Christmas was coming soon, but Peter didn't want to go home. Still, he had to try and be a good boy and go home for Christmas. And maybe he would get to see mummy at the hospital, even though he hadn't yet. Maybe he was good enough going to school, good enough for daddy. Remus was going to go home to his parents too, and Peter thought that was good because he was looking awfully ill lately. He sensed something really wrong with the pallid boy sitting a few feet from him. And he knew that whatever it was, he shouldn't ask - at least not yet.
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Back at home Peter was in his room, reading his books, looking at the brilliant pictures, safe from his daddy for the time being. Safe from the pain, and he didn't have to try to be good while reading, he could be somewhere else away from it all. His small collection of toys and books made his small room seem barren as well. The little bed of his had one blanket on top of the mattress, it had pictures of puppies on it, they used to play, running across and chasing each other around. But the puppies now were tired and smelly, their once vibrant colours faded with time. One had a rip through it, a gaping hole in the blanket where it had once resided. He had a mirror and a dresser in his room, books resting on top of the dresser, carefully leaned against each other for a lack of book ends. His few toys - a box of moving zoo animals that he had gotten for his seventh birthday, a balding stuffed wolf that he had owned since he was five that he had always kept, even with all of the emergency stitches in it, and a potions set that he had never opened because it would make a mess - were piled haphazardly in a corner. His clothes were always away where they belonged, it was bad to leave them on the floor.
They didn't have a Christmas tree, it was too expensive and too messy. They had a tree once, the needles that fell off had pricked Peter's feet and daddy had hit him for yelping and crying. He could hear daddy now, coming in from the living room, where he had been sleeping on the couch. Peter had been here for a whole day now, and he had seen daddy only once because daddy had gone to sleep. Daddy was coming with the heavy footfalls Peter only heard when daddy was mad. He had made his own food, a sandwich, and had been careful to clean everything up and put it away. He hadn't been rude or ignored daddy. Why was he mad?
The door opened after a moments jiggling of the doorknob. The scent of alcohol wafted up Peter's nostrils and that sent a chill down his spine like never before. It was strong, as strong as daddy's arm. Peter shrank back, realizing that there was no escape, the small window was too high for Peter to even reach if he could have fit through it.
"You little twit, can't you get outside and play sometimes? You're always shut up in here reading those damned books!" He was slurring his speech, and he staggered drunkenly toward the little boy cowering in the corner like a trapped animal. "You need to be more manly, get out of the house and play some quidditch or something." This was utter nonsense because not even daddy had a broom, but Peter knew he had to get one, otherwise he would be a bad boy. It didn't matter that he didn't even know how to play quidditch either, and he couldn't play with anyone because there was no one to play with. He had to just be a good boy and play quidditch. He noticed the warm salty tears soaking his face and the front of his robes because of the difficult task ahead of him. He looked back to daddy and cringed. He was bad, bad for his books. The books were bad, he knew it now. That's because daddy was right and the books were wrong.
Daddy advanced on the tiny figure that was his stepson. He began to raise his arm and brought it down with force across the side of the boy's round face. The room exploded in light for a moment and Peter leaned and spit out a bloody tooth onto the floor, that had only happened once before, but that tooth had been getting loose. This was one of his molars. He turned up to face the man towering over him as the hand was brought down against other side of his face sending tears and blood flying. Then the feet that always wore heavy boots even inside the house began to dig into his ribs, a sickening crack was heard once amidst the series of thuds. He must have been bad, really bad. The books were bad. So very bad. The beating continued into the night.
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In the morning, Peter looked into his streaky mirror to see a swollen face, with a dark line of marks befitting of knuckles spilling purple and green discolourment across his otherwise red and puffy face. His one eye was slightly shut and refused to open more than two thirds of the way. His ribs hurt when he breathed, he was so very bad. So very bad for reading books. He began to gather his picture books and his story books and carried them outside into the back yard. He tossed them in a heap of dirt and realized he had nothing to light the fire. He went inside and got his own wand, knowing full well that he shouldn't use magic. He took it out and debated a moment before deciding that the books were much worse than the trouble for casting a spell. He pounded his fist against the wand and babbled nonsense to it until the inevitable happened: sparks. And he hadn't needed to use a spell for this magic. The books caught easily and began to burn under the three o'clock full moon. He stood and watched until the embers died amongst the ash, the last bits of paper that had been caught in the heat settled on the ground and he went inside to sleep as well as he could on broken ribs.
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The next morning Peter sat chewing his toast carefully because his face was sore and the missing tooth had left an oozing hole ion his gums. Peter asked his dad cautiously if he could see mummy at the hospital, daddy's response was terrifying. He slammed his hands on the table and Peter's toast bounced on the plate, the piece he had half eaten dropped back to the plate a second later as Peter's mouth dropped open. He had been bad. "She's not at the bloody hospital you little git! You're so stupid, she left you here because you're a bad little boy who asks stupid questions." He didn't bother to hit the little boy, he had done enough of that last night and saw no point. He may as well have hit him judging by the look on his bruised little face. Peter's tears were now for the loss of his mummy who had given him hugs and kisses and sung sweetly to him before bed. She'd left him, he must have been bad. So very bad.Peter was excited, today was Christmas, the only day besides his birthday that he got presents. The bruises from last week had become a slight discoloured tenderness, although his ribs still hurt and the swelling hadn't completely gone. He woke early and lay in bed until he heard daddy getting out of bed. It felt like he had been laying there for hours and he went to check the clock in the hall. 12:37. It had been long, six hours or so at least from the time he had awoken. He rushed out, grinning a slightly lopsided smile because of the soreness of his face. Daddy just looked at him funny and asked, "What are you so happy about?"
"Its Christmas!" he beamed. Surely santa had been here by now.
"So?"
"But... I thought Santa came." No, he was a bad boy. Why would santa come? Not after the books. Not after using magic and not getting punished. Not now.
"Santa isn't real, you're old enough to know that by now." As always, daddy was right.
"But, but..." He searched desperately for a way to finish the sentence.
"But, but!" Daddy mocked. "But nothing, now get your little arse out of my house. And don't come back until you've grown up."
Peter stood, breathless for a moment and headed for his room, he got his robes and stuffed wolf. He also picked his favourite zoo animal - the once brilliant deer which had one antler broken off and claw marks left from the tiger getting into the deer's compartment. He wrapped it all up in his puppy dog blanket just as his dad came stomping down the hall. "I'm going!" He squeaked, the terror evident in his voice at being bad and not leaving right away. The footsteps kept coming. "I said I'm leaving!" tears nearly choked the words silent.
The door swung open. He dashed past daddy, even though he should have been punished for disobeying. His father caught him in the backside with a booted foot and Peter yelped in pain as the fire shot up his spine and his gait changed briefly as he ran. He ran to nowhere because there was nowhere to go. They lived in the middle of nowhere anyways, so he had been nowhere all along. There was nothing around his house, nothing for miles because muggles were nasty and there were no wizards outside the little town they lived near. Peter curled up in some bushes and then began to cry and slowly sobbed his way into a fitful sleep.