Chapter Text
Grass stained knees, spoilt and stained socks. Fingernails caked in mud, and shoes slightly scuffed from climbing up a hill.
Peter was not seven years old, and yet he found himself to be in this exact state after having explored the Hill again. The habit of exploration had followed him since the very first day his father and mother had taken him for a walk in the Great Outdoors.
It was becoming a problem. His father was beginning to complain about his tracking mud all over the carpet, and his mother had to endure the pains of thoroughly cleaning out his clothes, lest there be some small insect he’d found interesting and had kept in a small pocket.
That was something that occurred quite often. But it was not something he could control— he who was a keen observer of tiny, living things. Things that seemed to exist on the same earth as he did, but in a different perspective. Peter quite liked to imagine his life as an unbothered worm.
Peter stood before the wooden door of his home, and reached out for the knocker. His plan he’d carefully crafted and timed was tattooed in his mind.
His mother opened the door.
Elena Pettigrew watched in mild horror as her son sped into the hallway and tore up the stairs, barely managing to kick off his brogues in time. He appeared to have been clutching a jar of flowers that were already wilting, and his copy of The Little Prince. It was not long before he vanished from sight, with a slight squeal upon bumping into a laughing Clement Pettigrew.
“Peter— Peter!”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Shortly after, Peter managed to wriggle out of his dirty clothes and enveloped himself into his sheets. Out he pulled the flower jar; out he took his book. He had seen his mother do it a million times, and he was determined to succeed by himself.
Peter dumped all the flowers onto his bed, flipping open his book with his right hand. He took a deep breathe— for this was the moment he would make history— and he slapped down all the flowers into his pages and slammed the book shut.
Considerably proud of himself, he dusted off his hands.
At this moment in time was when Peter’s father slipped into the room.
“Peter.” he was exasperated. “Look at the mess you’ve made! Here, why don’t you help me to clean up?”
Peter, being a well-meaning child, agreed. But a well-meaning child is an inquisitive child still, and Clement found himself confronted by the question,
“Can’t we tell Mum to magic it away?”
“Well, Peter, you know that you can’t ask your mother to magic away all the mess you make in life.”
Peter seemed discontent with the idea. “What if I’m a wizard! Like Mum.”
Peter promptly picked up a stick his father had helped him fashion into a toy wand, and waved it about whilst Clement attempted to wipe up the dirt on Peter’s bed.
Clement Pettigrew had never been certain about whether Peter would receive an acceptance letter from Hogwarts. He was often disturbed by the possibility that a muggle father would obstruct Peter’s opportunities in living in a wizard’s world.
Peter had grown to realise from a young age, although it was never explicitly stated, that his father was simply a man unable to cause or wield magic, and his mother was. It was simply how his world had always been. His father tended to the lighting and camera angling of non-magic films, whilst his mother had had a fiery passion for flowers and nature since her youth, and worked to preserve rare species dying out in the wizarding world. To young Peter, neither of his parents outweighed the other; they were equal in his affection and love.
Through distant in-laws’ disapproval and the struggle of their magical divide had they loved each other, too. It was with this love that they raised their only son with.
Clement straightened his glasses, and answered,
“We’ll see, if you get into Hogwarts. If you do, then a wand will be issued to you at that kind gentleman’s shop…Ollivander’s.” (they had had the pleasure of meeting said gentleman in the countryside two years prior). “Then, you can use magic for almost any need you have. Remember though, Peter, it is important that you never use it for…”
“Things that can harm other people, or animals, or nature.”
“Wonderful. And it is also paramount that you understand that not getting into Hogwarts is not the end of the world. You can continue to live as you have always done, with Mum and I. We love you despite your flaws, and we will continue to love you until our deaths. Your being a wizard or not does not define you. Magic is certainly a gift to those who are bestowed it, but magic can rapidly be exploited as a weapon, a dangerous weapon.”
Peter nodded. His father’s words washed over him, like the hot water of a warm bath. He could fall asleep to his father’s voice that reflected the tranquility of his character. Silence eventually consumed the room; but not a tense silence, rather a gentle and comforting silence.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Three months later, Peter found himself in the most southwestern county in England.
Time had gone by, and it was summer again. The sun set at nine, and the wind no longer whistled as violently as it had done in the spring. Peter sat with his face pressed up to the window of their car, watching the greens of the countryside merge together as his mother drove faster.
“We’re nearly there…” muttered Clement, flipping through the maps he held. CORNWALL was the bright orange title of the map.
“The theatre is beautiful. I can’t wait to see it again,” sighed Elena. She adjusted the rear-view mirror to wink at Peter.
“An outdoors, stone theatre.“ read Clement. “Here, most famously, was “A Midsummer’s Night Dream” performed.”
“Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour draws on apace—“
Peter laughed as Clement hushed Elena. Elena turned around to smile at Peter.
“You should’ve been there, the first time I saw it, Pete. It was good, it was really good.”
Elena’s eyes were distant, reminiscing of a time long ago. Peter thought it moving to be able to experience his mother’s passion through fragmented memories she shared. It was like a happy present she gave to him.
“Hey, eyes on the road!”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Here Peter was, watching the waves roll continuously in formation. Frothing up against the rocks they slapped against, the water was clean and a dark blue. The sky was a light grey, the sun having drifted behind the clouds. It could not be further from the perfect summer day Peter had envisioned, yet its violent and unpredictable nature only emphasised further the beauty of the theatre. Built in the thirties, the theatre had housed many plays throughout the decades, and it was to Peter that if he paid enough attention, he would be able to hear the whooping and screaming and singing of the performers of the past, of a world before, lost to the unfathomable horrors of the Second (muggle) World War.
But Peter was ten years old, and he did not care much for wars.
“Hello there. I like your bug badge. Where’d you get it from?”
Peter turned his head to the left; there stood a stocky boy around his age, with a wreath of black, messy hair on his head and the fashionable circular glasses Peter had seen boys from fancy prep schools wear. Behind his glasses were two inquisitive eyes, blinking rather quickly.
Peter looked down; his father had indeed pinned his bug badge onto his chest. It was a favourite of Peter’s— his mother had bought it in Leeds for him.
“My mum bought it for me from Leeds,” said Peter.
“Ooh, that’s nice. That’s really nice.” The boy cocked his head to the side like a bird. “My name’s James Potter. What’s your name?”
“Peter, Peter Pettigrew,” replied Peter, and because he saw his mother do it often, he stuck out his hand.
James smiled at him, and shook it in return.
“We’re here on holiday. What’re you here for? Normally we go to France or something, but my dad was insistent on something about exploring England, before next year. I’ll still be here next year, but I’ll be busy with prep for school stuff next year.”
Peter, although he was not a particularly deductive child, quickly deduced that James Potter was a talker. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, and he smiled quite a lot— something that was almost intimidating to Peter, who offered small smile back. Even though he used posh words and phrases like “frightful bore” and “thrilling” that made him sound exactly like what Peter’s classmates might call a “toff”, Peter did not find James Potter overly arrogant— there was a lack of awareness of the wealth his mere appearance casually oozed, but he was not obnoxious about being well off.
“—I don’t suppose you know what Hogwarts is?” James had his head tilted again.
“Hogwarts, school of witchcraft and wizardry,” recited Peter patiently. It was the title of his pamphlet he had at home; a pamphlet he had leafed through many a time.
“Great!” Peter watched James’ face crumple into an even wider smile that he wasn’t sure how James could fit on his face. “You’re a wizard! Amazing! I wasn’t sure if I could talk to you about stuff like that, you know, my mum says even though all people should have a right to live in a world like ours, not all people are allowed to, because they’d be scared— and you don’t look a scared guy to me. In fact, you look pretty wizard-y.”
Peter grinned, his mouth crooked and his eyes bright.
“Really? I don’t have any wizard friends apart from my mum. I go to school with normal children.”
James looked slightly puzzled.
“That’s a bit weird. Well, I’ll be your first wizard friend. Anyway, because we get the acceptance letters next year, my mum and dad said I’ll be too busy and excited next year to enjoy the summer, which is stupid because I love the summer and the sun, and ice lollies, and the beach. Apollo’s my favourite Greek god, I’d never disappoint him like that. Who’s your favourite Greek god?”
Peter had to ponder about this. He did not feel that any of the Greek gods were omni-benevolent, which was a shame. He supposed that he felt most sorry for the god of blacksmiths; he who was cast off of Olympus for being considered ugly. Which, to Peter, seemed quite unfair. Some people had more “accepted” facial features and skin tones and overall appearances; others didn’t. There was, of Peter’s understanding, no exact explanation for this, apart from the unreasonable force of hatred. He found it silly.
“Hephaestus. He can make stuff. And it’s not his fault he’s ugly.”
James nodded. Peter’s chest warmed; here was a boy who was interested in what he had to say, however stunted his answers were. Peter’s short words were less of substance than James’ flowery, lilting language, but James was attentive to his opinion through and through. He didn’t feel as he did when he talked about things he liked to fellow children at his school and they gave him odd looks and told him, “My father says that’s a fantasy, my father thinks you’ve got too big an imagination and I do too” or “What you think’s dumb, and that’s it”.
Peter had gotten used to strange looks and offhand comments, over time. He was not unaffected by them; but he was strong enough to fight back the tears until he went home to his parents, kicking off his brogues and burying his face in his father’s jumper, which dampened with his cries.
“I guess you noticed mine’s Apollo. My dad says I light up like the sun when someone mentions ice cream. I hope it’s not true though. I don’t want to be bright yellow like a buttercup. Then, everyone would look at me, not because they admired my amazingness, but because I’d look weird!”
The sounds of the two boys laughing together wafted over to Clement and Elena, who were talking with an older couple whose looks were most definitely those James had inherited.
“—my husband here loves your hair products, Mr Potter. We’ve been stocked with it for years. No joke.”
Clement sheepishly itched the back of his neck as Elena spoke. It was a little true that his haircare had improved after investing in the Potters’ products.
“Please do call me Fleamont, really, it’s not a big deal.” smiled Fleamont. “And what a coincidence—! I do believe that’s our sons chatting together too over there.”
Elena squinted; it was indeed her son giggling with the Potters’ boy— his mousy brown hair ruffled by the breeze, his hazel eyes seeming to be laughing soundlessly with his open mouth. Elena had never seen her Peter to look so happy with anyone besides her and Clement. Clement glanced at Elena and smiled reassuringly at her; he had come to the same conclusion as she had.
“James! James! Come on over here, with your new friend, won’t you?” called Euphemia, her voice like those of noblewomen.
James bounded over, dragging Peter by the hand.
“Pete here’s a wizard too!” exclaimed James.
Peter awkwardly met the Potters’ eyes, flushed at James having given him a nickname. Most people called him Peter. An old sailor once nicknamed him Petey, when he was very young.
Peter only knew this because in the old sailor’s will, he’d given “Petey” a small inheritance and some toys. Despite this, Peter had long forgotten the name of his father’s uncle, and “old sailor” did he remain in Peter’s memories.
“We know, darling. These are his parents; Elena and Clement.”
“It’s nice to meet you!” James sing-songed as he shook hands with the pair of them.
“Unfortunately, we’ve somewhere to be— my sister in law’s to meet us further up, you see. She doesn’t like the sea much.” said Euphemia, apologetically.
“Oh, no, that’s fine. We wouldn’t like to make her wait. It was lovely to meet you,” said Clement.
“Shucks,” groaned James. He grinned again. “That’s what Goofy always says, you know, from Disney. Aw, shucks!”
Peter’s happiness was fading, and an opening hole of emptiness was sitting in his stomach. The most amiable and effortlessly confident people he’d ever met was already leaving. How would they ever see each other again? Peter’s miserableness could even be mistaken for melodrama; but it was true— an instantaneous bond had been formed between the two boys.
All the while, James had been thinking. He pulled out a pen from his pocket, and asked Peter for his hand. Peter obediently held out his palm, and James quickly wrote an address on it.
“Godric’s Hollow,” read out Peter. He looked up at James. “It sounds like Halloween.”
James laughed, his voice loud and carrying across the theatre.
“Doesn’t it! Write to me. I’ll respond as quickly as I can. My owl’s called Orpheus, and he can fly pretty fast.”
This further confirmed Peter’s impression of James— he was a boy who expected things, and yet it was not because he wanted people to serve him. Because he made the first move, Peter would have to contribute by sending the letter to him first. This nearly put Peter in a cold sweat— what would he write? How did one write a letter to a boy he met once, a boy whose friend he wanted to be without appearing pathetic? (This was going to be inevitable for Peter. He found everything embarrassing).
The Potters were already walking away, and James followed his parents. He turned back once to wave enthusiastically to Peter.