Peter had stayed late after Potions class to help Slughorn clean up after he'd spilled his disgusting-smelling Girding Potion all over his workbench. The other Marauders had returned to Gryffindor Tower to start preparing for James's birthday, which they were celebrating that night, so Peter ended up walking back through the dungeons beneath the school alone, his books clasped tightly to his chest.
Part of the reason he'd messed up his potion so badly was that he'd spent most of the class staring at a preserved rat specimen Slughorn had placed on his desk. Peter still couldn't believe his Animagus form was destined to be a rat; the thought had pestered his mind all throughout the Christmas holidays and the months after. His friends seemed pleased with the idea that he could transform into something so small—he could sneak beneath the limbs of the Willow and freeze them himself, Sirius had reckoned—and Peter was relieved that he'd been able to perform a spell as intricate as the Patronus Charm in the first place, but still he couldn't help but be a little disappointed.
What had he thought his Animagus form would be? A lion? No—a rat made perfect sense for someone like Peter, small and insignificant, always having to scurry away to avoid being stepped on.
"Peter Pettigrew." The voice sent a rush of cold water down Peter's spine. Swallowing, he turned to find Severus approaching him from further down the hall, two other Slytherins—Severus's friend Avery and a fourth year named Evan Rosier—following at his heels. The rest of the students had left long ago; the hall was empty except for them.
Peter's hands began to tremble; he clenched them tighter around his books to try to conceal it, but Snape had already noticed. "Not so brave without your friends here, are you, Pettigrew?" he said. "Last week, when Potter bound my legs together in the middle of the Great Hall, you laughed at me. Same when Black burned up my homework parchment the next day. You love to see them do all sorts of things to me." Snape stopped only a few feet in front of Peter, his wand drawn. "But you can't do any of it yourself. You're hardly a wizard, I think."
"It's because he's a Mudblood," Avery sneered. "At least James and Sirius come from real Wizarding families. Pettigrew, on the other hand—I'm not even sure how he got himself let in here."
I performed a Patronus Charm all on my own, Peter wanted to say. I'm better than anyone thinks. But he didn't say it, because the Slytherins had him cornered and he wouldn't dare do anything to further provoke them. He thought back to the sight of his Boggart, how he'd been searching for his friends—his talented, powerful, brave friends—to come to his rescue, and they'd never showed. He felt the same way as his Boggart form now; Patronus Charm or not, he couldn't fight off these Slytherins without some serious help, and they all knew it.
"I think we need to teach him a lesson, Severus," said Rosier. "Teach him what pure-blood wizards can do to scum like him without other pure-bloods to protect him."
"I like that idea," Severus replied. He gave Peter an evil little grin as he drew his wand.
"Severus," Peter whimpered. He was ashamed of how his voice sounded, ashamed of how he felt the need to beg, but he was scared and he didn't do what else to do. "Please, I don't want any trouble—"
"I don't care." Snape pointed his wand at Peter and flicked it. "Petrificus Totalus."
Peter's limbs instantly snapped together, and he keeled over onto his back, his spine slamming against the cold stone floor of the dungeon and his books flying every which way around him. The Slytherins snickered and came to stand over Peter's useless, frozen body. "He didn't even try to fight you, Severus," Avery sneered. "Pathetic Mudblood. He'd be dead in two seconds if he ever came across the Dark Lord."
"He'd be dead in less than that," Rosier replied. He spit onto Peter's cheek. "Exanthema."
A sudden, burning red rash blossomed all over Peter's arms and legs, and he felt it creeping up his neck and face, too. "Rhinara." A wave of snot gushed from Peter's nose, collecting on his lips. "Drosophi." A swarm of flies materialized over him and buzzed around his head; a couple landed within the moist liquid of his eyeballs, but he was powerless even to blink them away.
"Very good, Rosier." Snape stepped forward now, ready to cast his own hexes, but the sound of footsteps pattering down the dungeon stairs made him draw back. "Damn it," he breathed. "We've got to get him out of here."
"I know just the place," said Avery. The three boys grabbed Peter roughly and dragged him into a small closet filled with mops and brooms, dumping him on the floor beside a large bucket filled with some vile odor.
"Have fun in there, Mudblood," Rosier said before the Slytherins shut the door and scampered away, leaving Peter all alone in the darkness.
He lay there for what felt like forever, feeling the pain of his cursed rash and hearing the buzzing of flies loud in his ears alongside the occasional pattering of footsteps passing by. His thoughts grew wilder and more panicky the longer he was left alone with them—what if the curses never wore off? What if he was stuck inside the closet forever? What if no one came looking for him? Did anyone care enough to come looking for him?
But eventually the burning of the rash started to cool, and the swarm of flies thinned out and disappeared. Peter began to feel intermittent tremors in his arms and legs, and soon he was able to lift himself back onto his feet. He wiped his face clean with the sleeve of his robe and opened the closet door, stepping back out into the dimly-lit dungeon hall. The books he'd dropped were nowhere to be found.
Peter made his way slowly back to Gryffindor Tower—night had fallen, and his stomach growled a reminder that he'd missed dinner entirely. He clenched his fists; he would tell his friends exactly what had happened, how the Slytherins had cursed him and called him Mudblood and left him trapped for hours, and they would help him get revenge on all of them. After James and Sirius are done with them, Peter thought, they won't dare to touch me ever again.
But when he finally reached the tower and opened the door into the Marauders' room, the words he'd wanted to say died on his tongue. The room was filled with whizzing lights and confetti suspended in midair, and a massive floating banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAMESEY! James, Remus and Sirius sat beneath the back window devouring a red-and-gold frosted cake with the number 14 flashing above it. As Peter stared inside, a Chocolate Frog leaped past him and escaped out into the hallway.
James was the first to notice him. "Oi, Peter!" he said, straightening up. "Where the bloody hell were you? You've been gone for hours, and you look like a total mess, mate."
Taking in his grinning face, all their faces, Peter's anger melted into shame. How had he let Snape and his friends do what they'd done without giving them a fight? James and Sirius would never have let them—even Remus wouldn't have let them. They already thought of Peter as helpless and incompetent; why should he give them even more evidence? Maybe they wouldn't help him get his revenge at all—maybe they'd laugh at him and call him Mudblood, too.
"Slughorn made me stay after to help organize his storeroom," Peter muttered.
"Oh, that old bat," Sirius sighed. "Well, come on then, Petey, the cake's delicious. And you've got to see what James's parents sent him for his birthday."
"Can we not talk about that jumper anymore?"
"We're going to talk about that jumper all year, mate."
Peter ducked into the room and joined his friends, pasting on his best fake smile and doing his best to blink back the tears welling in his eyes.
