Chapter Text
“So wait.” James rubbed his bleary eyes, squinting at Peter in the classic half-confused half-blind Potter way. (Fleamont made the same face when he misplaced his glasses.) “He just walked away? Prick.”
“I know!” Peter smacks his mattress emphatically. “I kept asking him and he kept refusing to answer! ‘I don’t remember,’ ‘oh, my mum bought it for me,’ bullshit he just doesn’t want the commoners like me to smell good!”
“Are you sure? I mean, I couldn’t tell you my cologne off the top of my head…”
Clive Christian’s Woody Leather, Peter’s brain autofills. He hates himself for remembering James’ obscure rich-boy fragrances. He hates that James can just spritz it on every morning without thinking twice.
“You couldn’t tell me my eye color yesterday, and we’ve been friends since we were kids,” he counters instead. “And I didn’t even tell you the most damning part! After what must’ve been my fifth time asking, he went...”
***
“If I tell you, will you stop talking to me?”
Lockhart stared at him in exasperation, arms outstretched almost pleadingly. He’d long since stood from his perch on the couch, and even if Peter hadn’t been sitting, he would have towered over him like a... tower, whatever, he was still drunk.
Peter thought it over. “Okay.”
Victory burned in his stomach (though in hindsight, that might’ve been the Firewhiskey), but it quickly died when Lockhart turned on his heel and- without another word- strutted away.
He stared after him in disbelief.
“Prick."
***
Sirius groaned, lazily tossing a pillow at him from where he was sprawled over Remus’ bed. “For Merlin’s sake! It’s the middle of the night.”
“You were awake when I came in.”
Peter doesn’t know what it is about this cologne, but he can already sense the fixation coming on- the kind usually reserved for prank-planning and assignments crammed in just before the due date. This urge to prove himself. To spite the world. To win.
“It’s just cologne, Pete. I’ll buy you a bottle for Christmas.”
“You can’t buy this one.”
“Oh yeah?” Sirius sits up fast just like Peter knew he would; ever so predictably competitive. “And what was so special about it?”
“That's the thing, I can’t explain it! It was…” Like remembering a life I’d never lived. Or one I’d lived and then forgotten. He doesn’t know how to phrase it in a way that won’t draw mockery, so he just settles on “find Lockhart. Sniff him.”
“Sniff him?”
“Why not? He’ll probably love the attention.”
James has become bored and is tossing a shoe up and down in the air. It hits the ceiling with a satisfying smack before ricocheting back down. “I still can’t believe you went to a Slytherin party, Pete.”
“Jealous you weren’t invited?” The barb comes naturally to his lips, but he’s surprised at the twinge of excitement it makes him feel… for once, he was the sought-after one. Not James, not Sirius, not Remus, him.
“Wondering if you’ve lost your mind, more like. You know half of them are Voldemort’s lot.” His tone is faux-light, but his eyes are piercing.
Peter frowns, pushing down the stab of guilt in his chest. “It’s just a party.”
“A fascist party,” Sirius pipes up, scowling viciously. “Here we are mourning our loss, and you’re rubbing elbows with Snivellus.”
“Okay, I didn’t actually see him there…”
“And you insulted my hair…”
“Can everyone please just shut up?!” Remus, who hasn’t uttered a word since Peter crept back into the dormitory, groans into his pillow. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“Sorry, Moony.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry.”
"Sorry.”
***
“Oi Lockhart!"
Lockhart turns from his seat at the Ravenclaw table, a lofty expression plastered across his face that dies as soon as he sees Peter. He's been sorting through his stack of 'fanmail;' he tosses a box of heart-shaped chocolates onto the table with a thud. (The gift tag reads 'Mum.') “Oh. You.”
“Yep, me.” Peter disregards the curious murmurs and crosses his arms. “Ready to confess?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest…”
“Cut the shit, Gilderoy. Your cologne.”
“Oh. That.”
“Yep, that.”
Lockhart smiles with all his pearly white teeth. “I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest.”
Mary is sitting with Lily and Marlene at the Gryffindor table. When he glances over, she avoids his eyes.
***
Dear Lockhart,
Check yes or no. Was it over 50 galleons?
YES __
NO __
***
Dear Lockhart,
It's a yes or no question. Not that hard.
***
Dear Pettigrew,
I do not know what your obsession with my scent is. I find it extremely flattering. However, I am also deeply alarmed.
-Gilderoy G. Lockhart
***
Dear Lockhart,
60 galleons, then?
(PS: What does the G stand for? I promise I won't tell.)
***
"Lockhart!"
Lockhart turns from where he’s chatting with a group of girls (all fifth year and below, seems like) and graces him with an exasperated look. “Yes, Pettigrew?”
“At least tell me what the bottle looks like?”
The girls giggle, used to this by now. James, also used to this by now, grabs his arm and tugs him along- but not before a whiff of that cologne hits Peter’s nose.
An alleyway, a wand-
Mary's letter?
***
“Lockhart!”
“Not today, Pettigrew.”
“If you tell me, I’ll stop bothering you!”
Lockhart turns to face him. “Truly?”
“Yes!” He could cry, he’s so desperate.
“Goodbye, Pettigrew.”
“No!”
***
He’s drowning in it. He is a man unhinged.
***
“Lockhart!” he calls out from where he’s been staring at the back of the blonde boy’s head. "Psst. Lockhart."
The class watches with amusement; they all know where this is going by now. Which, traitors by the way, if everyone knows why is no one helping him uncover this great mystery?
“The answer is no, Peter.”
“Aw, so you don’t want to go on a date with me?”
Lockhart chokes on his spit as the eavesdropping students break out into titters. “I don’t- I can assure you-”
“Kidding. So what’s the color of the box it comes in?”
He spends the rest of the class flicking paper airplanes at Lockhart, which the boy bats out of the air with his wand. Not a bad way to pass the time, especially since James and Sirius are whispering to each other in the corner. Remus is the only one actually working on their potion, though it’s with a dead-eyed expression that says he’d rather be doing anything else.
Mary is in this class, he notes- frowning over her cauldron like it owes her money.
“Pete." Sirius nudges him. "Distract Slughorn.”
“What- how? Why?”
“Just pretend to be sick or something, it’ll be worth it I promise.”
Peter rolls his eyes and (after a moment’s thought) sidles over to Mary, who regards him with apprehension. “Do you still have those rigged Exploding Snap cards?”
She glances up at him warily. He gives her his most winning smile. Eventually she caves and pulls the stack out of her bag. “Why?”
“You’ll see. Oi, Lockhart! About that box…”
30 seconds and one very impressive sleight-of-hand trick later, Lockhart’s Forgetfulness Potion bursts into flame and Slughorn nearly trips over his wand trying to put it out. Amidst the commotion, the door to the Potions storeroom creaks just slightly as an invisible Sirius-and-James shaped void slinks in. Peter grins at Mary.
“All in a day’s work, eh?”
“If you say so.” Her glare has softened slightly, but she’s still making an attempt at frostiness. (Emphasis on attempt, if they did Muggle superlatives she'd be voted 'nicest.' He doesn't even think back off is in her vocabulary.)
He decides to bite the metaphorical bullet and get it over with. “Mary? Erm- I get the feeling I've upset you somehow. And I wanted to say sorry if it had anything to do with my last letter."
“Your last letter?” she scoffs. "You-"
"Yeah, the one I sent from Paris. Vacation, remember?"
"Yes, but..." Caught off guard, she tilts her head, curls falling confusedly over one shoulder.
"It's just I never got a response. And I know I can be a 'dumb boy' about social cues sometimes," he says, quoting Lily Evans directly. "So if I said anything wrong I really am sorry."
"What? No, Peter- I did respond! Right before term started, you..." She blinks. "Did you not get my letter?"
Peter nods along right on cue. There we go. “Wow, I guess not.”
"Wow, really?" She breaks into an expression that's almost a smile; embarrassed relief peeking around the edges of her mouth. "Ugh, it's Nutmeg! I swear she's the most forgetful owl I've ever owned."
He shrugs amiably. Gives her his best innocent face. "Bit of a long trip for her. But... if it's not about that, then why were you angry?"
It's impossible to detect with her light brown complexion, but he swears he catches her blushing. "Oh, nothing. Just a stupid misunderstanding."
"What did it say?"
“What?”
“The letter I never got. Now I’m curious.”
"Oh! Nothing. Really. So um-" She leans in, and the matter is instantly resolved. Mary had always been easy to redirect; her grudges were like dew on a sunny day. "Blame Marlene if this isn't true, you know what a gossip that girl is, but- did you and Barty Crouch-"
Right. He probably should have considered that a little closer beforehand.
"Yeah. We were super drunk."
"So are you..." Vague hand gesture.
"Kinda."
"Kinda," she repeats, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. "Is he a good kisser?"
Vague hand gesture. "Too much tongue."
He swears he hears a "WHAT" from the empty space behind them, but he pays it no mind... even when James shushes Sirius so loudly the entire room turns to check for a cauldron overflow.
“So you’re…”
“Let’s just say open.”
Self-reflection has never been Peter's strong suit. He acts on pure instinct. He winks.
With that, Mary relaxes fully into her seat, and they spend the rest of the lesson figuring out how to sneak a Dungbomb into Mulciber's Quidditch kit. Not a bad way to spend a lesson- even if half of Peter’s attention is preoccupied with Lockhart throwing a fit across the room, wondering why his ‘best potion’ could have turned out so horribly wrong.
Serves him right.
***
Evan is only clingy in his sleep.
No one’s ever accused the boy of being frigid- he hands casual touches out like they’re candy, after all- but making him stay put is a different story. He always pulls away just a heartbeat too soon. Slipping through your fingers just as you're about to get comfortable.
Others might call it coy. Barty…
Well, let’s just say Barty can hazard a guess as to why. After 7 years of rooming with the boy, he knows Evan’s nightmares more intimately than anyone; that doesn’t stop him from slipping an arm under his chest and breathing in deeply, tasting strawberry shampoo and sweat.
He’ll take Evan Rosier any way he can get him.
He’s interrupted from that embarrassing reverie by a tap at the window... soft at first, then insistent. At first he thinks it's a snowy owl, until he realizes it's a folded origami swan.
Careful not to wake his roommate, he slides out of bed to retrieve it. As soon as his hand brushes the parchment, it opens and he's met with a note (in familiar, showy cursive).
Enclosed is your payment. Then, smaller, almost hesitant on the page: Thank you.
He shakes out the envelope and five galleons plink one by one into his hand. Behind him, Evan stirs.
“Wha's…”
Barty turns, deftly slipping them into his pants pocket, and smiles.
“Nothing, love. Go back to sleep.”
What was it Slughorn always said? If you're going to make a mess, don't leave a trace. He takes one last glance at the paper, then crumples and Incendios it under the cover of Evan's snores.
Thank you, the letter had read. He smiles to himself.
No, Lockhart. Thank you.