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Peter pressed down the queasy feeling in his stomach. The whole school was staring at him. No one before him had taken this long, he was sure of it. He rather wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. How long had it been, him sitting on the stool? How long, caught like a toad before the student body, the hat dissecting him with its judgmental, discerning muttering? It had to be five minutes at least. Ten minutes, maybe. Did he not fit in anywhere? Maybe he didn’t really have magic. Maybe they would tell him he was useless. Maybe they would kick him out of the school. That would be a relief. He could go home, back to his dad’s farm. Please, yes, if he could leave --
“Mighty skittish, aren’t you?” the Sorting Hat griped into his mind, “sit still a moment.”
Except this had the opposite effect, and Peter jumped near out of his skin. The hat fell over his eyes and almost off his head. It chuckled, but went silent again save for the occasional murmuring, leaving Peter to fidget again, gripping the brim of the hat as he straightened it.
Lord, what if the hat had seen? What if the hat knew how he'd lied to his dad the day he set the barn on fire? It wasn’t his fault, really! He'd been skiving off with the neighbor boy, David. The cat had frightened him when it pounced from the rafters of the barn, but he hadn't meant to send out sparks! Nevertheless, regardless of his meaning to, the hay had caught alight, and all too quickly, acrid smoke had filled the air along with the squeal of frightened pigs. He remembered his Dad’s rigid face, the crush of his fingers in his mother’s hand, David's empty eyes --
“I see all your memories, child. There is no single one by which I judge you,” the hat told him, solemnly.
“A-ah, please don’t tell anyone --” thought Peter, gripping the brim tighter.
“What is said between us stays between us, Mr. Pettigrew,” the hat told him with a well-worn humor. “I must say, you certainly do seem to have a penchant for creativity, if only to save yourself some trouble. Cunning, if unwise. Slytherin,” he murmured, “could serve you very well.”
Peter held his breath, shame mottling his cheeks. Yes, he remembered. He had lied, lied, lied. The barn had burnt, and he had run down to the river in sheer panic. “What was that?! What did you do?!” David had shouted.
Sparks from his fingertips! But that was impossible. “I didn’t do anything!” Peter had shouted back, and in the sky rose a plume of black.
“We’ve got to get help,” David had cried, “your father’s pigs!”
The two had run up to the house, hollering, and they were intercepted by Peter’s mum.
“It wasn’t my fault,” he whispered to the hat, “I didn’t know.”
“Is that so?” asked the hat.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered, “I didn’t know about magic. How was I supposed to know when Mum hid it? No, I didn’t know.”
His mum had found him there, and she had known right away. She had held his face tight, whispering swiftly, “You naughty boy. I told you, didn’t I tell you? Idle hands are the Devil’s playthings. Look what you’ve done.”
“It wasn’t me, I didn’t do it,” he had whispered back, reaching for his mother’s wrists. Yes, he had been idle, but he hadn’t meant to do it!
But she had pulled him close, whispering urgently in his ear, “it was the Devil, it was. This I know to be true. I tried to spare you from this, you must believe me. I tried. They’re going to take you away. My poor boy,” she had held him still when he'd shifted, “hush! Hush, baby. You’ll go when they ask, but for now you’ll tell your father you were playing with matches.”
David had been beside himself, “Mrs. Pettigrew! Your barn is still burning, Mrs. Pettigrew! What are you doing? Come on!”
“Obliviate. ”
In the end, he had told his dad it was the neighbor boy. After all, his mum had told him they'd have to live hand-to-mouth, that Dad would have to become a laborer. All thanks to him, all thanks to the Devil. But he had told his dad it was the neighbor boy. And once he had opened his mouth, he couldn’t stop the yarn that had tumbled out of it. It was the neighbor boy, he'd insisted, who had been playing with matches. And since he insisted, David had believed him, too.
“I mean,” and Peter gripped the brim of the Sorting Hat tighter, “I didn’t mean to lie. I just got so nervous, I couldn’t think straight.”
The hat hummed, “And I suppose you imagine you would have told the truth if you were not so scared?”
The queasy feeling rose again. “Of course I would’ve,” he said hesitantly, “I mean, well...”
And there was no hiding anything from the hat was there? Peter took a breath, and with more confidence, he thought, “I was scared, alright? I wish I'd told the truth, I do. I would've done it, but I was so nervous. I didn’t mean to lie, I really didn’t. I shouldn't have done it, and I don't mean to do it again.”
"Well, you certainly have determination," the hat murmured thoughtfully, "A certain idealistic conviction. I wonder..."
Peter was with sick despair at it, actually. David had got in a heap of trouble, and Peter had not been able to see him or play with him again. But David’s parents could compensate them for the pigs, and Dad hadn’t been forced to humiliate himself by working on another’s farm.
“I grew a flower once, you know? Just like that! And once, I saved a loaf of bread that had collapsed upon itself,” he shifted on the stool. “Mum said it was a trick, but I knew better. She said it was the Devil, but she was wrong, wasn’t she? Magic can be good I think. Can’t it? I mean, you’re magic, and you’re good, aren’t you?”
“I’m a hat,” said the hat, “though I do believe my purpose is a good one. That is neither here nor there, though. You’re fairly shrewd, boy. Hmm, indeed, Slytherin would do you fine --”
“No! Not shrewd,” Peter thought nervously, “a coward. That’s what I was. I should have told the truth, even if Mum threatened to send me away. She thinks it's the Devil, she always does. First her, then me. But if she had been stronger, she wouldn’t have been scared of her magic. She could have saved the pigs. She could have told Dad.”
“Ambition…” mused the hat, “or is it courage you admire most? Oh, do let up!”
Peter flinched before he released the hat and curled his fingers around the rim of the stool instead. “Mum told Dad that I ran away,” Peter confided in the hat. Then: “I did run away. Better to come here than to have them accusing me. I didn’t mean to do it. And I didn’t mean to lie. I wish I had been brave like David, or like --” his eyes flickered over to the Gryffindor table, “like them. Like the boys on the train.”
He bit his lip, then added, “I can be brave, like them. I know I can.”