A/N: Another writing prompt short: 'Mouse in a cupboard.' A rat is an easy transition from a mouse, and so this little scene from a character I always wished to know more about was born. I hope you enjoy!
The Boy in the Cupboard
by: carpetfibers
He has the advantage, probably for the first time ever, in this game of theirs. Sirius suggested it around 4am, once the butterbeer had run low and a stolen bottle of firewhiskey had made the rounds. Fifteen minutes to hide, and then open season: Remus lost the most recent bet and is designated the first Seeker. Peter grins as he dashes down the halls with his friends, the three splitting at the first true intersection- Sirius had been too drunk to lay down any rules, and being an animagus that shifts down to a tiny size lends itself to hiding.
He feels clever and brilliant and spends his fifteen minutes snuffling in silent victory in the cupboard he finds tucked at the far end of the seventh floor hall. Even Remus, with his heightened sense of smell, will have a hard time sussing out this hidey-hole.
Peter enjoys the warmth of the feeling as long as he can, relishing in its rarity. Being friends with boys as dynamic and charismatic as his seldom leaves room for his achievements. Average grades, average magic, and typically average thoughts. He hasn't their wit, or strength or beauty.
He has a few traits of merit, but not the sort that Gryffindors might exalt in.
Peter can lie better than most; he can hide his thoughts and feelings under a deep dam of affability and agreement, so far down that he almost believes his farce the reality.
He can make decisions better than most; he does not waffle or debate or regret. He decides and then marches forward. He has no choice; regret is what brings on pain, and his parents taught him the danger in that lesson long ago.
And Peter can paint, although he's never shared that with his friends. The Room of Requirement is kind enough to hide away his paintings when he's not there, and so they've never seen the black holes that he sits and traces through for hours at a time. They don't see the mouths calling in the darkness, or the child who cries at the edge of the sea.
They don't know of the figures that Peter carries with him, near his heart, while they laugh and play and tease and live.
Peter lets an hour pass, and then another, before he peaks out from the cupboard door and sees the daylight pouring in from the hall arrow loop. He drops down from his shelf in the cupboard and crawls along the floor edge, paws cold on the stone, and sits in the sliver of daylight, pretending the light carries with it warmth and promise.
He waits longer still, until the chatter of distant voices echo up to him, classmates and professors and dear, dear friends. He transforms back into his wrinkled uniform, dirty from his crawl along the floor, and with a practiced smile, moves forward to greet his housemates.
"Where you been, Peter?" James asks, yawning widely.
"Not showering, plainly," Sirius comments. "Did you even change?"
Only Remus seems to connect the dots between the pale stubble on Peter's cheeks and the open cupboard at the end of the hall. He opens his mouth to speak, and then, like so much of their friendship, stays quiet, hands deep in his pockets.
Peter wonders, rarely, who truly is last in their pecking order: desperate, pathetic human him, or desperate, pathetic werewolf Remus?
But he's good at hiding, always has been, and he says nothing of his time in the cupboard, of waiting for his friends to find him and declare him the winner. Instead, he grins and tries to steal Sirius's transfiguration book, knowing that distraction and obfuscation are some of his better skills. The three boys are his friends, and for someone who's never had friends, he doesn't mind pretending.
It's better than being alone, after all.