Peter Pettigrew was an extremely observant bloke, even if no one gave him credit for it.
When Sirius and James were keeping a secret from Remus and himself, Peter always knew. They always stood farther apart than they usually did, as though trying to convince the other two that there wasn't a special bond between them. But Peter knew that there was. The close companionship of eight year olds had been replaced by a brotherhood with Sirius. It wasn't surprising- Peter had long ago brushed past the hurt of being pushed aside. It wasn't that he was inadequate, Peter would remind himself. Sirius was just over-adequate.
He had noticed Remus' absences before Sirius or James did. He remembered when he first brought the subject up, James had told him off for not trusting their mate, and Sirius had scoffed as though he'd just insisted that Merlin was still alive. Barely two months later, Sirius brought up the same conversation and James had eagerly agreed. Peter had chosen to not remind them that it had been his idea first.
In third year, it had been Peter who noticed James looking at Evans for a second too long, or his sudden interest in insulting her, as though he was trying to convince himself as much as having a laugh. He'd actually thought he'd been doing James a favor when he dared him to ask her out. Now, Sirius and Remus never let him forget what he'd gotten them into.
All this partly came from Peter always searching for something to be seen, instead of merely taken it for granted that there wasn't. But it also helped that he knew exactly what to look for. Remus was the most hurt when he insisted he wasn't; Sirius could always be counted on to glance at least twice at his brother as they passed through the dungeons; the dimple on James' cheek only showed when he was truly smiling.
He never advertised this power of observation. Honestly, he considered it a bit creepy. Even Sirius' fan girls didn't know some of the things Peter knew. It wasn't that he was obsessed, or, worse, gay. It was just that, despite the Marauder's faith in their lying abilities, none of them were very good at keeping things from each other. That's why James had failed at pretending he didn't fancy Lily Evans, why Remus' secret had been deduced within a year, and the problems of Sirius' family hadn't been learned by his telling.
So when Sirius had wrote Remus and Peter saying they were coming back to Hogwarts, Peter had said firmly, "We need to tell Prongs before someone else does." Remus had looked rather taken aback by this rare confident attitude in his friend, but had nodded. Peter picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet and put it in his pocket with a sternness that wasn't very becoming.
"Mate, come on. Class," Remus said, throwing a pillow at Sirius' sleeping body. He grunted and turned over, his eyes squinting in an equal mixture of exhaustion and irritation.
"Class? Is that we're here for?" Peter asked, grinning as he tied his shoes. Sirius snorted. Yawning, he flung himself out of bed to the surprising sight of James already dressed. He was about to make some comment about the sudden personality change, but a look from Remus made him think better of it. Standing up, he shared a knowing glance with Peter.
"Why don't we just skip class today?"
James shook his head, stepping toward the door. His steps were lethargic, and the firm hand on his shoulder from Remus provided just enough incentive to stop. He turned his head, staring Remus in the eyes. James knew what they were trying to do. Distract him, keep him from grieving. But didn't they understand that this couldn't just be unfocused like a telescope on a constellation, that each pattern was made of stars that burned furiously within him?
"What?" James asked, much harsher than he meant to. Remus retracted his hand quickly, and James felt guilt wash over him for being so rude. It wasn't Remus' fault, after all. He was just trying to be there for his friend. But none of them had lost their mothers. The closest it came was Peter seeing his grandfather die, and it wasn't as if Peter had an alarmingly close relationship with his grandfather. Sirius had certainly seen death, but nobody close. And, frankly, James was glad that Remus didn't have more tragedy in his life- being a werewolf had to be bad enough.
Changing the subject, Peter asked, "How was Dumbledore last night? What'd he want?"
James ignored the question, his hand on the doorknob. Instead, he looked pointedly at Remus, waiting for him to voice the reason that he had stopped him.
"We think you should know something, first, Prongs," Remus said, taking the hint. He exchanged a quick look at Peter. James let go of the doorknob, turning around to see Sirius halt in his morning routine. James knew that he didn't know what the other two were keeping from him; otherwise he would've been the one to say it.
"What?" James asked, his voice adopting the same harsh tone. He faintly wondered if it was permanent.
Peter nodded at Remus, in silent agreement on something, and focused on James. "Witch Weekly, Prongs. They've been writing some stuff about your mum... and you...Since she died, and all that money transferred back to your Gringotts' account and all... They've been focusing on your inheritance, and, well, how wizards like you usually get married in a few years, and..." He trailed off, clearly not knowing what to say.
"You've got to be FUCKING joking me,"James roared, instant fury coursing through him. "That's what they're making of her death? That's what she means to them, as long as it gets them a few fucking Knuts?"
"Her death is an advertisement, now, for the Potter family's money? Those sons of bitches," Sirius declared, looking as if he was itching for a fight. James didn't know what emotion was on his face, he was so lost. The anger was clear, but several other feelings were buried underneath.
Those girls that had thrown themselves at him the night before...
"Those bitches," he practically yelled, but it felt like a whisper.
"I know," Remus said, unaware that James was talking about someone else now. "It's despicable, James. It's revolting."
He was having difficulty making any decision. He wanted to scream, he wanted to run downstairs and tell those girls exactly what he thought of them, he wanted to rip every copy of that magazine he could find.
Without warning, the window of the boys' dorm shattered. The four jumped, but none looked for the source. All of them knew that it was James.
"Mate, just..." Sirius began, but stopped at a loss of words. It wasn't often that Sirius didn't know what to say. James knew that if Sirius, the closest thing he had to a brother, couldn't offer words of condolence, no one could.
"Let's go to Hogsmeade. Screw class," James said suddenly. It was a phrase that they'd each uttered on more than one occasion, but it carried none of the joviality that it had before. In fact, it sounded more like a funeral invitation than anything else.
No one stopped the Marauders as they left, except for a few exceptionally brave souls who looked as though they were going to approach James. Remus always shook his head subtly at them before they made it too far.
The day was largely uneventful. They had a few drinks, picked a few fights. Sirius even picked up a Witch Weekly magazine once to see exactly what they were saying, but could only make it half way through before tossing it to the ground. He stomped it into the snow, the fragments of paper ripping easily under his shoes. The Marauders broke into the Shrieking Shack, lying on the filthy floor and talking. Peter was obviously avoiding the issue of Mrs. Potter's death, rambling about essays and the continuing relationship between Alice Richardson and Frank Longbottom, but Sirius cut him off.
"It'll be easier soon, Prongs. I promise," he said, swinging back a bottle of Firewhiskey. Remus shifted uncomfortably on the floor.
"I know," James answered, trying very hard to keep his voice under control. Sirius must've sensed it, because he stayed silent and swirled the remains of his bottle instead of speaking.
"I'm sorry," Remus said. "For her death. I never really met her, but from what I read-"
"In Witch Weekly, you mean?" James savagely taunted, standing up. There was no answer. "My mum was more than that damn magazine could ever sum up. Especially when they're just trying to push their agenda, trying to sell as many as possible, they don't care what they're writing as long as they get a few Knuts for it!"
Remus stayed on the floor, carefully looking away from James' glare. "I'm sorry," Remus said. "Sorry that she's gone."
He would've rather Remus yelled at him. This startling acceptance of his mistreatment of his friends was worse. James shook his head in disbelief. He'd always known what to do before, had never lacked the confidence to act. But now, everyday decisions like what to say seemed unmanageable.
James leaned down and picked up his bottle, finishing off the last of it, unable to look at any the Marauders except in his peripherals. He threw the bottle against the wall, the shards landing in an alarmingly ordered pile. "Three Broomsticks?" he said, knowing without looking at his watch that it must've been well past midnight. The others stood up silently, whether out of wisdom of not knowing what to say, and followed James out the door.
The silence was overwhelming. He tried to speak, to start a conversation to keep his mind busy, but noise was suddenly incapable of traveling up his vocal cords. All he could think about was how his mother would react to him being out so late, of how her fake reprimanding smile would make him laugh, of how... how much he missed her.
Merlin, I need her.
James had taken for granted how much he needed his mother to function. How had he once thought that he was independent, that he didn't need his parents anymore? How had he not seen that their existence allowed him to live, to actually live?
The snow crunched under their feet, and he wished desperately for a distraction. However, it seemed that wishes for James Potter had finally died out.
He should've seen it coming.
James heard the blow before he felt it. His jaw was suddenly in agonizing pain, and he could feel one of his teeth beneath his tongue with a sudden flow of blood. Tears stung his eyes, and James kept them tightly closed to stop from crying in pain. He staggered back into Sirius, clutching his jaw.
"See if that'll keep you from talking like you own the place," Rowle spat, rubbing his knuckles from the punch he'd just delivered. His friends laughed loudly behind him, passing around another round of some amber liquid in celebration.
"You'll pay for that," Sirius whispered threateningly, pushing James to his feet and starting forward, wand in hand.
Rowle's mates were quicker than he was, drawing their wands and aiming at Sirius before Rowle even had his hand in his pocket.
"A wager's a wager," one of them said, grinning as James spat blood on the floor. A girl watching cringed as she saw the white of a tooth. Sirius looked furious, and James knew exactly what he was thinking, because he'd be thinking the same thing if their positions were reversed.
"I've got this, Padfoot," James said, clasping Sirius' shoulder as though tagging him out of the ring. Sirius looked at him skeptically, almost pitifully. James wasn't the weakest man on the pitch, Quidditch had given him some muscle to work with, but genetics ultimately took over. James had inherited that thin, almost gangly build of his grandfather instead of the imposing figure of his father. He could give just as good a blow as any bloke, but he was undeniably outmatched by Rowle, who looked as though his mother preferred manticores over men.
Rowle's mates guffawed, sharing knowing glances. "Yeah, listen to your boyfriend, Black," Avery taunted. He glanced briefly at the door behind the counter, but Rosmerta was still getting more kegs. They had plenty of time for Rowle to send James to floor.
"Care to settle your differences like a man?" Rowle asked, standing tall, looking thoroughly satisfied. James knew instantly what he was referring to. If the pair were dueling, there'd be no contest- Rowle knew this, and was trying to steal James' pride by pummeling him with his fists. They were taking advantage of the fact that James had to accept every challenge put in front of him, on dignity grounds alone.
But it was more than that, this time. James could feel the adrenaline and the alcohol pumping through his body, urging him to do something stupid and reckless. He'd never been one to deny his initial impulses, but this was different. He felt alive, something he hadn't fully experienced in a while. For once, he wasn't pondering about that day at St. Mungo's, or the inevitable death of his father, or the guilt over the former. It was as if this moment had been cut out of a book and placed in another with blank pages and without the complicated plot twists. This was the now, something that required no thought of the past. He didn't have to think about his losing hand anymore, he could just leave it unattended at the table and walk to another.
James swiveled his jaw slowly, ignoring his bone's protests. "I've got this, Padfoot," he repeated, and this time Sirius understood, or at least enough to move aside.
As Rowle was pushed forward by his mates, James widened his stance, ignoring Remus' shouts about how stupid this was. His one advantage was speed, and he couldn't very well take advantage of that in a corner. The adrenaline was countering the alcohol in his system, and James could see Rowle looking directly as his eyes.
Maybe it's an intimidation factor?
No, it's different... That dumb look on his face means he's seen something significant. Maybe I'm already bruising? I wouldn't doubt it...
Rowle swung his fist at James head. He ducked, and hit Rowle in the stomach. He faintly heard Remus yelling, "Solar plexus, Prongs! Hit him in the solar plexus!" Rowle doubled over, using the close contact with James to knee him in the chest. James gasped, falling to the floor with Rowle. It was difficult to tell who was winning. James had two blows for every one of his opponent's, but Rowle's punches were twice as difficult to recover from.
James' head banged against the wood floor, the combination of the hardness of the wood and the recent strike to his head making him dizzy. He closed his eyes on reflex, blindly beating Rowle in the face as well. James suddenly felt Rowle's hand on his face, and something in his dizzy brain clicked.
My glasses.
Too late. Rowle's hand closed on the side of James' specs, and they went flying across the room. The world became a blur, except for the door which he could see on the opposite end of the bar. James heaved, pushing Rowle off of him by kicking him sharply. He stood up, orienting himself. The massive blur that had to be Rowle by the green jumper he was wearing flew toward James, who dived out of way.
There was a lot of grumbling, as Rowle had apparently barged through the crowd watching. Lost, James circled blindly on the spot, hoping one of the Marauders had the sense to throw him his glasses or something. Instead, he felt something cold and smooth being shoved into his hand, and a sudden whisper in his ear.
"Play your advantage. Speed and endurance are yours, but one more blow to the head and you might be done for. Don't let him get too close to you. If you hit the right spot, you could win this." His knee was pushed forward as someone nudged him.
The object in his hand were his glasses. James shoved them on his face and turned to see who had whispered their advice to him, but the only saw a group of drunken men rooting him on, and voice had been obviously feminine.
"PRONGS, DUCK!"
He hit the floor, feeling the sudden whisp of air fly over his head. He turned on the spot, and, before Rowle could pin him down, James stuck his kneecap. He dimly remembered hearing that he had been hit by a Bludger there during Quidditch practice yesterday. Rowle howled in pain and crashed to the floor.
"What is going on here?" a voice demanded. James looked up to see Rosmerta clearing a path through the pub. "All of you, get out of my bar! We closed two hours ago, get out of here!" The crowd thinned, everybody making for the exit in case Magical Law Enforcement showed up. Rowle and James exchanged a look of hate before both making for the door.
"Padfoot? Moony? Wormtail?" James called, looking for them in the mass of people. As usual, Peter showed up right beside him almost instantly, and Sirius was struggling his way to them. "Where's Moony?" James asked.
"Found himself a bird," Peter answered. "She got hit by your glasses when Rowle threw them. Moony went to see if she was okay, and I haven't seen him since."
"Nice one, Prongs!" Sirius said, finally reaching them. "Got to say, I'm jealous of that homeless look. Suits you."
"What?" James asked, but then felt the empty space in between two of his front teeth. "Damn it." He scanned the floor, as if he could find his tooth in the mass of feet leaving, or as if he could somehow just insert it back in.
"James."
He turned around at the sound of his name. Rosmerta was standing where the fight had taken place moments ago with her hands on her hips. "Come here. I can't have you leaving my pub like that, can I?" She shook her head in disbelief. "I can never believe the four of you."
"Reckon you gave us too many Firewhiskeys," Peter said, winking.
"If you tell a soul about that up at Hogwarts, the supply stops, you hear?" she said sternly, beckoning James over and pulling her wand out of her pocket. "Merlin, he really did a number on you, didn't he?"
"You guys can leave," James suggested. "I'll catch up."
"Yeah, you and Moony," Peter said, but made for the door just the same.
"See you later, Beautiful," Sirius said, blowing a kiss at Rosmerta. She laughed, walking behind the counter with a trailing James behind her. James heard the door open and close, and felt the sudden burst of cold air in the pub. He put a hand to his jaw, noticing for the first time in the past ten minutes that his mouth was still bleeding.
Rosmerta leaned behind the counter, rummaging the drawers and cabinets. "Now, what exactly happened here?" she asked exasperatedly as she stood up, holding a bright yellow box. She opened it, pulling out a blue container before standing in front of James. "Sit."
James did as told, sitting on one of the bar stools. She turned his head to the side, tapping her wand on his jaw. She wasn't any Healer, but James suspected that she had done this to enough bar fight victims that she was pretty decent at it. His jaw certainly hurt less, but was much stiffer. The blood flow had also stopped. Rosmerta gave him a napkin to wipe the remaining blood off his face and opened the blue container to rub the orange cream on his face.
"You know, the usual," James answered with as minimal jaw movement as possible. "Only so many things can happen when you start insulting D.E.W.B.s."
"Dewbs?"
"Death Eater Wanna Bes," he replied evenly. She chuckled, spreading the thick substance across his jaw. "And then Remus tried to pull us back, but that only egged them on, so we were really only defending ourselves."
Rosmerta shook her head again. "I'm sure that's the only side of the story," she said, rolling her eyes. She twisted the lid of the container back on, wiping the remnants on her robes. "How about a drink for the road, James?"
"Yeah, alright," he said, standing up and pulling out a couple Sickles as she started fixing something behind the bar.
"No, no, don't worry about it. This is on the house," she insisted, handing him a fizzing bottle. "Drink it slowly."
Despite her warning, James threw his head back and chugged it. He could only take about three swallows, though, before his eyes began to water. He banged the bottle on the table, grimacing. "What is that?"
"Little of this, little of that," she responded, communicating that it was certainly something James, still sixteen, wasn't supposed to be drinking. He nodded in thanks. He turned to leave but halted at her next words.
"How are you holding up?"
And just like that, the warmth of adrenaline disappeared and he was left with the coldness of reality. He stood in the middle of her pub, staring back at her with a sense of helplessness. "Fine," he lied. She seemed to accept it, though, but she poured a glass of mead with the air of being too tired to fight his answer.
"Come have a drink with me," she said, apparently changing her mind. James decided that, since she had accepted his lie, he at least owed her that. He sat down for the third time that night, and chinked drinks with her. "Cheers."
He eyed her glass as he sipped his carefully. "What're you drinking?"
"Mulled mead," she said, surveying the half-empty glass. "Want a drink?"
He nodded, taking the glass from her. The liquid slid down his throat thickly and thoroughly, and James gave it back reluctantly. The alcohol settled in his stomach, but not with the same satisfaction as it had before she had asked him how he was doing. He was sorely reminded of the blissfulness of forgetfulness, something he seemed only able to do when he was in a fight.
Or maybe…
Gripped by a surge of recklessness, James commented casually, "Wonder what tastes better- your drinks or you?" She eyed him over the top of her glass, her face impassive. She was gorgeous, and James was sure she knew it- bars were congregating grounds for single men. Sirius and James had flirted with her relentlessly before, but they had always been politely turned down.
Rosmerta put the top of her glass down, and walked around the counter. He was suddenly struck by the fact that she had to be at least five years his senior. James looked up at her from his sitting position, though not my much. Despite the age difference, he knew that he was finally taller than her now. He took his hand off of his bottle in anticipation of her reply as her stomach touched his knees.
"You've had much better lines than that," she said.
"You've never come this close before," James taunted.
She leaned forward, and James could tell that she was battling with herself. He was a customer. He was a student. He was underage. But all of this seemed to be outbalanced by something else, because, with a sudden rush of confidence, she kissed him.
It was obvious that this wasn't from love or even a fancy. This was the result of desperation and need and an understanding that sometimes, life was only worth living if you could forget what life entailed. Sometimes, you just wanted to lose yourself in something that was the crux of life, but had nothing to do with it at the same time.
To be short, sometimes you just wanted to lose yourself by snogging the hell out of somebody.
He stood up from the stool, keeping their lips as close together as possible. The apparent height difference wasn't a problem, though, and James pressed her against the bar, transitioning from a kiss to a snog. Rosmerta didn't protest, pulling his hair as he trapped her between his body and the bar. James' hand slid down her side as hers moved from his temple to his cheek to his-
He pulled away with a hiss as she touched his jaw. She retracted her hand quickly, apologizing without words. Neither one of them seemed to be able to use verbal communication at this point anyway. James nodded at her, more as a comrade than someone he had just snogged. Both were breathing heavily, but they mutually decided to ignore it. James walked towards the door, grabbed his cloak hanging from the rack on the way, and left without his drink.
And, as was walking to Honeydukes' secret passageway, James wondered what it was like to snog someone with orange paste covering their jaw and a missing front tooth.