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There are a lot of things that Peter Pettigrew knows that no one ever asks him about.
He knows, for example, that Remus bites the inside of his cheek when he's trying not to cry. He knows that Sirius claims that he hates sugar in his tea, but adds a cube and a half when he thinks no one is looking. That James wears his socks inside out every single day, because he swears the seams give him blisters, and once hexed an entire stack of new ones because "they didn't feel right."
Peter knows how to cast a warming charm that doesn't overheat your fingertips. He knows which step creaks on the seventh floor, and he knows the house-elves by name. They like him because he asks how they're doing and doesn't make a big show of it.
He also knows how to fold a howler so it doesn't shout quite as loud, how to sneak chocolate into the library under Madam Pince's nose, and how to coax a skittish first-year out from behind a tapestry with a sugar quill and a joke that isn't very funny, but still makes them smile.
He's good at noticing small, unimportant, lovely things.
He knows a lot of things. But mostly he knows how to stay out of the way.
...
Today is a Tuesday. He likes Tuesdays because the castle smells like toast and fresh parchment, and no one expects very much of him. Mondays are for performance. Fridays are for chaos. But Tuesdays? Tuesdays are quiet. A little sleepy. A little soft around the edges.
Peter slips through the halls, blending in, letting the louder magic pass him by. His hair is sticking up in about five directions, and he has a little smudge of jam on his chin, which helps, actually, because it makes people underestimate him, and that's always useful.
Sometimes, people forget that Peter is smart. He doesn't mind. Not really.
It's like being a shadow. You still get to touch the light. Just sideways.
...
In Charms, Sirius nearly sets his own sleeve on fire trying to charm a floating quill parade. Peter puts it out with a flick and a muttered spell, then slides his ink pot towards Sirius without looking up. Sirius says "cheers, mate," and goes right on grinning like he invented charmwork.
Remus catches Peter's eye and gives him a small smile. That's enough.
It always has been.
...
Later, when they're outside and the sky is the color of linen, Peter walks a little behind the others. Not because he isn't part of them (he is, he knows he is), but because he likes watching how they move.
Sirius is all angles and swagger, a boy pretending to be fearless. James walks like he's in a hurry to get somewhere important, even if it's just lunch. Remus always walks like he's measuring every step, and maybe he is.
Peter walks like he doesn't want to startle the day. Like the air itself might bruise.
...
Peter likes little things. Specific things. Things no one else cares about.
He knows the best bench in the courtyard for watching the snow fall without it landing in your tea. He knows when to tug someone's sleeve and say "don't go that way." There's a spider that lives behind the portrait of the Sleeping Friar. He calls her Judith. She's missing a leg and and builds lopsided webs and Peter always waves when he walks by.
He doesn't tell anyone. Not because he's embarrassed, but because it's nice to have something that's just his.
...
People think that Peter is quiet because he has nothing to say.
But really, it's just that no one ever pauses long enough to listen.
They think he's happy all the time. That he's soft and sweet and simple and content. And he is soft. He is sweet. But simple? Not in the way they mean.
Simple is easy. Simple doesn't lie awake at night wondering what part of them is too much and what part is not enough. Simple doesn't practice conversations under their breath just to make sure they don't mess them up.
Peter has whole thunderstorms in his chest that he never shows anyone, because if he stops being the calm one, what happens to the rest of them?
...
At dinner, James is talking excitedly about a new broomstick. Sirius is flinging peas across the table at Remus, who is trying to read and hiding a grin. Peter slices his potatoes into perfect quarters.
He listens. Laughs in the right places. Makes sure Sirius drinks water. Passes Remus the salt before he even asks. He hasn't really spoken in twenty minutes. That's okay. He doesn't need to.
Except, sometimes, he does.
Just a little.
Just enough to know he's real.
...
That night, Peter brushes his teeth and the dormitory smells like mint and soap.
Peter studies his face in the mirror, squints, tilts his head. He doesn't hate what he sees, exactly. But he doesn't love it either. He looks like someone trying very hard to look like someone else's idea of a good friend.
...
Back in bed, the castle is breathing around him, the stone creaks, the wind whistles through the halls. The other boys are asleep and sprawled like cats. James mumbles something and turns over. Sirius lets out a snore that sounds vaguely like a bark. Remus shifts under his blanket, then goes still. Peter lies there, eyes open in the dark.
He imagines that he is very small. A sugar cube in a warm cup of tea. A speck of dust in a sunbeam. Something kind and dissolvable and quiet. The sort of thing you might miss if you aren't paying attention.
But if you were, if you did see it, you might smile. You might even hold onto it for a while.
...
He smiles at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, he'll make toast exactly as Remus likes it, burnt just enough to taste like a campfire. He'll save the corner seat in the library for James and leave a silly doodle tucked in Sirius's Transfiguration textbook. Nothing grand. Nothing loud.
Just Peter things.
Quiet things.
The kind of love that folds itself up and tucks into corners.