Story
Peter Pettigrew liked stories. They were the one thing he truly excelled at.
He had lived through them, for a time. Whenever he felt forgotten or invisible, he would simply move back into his imagination and invent another story.
Stories where he was the brave one, the popular one, the athletic one, the handsome one, the mysterious one… a myriad of different traits, a multitude of different possibilities.
The stories had come to life for him once, igniting like a long burnt out flame.
'GRYFFINDOR!' the Hat had shouted, and his stomach had flipped over. He had made his way to the table, his table now, and trembled all the way through dinner.
He had believed then that anything was possible. He believed then that his stories could come true.
It was an exhilarating possibility, a quivering notion in his brain that he tried not to let himself think too hard about for fear it might disappear completely.
It was a possibility that was quashed shortly afterwards, when he was still attempting to transfigure his match into a needle three weeks the rest of his class had managed it.
--
Penelope Clearwater's mother was a Muggle, a Classics professor at some big-time English university.
She studied The Odyssey with her students and convinced her husband to name their daughter after a mythical queen he'd never heard of before he met her.
Penelope grew up listening to the stories of Odysseus's patiently waiting wife and convinced herself that she was hearing about the trials of some distant ancestor- that royal blood ran through her very veins.
Her mother corrected her and laughed a little- no no dear, she's fictional.
Six years old at the time, Penelope had decided that this didn't matter. The story was real to her, and that was the only thing worth thinking about.
She had tried to tell Percy Weasley about it once, but he had never quite grasped its importance. She had shook her head and laughed it off, but her heart was heavy.
He hadn't understood.
She had realised that day that, in order to find someone who would, she could do nothing but emulate her namesake and wait.
--
There is far too much white everywhere.
She is suddenly four years old again, peering out of her bedroom window and seeing snow for the first time. She doesn't know what it is, doesn't understand how it has appeared on the ground as if from nowhere, but there is something awe-inspiring about the sparkling white landscape that her world has become. She streaks downstairs, desperate to unravel the mystery, the blood pumping fast through her veins in a mixture of fear and exhilaration.
She is at the back door when her sister catches her by the collar, whispers furiously in her ear.
'What are you doing, stupid? Don't you know that if you take one step into that white stuff you'll fall under the curse that put it there?'
She freezes with her hand on the doorknob, her four year old mind fully aware that Daphne enjoys making up stories to torture her.
But what if she's not making it up this time…
Daphne takes advantage of her hesitation, grins and opens the door to shove her sister out into the freezing white morning.
Astoria lands in a deep snowdrift and everything goes white. The sudden disappearance of colour from her world is the first thing she notices, the cold that begins to pierce holes in her skin is the second.
The exhilaration of earlier is gone and she feels nothing but fear as she thrashes her limbs and lets out a sharp reverberating scream, losing the last of her wits as she does so.
Daphne panics and pulls her back in- that scream is enough to wake the entire neighbourhood, never mind their parents. She whispers that she was kidding - it's just snow, Astoria - but her little sister will not be calmed. She wails continuously for three hours afterwards and throws up over their father's slippers.
The yells of her mother and father as they punish her sister fade in Astoria's ears as she pulls herself back to the present and surveys the large room she is standing in.
Her gaze lingers on the white decorations and she remembers the abject terror she felt on that snowy morning so long ago, the notion that she would never again have colour in her life.
She ducks into a corner and throws up neatly into a plant pot, careful not to stain her flawless white dress.
She looks up as the music begins and steps quietly back into position, preparing for her long walk down the aisle.
There is far too much white everywhere.
--
Peeves thrived on the stories of other people.
It was why he enjoyed his tenure at Hogwarts so much - there was never a shortage of students claiming that someone had hexed their homework into non-existence or creating and passing on a vicious rumour about that former best friend of theirs who stabbed them in the back.
He adored the fact that the simple act of telling a story could give you a whole heap of personal details about the teller's life and personality.
He especially liked those people - Harry Potter, Nearly Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron, to name a few - who had their life stories splattered across their features for the entire world to see.
He revelled in passing on the stories of other people, most often at the top of his voice and to as large an audience as possible.
It prevented them from realising that there wasn't a single person currently in existence who knew his story.
--
Ron was dreaming.
A pleasant dream involving a three foot high pile of non-melting ice cream. The happy mood of his subconscious was effectively ruined when Hermione shook him awake just as he was about to eat the first spoonful.
He peered up at her, bleary-eyed and a little annoyed.
'It's your turn. Hugo's waiting,' she said as she collapsed on the opposite couch.
He made his way upstairs and found his son tucked up in bed, waiting to be read a bedtime story.
'What's it gonna be for tonight, Hugo? My vote goes to a re-read of The Warlock's Hairy Heart,' he announced as he pulled the book from the shelf.
Hugo didn't reply but chewed on his lip instead, looking up at him with far too much anxiety in his eyes for a boy of nine.
'What's wrong?' Ron asked, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.
'Is Grandma Weasley okay, dad?'
Ron's face immediately relaxed, and he settled down next to his son at the top of the bed. Molly Weasley had recently contracted a minor bout of Scrofungulus and had spent a week in St Mungo's being cured. The family had visited her several times, and it appeared now that Hugo was more bothered by the experience than he had initially let on.
'Of course she is. It was just a little malady that the Healers cured in no time. She's as good as new now.'
'It's just that… I'm scared. She looked so sick. And tired. And weak.'
Ron couldn't help from chuckling at the idea of his mum being seen as weak.
'Your Grandma is one of the strongest people I've ever known, son. Trust me, it'll take much more than a little malady to wipe her out.'
Hugo smiled a little and nodded. Ron looked down at the book in his hand and was about to begin reading when an idea struck him.
'Why don't I tell you a story from the War instead? I think it's time you heard for yourself just how tough your Grandma is.'
Hugo's eyes lit up at the prospect- Hermione had decreed long ago that the kids weren't to hear any battle stories until they were at least eleven. Ron considered this as he thought over his chosen anecdote, and a certain name Molly had thrown at Bellatrix Lestrange came back to him.
'I don't think we should let your mum know I told you this story yet though, okay…'
--
Peter found his stories coming true the day he gave himself up to his Master.
It was a surprisingly simple decision for him to make, and it was much easier to believe in pretend stories where the world was perfect when you were on the winning side of a war.
And for his pains he finally found himself excelling at something.
Now he was the secretive one, the cunning one, the unexpected one…
Only he wasn't so sure that his stories were stories anymore.
They seemed more like nightmares now.