No. No, it wouldn't do. He thought about what daddy would say if he knew. All he could do was hide in the lavatory until class started again. The door opened, and he could hear boys coming in. They were loud, at least three of them, but maybe more. He hid in one of the stalls, pulling his feet up off of the floor. Still sobbing, he managed to stifle his moans before they were silent and heard him.

"I'm sure he went in this way! I saw him."

Shadows passed the opening at the bottom of the stall.

He could feel the boys' sneers as one began to bang on the stall door just two toilets down.

"Come on out little crybaby, we won't hurt you, we just wanna play a game."

BANG! The first door swung open with ease and hit the inside of the stall, revealing nothing but air.

"We know you're in here twerp! You're just making it harder on yourself."

BANG! The wall next to him shook, the door next to him hitting the inside with a second thud.

He tucked his knees up close and hid his wand behind the toilet so that they didn't take it to get him in trouble. Using spells in the corridors was strictly forbidden, and they loved to shoot rather crude but simple spells with his wand, and the teachers though him a trouble maker because of the spells they thought he had performed.

He let out a whimper as he braced for the door to come flying open and curled up further into the fetal position on the toilet seat.

BANG! Some malicious Slytherin third years stood malevolently at the door, eyes darkened with the pleasure of tormenting the tiny first year before them. Besides, they were in rival houses. And, he wouldn't tell.

"GOTYA!" The closest one stormed in, neatly trimmed, short, dark hair stark against the white of his face. He sneered, a smile that could even be mistaken for friendly if it was in different context. This grin was one of such absolute sincerity and sweetness that it was more terrifying than any gnarled grimace.

Tears began to stream down the little boy's face, even though he tried to fight them, not wanting them to see him cry.

"Aw wook, widdle cwybaby Petey is gonna go cwying to mummy again."

Not a word of resistance made its way from little Peter, he simply resigned to his fate this time, going limp in the midst of the pushing, shoving, hitting mass of boys, the four of them being as rough as they liked within the conditioned nature of civilization. Even as twelve year olds they had already mastered the art of being discreet. They also knew how to pick a silent mark for their desire to cause pain. Still, the boy at their feet, in his awkward chubbiness and trembling nature had been a dream come true for the gang. They had never managed to continually pick on a boy for more than a month before someone caught on. This little boy had no friends, no one who even seemed to notice his existence save for them. And he would never tell, somehow they just knew.

When they had finished the beating, they searched his pockets, taking the remainder of his Bertie Botts' Every flavour beans and his few saved knuts that he had been trying to transport safely to the Gryffindor boy's dormitory, although he wasn't sure how safe his things were even there. They heard someone coming down the hallway and stood up just in time to see Mrs Norris, the caretaker's spying cat, enter the doorway. Peter was hidden behind their feet, and the footsteps stopped at the door and the owner of the footsteps spoke in a scratchy, wheezy voice, "What is it? Boys getting into trouble again in the toilets? Well, let's stop their fun before they can make a mess out of my plumbing."

Mrs Norris began to sniff around, searching for any incriminating evidence to bring to Filch's attention. Her back twitched, scraggly fur rippling across her body. Her tail swished devilishly.

The caretaker Filch shouted into the room, "What's going on in here? All you boys, I know you're in there you four, get out before I come in there. You're causing trouble, I know you're up to no good." The four stepped outside, obviously smug with the knowledge that they would not be called on anything without proof. Mrs Norris turned to go through the doorway, satisfied that they were moving.

No one noticed the heap of boy in the corner, silent and shaking, soundless sobs wracking his body.

----------------------------

He had always hated it at home. But he knew there was some way to be safe. Mummy had always stopped it, always protected him. But daddy, was scary. Mummy was so sad all the time, so sad indeed. He was afraid of daddy, but mummy would save him. But then, when mummy wasn't looking, when mummy wasn't around, daddy would hit him. Hit him hard, so hard. He must be bad then, that's why everybody hated him. It was why daddy hit him. Mummy loved him, but that was her job. Mummy had saved him from daddy before anyways. But daddy, daddy said he was getting fat, that he would never amount to anything. Daddy was always right, even if books said he was wrong. He knew he could always escape daddy in those books. Daddy and his truths. Daddy and his hurting. Not big books, but books with bright moving pictures, ones that would show him that beasts like him could become beautiful things. He only had to be patient and good. Then he could show daddy that he wasn't bad. That he didn't have to hate him anymore. Daddy would kick him under the table when mummy couldn't see, and when he made a face he would simply tell her it was a tummy ache. Because daddy was right when he said don't tell mummy. Don't tell, its our little secret. Our little game. But mummy would find out, mummy did find out. And that's when she started to save him; he wouldn't be hit, but mummy would. This meant he was really bad, because daddy would say when mummy couldn't hear, tell him that he was making him do it, making him because he had told mummy. But he hadn't, he didn't, and wouldn't. But daddy was right, it was his fault. Then mummy got sick. She couldn't save him and daddy would hit him. Then mummy went to the hospital, and he was left with no one at all. He would go out with daddy, out and smile. Because he was happy with daddy, daddy loved him, and he hit him because he was bad and that he didn't want him to be bad. This must mean he loved him. He never told, and daddy would smile when he would accidentally step on someone's shoe and tell him that its okay, accidents happen. But at home, he would tell him to be more goddam careful.

He was always clumsy, but the day in the store had been Bad. They had been shopping in a store called "Practical Magic." The store had things like remembralls, coffee tables that walked on clawed feet and would compensate for a bump and nothing would be spilled, carpets that would vaporize garbage as soon as it hit the floor, diaries that corrected spelling and would turn into blank pages if ever opened by another person. He was entranced by the mirrors that could show him how he would look if he changed his hair, or even what he would look like when he was older, or with different coloured eyes. He would stare at the glass objects that served many purposes, the crystalline glow of the glass made his eyes wide with wonder. He picked one up as if under a spell and just then someone behind him bumped him, bumped him hard and it slipped. He watched the globe with a night sky sparkling inside tumble to the floor, slipping through his sweaty child-sized palms. He grasped for it but it went As if in slow motion, no it was in slow motion, the clock globe fell, and shattered, spraying glass jewels and mist across the floor. His mouth pursed in an 'o' and a tear fell down his cheek. Even when the plump little store owner came and told him it was alright, he stood there and stared at the mess. That goddam mess, the mess that he had made and made his daddy look like a fool. The mess that had made daddy hit him so hard that he bled; bled and wept.