Peter Pettigrew had been waiting for Ringo for three days, and he was starting to worry that something might have eaten him.

Objectively, he knew that owls were predators, not prey, and owls raised by wizards were smarter than the rest of their kin, but he couldn't make the feeling go away. He'd mailed his letter to his mum the night he arrived at Hogwarts, for god's sake. He'd felt a little guilty about slipping away to the Owlery while everyone was celebrating… but the prefects weren't on duty yet and it wasn't like he really knew anyone here and what was the point of having asked his father for every detail he could think of about Hogwarts if he wasn't going to use it right away?

(Okay, he'd gotten lost almost right away and if it wasn't for the help of the giant groundskeeper who'd taken them over the lake he probably would have starved to death and turned into another Hogwarts ghost but at least Hagrid had promised not to tell anyone he'd snuck out.)

But since he'd sent the letter during the feast there was no reason it shouldn't be there by dinner on Saturday. His family lived in London — a day's flight for the average owl. And Ringo was fast. Even if his father had sent him as late as lunch today, he should have been back by now.

Well, maybe not. But it was certainly nice to think so.

"Stop worrying about your letter."

Remus Lupin was probably the only friend Peter had at Hogwarts.

(Unless all of his dormmates counted as friends, but they definitely didn't since James had already tried to jinx him for dropping a Gelatinous Shrub on his feet in Herbology and everyone else seemed to pretend like he didn't exist)

So it was upsetting that he was getting more and more irritable as each day went on. Peter couldn't figure out if it was something he was doing, or something Remus was eating — he was only picking at his food, tonight.

"I'm sorry," Peter replied. "It's just a letter from my parents. I'd thought I would have gotten it right away."

"I get it," Remus said, eyes focused intently on his roast. "But it's probably just a problem with the owl post or something. It happens all the time."

"Not really," James butted in from beside Remus.

Remus fixed him with a sharp glare. "Piss off, James."

(Somehow Remus was friends with both Peter and James, and Peter couldn't figure it out because neither Peter nor James liked each other and you'd think Remus would have to pick sides, but at least it was nice to have Remus keeping James from getting him with something really nasty like a Leg-Locker on the stairs.)

James wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Did the house-elves burn your dinner? What's got you in a snit?"

"Nothing," Remus muttered. "I've got…a family thing happening. I might have to leave the castle this weekend."

"Already?" Peter asked. That was weird. He hadn't thought students left Hogwarts for anything other than emergencies during the year, especially not in the first week.

"I can't talk about it," Remus said quickly. "I think I'm gonna cut out early. Work on some History of Magic homework in case I … I have to go. Want to make sure I get it done by class on Monday."

"Why don't you just tear pages out of your book and turn that in?" James said. "Binns hardly notices if any of us are even in class. He's hardly going to give our assignments a close read."

But Remus was already swinging his legs over the side of the bench, and then he was gone, leaving James and Peter almost across from each other with Gryffindors chattering all around them.

"Seriously, what's wrong with him?" James looked like he was pained just talking to Peter.

"I don't think I know any more than you," Peter replied slowly. "He spent all day in the library today. This is the first time I've seen him since last night."

"He and I walked down to breakfast together," James said. "He ate four or five pieces of bacon before I got through one, and then got weird when I congratulated him about it."

(Wait are we friends even when Remus is gone now?)

"I'm sorry about Herbology, by the way," Peter blurted out. "I didn't mean to knock the Shrub off the table."

It was the wrong thing to say. "Thanks for the reminder, Pete." James' tone was ice. "Maybe I should follow Remus's lead and catch up on some work."

"Geez, James, I just—"

"Forget it, mate," James said, gathering up his stuff. "I'll catch you later."

That just left Peter, alone, waiting for his mysteriously missing owl.


There were still a few hours before curfew, so Peter found himself wandering the halls, looking for a sufficiently distant and abandoned room. Under his arm, he carried a heavy rectangular parcel, unopened.

His father had given it to him before he got on the Hogwarts Express, admonishing him not to open it in front of his fellow classmates if possible. "It's not against the rules, per se…" he'd intimated, "but I'm guessing it'll make you a bit of a target. No one there's going to have anything quite like it, and I think the Muggleborns especially will be jealous."

That was just like his dad. He was good at knowing which rules were bendable. He'd gotten the family tickets to every Quidditch World Cup as far back as Peter could remember, thanks to some creative asking of favors, and he was always making side deals with the wizards he worked with in the Department of International Magical Cooperation to get the best imports whenever they left town.

That was how he'd ended up with the best record collection out of any of his friends back home, Muggle or fellow wizard. His parents were big believers in blending in with your environment, so even though Peter'd gotten the traditional wizard home-schooling—

(The strange odor of Mrs. Blaeksprut's lunchtime hunter's pot would never leave his memories, most like.)

—he'd also been instructed to keep pace with the latest Muggle trends, at least until he got to Hogwarts.

So every month or so his father would come back with a new Muggle record. Something good too — the Muggles on his block always seemed to complain that their parents were hopelessly out of touch, and his father did a good impression of that for the neighborhood. But then Peter would come downstairs and his father would have the new Stones album, or the Who, or Hendrix, or the Kinks. For special occasions, like his birthday or Christmas, it might even be something imported. Last year, his dad had gotten him the new Led Zeppelin album, a full two weeks before it came out in Britain.

He'd left it back at home, along with just about all his records. Magical interference already played hell with the speakers in London; at Hogwarts, his dad said, anything electrical was all but worthless. There hadn't been much of that when he was in school, right after the war, but he had heard enough stories of Muggleborns in the '50s and '60s finding out their prized transistor radio was just going to have to go back in the owl post to know better.

Peter hadn't seen anyone in minutes, not even prefects, so there was probably going to be a good space to open his gift somewhere around here. He shied away from a set of double doors guarded by imposing suits of armor and instead scurried down a narrow side corridor.

There were no doors down the short hall, oddly, and Peter would have turned back right away were it not for the glimmer he saw through the archway up ahead. The points of a large iron gate loomed menacingly over the entrance, but as Peter got closer he could see that they were heavily rusted over — this gate hadn't been closed in years, if not decades.

He stepped across the threshold into a room full of trophies and plaques, crammed into cabinets and cases with little concern for decorum. In the moonlight, he could see a thick layer of dust across most of the crystal cabinets, untouched.

This was the place, he thought. No one had come this way in ages, no one was going to come by tonight, and—

One of the cabinets tipped over with an almighty crash that only almost drowned out Peter's screech of terror. He nearly dropped his present on the ground as he backed into another trophy case, eyes darting about the room to see what had caused it.

"Oooh, little firstie's a screamer." A impish figure with shining white skin materialized in front of Peter, hovering about five feet up with its legs crossed. "I'll have to keep an eye out for you."

"I'm not a screamer," Peter stammered. "I just screamed."

"Well, they say actions speak louder than words. But that was a pretty loud scream so I guess it goes screams then actions then words." The creature slid over to a small table, not moving its body in the slightest, and pushed a large bronze cup onto the floor with a clatter.

"Y-you must be Peeves. The poltergeist." He was too solid (and rude!) to be any of the other Hogwarts ghosts, most of which had been at the feast anyway. Peter had heard Beatrix Bellicose saying that she'd heard Peeves had been absent because he was mucking up the plumbing in the Hufflepuff bathrooms. But it didn't feel like a good idea to ask him that.

"The one and only." Peeves untucked his legs, doing a little bow. He looked about the room in mock surprise. "My, you've made quite the mess in here."

"That was you!" Peter was not proud of the way his voice squeaked.

"That's not what the prefects I hear running are going to think." Peeves grabbed another cabinet by its top edge, and pointed his finger accusingly at Peter. "A thousand points from Gryffindor!"

He vanished in an instant, and then the other cabinet came down too, glass shattering in every direction. Peter flinched back, and then realized he actually could hear footsteps and shouting coming from the other entrance to the room.

All thoughts of opening his present abandoned, he ran back out the archway. If he could get down the hall before the prefects made it through the room and saw him, maybe he could hide in the room with the suits of armor (even though it was scary) and wait until —

He nearly ran into a portrait of Headmaster Basil Fronsac, who was sternly leaning forward in his chair to glare at him. "Boy," the portrait shouted, "you'd better have a good explanation for all that noise. I was just planning to catch up on some reading."

Pete nearly collapsed from fright. He was in a totally different hallway, extending to the left and right away from the Trophy Room. He turned back around to see the same archway and rusted gate, but now at the end of a very short hallway, with tall windows exposed to the moonlight.

"It moved," he gasped. "The room moved."

"Well of course," Fronsac said. "The Trophy Room usually likes a couple hours on the sixth floor every few days. Too bad you're missing it, actually, there's a rather nice fresco of the founders of Hogwarts when it's away."

Peter would deal with processing all of that later.

(although the fresco did sound nice)

For now, he, Basil Fronsac, the Trophy Room and at least two outraged prefects were all in the same place, and he needed to change that. He picked the left hall at random and set off running, his feet slamming against the stones much more loudly than he wished they would. At the first fork, he hung a right, then a left. But he could still hear feet behind him.

Peter took a corner and realized he was stuck. He hadn't realized he was running down the Charms corridor, but that was where he found himself, looking at three doors he knew only led to classrooms and a taller one that would open onto the stairs to Professor O'Brien's private office. And going back wasn't an option. Those prefects would be here in a moment, and with them…detention, at minimum.

But then—

Something about the wall caught the corner of his eye, and he looked over at it more closely. There was only one classroom on the right side of the corridor, further down. But in between him and that door, there was a patch of wall that was different. He sensed something about it — something he had gotten used to ignoring in a castle full of enchanted objects. Magic.

Without even taking the time to think about it, Peter ran straight into the wall.


When Peter was 9, his parents had gotten in the habit of inviting over the Muggles next door over on weekends for a drink or two after dinner. It was an alarming break from routine, at first. His father had been known to have drinks with coworkers at the pub, and his mother had always been friendly with the other women on their block, but to invite people into the house was a daring choice. It was one, Peter sensed, that even they didn't fully understand their reasoning for.

Because before the Davises came over, Peter's mother would spend the afternoon rushing about the house, tucking away any and all signs of wizardry. Every scrap of paper from the Ministry was sent into his father's office. Each of Peter's toys needed to be locked securely in its chest. Every moving photograph over the mantlepiece needed to be frozen in place, like the photos in a Muggle paper.

But when all that was done, it seemed a relief for both his parents to have the grown-up company — especially his mother. Peter had been growing to notice a strange restlessness to her in recent months. More and more often, he'd come home from Mrs. Blaeksprut's to find his mum still out of the house for the day. She was always apologetic when she returned, apparating back into the flat with a muffled bang. But only to him. A distance seemed to have grown between her and his father, and he'd even heard some of her witch girlfriends mention offhandedly that it seemed as though she wasn't around much.

Those weekend nights were an exception. When his parents were hosting the Davises, his mother was as vivacious as he could remember her ever being. He usually was up in his room while the neighbors were over. Sam and Libby didn't have any kids, though they were nice enough to him for grownups, but every once in a while he would stay downstairs with a glass of cream soda to listen in, if his mother said it was okay.

One January night in particular, Peter happened to linger a bit longer, half awake as his parents and the Davises wrapped up a game of whist.

Sam was scoring, jotting figures down on a scrap of paper. "All right, that's six tricks for me and Libby, seven for you and Anna…looks like you've come out on top this week, Arthur!"

"Well, that's a nice surprise." Peter's father didn't like losing, but he and Peter's mother were used to it with the Davises. Whist wasn't truly a wizarding game and they were terribly bad at it. "Congratulations, dear."

"Yes, and good game to you two as well," Peter's mother replied, grinning. Peter was glad to see her so happy, almost glowing as she picked up the cards from the table and shuffled them together.

"Well, Sam, I think we should duck out and let Arthur and Anna enjoy the rest of their evening," Libby said. "Peter here looks like he's about to fall asleep at the table."

Peter defiantly sat as far upright as he could manage. "Nope! I'm fine. You guys can play another game if you want!"

But a yawn betrayed him a moment later, his jaw opening wide against his wishes, setting off giggles for both the Davises and his parents.

"Perhaps a cup of tea first?" Peter's mother stood up from the table, already moving into the kitchen. "Something to give you fortitude for the walk home."

"Oh, yes, such a long walk over the hedges," Sam said, giving Peter's father a look.

Libby slapped Sam's hand lightly, sliding over to sit beside him. "Hush, you. Anna, we'd love one. Just one; Sam doesn't deserve a cup."

Peter's mum laughed at that too, an unseen chime from the kitchen around the corner. "Oh, Libby, you're too hard on him. Once you've gotten a bit past two years' marriage you'll have a much different sense of when to actually put your husband in the doghouse."

"Uh oh," Peter's father said, nudging him with his elbow. "That doesn't sound good for me." He and Sam laughed at that, though Libby gave his father an odd look.

A moment later, the tea kettle gave a familiar whistle, cut off quickly as his mother began to fill the pot. She came around the corner then, with one of the family's tea sets arranged simply on a tray.

His mother's collection of teapots and cups was a particular point of pride, cultivated by her mother's side of the family for generations. All enchanted, of course, and full of wizarding regalia — this one appeared to have the McPhail family crest, commemorating his great-somethingth-grandfather's appointment as Minister for Magic. Not that the Davises would have known that.

"I think you'll enjoy this particular tea," Peter's mother said, gingerly setting the tray in the middle of the table. "Someone at work recommended it to Arthur. From the East, right dear?"

Peter didn't hear his father's response. There was something about the tea set he was noticing for the first time. It was like he could see it — but then there was something else on top of what he was seeing. Something invisible yet tangible. Two things, actually, layered on top of each other. And they felt…wobbly. Like they were fighting each other.

Without thinking about what he was doing, Peter made them stop fighting.

Even after Sam and Libby started screaming, it took him a moment for him to realize what he'd done. The teacups and saucers had floated straight to the four of them, and the teapot was rising to join them, bouncing from one cup to the next as if nothing was happening.

In a panic, Libby swept her teacup to the ground. It bounced with a clang, obstinately refusing to shatter, and flew back into her hand, causing her to scream again and fall out of her chair. Sam got up to help her, but suddenly the sugar bowl was in his face, and he feebly tried to bat it out of the way.

"Immobulus!"

Peter hadn't even seen his father reach under the table for his wand, but he was holding it now, slowly bringing his right arm down to his side. Everything in the room but the Pettigrews had frozen in place.

(And the eyes of the Davises, rocking back and forth with panic, frantically looking for an escape that wasn't coming.)

His mother collapsed in an armchair, nervously laughing and crying at once. It was the only sound in the room.

"Anna. Take Peter upstairs," his father said finally. "I'll take care of this."

With a flick of his father's wand, the tea set began to reassemble itself into an orderly arrangement on the table. Peter's mother came around, shaking, and led him up to his room without a word. Peter knew better than to look back. But behind him, he heard his father say a single word, a spell he'd never heard: "Obliviate."

The Davises never came around again.


To his great happiness, Peter did not bounce off the wall to lie in a bloody heap. Instead, he tumbled through it, half-somersaulting along an area rug into the hidden chamber beyond.

As he lay there on his back, scarcely believing his luck, he realized the sound of the prefects' feet had stopped. Confused, he gingerly sat up, getting a better look at his surroundings.

The room he'd inadvertently discovered was haphazardly filled with a half-dozen chairs and couches, loosely arranged in a semi-circle further in. The stone walls matched those of the Charms corridor outside, though quaint candelabras burned at regular intervals. In one corner, a triangular bookshelf seemed to have been built perfectly into the wall, rows of books moving towards each other at a right angle before stopping with just enough space for sculpted metal flowers on each shelf.

He turned around to see the hall from which he'd entered, though his view of it seemed slightly obscured. It was almost as though there was a gelatinous film over the entryway, sealing him in safely.

The prefects who had been chasing him were actually there now, looking confused. One was a Gryffindor prefect, Frank Longbottom; he didn't know the Hufflepuff girl. Through the entry, he could see Frank's lips moving, but hear nothing.

Before he could stop himself, Peter clapped his hands together three times, loudly. The prefects didn't even blink.

(So the wall keeps the noise out there from getting in here but it also keeps the noise in here from getting out there.)

As he watched, Frank and the other prefect began arguing, the Hufflepuff pointing toward the other end of the hallway. Peter couldn't follow most of the conversation, but he caught the name "O'Brien."

(Perhaps deciding if waking O'Brien is worth it?)

The Hufflepuff seemed to win, stalking past Longbottom with a determined look on her face. Peter watched his house's prefect sulk a moment — at one point, even glaring straight into the wall on accident! — and then walk after her, wand out.

Peter collapsed back into a puddle on the ground. His lucky gift had paid off this time. He'd beaten a pair of prefects at their own game.

He realized suddenly that he was laughing to himself, a little manically, and forced himself to hold it all in. He took a deep breath, then another.

And then Peter turned his attention to the parcel he'd almost forgotten. In spite of everything, it still was mostly intact, save a bit of wrapping torn off at the corner. He used that tear to open the parcel all the way, revealing a simple brown box and a letter attached to it with string, which he quickly pulled away and unfolded.

Peter,

Bit of an early birthday present for you. Next time you and I disagree about something, you should trust an old man's advice. You'd have some extra records to enjoy.

Secrecy is, of course, the name of the game with this little gift. One truly isn't supposed to fool around with Muggle artefacts like this. And I had to do some truly fantastic bargaining to get you the German version with real stereo. But you're my son. You deserve the best.

Dad

Hope and surprise fluttered in Peter's chest. He practically shredded the box getting it open.

Within was a stripped-down turntable — just the base, the platter, the arm off to the side. He could see a record sleeve peeking out from underneath, but he didn't need it to know what album was already loaded and ready to go. His dad had gotten him the double EP for Christmas once and always threatened to give him the American version with the extra songs but the lousy mix but this was the real thing — a stereo mix of the Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour.

A collector's dream, and Peter was more than a collector. That the Beatles were his favorite band did not make him unique — it was a fact he probably shared with every Muggleborn student in this school, and some of the halfbloods too, most like. But he'd been listening to the Fab Four since he was a child, his father having just about all of their early LPs and EPs thanks to his job in the Ministry.

(Among some of the Muggle merchants his father dealt with, the right Beatles album could be better than gold.)

Magical Mystery Tour was the only album he hadn't loved.

Okay, that wasn't fair. He'd listened to the whole thing a hundred times, maybe, and every time he said to his father, "It's not enough Beatles!"

And every time, his father had laughed at that. "There's never enough for you," he said once. "You probably think the White Album was half as long as it should have been."

"Sort of," Peter replied, crossing his arms in the living room. That only set his father off laughing harder.

That wasn't long after the incident with the Davises. His parents had never spoken to Peter about that night, but as he and his father listened to "I Am the Walrus" for the 18th time, alone in the flat, his father finally said, "Tell me what happened over tea this January."

Peter flushed instantly, all thoughts of Eggman vanishing from his mind. "I-I…I don't know."

"You do," his father said, running a finger around the edge of his brandy glass. "Don't hide behind false uncertainties. We both know better."

(Oh god.)

"I saw…not saw…I could feel something about the tea set," Peter said. "I knew it was originally enchanted, and I knew you or Mum had charmed it so that it wouldn't move while the Davises were here. But if I hadn't known it I probably still could have guessed it. Looking at it…I could just tell. That's the only way I know how to explain it."

His father sat there silently, studying Peter.

(I'm a freak. Even for wizards. A freak.)

"That's very unique," he said finally, speaking slowly, word by word. "I will be honest with you, Peter. I've never experienced anything like that. I don't know a single person who's admitted to having that ability either. But I assure you: If you are able to cultivate this lucky little gift, you will grow to benefit immensely from it."

"So…you aren't angry?"

His father made a face Peter couldn't quite comprehend. "Oh, Peter. No. I'm not angry about the Davises. One day, you will learn not to be worried about the Davises of the world either.

"But—" His father leaned in close, looking him right in the eyes. "I think you know not to mention what happened that night to any of your friends. Yes?"

Peter didn't say anything, afraid to give the wrong answer.

"I acted as I did to take care of his family," his father continued. "But there are many within the Ministry — both in my department and elsewhere — who would consider the action I took inappropriate. And they would have caused us innumerable problems. So I need you to understand that the Davises must be a secret. As must your gift."

"Of course," Peter finally muttered, breaking eye contact with his father as he spoke.

It apparently satisfied him. "Good."

Silence hung in the air a moment more, John Lennon's voice long since having stopped as the turntable arm reached the center of the record. Then Peter's father got up, picking the second EP up off the endtable. "Let's skip to the end, shall we? I'm in a bit of a "Blue Jay Way" mood."

And that was that. The first and last time they'd ever talked about it. But Magical Mystery Tour still made him think of the Davises, and that night. Peter wondered if his parents ever thought about popping back over the hedge, to their house next door, and trying to get them to come over for one more cup of tea anyway, despite everything.

He shook the thoughts out of his head. He was in a secret, soundproof room, with the better — no, best — version of a Beatles album. And, if his father wasn't playing a trick on him, the only working record player in Hogwarts.

Peter lifted the arm of the turntable, holding it over the black vinyl and familiar green apple in the center. A small crank on the side of the turntable began turning of its own accord, and the record started to spin slowly around and around. So he put the needle down.

Warm, resonant and in perfect stereo, a perfect Beatles harmony burst into life all around him.


The sharp, dissonant wail of the Hogwarts Express whistle was the first thing Peter heard as he walked through the wall at Platform 9 3/4. All around him, children and parents were bustling about, both groups' chatter sounding like a bundle of nerves and excitement. Peter could only sympathize with half of that. His stomach was zigging this way and that like a Golden Snitch.

"It's so huge," Peter said as they walked along the platform. His father laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"That it is," he said. "You'll get used to it. After a few years, this'll just seem like an awfully long-winded way of getting to school. I always thought Portkeys might have been a cleverer idea, but people do love their traditions."

"I always liked the Hogwarts Express," Peter's mother said. "It was nice to have a couple of hours alone with your thoughts before a new school year, I thought."

There was a strange waver in her voice — had been all day. Before they flooed into Diagon Alley, he'd even come upstairs to ask if she knew where his trainers were and found her crying alone in their room. She hadn't shown a sign of it when she came downstairs later, but Peter had been keeping an eye on her all day, just in case.

"Arthur!" A brusque man's voice turned Peter's head. An older man he didn't know in a boxy black suit and foot-tall top hat was walking toward the three of them, sticking his hand out toward Peter's father.

"Phineas!" His father stepped away, eagerly clasping the man's hand. "What are you doing here? I thought all of your sons were out of Hogwarts."

"Oh, no, Jasper still has one year left. Doesn't want anything to do with me, of course — he's already on the train with his friends. Thought I might stick around and see if I could catch you — figured you'd be here with…"

"Peter," his father said, ushering him forward. "Peter, this is my boss at the Ministry. Phineas Steele."

"Nice to meet you," Peter said, bashfully keeping his hands at his side.

"And you know Anna, of course."

Peter's mother took a step forward, nodding her head slightly. "Phineas. Good to see you again."

"Of course," Phineas said, tipping his hat so low it looked like he might drop it on accident. "Do you have a moment before you put your son on the good old Hogwarts Express, Arthur?"

"Certainly," he replied. "Peter — I know you're eager to get off to Hogwarts, but don't get on that train until I get back, all right? I've got a present for you before you go."

Somehow, Peter had never felt less eager to go anywhere.

His father walked off with Phineas, whispering back and forth with the older wizard, and Peter turned back to look at his mother. "Mum…I don't want to go. I'm not ready. All these kids are gonna be better than me. I'm not even good at doing magic on accident."

Somehow, that made his mum look like she was going to cry again. But instead, she walked over and crouched down in front of him, her face right in front of his. "Listen to me, Peter. This is a big, big day for you. And it's okay to be afraid when big moments like this happen."

"But—"

"But…" She cut Peter off with her own interjection before he could get more than a word in. "I know you. And I know that you are ready for this. Even—especially if it doesn't feel like you are ready.

"You're going to get on that train today, and go up to that castle, and get sorted into your house. And it's going to be the most important moment for you. It's going to set you on a path that you can't even imagine yet."

His mother was crying again, a pair of tears trickling down her face. "It's going to be an amazing moment for you. I'm going to be so proud. And nothing that happens to you…nothing bad that happens to you…nothing should take that away, okay? You just have to know that I am alwaysgoing to be proud of you. My little glow worm."

Peter blushed. "Mummm."

Without taking the hint, she leaned forward and put her arms tightly around him. "I know, I'm sorry. I just…I'm going to miss you, Peter."

"Mum, come on," Peter said, wriggling in her grasp. "You're gonna embarrass me."

"Alright," she said, standing back up and wiping her face. "I'm sorry. I remember what it was like to be where you're standing, with my parents fussing over me practically all the way up to the train. My first year at Hogwarts wasn't so long ago, you know."

"I guess," Peter said. "I just don't even know what house I want to be in. I don't feel like any of them are me. I'm not smart enough to be a Ravenclaw like Dad. I'm not determined and strong enough to be a Slytherin like you."

"Peter, you don't have to fit perfectly into your house on the first day." His mum gave a hint of a smile. "I certainly didn't. I was terrified my first few weeks at school — our common room was all the way down in the dungeons, and there were so many illustrious families. The Minister for Magic's son was Head Boy, even! But I grew into it. And you will too. No matter which house you end up in."

"Sorry about that." Peter's father came up behind them, Phineas nowhere to be seen. "Awfully rude of Phineas to ambush me like that, I think, but we did get some nice things worked out. Everyone ready to put Ringo and the luggage on the train?"

"Yes," his mother said, pushing a thick strand of blonde hair out of her eyes. "I think we're all ready to go."

After everything was settled and he'd said his goodbyes and gotten settled in a carriage full of chatty first-years, Peter turned to look out the window at his parents. They were standing a bit apart, his father cheerily waving and his mother just looking with her arms folded across her waist. She might have been crying again, just a little. But it didn't look like the same crying as before. Not at all.


By the time Peter woke up the next morning, the sun was blazing in through the curtains of his bed. Rubbing his eyes, he reached blindly toward his nightstand until he found his alarm clock, pulling it closer. 11:46. He'd definitely missed breakfast.

(No wonder, considering you were out in your secret cubbyhole until 12 in the morning.)

It seemed he was the only boy left in the dorm when he finally rolled all the way out of bed, so he showered and dressed quickly, heading down to the Great Hall. The hall was about half full when he arrived, many of the students popping in a moment to sweep an armful of food off a table and then head toward the courtyard.

At the Gryffindor table, Remus was absent again, but James, Jack, and Daisy were there, chatting animatedly about something he couldn't hear. Next to Jack, a small owl with ruffled feathers was picking at a plate as if it hadn't eaten in days.

"Ringo!" Peter hurried over to his messenger owl, sitting down right in front of him without saying hi to his fellow first-years.

"Hi to you too," James said drily. "What's a Ringo?"

Daisy yelped, causing the other first-years and some kids further down to whip their heads toward her in surprise. "Gosh," she finally said. "That's the saddest thing I've heard a wizard say since I got here."

"Was there a letter with him?" Peter asked. He was looking around the table, but couldn't see one.

"Here," Jack said, pulling it out from his pocket. "Your 'Ringo' was fluttering around in such a panic when it got here that it almost knocked a goblet of pumpkin juice on the letter. Figured I'd drop it upstairs when I went back to the common room in a bit."

"Where were you last night, anyway?" James said. "We were up chatting in the common room until way past curfew and never saw you get in."

"Um, out." He took the letter from Jack and got up from the table, Ringo flying away as he did.

"Wait, aren't you eating?" James said. "You just got here. We're not going to laugh at you for getting a letter from your mum."

"Eating, sure." Peter reached over and took a meat pie off the table with his bare hands, noshing on it as he scurried back down the length of the Great Hall, ignoring Jack and James's shouts from behind him.

He stopped at the top of one of the smaller staircases off the hall, sitting on a bench in an alcove. Finishing the last bite of his pie, he flipped his thumb under the envelope's seal. Maybe whatever his parents had written him would explain why Ringo had been gone so long.

Dearest Peter,

You must have written this letter right away — I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. I hope by now your uncertainties about ending up in Gryffindor have faded. The Sorting Hat doesn't make its decisions lightly, and I know if it chose Gryffindor for you instead of Slytherin it must have known that was the best place for you.

I do not know if you will have heard from your father yet. I am keeping Ringo here for a day to rest, but nonetheless I suspect not. He is too proud, and, I assume, too angry.

I am not in London, Peter. Nor am I with your father. After you left our home, I left it too, as soon as I was able.

This will be a shock. I know. It breaks my heart to break yours. But for years now, living with your father has been… difficult. Not in any way you would have seen, or known. We are both very good liars, your father and I. It's truth we have trouble with.

I cannot tell you those truths, not yet. It is not safe, for me or for you, to talk about them. But you must never fear for your safety from your father. For all his flaws, for all the things about him that have finally driven me to this bold, final act — he has worked very, very hard to ensure none of his actions will ever touch you. If I believed he was incapable of securing that, I would have endured another seven years of life with him to protect you.

I know that in leaving, I may give up all my rights as your mother. Your father will surely tell you that I left because I didn't love you both anymore, but that is not true. A part of me loves him still, despite everything, and my whole heart shall forever love you. But I must leave you both regardless.

I hope you shall forgive me enough to write; I shall not again until I know it will not further hurt you. I have not yet decided exactly where we are going, but I do not travel alone. There is a man — a Muggle, unbelievably enough — who has enough faith and trust in me to leave his homeland too and embark with me to the Continent, and wherever else our journey takes us. One day I think I should like you to meet him.

Oh, Peter. I wish I could have truly said goodbye. And I hope this goodbye is not the last for us.

Shine bright, my little glow worm.