4.
Word: Mail
Character: Peter Pettigrew
When: December 1971
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It was nearing Christmas, and there still wasn't any mail for Peter. Remus had gotten a letter from his parents, James a new sweater, and Sirius an unexpected card from his younger brother Regulus, but for Peter there was nothing, not even a note from his mother.
The absence of mail made him squirm in his seat, and he could feel the looks the others were giving him when they thought he didn't notice – apologetic, exasperated, worried – and he hated it and he hated them and he hated his mother and he was sorry for even thinking such thoughts when all they all wanted was what they thought was best for him.
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People generally love getting mail, and the Marauders were no different, Peter in particular. The feeling of an owl dropping off a letter was unlike any other – it was a sign that someone somewhere felt you were important enough to go through the trouble of writing something down, sticking it in an envelope, and tying it to a bird. (He later learned from Remus that Muggles used stamps they paid for, which indicated to Peter than Muggles might feel even better about receiving mail because it involved money and was delivered by a person and not a bird that may or may not poop on something.) He loved getting mail, and his mother knew about it, and so sent him letters often. Perhaps too often.
James, Peter noticed, got about two letters a month, maybe three if something interesting had happened at home, and they were of a modest length. James would reply back as soon as he could, and nothing much was thought of it. Remus got a letter a week, each about three or four pages long, a length Peter attributed to Mrs. Lupin's illness and a format he guessed came from living among Muggles. Remus replied promptly and thoughtfully, his letters several inches long at first but slowly growing shorter as his workload grew. It didn't seem as though his parents cared much, though, and they continued to send him thick envelopes every seven days or so. Sirius didn't get any mail at all after his first week, and most of the time he didn't care. Or at least he tried to pretend he didn't.
Peter, on the other hand, was written to every other day – every day, for the first month – and the letters varied in length from 15 inches of parchment to three lines, from lengthy prose to a reminder that his Aunt Cathy's birthday was coming up and he needed to send her something before she called him fat and lazy again. He was obligated to reply every time, because once when he missed one he got a Howler the next morning accusing him of hating his mother. That one made Sirius laugh all day, as he thought it hilarious that Peter's mother was so attached to her pudgy little boy, but it made Peter squirm with guilt and he vowed to write as much as he could every day.
The problem with writing someone every day, he noticed quickly, was that schoolwork sometimes had to be set aside. Immensely grateful that parents weren't sent marks until the end of the term, he lied copiously about his grades on parchment while silently panicking over how he planned to finish his workload. Remus once suggested that Peter wait a few days and answer multiple letters in one response, but the memory of the Howler was still fresh in his mind and he didn't want to risk another embarrassment.
Finally, he took Remus's advice and waited a week to respond, the letters coming in with increasing irritation as his mother waited for any sort of response. As a form of reconciliation he wrote her an exceptionally long letter, but she quickly snapped back saying she preferred daily short notes to weekly long ones.
But it wasn't until Sirius finally took matters in his own hands that things really took a turn for the worse. As Peter wrote a quickly reply on a spare piece of parchment, Sirius snatched it out of his hands and scribbled on the note, reading it aloud as he wrote.
"Stop writing Peter, he's busy and you're annoying him," Sirius recited, signing it with a flourish and tying it to the owl now munching on Peter's cereal. Peter watched him, mouth agape with horror, and as soon as he remembered how to move he frantically tried to untie the note, but the bird was already lifting off and all he could do was watch as his home life flew away with him. Sirius brushed off Peter's terror with a shrug and a piece of toast, and for the first time in his life Peter wanted to stick a fork in Sirius's eye.
There was only one note the next day – "You're coming home for Christmas." – and that was all for the remainder of the calendar year. And now Peter wasn't sure which was worse, getting what he asked for or keeping the annoyance he had had before.