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Peter knew. He knew they looked down on him, all under the guise of pity. They loved him - he knew this too. But that love was always accompanied by that slight edge of condescension. He knew they didn't think anything amiss with it. How could you not pity Peter - friendless, save for the Marauders, no romantic experience to speak of, not even a first kiss. Middling grades - he tried, he really did, but he just did not have that natural born intelligence of Sirius and James, the steady diligence of Remus. Where Remus was quiet and dignified, understated and clever, Peter was dull and boring, quiet in a decidedly uninteresting way. The worst part was he knew they were trying to help him. James would try to redirect conversations to Peter, and Peter just. Just didn't speak. He had nothing to say. He would stammer, and blush, and sputter, until James would gracefully step in, fill in the gaps Peter had not. Remus would try to help Peter with his studies, but the chasm between them was too vast, the gap in intelligence too large, that Peter would leave, embarrassed and angry, determined to do better, to be better.
But he never did.
Sirius did not try, and Peter loved him the best for it. See, he wanted to shout. He knows I am inferior, he knows you all pity me, he knows we are not equals. He did not take part in the others’ farce, or pretend the four were even remotely equal.
Peter the afterthought.
Sirius couldn’t remember Peter’s mother’s name last week. Peter had seethed and raged, but to Sirius, he gave a calm smile.
Laughed it off.
Peter had told James last month that he was going to ask out Mary Macdonald, James had looked startled, then stuttered, then asked Peter if he was sure they would be a good match, if Peter might not like someone more like Amelia Bones. Possibly the ugliest witch in their year.
Graciously, Peter had let it slide, said he’d take it under consideration.
He went back to the dorm and smashed James’ alarm clock.
Last year, they’d forgotten his birthday. He’d sobbed in the Forbidden Forest.
He heard the whispers, of course. He knew that everyone thought of the Marauders as a trio. An unstoppable force of James, Sirius, and Remus. Never Peter. God, how it made him want to scream. How dare they? Peter had been there since the beginning, had turned into a bloody rat for them, had witnessed the aftermath of the prank, had held James as he sobbed over Moony and Padfoot’s broken friendship.
And here was another secret: Peter had hoped, so quietly and desperately, that the Marauders would be permanently broken after the Prank. Remus would never forgive Sirius, and James, by association, would never speak to Sirius again, and Peter would be the golden friend, perfect and exalted, the beloved, the adored.
A fantasy. Duh. Normally, he knew better than to even imagine such things.
He wanted them to look at him, just once, with respect. Not love. Respect.
They were fools. The Dark Lord was coming, and they were fools.