swim || remus lupin

peter

The Pettigrews were never enraptured by the idea of having children. Mrs. Pettigrew loved all things delicate. Fine china, expensive vases, glass sculptures. A child, she feared, would only shatter her priceless collections. Mr. Pettigrew was neither here nor there on the matter. He enjoyed the idea of talking about quidditch with a son, but he had enough work to do without the mess of a child.

However, when Melissa McKinnon from across the way announced her pregnancy just months after Euphemia Potter from next door, Mrs. Pettigrew decided a baby may not be so bad afterall, but only if it were calm, respectful, and upheld a good reputation.

Peter was a direct product of his parents' values. At home he was quiet, submissive, and proper. He addressed his parents as Sir and Ma'am, as they expected, and never disobeyed their authority. This arms-length parenting made for a relatively lonely household, however, and Peter spent many nights completing puzzles or battling himself in chess while his father worked and his mother polished her glassware.

Perhaps this was what drew him to James Potter, the tornado of a boy next door. Peter fell in nicely with James, being too compliant to resist his friends schemes and too content with his friendship to want to. As James swirled around, picking up friends left and right, Peter grew more and more full. He had so many alternating personalities to feed from, so many things to do, people to talk to. He didn't care that he wasn't on center stage, he was just happy to share it.

One time, when he was nine, Peter broke a tea cup. He knew that his mother's tea sets were off limits, but James and Marlene had never been to his house before, and he wanted to prove it was just as fun. Of course, the two young wizards and their witch friend tried and failed to repair it with magic, meaning Peter needed to face his mother. "I'm sorry, ma'am. It's broken." He had said. And she had yelled. But it was okay, because James and Marlene were right behind him, and he wasn't alone.

Peter thought of this memory now, as he made his way through busy corridors, a tray of coffees in his hand. He thought of him and James testing their brooms in the Potter's backyard and ending up on the ground, with scratches and bruises and laughter. He thought of losing to Marlene at wizard's chess, but smiling because he had never had a partner before. He thought of sitting on Sirius's head while in their animagus forms and chasing after Remus through the empty grounds, feeling free and whole. He thought of doing homework with Alice and Lily, and realizing that silence didn't have to be lonely.

And he thought of Sydney too. He thought of how she handed him the reins. He thought of teaching her wizard's chess, sliding his parchment over in History of Magic so that she could see his answers, crowd surfing with her after her quidditch trials. He thought of how she looked him in the eye when he spoke and really listened. He thought of how she answered every bit of his long rants, making sure to pay attention even when the others didn't.

He entered the infirmary and distributed the cups to his restless and soundless friends.

He took a seat by Alice and glanced over to the stiff white bed.

She's broken, he thought. I'm sorry.

But it was not okay.