"It does no good to cry," his mother used to insist, standing with her hands on her hips and desperate to make him understand. It does no good to cry, even when her own tears flowed.
Graduation was looming. Peter thought he finally understood what she meant.
James didn't even seem to see him anymore. That glint, that wicked glint when he used to laugh at Peter (He could be funny! And even if he didn't always know what they were laughing at, what mattered was that he mattered; his place in their group mattered), but now James spent all his time smiling at her.
Of course, Lily was beautiful and vivacious and smart and she could actually talk to James. Even if she was play-insulting him. Even if just in half-formed phrases, staring into each other, glistening grey-hazel and bold green eyes, murmuring meaningless words, but then they would lean in for one of those soft, wet kisses like they were holding back, saving it all up for when James would waltz out of the common room with his most self-assured grin, stagger back in an hour later barely able to speak his own name.
Peter couldn't hate Lily. Peter was Peter and Lily was Lily and James wanted Lily but sometimes James saw him; James had to know what it meant, Peter all caught up in reflecting James's greatness back at him, even when Peter couldn't form the words. Couldn't begin to say what he wanted, tripping all over himself to get hold of some part of the boy who was the most powerful, confident, brilliant person Peter could ever imagine.
Seven years of being near him, sleeping less than two yards away from him. Seven years of heavy red curtains that could have been pushed aside… If he could kneel by James's bed, just plead hard enough maybe James would allow him to push them aside… Nights when Remus and Sirius were out of the room and Peter sat up in his bed almost electrified with courage… but not enough.
Because James would reject him, maybe with a laugh, and it was only right when James was so perfect and Peter was so… nothing… Nothing but want and worship, and James liked to be worshipped. He liked to know how unspeakably wonderful he was.
But he already knew. Now that he had her, he didn't need Peter to tell him…
And Peter didn't need… anything… but those two yards. Seeing him every morning, every night, every meal in between. James was like a small sun, and all Peter had to do was bask in his glow.
But soon all that would be over.
Peter felt very cold, imagining it.
And it did no good to cry.
It did no good to cry.
He would have to think of something else.
