Chapter Text
Peter doesn’t remember forgetting.
Which is kind of the point, right? It's an oxymoron. You can't. Shouldn't.
But still… the absence lingers. Like a gap where your tooth should be, or that split second between dreaming and waking where you swore you could fly. In the back of his mind, when he closes his eyes-
Blonde hair. White teeth.
And the smell of crisp cologne.
What was I thinking about, again?
Oh right. Seventh year.
It's his first day of seventh year, and he slides through the platform wall without missing a beat. His head is high as he marches through the throng of excited students, his gait is strong, for once in his life he feels entirely at ease and why shouldn't he? He's not the ickle firstie who skulked through the hallways like a walking target. Nor is he the forgotten Marauder who slunk behind his friends like a less beloved, less popular pet.
He's a man.
Over the summer he's finally hit a growth spurt, convinced his Mum to find him a new hairdresser (not the Supercuts woman who, regardless of any reference photo he might show her, always gave him the same slicked back straggly bob), and most importantly: started a magical skin care routine that's apparently 'worked wonders for his pores.'
Not to mention a certain Mary MacDonald who's been sending him letters all summer. Even if she neglected to respond to his last one (which for the record, he's not worried, both she and her owl are notoriously flaky) he has a good feeling where that might lead.
A 11-year-old Muggleborn still clad in street clothes squeaks and scampers out of his way when he passes. He laughs out loud at the sight.
Yeah. This is gonna be a great year.
***
Barty thinks his memories are playing tricks on him.
He rubs his eyes, squints, then rubs them again for good measure. Turns to his roommates, lounging in the shade of the largest tree they could find on the Hogwarts grounds, and jerks his chin in the direction of his befuddlement. “Hey. Who’s that boy with the Marauders?”
Regulus levels him with an unimpressed stare. “Oh dear. Are we seeing things again, Barty?”
“Are we using the Royal We again, dah-ling?” Evan teases from where he's sprawled over a tree root, perfectly mimicking the slender boy's tone. His grin takes up the entirety of his angular face, softening it in a way that should be criminal, honestly- the way it temporarily shuts down all of Barty's defenses and renders him dumb. “Or is this another diplomacy tactic from dear old Mumsy?”
“One, you know very well that it is, and-” Rolling his eyes, Regulus nods over at the four boys marching towards the Black Lake- “Look. According to Crouch, my brother has befriended an invisible man.”
Barty lets the jab wash over him like water; he has other things to worry about. For example:
“So those are the Marauders,” Barty clarifies.
“Yes,” Regulus responds.
“So that’s Pettigrew.”
His tone must be just the right amount of disbelieving, because Evan (already sunburnt, poor pale thing) actually sits up to inspect the scene. “Yes?”
“Walking in front of James Potter.”
Not just walking- downright strutting, leading the way, all freckled skin and thick arms and shaggy brown hair in the sun. Cracking an inaudible joke. Laughing like it’s about damn time.
“Yes? Potter's not the bloody Queen, you know-”
“He got a haircut.”
Regulus and Evan exchange a glance- cool gray irritation against dark blue discontent. They can both see where this is going. Barty’s always loved a confident man… well, if he’s being fully honest, his type has always skewed more towards insecure jokester blondes with commitment issues and snoring problems which they vehemently deny, but it’s early in the year and if he can’t have that, a confident man will have to do. He just never expected Potter’s lackey to be the one.
“Merlin’s balls.” He licks his lips, and Evan slowly lets his head fall into his hands. “Peter got hot.”
***
“And Black just overtakes Rosier for the Quaffle, tough luck Rosier- I sympathize, of course. Must be hard to see the ball with all that bleach in your eyes… although (if I remember correctly), I’ve heard reports from Slytherin tower that our favorite bottle blonde has no trouble sniffing out balls- sorry Minnie-”
The crowd erupts into laughter and wolf-whistles (“it’s true!” an older Slytherin girl shouts) as Rosier growls and- with a bit more malice than Peter thinks was warranted- flips off the commentator’s box.
“Mr Pettigrew, honestly!” McGonagall admonishes.
(It really is true, though. He’d feel worse if Rosier didn’t brag about it constantly.)
Still, in the interest of fairness, he decides to level the metaphorical playing field.
“Not that Black’s any better, been telling him since freshman year that windswept is not a good look for him, you could land a Comet on that forehead, honestly… please consider donating your spare Sickles to the Gryffindor Quidditch team, let's get that boy a headband! Before Lupin decides to go where no man has gone before and plant his flag in that moonface- moving on, Minnie, moving on!”
Sirius cackles and flips him off. Peter can’t make out Remus in the crowd (probably buried in an old book), but he knows the boy is probably blushing bright red under all those scars. And McGonagall- well, he’s not a betting man, but he swears he sees the severe woman smile before turning her attention resolutely to the field. He's crushing this.
He used to feel bad about not being the ‘sporty’ type… all of his heroes were Quidditch stars or dragon tamers or Aurors. Now- why bother? He can get just as much love and attention without breaking a sweat.
And if the crowd’s cheers are any indicator, he will.
“Ahem. The better haired and in my opinion far better looking Black brother- hi Reggie- seems to have spotted something- is it the Snitch? I hope so, 'cause otherwise we should alert Madam Pomfrey that her students are diving face first at what appears to be thin air. Oh- there it is- Potter sees it! They're neck and neck, face and face, they might kiss, actually... and Regulus Black clinches it!" He groans, realizing all too late that he and Remus will be soothing their friends' egos for the next 12 hours... or, more realistically, 'til the next match. "And with that, Slytherin wins 250-90."
The Slytherins have never been one for wild revelry (not wanting to make a fool of themselves in public), but it's easy to forget that as they collide mid-air in a bundle of shrieking emerald green. Peter sighs and moves to switch off his microphone... whatever, they'll get the next one... until a little paper bird comes soaring into the box. It unfurls upon his touch, revealing a message in loopy golden ink.
SLYTHERIN AFTER PARTY
BE THERE IF YOU DARE
DON’T BRING A DATE
-Barty Jr.
Peter scans over the message a few times, trying to make sense of it. A genuine invitation? Or an ambush? Was that why they wanted him to come alone? Wouldn't be the first time he was the punchline of a Slytherin joke.
But…
Following the trail of gossamer-thin magic, his eyes land on Barty Crouch, nodding a restrained congratulations to his mates on the team. As if sensing his gaze, the raven-haired boy glances up and winks. Literally winks. Who does that?
Don’t bring a date.
He leans close to the mic. Deadpans: “Go snakes.”
The other boy’s face is hard to make out even with his commentator's goggles, but it's impossible to miss the biting smile that breaks out on his face. And hey. If Peter's learned anything over the summer (aside from how to style a school uniform) it's that he's an equal opportunity kind of guy.
Maybe this night won’t be so boring after all.
***
Maybe if Evan drinks enough, he’ll lose all memory of this night.
Maybe if Evan drinks enough, his vision will blur until Pettigrew and Barty are two fuzzy specks of light and their faces are indistinguishable from their mouths so he wouldn’t have to see them find each other all soft and pink and stupid.
Because it is stupid. All of it. It’s not fair of him to be jealous.
It’s not fair to hate Peter for making a move, when Evan has been living in a dorm with the guy for six years and still hasn’t gotten up the courage. He knows he has a reputation. Of course Barty knows too. He's a hypocrite for even hoping- but he just thought- this year-
He just thought this year might be different.
Searching for a distraction, his eyes land on (of course) the only other person in the room watching the couple.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
That annoying sixth year best known for sending himself cards every Valentine’s Day? The one who primped and preened like a peacock each time a mirror fell under his gaze, who flirted with everyone in a ten foot radius? What was he doing here; better question, who even invited him?
The boy looks out of place- he’s got the imperious smug look that one might expect from a Ravenclaw, but he clearly hasn’t learned how to keep his nerves under wrap yet. A well-manicured hand keeps coming up to adjust his glossy locks, just slightly too tense to be casual. And his gaze is fixed unreadably on the unexpected couple, on Pettigrew (Evan hadn’t even known he swung that way) leaning upwards, his own hands fisted in the lapel of Barty’s thick leather jacket.
(Stupid thick tailored expensive jacket. It’s a party, why are you dressed for a ball?)
Jealousy burns in his gut like Firewhiskey and before he knows it he’s marching up to Lockhart.
“Hey,” he says, remarkably coherent for this stage of the night.
“Oh! Rosier.” The boy doesn’t jump, but Merlin if he doesn’t come close- a feigned surprise complete with dainty fucking hand to chest and all. “I didn’t- hrm. Bit of an odd pairing, that one, eh?”
He nods in their direction. Evan pointedly refuses to look.
Instead he scans him up and down. Handsome, he has to admit. Clear blue eyes. A dazzling smile straight out of magazines, and just as empty.
“Not that I’m any stranger to odd pairings myself. Far from it! Why, just the other day I met this lovely ghost-”
As Lockhart babbles, time passes in that slippery way it always does at parties. Evan could have been standing there for hours or minutes or days for all he cared, legs falling asleep underneath him as Gilderoy droned on and on and on about some woman he'd pulled out of a well who… turned out to be a genie? Or a djinn? He's too distracted to linger.
Somewhere in the background a girl is dry heaving and crying, mascara-streaked tears streaming down her face. Been there.
"-and so I said, 'well, no offense, madame how do I know I can trust you?' And she, quite chastised, responded-"
All he can see is Barty, Barty, Barty on the brain like a breath of sharp wind in his throat, inebriated and choking on second-hand smoke.
Lockhart is still babbling. Is he really this much of an airhead? Did he bribe his way into Ravenclaw?
“-so finally, after much protest I assure you, I caved. ‘I can help you, m’lady, but it will come at a cost…”
“Why are you so unhappy?”
The words spring unbidden from his lips; for a moment he’s unsure if he’s spoken aloud at all. (Honestly, if he had, he was mostly speaking to himself.) That is, until Lockhart's beam dims and his eyes flicker (just for a second) towards the corner of the room where Barty resides, mouth blissfully unoccupied for once but no because he's talking to Pettigrew and a cigarette is dangling from his stupid pink soft pink lips.
I see.
Evan tilts his head to the side, sizing up Lockhart. The mask is firmly back in place, but- is he standing a little straighter? Are his eyes a little flintier than before? The thought is oddly thrilling. The boy leans in and even his voice is deeper.
“I could ask you the same-“
In the end, Evan kisses him just to shut him up.
Is it a good kiss? Hard to say. A bit like tonguing a wall at first, and just as Lockhart finally, miraculously softens into his grip, he's tapped on the shoulder by a furious-looking Barty. Victory flares in his chest for a second, until it’s replaced by shame. Shame, and righteous, responsive anger.
“Lockhart, really?" Barty eyes the boy up and down, unimpressed. "Clearly I'm failing in my roommate duties, Evan. I could've sworn I'd helped you to acquire some taste."
And Evan grins viciously. Because his roommate only gets this mean when he’s rattled.
“You’re one to talk, Crouch.” Then, because he knows it’ll piss Barty off, and because why the hell not, he adds: “A pleasure, Gilderoy.”
The last thing he sees before turning on his heel and fleeing is Pettigrew in the background, laughing with a Slytherin girl- utterly confident and comfortable in his skin. Fuck him, fuck him to hell, must be nice.
“Evan- shit, Evan!”
There. Let him chase me for once.
See how he likes it.
***
Peter can't recall approaching Lockhart, or even the moments leading up to the decision. One moment he’s watching Crouch (Barty? It feels weird to last name the boy whose tongue has just been in your mouth) chase after his sour-faced roommate, the next he’s sprawled out on the couch beside this boy watching the party die.
“Nice in here,” he mumbles after a while. “Snakey.”
There’s silver running up and down the walls like veins in one pulsing, beating heart. He could fall asleep right then and there if he wasn’t surrounded by Slytherins. Most of whom probably hate him- he got more than a few whispers and glances when he walked in the room- and would be well within their right to kick him out. But (for whatever reason) Barty had taken him under his wing, and that was enough to quell any rude comments at the source.
A part of him couldn’t believe that the attention the sharp, slender boy had been lavishing him with wasn’t the setup to some kind of prank. But hey. Seventh year. If there was ever a time to let bygones be bygones…
Tomorrow he’ll probably have to apologize to Sirius. For the hair comment, and for showing up here.
He knows these people aren’t particularly good or heroic or noble. But if anything, that’s why he feels so at home. Because he doesn’t have to be good or heroic or noble either.
"You like this? You should see our Common Room." Lockhart fixes him with an easy smile, the kind that has girls who don't know any better swooning. "The most gorgeous shade of cerulean... you know, I begged the Hat to put me in Ravenclaw. Green does nothing for my skin tone." He shudders. "Makes me look sea sick, honestly."
Peter snorted. “I admire the confidence, mate.”
He’s a little hazy, but dimly he thinks the walls are very flattering on Lockhart. Whatever that means.
“Well." Lockhart coughs. "I admire yours.”
A thought occurs- this is maybe the first time Peter's heard Lockhart make any kind of statement about anyone other than himself. The thought amuses him. Lockhart's arrogant, but he gets away with it by being pretty. Just like James and just like Sirius. Though Peter's come to terms with his appearance by now, it still stings a little to think about all the boys who have it easier. Merlin, he wants to be them. He wants...
And that's when then Lockhart shifts closer, and Peter finds it hard to want anything else at all.
Because his cologne.
Oh my God, his cologne.
In hindsight, it's not that special. Nice, for sure- Peter's never been a connoisseur when it comes to these types of things (couldn't care less if he's being honest) but it smells expensive, not too unflattering, vaguely masculine in the way a sea breeze or a bonfire or is.
It's not the scent that gets him hooked, rather, it's what happens the second the scent hits his nostrils.
He remembers.
***
But it's fuzzy.
He’s strolling through Diagon Alley with a cauldron full of supplies when an owl lands on his shoulder and affectionately pecks at his ear. Mary's owl- Nutmeg, tiny, fluttery, and entirely suited to her name- with little splotches of brown speckled along her sides and wings.
She's holding a letter and a parcel wrapped around her foot.
He unwraps it.
Odd. Everything's written in her neat black calligraphy, yet sections are... the only word he can think to describe it is incomprehensible. Because it is. It's as if he's reading a language he studied long ago, recognizing all the words, knowing he should be able to make sense of them and yet entirely unable to.
In the end, all he manages to decipher is this:
Dear Peter...
can't believe summer's almost...
thinking about what you said... very kind...
and I completely agree, it's seventh year after all...
discuss more at Hogwarts? I'd love to...
Love, Mary.
Signed with a little heart.
Huh. So she had responded after all.
***
Peter blinks. Processes. Then leans in.
“Mate, I love your cologne. ...Where did you get it?”