Peter's grip tightened on the rests of the tapestried chair cover and gave a faint smile as he watched the headmaster of Harrow School look over his report cards and read Professor Kirke's recommendation of him.

" I see that the recent Blitz has done nothing to curb your appetite for education, young Peter. These grades and the Professor's commendation of you is much in your favor, Pevensie." The Headmaster was an old, dour man who gave out compliments as though he were pulling teeth and was rumored to be an amalgamation of an ogre and the Irishman who met Daniel O'Donaghue, the elf king.

Peter gave him a wry smile and desperately wished that both he and his brother could have gone through the ordeal together. But somehow, it went against the headmaster's nature to provide for any familial kindness in that cold boarding house.

" Well, I see that you'll have little enough trouble to catch up with. You'll be rooming with Caleb Donne as you did before. And see to it that the lot of ya start no shenanigans, or it'll be punishment for all." The headmaster's brogue shone through a little and Peter couldn't help comparing it to the sweet dance that Trumpkin's tongue would trip over when he was speaking to the Kings and Queens. It was sorely lacking.

" Did ya hear me!" The headmaster was in no mood be to ignored.

" Ah," Peter drew a quick breath in, " certainly, sir, I was simply regaining my bearings as it has been a while."

The man gazed at him and then nodded. " All right. I'll have Mr. Fitzsimmons escort you to your room and give you your class schedule. Am I right in assuming that both the Pevensies have returned to us?"

Peter's eyes flew to the door, beyond which Edmund was waiting. " Yes, sir."

" Warn that harum-scarum of yours that if he causes any more trouble like last year, he'll be expelled and Harrow will never have use for him again." His eyes bored into Peter's and he was very much aware that the gentleman had no great love for either of the boys. The protector or the instigator.

Peter exited the office and then exchanged glances with Edmund. The adumbral eyes were weary with the shades of death that they had seen and observed, and Edmund's expression was wan and jaundiced as if he had become infected with the very disease of death itself.

Peter's heart gave off a guilty jolt and he fought against the accusation that he was bringing pain to his brother by his own sorrow.

Edmund sensed his brother's train of thought and quickly stood up, clasping his hand as they had a thousand times on the battlefield. Triumphant or defeated, they fought together. " We're family. What one feels, the others do as well. We stand together or not all, Peter. Get used to it, or I'll have to beat it into you like you did to me." And he gave his older brother a wry grin as their hands trembled a little.

Peter nodded, unable to speak without betraying his emotions and then he squeezed his brother's hand. It should have hurt, but somehow to Edmund it symbolized that his brother could feel something besides that awful loneliness.

Edmund then left Peter to Mr. Fitzsimmons and Peter listened with fearful ears when he heard the headmaster greet Edmund. So far, so good.

Mr. Fitzsimmons was a dry, unappetizing sort of man. The perfect kind to get his bones ground up by the giant. He had no romantic sensibilities in him and he felt it his life's religion to torture the young boys that he had mastery of with a litany of facts and follies that no one could learn anything from. They were constantly compared to " that boy" and " that professor", and " that shocking woman" though they had no comprehension of who he was talking about and why it was for their moral benefit.

Peter was glad for his sermon since it meant that he didn't have to feel regret for lapsing into his own decadent grief. It was luxurious to fall beneath the coverlet and revel in those memories. Recounting each one and bolstering it with the terrible knowledge that there would never be any more. Somehow, grief is always to be indulged and drowned in, not climbed and conquered. Perhaps, there should be a better way.

Mr. Fitzsimmons gave Peter a morally appraising look as they stopped outside the door of his shared dorm room. " I hope that you shall behave in such a way as to bring honor and glory to Harrow. It wouldn't do for you to be like that boy, Larkin, who decided that he could sing Opera."

Peter didn't even budge, but gave the teacher a limp smile and then pushed open the door and allowed his luggage to fall with a dirty squeak. The noise reverberated about the room and then died. No echo, no memory of ever having existed, just died.

Peter didn't give himself a second thought; he was just going to die too. Worse than that, he was going to forget and drown himself forever and ever. The pain just had to end, he didn't have the strength to dredge himself out of it.

He collapsed on the bed and lost consciousness.

" Oi, look what the cat dragged up for us to have fun with. I always did like rats. So easy to torment."

Peter barely registered what was happening when he found himself pinned to the bed; his arms were held down by strong, unyielding, hating arms. He looked up into the their master's eyes and found himself growling through complete despite.

" Donne!"

" 'ello, Pevensie!" The school boy's features were twisted into a grotesque smirk and there was pure love of pain glowing in his eyes. " Never thought I'd find you so 'elpless. But then you were always a spineless sap. Beating me up to save your wanker of a brother! That was your worst mistake. This, this was your doom!"

Peter groaned; the warrior in him despised that he was caught off guard, even more annoyed that he wasn't doing anything about it. " Get off me!"

Donne-forename Caleb- gave him a sadistic smile and then slightly eased the pressure off his hands. " Done."

Peter was wary of him but decided that he'd best get up before his face was bloodied. He hesitated too long. Just as Peter rose from his reclining posture, Caleb Donne seized his wrists again and then pummeled his face.

Peter restraining himself from groaning, and rolled so that he could lessen the abuse some what. It was difficult because Donne was heavy and kept him from moving easily. Really at all.

Suddenly, the door barreled open and there was a battle shout, combined with a grunt from the bully.

Peter pulled himself up, arranging his limbs to make certain that they were all hale and whole. Once he had regained his treacherous vision, he realized that Edmund was fighting with Caleb and giving him an excellent beating considering the slightness of his frame.

Peter rolled his eyes and then, carefully for the sake of his bruised ligaments, pulled the two gladiators apart.

" Stop it both of you. Caleb, all right, you've beat me up for my brother. Edmund, you saved me. Let's call it quits and save us all the torment."

Caleb quirked one of his surly eyebrows: he was a big-boned, ungainly youth who seemed to be constantly growing but never actually gaining any maturity or even virility. He always seemed to be a schoolboy Hercules without the blessing of any nobility or Ten Labors to increase his fame and honesty. " A'right, I'll forgive the blighter this time. Guess I did hit ya when you were down, but figured that it was too bloody perfect to not be taken."

Suddenly, a dry voice sounded behind them, " Now that you've quite finished your calisthenics, gentlemen, perhaps you'd like to know that Mr. Pevensie is required at the telephone."

They all turned to face the neutral features of Mr. Fitzsimmons who seemed too surprised at the event to even be thinking of any legendary or philosophical comparisons.

Edmund came to his senses first and then gave a small bow of annoyed reverence. " I did find him as I said I would, sir."

" You were fighting, Pevensie." Mr. Fitzsimmons intoned religiously. " Again, and with Caleb Donne. Can you two never stop attracting trouble?"

Caleb laughed mirthlessly, " Three, sir. Pevensie Sr. is just as much to blame as the brat."

Mr. Fitzsimmons said nothing but glanced at the weary boy. His eyes were bleary and his features were set into a settled droop as though his sorrow was so deep that nothing could awaken his face to feel.

" It's for you, Peter. Your mother." He turned away without any theological reflections, but then said in a quiet, almost kind voice, " She is rather angry."

Peter gave a frail smile and then clicking his heels, marched down to the office where they had phones for the boys to call home. " Mum, it's Peter."

Helen Pevensie was quiet for a long moment and then suddenly the phone exploded with staticy anger. " Peter Pevensie, you have an interminable amount of explaining to do."

Peter was startled for a long moment. He yanked the phone away from his ear, his head ringing, and he was wondering if his drums hadn't burst. " Mum, what ever is the matter?"

" Don't you dare speak to me! How dare you talk to me at all when you've been hiding this shameful secret from me?!" Her voice was wroth and it was amazing how loudly her voice carried in the entire hall. Several second-years gave him an interested look and he felt his heart sinking at the revelation of some embarrassing secret that had somehow arisen to bite him in the neck.

Peter said quietly, " Mum, could you not speak so loudly? We're in the main hall-"

" Nonsense! I intend for you to hear everything that I have to say to you. Do you want to explain why Professor Kirke just showed up at my door? With a baby!"

Peter stumbled over his words, trying to figure out why the Professor would have been seeking them out. With a baby. But he had no time to speak for his mother continued.

" A baby he says is yours! Explain that Peter James Pevensie!"

Peter's head spun and he felt his heart constrict at the news. " What did you say?!"

Only one word as I conclude this chapter. Baby.

Living for Christ,

Jetta Lee