From Humble Beginnings: Chapter 2- Peter Pettigrew
By Knightnara
A/N: Again the same disclaimers apply. This chapter took forever and a day because writing from Peter Pettigrew's POV is pretty darn hard! But then I started thinking about the sort of boy he must have been, and so I tried to make him a bit more sympathetic than I originally planned (while still hinting at his darker nature).
Hope you all enjoy it. And even if you don't, please review. Reviews are lovely.
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Peter Pettigrew was the first person to take notice of Remus Lupin.
It was a beautiful, sunny Saturday afternoon, the day before Halloween, and yet Peter Pettigrew walked the empty halls of Hogwarts under a pall of misery so thick it might as well have been midnight. For once, however, he was grateful to be alone—there would be no one to see him, or question why he was pathetically searching the halls instead of cheering on the Gryffindor quidditch team. Not that anyone ever questioned him about anything. No, rather they teased him . . . about everything. About his weight, the pale hair that hung limply on his head, his awful mishaps in Charms class, his even worse disasters in Potions, the ridiculously sentimental messages owled to him by his mother, and the pathetic cat he called a pet, the very animal for whom he was searching at this very moment.
There were days in which Peter wished he could simply disappear, and not in the magical, wizarding way of simply no longer appearing. No, Peter wished he could vanish from both sight and consciousness—to become a non-person so as to avoid the taunts and derisive laughter of the other students.
Then again, he would never be able to make a friend that way. Well, he hadn't made a single friend so far, so how much worse could it possibly get? Even Claus, his scrawny, evil cat, seemed to be doing his best to avoid him.
By two o'clock, he found himself in the library. The towering shelves of books had always seemed to have a labyrinthine quality, and he assumed that a cat like Claus would find them a highly enjoyable place to get himself good and lost. There was also the possibility that Claus might have chosen the library as the perfect location to wreak his unique brand of destructive havoc that had led the residents of Gryffindor tower to believe that his name was actually "Claws."
Truth be told, Peter wondered why he even bothered to search for the nasty creature. He had never developed any real affection for the cat, or any cat in general, for that matter. There was something about them that he found rather creepy and menacing, and every cat he encountered, including his own, seemed to know it. He would have been much happier with a toad, or even a mouse.
With a weary, depressed sigh, he looked up at the bookshelves that surrounded him and whispered, "Claus?" He kept his voice as low as possible, not wanting to offend Madam Pince or alert any students who might be indoors on this beautiful Saturday afternoon (as if there were any besides himself) that he was here. "Hello? Claus? Are you here, you stupid, bloody cat?"
He had not really expected a response, and now he felt somewhat foolish for sounding as though he had. At least there didn't seem to be anyone else around to have heard him.
Or was there? As he rounded one of the bookshelves, he suddenly spotted a table loaded high with books, and, just visible from behind the enormous pile, a hand loosely holding a quill.
Blood rushed to Peter's cheeks and he stammered, "I'm . . . er, I'm sorry. I was just looking for my cat. Have you seen him?"
There was nothing but silence in response, and Peter wondered if the person behind the books had even heard him. He moved a step closer to repeat himself, but as he approached, a sharp snore broke the silence, the quill dropped to the floor, and Peter found himself leaping backward in surprise and fear.
Fear? Over a quill dropped from an obviously sleeping person's hand in an empty library? Where was that Gryffindor courage the Sorting Hat had said he possessed? Disgusted with himself, he cleared his throat and took another step closer to the mountain of books. He hoped the low noise might stir the sleeper, but as before, nothing happened.
"Ahem," he cleared his throat ever louder, but still nothing. He paused, puzzled. Who would prefer sleeping in a library with that many books to a quidditch match? Cat forgotten, Peter shifted slowly along the bookshelf until he could he could glimpse the sleeper. He took in all the details: small—probably in his year; long sleeves buttoned at the wrists; light brown hair; a Gryffindor tie peaking from under that hair—but that would mean that he was also in Peter's house!
Strange. Peter couldn't see his face from this angle, sure, but there was nothing recognizable about this person at all. Maybe he wasn't in Peter's year. But Peter was sure he had tried to meet (and befriend—unsuccessfully) everyone in his own year and the year above. This boy was certainly not big enough to be a third year!
Curiosity making him bold, Peter stepped closer, gazing at the various books that lay piled upon the table. He scanned their titles, noting that most had to do with Potions (how he hated Potions!), but there were a few other books as well, including the first year Transfiguration book. So this person was in Peter's year!
He took a closer look at the sleeping boy, and then it hit him. There were four boys in the first year dormitory. James Potter, Sirius Black, himself, and . . . oh, what was that other boy's name? Something with an L, like Luke, or Lucas, or Louis, or something like that . . . but, the funny thing was, he was even more of a nobody than Peter. Come to think of it, Peter hadn't even tried to get to know his name, let alone befriend him. And here this boy was on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, alone in the library.
Like Peter.
Peter grimaced. "I am so pathetic," he whispered under his breath. Then, as he often did, he acted quickly to get his mind off of that track, and the only thing he could think to do was to grab the book at the top of the boy's pile.
"Perfecting Potions: How to Brew Your Best," he read aloud from the cover before flipping it to a random page. "In many ways," he continued reading aloud, "potion making is a culinary art akin to recreating that perfect recipe time and time again. Grandmother always knew exactly how to make those delicious biscuits year after year, and how did she manage it?"
"You may borrow it if you'd like," a quiet voice interrupted.
Peter emitted a startled squeak before slamming the book shut to stare at the unexpected speaker. It was the boy, now wide awake, and he was staring back at him with a curiously blank expression. "S-sorry," Peter stammered.
"I said you may borrow the book," the boy repeated, and Peter noted that it sounded as though he had a cold—or was his voice usually hoarse? Peter didn't think he'd ever heard him speak before. How odd.
"It's all right, if you want it," the boy added, and Peter realized that he'd been simply staring.
"Oh, sorry," Peter replied, placing the book back down on top of the pile. "I, er, I was just curious to see what it said," he lied, before adding truthfully, "and I'm rubbish at Potions."
The boy in front of him did not change his expression, but merely said, "Me, too."
Peter smiled weakly. "Well, that's a relief. Slughorn makes it seem as though I'm the only one who can't brew a decent cheering draught."
The boy didn't respond. Instead he looked down at his watch and started gathering up the parchment and ink he'd been sleeping on. "Is the match over?"
Startled by the change of topic, Peter took a moment to answer. "I, er, I can't really say. I didn't go to the match."
The boy's pale eyes met his for a brief moment, and Peter could have sworn there was a bit of curiosity in that look, so he went on.
"I missed it because I've been looking for my cat. You haven't seen him, have you?" he added hopefully.
The boy was stowing his supplies in his bag as he answered, "Claws? No, I haven't."
"His name isn't Claws. It's Claus," Peter corrected, a bit testily, he was ashamed to admit. But this boy whose name he didn't even know was calling his cat "Claws." It wasn't right.
The boy, however, had paused and was now staring at him again. "Sorry, Peter."
Peter blinked at him, stunned. "How did you know my name?"
The boy blinked back, seeming surprised by the question. "We share a room, Peter."
"Right," was all Peter could manage to say, as he forced himself to keep from saying, "Yeah, but I don't know yours." He figured that might come across a bit badly, like he was a snob, or insensitive, or oblivious, or something. In fact, now realizing that the boy knew his name, he felt somewhat guilty and ashamed for knowing next to nothing about him. Once again, he acted on impulse to squelch those feelings. "Er . . .let me help you put those away," he said, reaching for the books.
"That's all right," the boy responded hastily. He scooped up several of the books, adding, "I've got them."
Peter was somewhat surprised by the number of books the boy carried—there was no way he could carry that many books at once—but he insisted, "Well, it's not as if I've anything better to do. Believe me, picking up books is loads more fun than finding my stupid cat."
He heard a slight coughing sound. Was it his a trick of his imagination, or did the other boy just chuckle?
"Fine, then," the boy said as he moved away with his pile of books, "but do you know where they go?"
Peter had just picked up two books when he froze, glaring at the back of the strange boy's head angrily. "You know, I have been in the library once or twice! I'm not as dumb as people think I am!"
The boy quickly turned around, his pale eyes wide and alarmed. "I didn't mean for you to think . . .. I'm sorry, I . . .. I just didn't . . .. You weren't here when I took them down from the shelves, and even I can't remember where all of them came from. That's all. I never thought that you were stupid."
Peter shifted uncomfortably, the two books still in his hands. The boy seemed insistent, and, well, his explanation was reasonable enough. But Peter had never had anyone apologize for making him feel bad. After all, what did anyone care what Peter Pettigrew felt?
It was obvious from the other boy's expression, however, that he really did care what Peter felt. And that made Peter's own feelings of guilt return. "That's all right," he said, with a sheepish smile. "I guess I'm sort of . . . touchy . . . about things. People make fun of me, you know."
"I know," admitted the other boy. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," Peter assured him. "And besides, I should be the one apologizing, since I don't even know your name."
The other boy looked down at the stack of books he was holding (great Merlin, he was still holding all those books!), and said softly, "It's Remus."
"Oh," remarked Peter, half surprised and half disappointed. He frowned and looked away as his cheeks grew hot. "I guess, then, that I am as dumb as people think I am, because I thought your name started with an L."
Again there was that slight coughing sound that sounded like a chuckle, and this time he saw the boy, Remus, smiling. "Lupin," he said hoarsely. "Remus Lupin."
"Oh." This time, the syllable emerged as a happy squeak. "So I was right, after all. The professors all call us by our surnames, so . . . yeah, I don't feel so dumb anymore!"
This time, the Lupin boy was definitely laughing. Then he jerked his chin toward the bookshelves, still smiling as he said, "Come on, Peter."
"Right," Peter chimed, grabbing a third book just to prove he could carry it (but how many was Lupin carrying? Five?). Then they went to work, putting the books back on the shelves. Peter was embarrassed to discover that one of the books he had grabbed had been Lupin's own transfiguration textbook, but the other boy had simply levitated the book back to the table with an almost casual swish-and-flick of his wand.
"Obviously, you're better in Charms than I am," Peter groaned.
The Lupin boy looked quizzically at him, one eyebrow raised, but said nothing.
"I still haven't mastered the levitation spell," Peter elaborated glumly.
"That was the first day of class," the other boy remarked before his cheeks turned slightly pink, as though he had just realized what he had said.
"Yeah, well," Peter shifted uncomfortably again, his neck growing hot with embarrassment, "I suppose . . . I don't know. It's just that every time I think I'm getting close to getting something right, the professors are pushing ahead to the next thing, and I'm back to square one. I'm so far behind in everything . . . I'm . . . well . . . afraid . . .." He trailed off, too ashamed to voice his true fear.
"You're afraid you're a squib?" the Lupin boy asked.
Peter's blood went cold to hear the word. He couldn't even muster a response. It was as though his throat had closed up and anything he might try to say would emerge as a squeak at best. So, he kept silent, knowing that the other boy had him pegged.
"There are worse things, Peter," he heard the Lupin boy say quietly.
"Like what?" Peter had been right to keep quiet before. His voice was, indeed, pinched and piercing.
Lupin, however, did not say. Instead, he handed Peter the last book and asked, "Do you have your wand with you?"
Confused, Peter took the book and began scrambling about his robes for his wand. "I know I brought it with me. But why?"
He had just closed his fingers around the familiar polished wood of his wand when he heard Lupin say, "Just put it on the shelf there, and pay attention."
Peter threw him a curious look. Why would the boy ask about his wand, and then tell him to put it aside? And why was he talking to him like he was a professor or something? In spite of his misgivings, he put the wand upon the shelf as instructed and held onto the book as he watched Lupin, who was now clearing his throat.
"What you want to do is master the incantation first," the boy instructed. "Then, you practice the movement of the wand, without the incantation. And finally, you put them together, focusing on the object you want to levitate."
Peter felt his eyes widen, and he stiffened. "Wait! You're going to teach me?"
Lupin looked at him. "I was."
"Professor Flitwick couldn't teach me how to do it, so what makes you think you can?" Peter snapped at him angrily. "Or did you want to just prove how much better you are, and how stupid I am?"
"You're not stupid, Peter!" Lupin retorted in a whisper. "But you are going to bring Madam Pince down on us if you don't shut up!" His hand suddenly flew to his mouth, his pale eyes wide and alarmed. Then he lowered his hand and whispered, "I'm so sorry. That was very rude of me."
For a moment, Peter just stared at the strange boy who kept apologizing to him. No one had ever apologized this much, to Peter's knowledge, anyway. It was disconcerting, but it was also somewhat nice. It made Peter feel as though his feelings mattered—as though he mattered.
He took a deep breath, and then offered a weak smile. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten angry," he told Lupin. "I'm just so used to people being . . . well, no one here has really tried to help me at all. And I don't have any friends here. It's like I don't belong, and I get angry and embarrassed and depressed all at once because I can't do anything right, and everyone lets me know it."
Lupin frowned. "You're giving people you don't even know far too much power over how you feel. And as far as belonging, you got your Hogwarts letter, the same as everyone else."
Though he could not explain why, those words made a world of difference to Peter Pettigrew in that moment. Suddenly, the weak smile on his face blossomed into face-splitting grin, the heat that ran up his neck toward his cheeks was no longer the embarrassed flush it had been before, and his heart practically leaped with something akin to pride and confidence. "You're right," he said, before he could stop himself.
Lupin simply arched an eyebrow and grinned.
Peter laughed. "How come you're so different from the others?"
Lupin's grin vanished. "How so?"
"Well, you're nice, for starters," Peter answered, barely noticing the other boy's change in demeanor. "You haven't made fun of me, you were going to help me with Charms before I practically jumped down your throat—"
Lupin's sudden laugh cut him off. "I can still help you with Charms, you know."
Excited that the offer still stood, Peter chirped, "Then teach me. Show me how to levitate this book," he added, with a punctuating shake of the copy of Children of the Night: The Dark Deeds of Dark Creatures in his hands.
A short while later, Peter and his new companion were sitting outside the library shaking with giggles at having just been evicted for causing several "unseemly noises". Peter suspected that the final straw for Madam Pince had been the deafening slam of four large books hitting the table simultaneously from six feet above—but it had been impossible to resist the temptation to drop them so spectacularly once he had finally mastered the spell, and Lupin had been more than game.
"I can't wait for Charms on Tuesday," Peter laughed, looking up at the ceiling as he leaned against the corridor wall. "Professor Flitwick is going to fall off his stack of books."
Lupin laughed in response, a slightly wheezy giggle that eventually had him toppling over and clutching his sides as he obviously pictured tiny Professor Flitwick falling backwards with a little squeak and disappearing from sight. Peter himself had to admit that the mental image was pretty hilarious; the fact that someone else was laughing made it all the better. He'd never had a friend with whom to share a joke like this, or who would want to sit outside the library giggling over a quartet of dropped books and images of silly professors.
It felt good.
"I owe you one, Lupin," Peter told the still giggling boy beside him.
Lupin pushed himself up and coughed, smiling back at him. "Don't mention it," he said with a wave of his hand. "But I'll have to work hard to get back into Madam Pince's good graces."
"Oh, librarian's pet, are you?" Peter teased, surprised by his boldness as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
Lupin, however, gave a short coughing laugh and replied, "I think she's under the mistaken impression that I'm a Ravenclaw."
Peter chuckled. The truth was, from what he could tell, Lupin was smart. Peter wouldn't have been surprised to find that Lupin had been sorted into Ravenclaw, but the Sorting Hat had its reasons. For a while, it had wanted to sort Peter into Slytherin, though he could not even imagine what Slytherin house would have been like. It had been hard enough to try to fit in with the Gryffindors. Speaking of which . . ..
"Say, how come you're not down at the quidditch match with the others?" Peter asked.
Lupin glanced down at his watch and arched an eyebrow. "Because it's probably over by now."
Peter shook his head. "No, before."
At this, Lupin simply shrugged his shoulders. He said nothing, and it eventually became clear that he wasn't going to answer.
"Don't you have any friends?" Peter pressed.
This time, it was clear that Lupin's silence was an uncomfortable one. He began fiddling with the watch on his wrist, and he was biting his lip. But why wouldn't someone like Lupin have friends?
Then again, why didn't Peter have any friends?
"Guess you're like me, then, eh?" Peter offered with a wan smile. When Lupin didn't look up, he nudged the boy with his elbow and smiled wider.
Lupin's pale eyes were both curious and worried as he glanced up at Peter. "Like you?"
"Yeah, you know," Peter said with a slight, deprecating laugh. "A bit of an outsider? Different? Not, well, one of them?" He pointed at the students who were now ascending the stairs and walking the corridors. It appeared that the match had ended after all.
Beside him, Lupin snorted. "You've no idea," he whispered hoarsely.
Peter shook his head. Maybe Lupin didn't realize just how much of an outcast Peter actually was. Maybe Lupin didn't know how many people he'd tried to befriend, and how often the result was a teasing comment, or a mocking laugh, or just outright derision and rudeness. Or maybe Lupin was simply a loner by choice—though Peter doubted the boy would be so clearly uncomfortable with his status if it had been a choice.
Perhaps, thought Peter, the two of them were meant to be friends—a pair of misfits who had found each other in the Hogwarts library after the Sorting Hat had unexpectedly placed them in the same house.
He took a deep breath, gave Lupin a hopeful smile, and said, "Well, we could always be friends?" He hadn't meant for it to come out sounding so much like a question, but he was too used to rejection to put any real certainty (or false confidence) behind the words.
Lupin shrugged his shoulders again. "I don't have friends," he said softly.
"Oh." Peter wanted to hide the disappointment in his voice, but it slipped out past the lump that unexpectedly formed in his throat.
Even a boy who dozed in the library during a quidditch match didn't want to be his friend.
"That doesn't mean . . . I mean," the Lupin boy was stumbling over his words again, and Peter saw the same worried, concerned look in his pale eyes that he'd seen earlier in the library. "It's not that I don't want . . . you're a decent sort . . . and, well . . . but I . . .."
"You don't want to be seen with me," Peter finished for him, now tired and irritated with his worried ramblings. "I understand."
"No, you don't," Lupin insisted, turning his whole body to face Peter. "That's not it at all."
"Then what is it?" Peter snapped. "Why does nobody in this whole sodding school want to be my friend?" He crossed his arms in front of his chest, wishing he could just disappear, knowing how childish and stupid he sounded, feeling as pathetic as everyone thought he was, and hoping that this rotten, miserable day would just end!
A fast moving blur caught his attention, and he looked up to see Claus sprinting down the corridor. The cat never even glanced in his direction, but kept moving swiftly away from the library from which it had just come.
So he had been in the library! Damn cat!
"Wasn't that your cat?" he heard Lupin ask once the feline had disappeared from view.
"Yeah," Peter grunted in reply.
"Shouldn't we go after him?"
"Why?" retorted Peter. "The cat doesn't like me, and I don't like him. Maybe he should just stay lost."
Lupin, however, stood up and dusted himself off.
"What are you doing?" Peter asked, looking up at him with a scowl.
"Going after your cat before he gets too far," Lupin replied. "I know you didn't mean what you said, and I feel guilty that he's getting away, since you probably would have found him earlier if I hadn't distracted you in there." He pointed toward the library doors. "I'll just be a minute."
"Hold on," Peter interrupted, getting up. "You don't have to go after my cat."
"I know," Lupin acknowledged, before taking a deep breath and adding, "but . . . well, friends do that sort of thing, don't they?" He smiled at Peter.
For a moment, Peter just stood there, confused. He really wasn't sure what to make of this Lupin boy, but, well, he had just referred to them as friends, hadn't he? And a boy like Lupin would be a handy friend to have. After all, he was good in Charms, seemed to take his studying seriously (unlike Peter's other two roommates—not that they'd be his friends anyway), and he was a rather helpful sort. Not to mention, he seemed to be the only person in the school who didn't make it his duty to tease Peter at every opportunity.
Was there really any question in the matter?
"Yeah," agreed Peter with a return smile. "I guess you're right."
--
Later that evening, Remus Lupin mulled over the events of the day as he lay in his bed. He could hear Peter's high-pitched snores from across the room, and he wondered, and not for the first time, if befriending Peter had been the wisest decision. After all, friends tended to notice things, and Remus had made a point of going unnoticed as much as possible for the sake of his education. Would Peter begin to wonder about his monthly absences? Would he ask questions, and was Remus prepared to answer them? The next full moon was Tuesday night, after all. What excuses would he have to give?
Then again, Peter was not the most observant student in Gryffindor tower. It had taken them ages to find the cat again, and then it had been Remus who had spotted him. But silliness with library books aside, Peter didn't seem to court trouble like some of the others. Perhaps luck was on Remus's side this time. After all, he could certainly do worse than Peter Pettigrew.
With a contented sigh, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. A friend like Peter he could handle. A friend like Peter would be good.
A friend like Peter was all he could ever hope for.