't need to worry about seeing you in Slytherin. I'd consider myself quite insulted if I ended up in the same house as you."
"Pleased to meet you," Peter mumbled. "Er … I'll just be going … could I h-have my wand back? P-p-please?"
"Let me think about that," Rosier smirked. "What d'you think, Will?"
"I don't know," Lestrange drawled. "Seems to me anyone spineless enough to let you take his wand away from him doesn't deserve a wand in the first place. Especially not anyone as clumsy as Pettigrool."
"Not that there's anything petty about him," Rosier remarked. "And by 'petty,' I do, of course, mean little, Emmet. I've never seen a fatter eleven-year-old. Or one with a longer nose. What a revolting combination."
"Really, Evan, be a bit more observant," Lestrange countered. "Look at his hair."
Rosier made a great show of scanning Peter's head. "Hair? What hair?"
"My point exactly." Lestrange smirked again. "He's practically bald. No hair to speak of."
Anger and shame bubbled miserably in Peter's chest. He swallowed hard, unsure whether to explode from the insults or dissolve into tears.
Wilkes seemed to feel a moral obligation to join his wittier counterparts in the taunting. "Aw, is da poor widdle baby gonna cwy now?"
"Revolting." Rosier screwed his face up in disgust. "Tears running down that face? I'm going to be scarred for life from that mental image, Emmet."
"You'd better look away then," Lestrange told his friend seriously. "He's going to break down like a baby any moment now."
"I thought he was a baby," Rosier said blankly, arching his perfect blond eyebrows in surprise. "Didn't you? I mean, the lack of hair … the round pink baby face … the lack of coordination … the drool … the drippy nose … the floppy oversized clothes … the enormous ears… the meager mental ability…"
Peter snapped. He pushed off from the wall, feeling deliriously powerful in his anger, and aimed a blow at Rosier's smirking face. For one delicious moment, he forgot entirely that they were all taller than him, that there were three of them, that they were armed and he was not, that he had lost every fistfight he had ever been in, and simply gloried in his moment of recklessness.
Then Wilkes's hand caught Peter's fist and twisted. Peter yelped and, still buoyed up by adrenalin, tried to kick Wilkes in the shin. He had forgotten that Wilkes had another hand. That hand seized the front of his robes and shoved, sending him bouncing against the wall before he landed ignominiously on the walk.
They looked down at him, scorn and amusement mixing in their faces, and his anger faded into fear and hurt.
"I'm not really surprised," Rosier continued smoothly. "Bears out my theory. Babies have infernal tempers, but can't throw punches any better than … than they can fight off werewolves. And," he added triumphantly, cinching his argument, "they enjoy playing in the mud!"
"I think you could be right, Evan," Lestrange agreed, his mouth still twisted into a smirk. "Definitely a baby that got in the way of an engorgement charm." His voice dripped mocking sympathy. "Are you lost, little'un? Where's your mummy, Prettygoo?"
"She probably ran off and left him after one look at what he'd look like when he grew up," Wilkes announced, obviously inspired by his satisfaction at knocking Peter over. Lestrange and Rosier both threw him approving looks.
"Couldn't have said it better myself, Emmet," Lestrange declaimed, then plucked the wand out of Rosier's hands. Rosier started to scowl at him, then changed his mind and laughed instead. "Babies shouldn't be allowed near wands."
Peter tried to tune out their taunting and mentally listed his options. He could continue sitting here, trying to pretend what they were saying didn't matter, and wait for them to give him back his wand and go away. He could start making a fuss and hopefully attract some grownup attention. Or he could jump up and attack them again … and probably get two black eyes and a bloody nose.
"So, what shall we do with it?"
"I could break it in half," Wilkes offered eagerly. Peter started and looked up with a squeak of protest. "You got a problem with that, baby?" the bigger boy added. Peter made no reply, and he sniggered meanly. "Spineless little wimp. Gonna wail for mummy yet?"
Peter's vision darkened. At that moment, as he sat still on the rough cobbled stones of Diagon Alley, he felt a fierce hatred for everything in the world. Quite understandably, he hated Lestrange, Rosier, and Wilkes for being bullies. He hated his rat for causing him to get on Lestrange's bad side in the first place. He hated all the adults walking past for their oblivion, for not noticing that a child was in trouble. He hated his mother for leaving him alone in this position. And he hated himself, loathed his own cowardice, his clumsiness, his inability to protect himself, his squeaky voice that stammered helplessly when he was nervous, betraying all his fear. He couldn't even pretend to be brave.
"I thought we agreed that his mother abandoned him," Rosier remarked. "Say, Petey, is she the muggle or is it your father?"
"Must be his father," Lestrange promptly answered. "Pettigrew isn't a wizard family."
"If he's half-muggle," Wilkes said slowly, "he won't be in Slytherin, will he? So we won't have to put up with him."
Lestrange and Rosier looked at each other, expressions of long-suffering patience plastered on their faces. "Yes, Emmet. We only already figured that out ten minutes ago. Call your mind back, will you?"
"If you can locate it," Lestrange added coldly. He hefted Peter's wand in one hand for a moment. "Come on, I'm tired of this. Let's go to Florean Fortescue's for a snack. Emmet, you're paying."
"I heard that the proprietor's son is starting Hogwarts this year," Rosier said, pocketing his own wand. "He'll be in our class … maybe if he's in Slytherin we can arrange to get free ice cream."
Peter stared up at them, hoping desperately that Lestrange would give him back his wand.
"Hey," said Wilkes, frowning at Lestrange, "I paid last time."
"No, I did," Rosier snapped. "Besides, you eat more than we do. Stop quibbling and let's go." He shoved Wilkes lightly, then started down the street. Wilkes took a few steps after him, then half-turned, waiting for Lestrange.
The thin boy looked down at Peter, bright blue eyes focusing on him intently. "Stay out of my way at Hogwarts, Pettygoose, and you won't get hurt." Quite deliberately, he set his foot on the edge of Peter's cauldron and tipped it over, sending schoolbooks, instruments, parchments and everything else tumbling into the gutter. Then, calmly and casually, he lifted Peter's wand and flung it down the street.
Open-mouthed, Peter watched it tumble end over end through the air, vanishing behind a knot of shoppers. Suddenly resolute, he chose the third course of action – necessary or not, that was his brand new wand and – and – and he wouldn't be in Slytherin for the world.
With an inarticulate, warbling cry of rage, Peter scrambled to his feet and flung himself on Lestrange. Lestrange leapt backward, and Peter's first blow met the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wilkes sprinting toward him. Further back, Rosier spun around, his wand leaping into his hand. Lestrange ducked Peter's next wild swing; hoping to catch him in the face, Peter kicked out. Lestrange caught his foot and jerked, causing Peter to lose his precarious balance and fall flat on his back. The rounded cobblestones met his spine with considerable force, and he yelped aloud before he could stop himself.
In his peripheral vision, he saw a streak of green leave Rosier's wand. The next moment, he discovered that lying flat on one's back is a bad position for dodging hexes. Peter gasped with shock as his skin went icy cold, then seemed to wriggle and writhe before sprouting miniature toadstools. Nauseous and terrified, Peter squeezed his eyes shut. Above him, he heard Lestrange laugh, sounding infuriatingly young and carefree. "Emmet! Look at this!"
Rosier's voice joined the others, vibrant with delight. "I must say it certainly improved his looks. I love that hex – works every time!"
Then someone's foot connected solidly with his ribs. He yelped, and forced his eyes open. Toadstools or not, letting oneself be kicked around was always a bad idea. Scrambling into a crouch, he saw Rosier raising his wand eagerly, Lestrange folding his arms with the air of a general ordering his troops into battle, and Wilkes drawing back one booted foot for a second kick.
Then a hand dropped heavily onto Wilkes' shoulder, pulling him backward, and a firm voice said, "Put the wand away this instant."
Peter tilted his head back and focused on his savior – a young man, tall, thin, and freckled, with bright red hair that almost looked as if it couldn't be natural. He went limp with relief. This was an adult; everything would be all right. The red-head's eyes flicked down to him, and widened with surprise. He drew his own wand and hastily relieved Peter of the toadstools. "Are you all right?" he queried. Peter glanced sideways at Rosier, who still had his wand out.
The red-head glanced over and frowned at Rosier. "What's your name?"
Lestrange interrupted, drawn up in haughty indignation. "Why do you want to know? And who are you?"
"I want to know," the young man answered gravely, "because if he doesn't put his wand away and clear out, I'm going to give his name to the Improper Use of Magic Office at the Ministry. Unless I'm greatly mistaken, he's underage. My name is Arthur Weasley," he added as an afterthought, "and I work for the Ministry."
Rosier tilted his chin up defiantly. "He attacked one of my friends. I had a perfect right -" Weasley snorted with laughter, and Rosier scowled angrily, looking as if he might hex the grownup any moment. "My name is -"
Lestrange clamped a hand over his friend's mouth, cutting off his words, and forced his wand down. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Weasley," he said smoothly. "We'd stay to hash this out – as we were perfectly in the right – but we were just heading out to get some food. Come on, fellows." Rosier gave his companion an indignant, incredulous stare, then thrust his wand into his pocket and stalked away. Wilkes followed; Lestrange paused to give Peter a last malevolent glare, then strode after his friends.
Weasley stared after them for a moment, then turned back to Peter with a friendly smile, holding out his hand to help him up. "Nothing broken?"
"I-I'm fine," Peter stuttered. He brushed futilely at his dirtied robe. "Thanks," he added lamely.
Weasley waved a hand in a think-nothing-of-it gesture. "Starting Hogwarts this year?" he asked brightly, crouching down to help Peter gather up his things. Peter blushed hotly, oddly pleased that his new hero was sticking around to chat. He nodded wordlessly.
"Splendid!" Weasley said heartily, tapping Peter's package of glass phials with his wand. "Reparo." A faint tinkling noise signaled the mending of broken glass. "I'm Arthur Weasley – and you are?"
"Peter Pettigrew," Peter answered hesitantly, fearing a reaction like Lestrange's.
Weasley held out his hand; Peter, delighted, hastily shook it. "Charmed. You're not a muggle-born by any chance, are you?" he added eagerly.
Taken aback, Peter floundered for a moment. "I – I – my mum's magic."
Weasley looked disappointed for an instant. "Ah, so you already know all about … this?" He waved a hand vaguely around Diagon Alley.
Peter nodded, then started. "My wand! Lestrange threw it -"
Weasley's face darkened. "Oh, that was a Lestrange, was it? Nasty little rotters, all of 'em. Which way did the blighter throw it?"
Peter pointed down the street. As he and Weasley began to walk in that direction, he asked hopefully, "A - Are you really going to g-give his name to the Ministry?"
Weasley ran a hand through his hair thoughtfully. "Oh, I dunno. There probably wouldn't be much point – Ministry tends to be rather lax about things like that for first-years doing their Hogwarts shopping." He grinned reminiscently. "My brothers and I certainly hexed quite a few things when we first got our wands."
Peter made up his mind to try something with his own wand – provided he found it. "So, er, y-y-you're done with Hogwarts then?" /Stupid!/ he mentally berated himself. /He works for the Ministry – of course he's done!/
"Oh, yes," Weasley replied cheerily. "Graduated five years ago. I'm positively middle-aged now – got a wife and two kids already." He beamed at Peter. "Wonderful thing, family! Which house d'you think you'll be in?" he inquired eagerly.
"Er …"
"I was a Gryffindor, myself. Great house. The best." An expression of dreamy delight filtered across Weasley's face. "Those were great days …"
"Those three kids – Lestrange and his friends," Peter said nervously, "were saying th-they were g-going to be in Slytherin."
Weasley came back down to earth instantly, and snorted loudly. "Slytherin – tchah! Nasty little prats. You didn't hear me say that, by the way." Peter shook his head hastily. "Not that there weren't some perfectly fine chaps in Slytherin, but I've never seen such a high concentration of smarmy, stuck-up, bullying fellows anywhere else, before or after. Take that fellow in my year, Quincticus Mulciber, for instance. This is strictly off the record, mind you, but he was – is – really one of the nastiest, cruelest, most sadistic bas – er, blighters, that I've ever come across." He scowled suddenly. "Not that that arrogant, back-stabbing little wretch Malfoy isn't the worst bast – er, blighter, of the lot – ah!" He bent down and triumphantly plucked a mud-spattered wand from the cobblestones. "Would this be your missing wand?"
"Yes! Thank you!" Peter practically snatched it out of Weasley's hands and started wiping the mud off quickly. He noted gratefully that it seemed to be undamaged.
"Jolly brave of you," Weasley said appreciatively, "to take on all three of them without a wand." He grinned. "Maybe you'll end up in Gryffindor, eh? Home of the brave, and all that."
Peter blushed, deeply flattered. "I – er – do you really think so? I'd like to be in Gryffindor."
"Sure thing." Weasley made a show of glancing up and down the street, then leaned over and whispered, "Y'know, /Albus Dumbledore/ himself was in Gryffindor." As Peter reacted with appropriate awe, Weasley straightened up again. "I'm headed to the Leaky Cauldron," he continued conversationally. Do you --"
"So am I!" Peter cried eagerly. "I'm suppose to meet Mum there."
"Come along, then," Weasley said amiably, and they headed down the street together.
* * *
And
the hat said, "Gryffindor!"
--