The suit was itchy. The room was dark. Smoke wafted and burnt around him, moving as if it had a mind of its own. Perhaps it did, he supposed. Peter could almost feel himself suffocating from within the space; the tension hardly even allowed one to think, let alone breathe. He couldn’t breathe, and in that moment, he needed to. Desperately. More than he ever had before.
Inhale…
Exhale.
Peter wasn’t in love with him. Everyone may have thought so, but that wasn’t the truth. He loved him, of course– it was impossible to not love James. Everyone loved him. Everyone wanted to be around him– but Peter wasn’t in love with him. The love exhausted James; people just wouldn’t leave him alone. Especially the girls– Jesus, the girls. It was almost embarrassing the way everyone fawned over him. Maybe that's why James liked Peter so much. In a way, he protected him. He was the only one honest with him. He was the only one who understood him. Peter loved James. He loved him. He really loved him…
…but was he in love with him?
…
Well, you’ll find out soon enough, won't you?
_ _ _ _
Oxford was massive– that much was apparently obvious upon arrival. It was massive and magical, in a way which anyone with the pleasure of looking upon it would instantly agree. Would nod their heads absently as they gazed around, taking in the sights surrounding them from all angles. Everything was everywhere, and yet it was all contained. All planned and practised– perfect in every sense possible. Perfect in its age and in its status. Perfect in its intricate carvings, and towering architecture. God, was the architecture beautiful. The columns, the spandrels, the large, perfectly polished stones, the windows that seemed to loom far above those who dared to look through them– all of it was beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous. There were students unlatching the latches from inside to lean out of the windows, waving their hands at those they knew and those they didn’t alike– high on the absurdity of the location they found themselves occupying. It was all so grand– a certain flavour of luxury which Peter had never yet had the opportunity to experience before. A type of grand that caused any newcomer to swivel their head back and forth as they wandered to and fro– weak to the force which radiated through these prestigious halls; pulling anyone inexperienced into its dark, endless sea of haughty laughter and snobbish behaviour.
No one who came to Oxford ever returned the same. Your background didn’t matter– Oxford didn’t hold itself back for those who weren’t worthy. For those who couldn't handle it. Instead, it overloaded you– filling you up until you overflowed. Peter's footsteps clicked beneath him with every step he took. The clicking was loud; it was distracting, and it drew your attention away from what was right in front of you, forcing you to look down and ignore the beauty up above. Bike bells rang, students chattered, and smoke wafted through the air in a thick cloud– everyone's breaths combining in the form of one stinging haze, burning Peter’s lungs as he walked. People like Peter usually weren’t allowed here. People like Peter shouldn’t be here– and yet, here he was. This poor, small, weak junkie– standing among royalty. Literally royalty, he thought bitterly as he saw a well-dressed man pass by with a swarm of guards– a few people running over to beg for his autograph.
“Hey, cool jacket.” Mocked a boy with black curls down to his shoulders and a smile so bright it was nearly blinding. He was the first person to talk to Peter– the first one to acknowledge his existence, but certainly not the last. A wave of laughter followed this simple comment, the girls surrounding the sparkling boy joining in on the fun as soon as permission was granted. Peter adjusted the straps of the large, black bag slung over his shoulders, taking a few seconds to fiddle with the red and gold scarf his mother had wrapped around his neck to fend off the chill as he collected himself. Most people avoided his gaze, but those who didn’t took the opportunity to share their unfiltered opinion on anything and everything that he owned. Loudly and openly.
They didn’t care about his opinions, nor his feeble feelings. He wasn't even sure if they were aware he had any, if he's honest. Peter was nothing like the rest of them. He knew this quite well. Really, how could he not? Even if one had been shielded from the world their entire life, kept safe under the blanket of ignorance that had been pulled tight over their head, one day in Oxford would manage to unravel it all. Unwind it like a stray thread sticking off the sleeve of your jumper. It could undo years upon years of work in seconds, changing everything about you until you were unrecognisable– simply an empty shell of your former self. Of who you once were.
This was Oxford’s class of 2006, and Peter was already unrecognisable. You can’t hollow out a shell which is already vacant.
_ _ _ _
When Peter entered the dim, formal dining hall, he no longer had his jacket on. Wearing only a white button-down and wrinkled black trousers, Peter’s beady, blue eyes hungrily scanned the candle-lit space. Many seats were vacant, but that didn’t mean he was allowed to sit in them. Peter wasn’t welcome here, and people were sure to remind him of it at every passing second. Rejection upon rejection, Peter wandered through– taking it all in as he let his soft hands graze the backs of the intricately carved wooden chairs, ignoring the snickers and mockings of those he passed by. He tried to think of a word to describe his new school, but not even the oldest dictionaries known to date would be able to pack the entirety of Oxford into a single definition. It was hundreds of words, mashed together to form an awful poem that was for some reason critically acclaimed by all who read it. Award winning, despite its many flaws. Peter scanned his pupils' faces, many already looking back at him with a scowl or a hand to their friend's ear, eyeing him down viciously as their accomplice laughed at whatever horrible thing had just been whispered. Finally, Peter found a seat across from a greasy boy. Greasy was truly the only way to describe the face at the other side of the table– his black eyes looking directly into Peter’s as he fruitlessly attempted to slick his wet, midnight locks to the back of his head between his slender fingers.
“Is this seat taken?” Peter asks politely, gesturing towards the seat in front of the boy with an open palm. With a slimy smile, the boy nods his head, his hair once again falling into his eyes in ugly, slick strands.
“I’m Severus Snape,” the boy says, extending a pale hand towards Peter the second his chair was pulled back in. Peter accepted the hand awkwardly, attempting a friendly smile. He was sure he failed, but Snape didn’t seem to mind either way.
“Peter.” He responds shortly.
“Peter what?” Severus prods.
“Peter Pettigrew.”
“So, you’re a nobody too, Peter Pettigrew?” Every word out of the boy's mouth sounded like a hiss, his smile a black hole which seemed to suck the light out of everything surrounding him.
“Isn’t everyone?” Peter asks with a laugh, his discomfort showing clearly in his mannerisms. “I mean, it's only the first night.”
“Look around you.” Peter turns his head left and right when prompted, signalling his greasy counterpart to continue. “It's just me and you, mate. And the girl who's got agoraphobia, but she's in her room– obviously.”
Peter just stared at Severus, trying to understand him; break him apart to see what he could find inside. It was a useless attempt– the boy appeared to be just as empty as Peter. Just another nobody with no future, no hope, and no one to believe in him.
“What are you studying?” Severus prods again, his style of conversation feeling more like an interrogation than anything else. He was pushy. He didn’t seem to know when to stop. No wonder he sat all alone.
“Uh–”
“I’m studying chemistry. I’m a genius. I don’t even like chemistry, I’m just incredible at it.” Snape's smile faded, his happy facade dropping. “I’ve memorised the entire periodic table. I can tell you anything about any element. Go on– ask me.”
Peter fake-laughed again, averting his eyes from Snape’s pervading gaze. “Haha, no, it's alright– I believe you.”
“No, I insist,” Snape continues, “ask me.”
“Really, I believe you– it’s fine–”
“Please, come on.”
“No, I–”
“FUCKING ASK ME ABOUT AN ELEMENT THEN!” Snape banged his hands on the gorgeous mahogany table, rattling all of the silverware and plates nearby. Everything went silent. A candle dangerously teetered on its stick between them, but it thankfully didn’t fall. Snape was breathing heavily, his hands in fists as he glared at Peter. The candle in front of them ominously lit up Snape’s face, making him look almost terrifying in the dark room. Everyone was looking. Everyone was staring. Peter could feel the judgement in their eyes without even needing to turn his head.
Peter hates Severus Snape, he decides quickly. Absolutely hates him.
“Uh, T-Titanium.” He eventually stutters out, desperate for everyone in the hall to go back to their own conversations, for them to turn their eyes away from Peter.
Peter really hates Severus Snape.
“Titanium; has the symbol Ti and atomic number 22. It is found in nature as an oxide, and can be reduced to a silver metal. It has low density, high strength, and is resistant to corrosion.” People returned to their meals as Snape spoke, the chatter that previously filled the room returning once again. Peter let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing from where he had been holding them up near his ears.
“That's, er– very cool, Severus!”
Snape’s slimy smile returned, his beady eyes crinkling. “Thank you very much, Peter.”
_ _ _ _
“So, Peter– how are you finding Oxford?”
“Good, good,” Peter nodded, his hands anxiously tapping against the worn jeans which covered his legs. “I, er– thanks. Yeah– good.”
He was in a small room– small for Oxford, at least. The sheer layer of curtains were drawn, and no lamps had been lit– leaving the office in near darkness. There were bookcases lining each wall, filled to the top with books that had probably not left that case for generations, being carelessly passed on from one professor to another. The books which didn’t fit on the shelves were piled on the floor, filling up any space left without decoration. Peter was sitting on a stool, while his teacher, Professor Slughorn, occupied a red, tufted velvet chair. There was another, far more comfortable seat to Peter’s right, but Slughorn suggested Peter take the stool instead.
Slughorn was an old, plump man whose grey hair was quickly fading from the middle of his head, and whose wrinkled skin sagged down the corners of his mouth and eyes. He was dressed in all brown plaid, save for his bowtie and undershirt, which did nothing but make him look terribly tacky and overstuffed. In a way, he seemed to perfectly match the room of which he occupied: old, worn, and unable to think for himself. His outfit was just a cheap copy of the students which milled about the hallowed halls before him, and the room was filled with nothing but the works of others– nothing existing of his own ideas. Peter averted his eyes from Slughorn’s, choosing instead to look out the one open window to his left, currently sucking the beige curtain adorned to the rod up above outside with the breeze. It was quite cold, he thought vaguely to himself, but Peter knew better than to complain.
“Did you come far from– you know– home? To get to Oxford?” Professor Slughorn asked, bringing a long pipe to his cracked lips as he spoke. Peter had never seen anyone actually smoke a pipe before. It was a bit surreal, if he was honest.
“Prescott.”
Slughorn nodded, but his confusion was clear. “Er– Where?”
“Prescott.” Peter repeated, more loudly this time, despite the fact that was clearly not the problem. This was almost always the reaction Peter got when he spoke of his hometown. Prescott was a small town, just about 13 kilometres out from Liverpool. He really ought to just start telling people he was from Liverpool, but he never remembered until after seeing the confused looks. “You know– Merseyside?”
“Oh.” Slughorn leaned back in his chair, drawing his hands together in his lap. “Never been.”
The grandfather clock in the corner of the office ticked loudly in the silence, enhancing every breath and small movement that was made. The sound of fabric shifting against their seats was deafening; the wind outside a constant buzz ringing in his ears. Peter wiggled awkwardly in his chair, bringing his hands to mirror Slughorn’s in front of him. They both took a sudden inhale, neither knowing what to say.
“So, how did you get on with the summer reading list?” Slughorn finally enquired, finding his words just moments before Peter. Peter straightened uncomfortably, attempting to look everywhere other than Slughorn as he looked for an answer.
“Er– yeah. Okay, I think.” Peter said, having no choice but to meet Slughorn's gaze. “I read it all.”
Professor Slughorn scoffed, his eyes widening. “All of it? There’s 50 books on there– you're mad!”
“I–” Peter stuttered slightly, “I thought I was supposed to–?”
“King James’s Bible was on there!” Slughorn laughed, the sound mocking and hearty to Peter’s ears. “You’re telling me you spent your whole summer reading the bible?”
“I–”
“The reading list is optional. I’ve not read half the books on that list!”
“Sorry.” Peter dropped his eyes to his lap once again as Slughorn cleared his throat, crossing and uncrossing his legs. With a sigh, Slughorn looked from the open window to the door, searching for something that was clearly nowhere to be found.
Slughorn gestured to the seat to Peter’s right. “Any idea where he’s got to? He’s 20 minutes late now.”
Peter shook his head, having no real answer.
“Quite well,” Slughorn sighed, pulling out his silver pocket watch to check the time. “Suppose we should start then–”
They were interrupted suddenly by the sound of the heavy wooden door being flung open, just narrowly missing a stack of books which was precariously balanced near an old lamp. The boy with the incredible smile from Peter’s first day burst through, wearing an old leather jacket and a ripped pair of jeans. It was an outfit which would have been instantly ridiculed if worn by Peter, but on this boy, it looked nothing short of gorgeous. Like a model. Flashing another one of his dazzling smiles, the boy skipped through the office with his large boots loudly hitting the floorboards, chanting his apologies as he flopped onto the vacant chair. Crossing his legs, the boy slouched, focusing his striking grey eyes on Peter as he spoke.
“I am so sorry. Got completely lost–” He put his hand on Peter’s thigh, giving him a soft, seemingly earnest “nice to meet you!” before continuing to apologise to Slughorn.
“You’re Sirius–” Slughorn took a moment to pick up a sticky note on a table next to him, reading off the name. “Black, I presume? Nice of you to join us– finally.”
Slughorn gave another clearing of his throat, pulling at his collar as he spoke. “You wouldn’t happen to be in relation to Walpurga Black, would you?”
Sirius smiled, twirling a lock of his soft curls around his finger. “Yes, she’s my mother.”
“No!” Slughorn gasped, smiling. “I knew her when I was your age– when we were both here!”
Sirius’s face brightened with faux interest– a perfect act only made possible by a perfect actor. “No way! Oh my god, oh– I’ll call her! She's gonna be thrilled I’m being tutored by one of her friends!” Sirius looked at Peter as he spoke, attempting to include him in the conversation, despite the fact it had absolutely nothing to do with him.
“Oh, no,” Slughorn quickly corrected, “Not friend, er– more, uh, admirer. From afar. I’m not sure we– ever spoke.”
Sirius opened his mouth to speak, but was quickly interrupted once again by Slughorn.
“Don’t even mention me, please.”
The boy laughed, smiling for a second more.
“Well,” he looked back and forth between Peter and Slughorn, his eyes flicking across Peter’s face for a moment too long. “Should we start?”
It hadn’t even been more than an hour, hardly even 30 minutes, before Sirius Black was interrupting Peter once again. He had been interrupting him the whole time– bouncing his leg, twirling his hair, twisting his entire body around in his chair to get a look at the room– but it was the first time he’d actually interrupted him with words. Peter was simply trying to read his summer essay to Professor Slughorn, which was the whole point of this entire meeting, but no one in the room seemed to care about him at all. Not one bit.
“Thus.” Sirius spoke, stretching his body like a cat, as if he’d been sitting in that chair for hours, rather than mere minutes.
“Hm?”
“Sorry, er– just thus. It's a funny word.” His foot started tapping on the floor, just slightly off sync with the clock. It was infuriating. Peter quickly learnt that the boy was never not moving. He was a constant flurry of motion– a twitchy form of endless distraction.
“Why?” Peter questioned, impatiently turning to face Sirius.
“I mean, I just don’t think we use it in real life, do we?” Sirius said, easily holding Peter’s stare. “It's just– kinda superfluous, don’t you think?”
“‘Superfluous’?” Peter could hardly contain his eye roll, feeling all of his patience drain.
“Yeah, superfluous!” Sirius continued, not missing a beat. “Like excessive, or– unnecessary.”
“Yeah– I know what it means.”
“Oh, so you just don’t agree?”
“No, I don’t.” Peter snapped.
“Yeah, I’m not surprised,” Sirius mused, “You used the word seven times.”
“No, I didn’t–”
“Yes, you did.” Sirius’s eyes held Peter’s own unblinkingly– his gaze firm and unrelenting. “I counted.”
Slughorn laughed, a terrible, stuck-up laugh. “He’s got you there I’m afraid!”
“So, you’re breaking apart the style of my essay, and not the substance.” Peter prompted, “That's kind of–”
“Kind of what?” The grey eyes narrowed.
“Lazy.”
Sirius stared for a second, his smile faded, leaving only one quirked brow of expression. “No, it’s completely valid. It’s not what you argue– it's how.”
“Great point.” Slughorn chimed in, desperate to include himself needlessly– or perhaps, superfluously.
“Well, I look forward to hearing your essay,” Peter stared, his eyes unwavering, “You know, when you actually take the time to read the poem.”
_ _ _ _
Days at Oxford seemed to blend together. At some point, the passage of time disappears, leaving only a jumble of strange memories in its wake. Memories that you’re sure must’ve happened, but it’s too fuzzy to make out when exactly they happened. The broken vending machines, despite the endless flow of funds the school has; solo games of pool in the billiards room, which always seems to be empty, no matter the time; studying for days on end in the library, growing too tired of the incessant sound of creaking bed frames in the dorm next door to hide himself there; long meetings with Slughorn, consisting of Sirius Black doing nothing but talking about himself, rather than anything truly important. They’re all events which only happen to be connected because they all happened in that fuzzy blur of days. Lost in the beautiful time capsule of forever unchanging traditions that is Oxford.
This day was like any other. Just Peter and Snape– God awful, miserable, terrible Snape– sitting together at one of the vast library’s many tables. Peter had long ago stopped focusing on his work, choosing instead to carefully watch Sirius Black and his best friend James Potter loudly talk just a few aisles over– clearly paying no attention to the fact that they were the loudest voices in the entire hall. They weren’t talking about anything really exciting, just mundane topics of school and mild gossip, but it intrigued Peter nonetheless. James Potter and Sirius Black were an inseparable pair. Nearly anywhere you found one, the other would be just around the corner. Compared to Sirius’ passive-aggressive friendliness and constant mocking, James Potter seemed like an angel sent from heaven. All of his smiles genuine, his compliments earnest, and his opinions kept to himself. He was a direct contrast to Sirius, which was exactly what made them such a perfect pair. Like the moon and the sun, yin and yang, fire and ice– opposites in every way except their comfortable backgrounds. What James didn’t say, Sirius would say for him. When Sirius would scowl, James would negate it with a happy grin. They were inseparable. Truly inseparable.
“Peter!” Snape whispered loudly, smacking a chocolate bar on top of Peter’s forgotten paper. “I’ve got you a crunchy.”
Peter picked up the treat, fiddling with the zigzagged edges of the bar, rather than ripping it open to take a bite. “Oh, thanks.”
Snape stared for a moment, his slimy smile plastered to his face as he contemplated his last words. His eyes seemed to burn holes through Peter’s skull, singeing through to his very core.
“Did you know there was a college Christmas party tonight?” Snape asked, resting his chin upon his interlaced fingers. “N.F.I., me and you. Not Fucking Invited.”
“Well– I’m sure anyone can go, if they please–”
“Oh no. It’s invitation only, apparently. You get an invite in your cubbyhole.”
Peter checked his cubbyhole often, but he’d never received a single thing. No notes, no letters, no parcels– nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“Well, I haven't checked–”
“I have. You didn’t.” Snape’s smirk only seemed to grow– as if he found great pleasure in taking away the joy of others. He probably did, if Peter was honest. Peter ought to remember to get a lock for his cubby, lest this greasy git tries going through his things again.
“Fucking loooosers,” Snape drawled, “Like we wanted to go anyway. As if we actually wanted to talk to those fucking cunts.”
Peter followed Snape's gaze back to where Sirius and James were still sat– laughing about something only they had the pleasure of ever understanding.
“We can make our own fun.”
“Yeah…” Peter didn’t look back at Snape, just kept his eyes glued to the chocolate bar in front of him like it was a lifeline.
“You gonna eat that?” Snape asked, but before Peter could answer, the candy was snatched right back out of his hands, leaving him bare and angry. That was really the only thing Snape ever caused. Anger. That fucking dick.
The Christmas party was just a few days later, and Snape hadn’t lied– it really was invite only. Girls dressed in skimpy Santa outfits and little hats dragged along not as festive boys by their sharp, lacquered hands. Every column was wrapped in multi-coloured lights and holiday garlands, and a strong scent of popcorn penetrated through the air. Even the billiards room– Peter’s chosen place of refuge– was lit up with little fairy lights lining the edges of cork boards and a small, hardly decorated Christmas tree in the corner. There were only 2 other people in the room with Peter, which was rare enough, he supposed– a couple so deep in eachothers’ mouths it was hard to believe they were even able to breathe. The music– which had been going on nonstop for at least 6 hours by now– could be clearly heard through the thin walls of the small room, pounding against Peter’s sensitive ears, and rattling the balls he’d been trying to arrange into a pyramid from atop the felt surface of the pool table. The triangle rack had been missing since he’d arrived, forcing Peter to line them all up himself. He had to do everything himself– that was just how it was. The longer Peter stayed at Oxford, the more he realised he was truly all on his own. He had no one. No one was around to help.
Christmas was very quickly becoming Peter’s absolute least favourite holiday, but that was no surprise. At Oxford, even things you used to find comfort in can be turned– your dreams suddenly becoming nothing short of nightmares. The old nostalgia of the multicoloured lights were suddenly dimmed by new memories, and images of beloved Saint Nick were marred by the perky asses of the girls rubbing up against random men’s pricks in the broad daylight of the school hallways– shameless and unbothered as they moaned.
Nothing at Oxford was safe. Nothing was untouched. Peter knew better than anyone.
_ _ _ _
It was a gloomy day– subsequent to many other similarly gloomy days trapped in the confines of this miserable school. Peter was riding through campus on his bicycle, clad in many layers of clashing patterns and fabrics in an attempt to keep the cold off of his pale skin. Peter had bought a bicycle quite early into the term, realising quickly that the only way to travel across the tremendous campus was if you had some sort of vehicle. His bike skipped and jumped over the dirt path, hitting many small pebbles that had been kicked by rowdy students into the pathways. Greenery surrounded the entire path, swallowing Peter whole and leaving him humid and sweating with the moisture. He was nearly to the end of his long trip when he noticed another boy sitting against a tree on the side of the road. The boy– of course– was none other than James Potter. Instead of sitting on the dirty ground, James chose instead to hover himself in a wall sit against the trunk of a tree– his bike lying pathetically in front of him in an absolutely stunning shade of light blue. At the sight of him, Peter immediately drew his bike to an aggressive halt, sending smoky clouds of dirt into the air around him. Peter rounded back to approach James, who was now dejectedly hitting the wheel of his bike– which was very clearly flat– with the toe of his shoes. He was wearing a fairly modest outfit, but he still made it look good– in his own ‘James Potter’ sort of way. It was a white, long-sleeved shirt with stripes around the arms, along with a nice pair of jeans, and fancy white trainers. Unlike Peter, he seemed to have neglected to bring a helmet with him on his ride. Of course James Potter wouldn’t wear a helmet. Why would he?
“You alright, mate?” Peter called, drawing James’s attention away from his bicycle. James stared up at him, his brown eyes scanning Peter’s face in confusion from behind the glare of his thick-lensed glasses.
“Oh! Yeah,” James said with a start, as if he suddenly realised it was him who Peter was talking to. “I’ve got a flat tyre.”
“Oh. That's bad luck.”
“I’ve just been trying to fix it.” James brought his gaze back down to the bike, spinning the wheel around once again. It was quite clear he’d done absolutely nothing to try and fix the bike. Why would he? He was James Potter. “And of course, I’m already 10 minutes late for my tutorial.”
James sat up straighter, rubbing his palms along the fabric of his jeans as he groaned. He had many rubber bracelets adorned along his tan wrists, covering all of the remaining skin left visible past the sleeves of his shirt.
“Where is it?” Peter enquired.
James looked up in thought, his mouth twisting to the side as he struggled to remember something as simple as his next class. “Its, uh– Iffley road.”
“Oh shit.”
Iffley was far. James would never make it on foot.
“Yep. I’m already in for it from skiving last week.” James did another big sign, his eyes landing on Peter before quickly averting back to the bike.
“Look,” Peter started, grabbing the books out of the metal basket at the front of his own vehicle. “I’m not really going anywhere– I’m just taking these back to the library. You can take my bike.”
It was a lie– he would surely miss his class– but James didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh no no no no,” He shook his head. “I couldn’t, I mean– it looks like rain–”
“Honestly, it's no big deal.” Peter continued, “I mean, I can just get it from you later– you’re in my college so…”
“Am I?” James perked up, his head tilting to the side as he spoke. Peter just nodded, just a bit embarrassed.
“Fuck, that’s kind!” James said, suddenly getting up from where he was crouched– his smile nearly as blinding as Sirius’s. “Are you serious? I mean, that is so kind! Thank you– I mean, are you sure? It’d be a bit of a faff wheeling it back to college.”
Peter looked up at James, eyes wide as he stuttered, unsure exactly what to say. “You– you want me to take your’s back?”
“Oh no no no no,” James's eyes were now widening as well, his hands shaking frantically in denial. “I’m so sorry, I just thought–”
“I mean, I suppose I can wheel it back to college, it's just– it's not that far.”
James smiled again, shaking his head in disbelief. “Oh wow, thank you. Really, thank you. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. I’m James.”
James held out his hand, and Peter took it quickly, mumbling out a quick “Peter” as they shook.
“Peter?” James repeated.
“Yeah–”
“Peter. Peter, I love you.” He was only able to be shocked for a moment before James was grabbing him by his head, bringing his helmet to his lips for a dramatic kiss. Peter found himself shell-shocked at the action– unable to move. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you!”
He kept patting at Peter's shoulders as he spoke, repeating himself as he took Peter’s bike by its handlebars and started wheeling it backwards.
“Thank you so much, mate. You’re so kind– you’re a fucking lifesaver, you know that? Really, thank you.” With one last smile, and a kick off of the ground, James set off, immediately set in motion. “I’ll just leave it in the bike shed, alright?”
“Alright–”
“Cheers Peter!”
Without another word, James was off, turning the corner with Peter’s bike. Peter looked down to his left, the blue bike still sitting there; forgotten. Peter picked it up, and without complaints, began wheeling it after James’ receding outline.
He could’ve refused James. Left him under that tree as rain began drizzling down, drenching the boy in the freezing droplets. But of course, he didn’t. He couldn’t. One couldn't just leave James Potter out in the rain. If it hadn't been Peter, it would've been some other poor soul, left stuttering and stupid in James’s presence much like Peter had been just moments ago as the boy found some other way to make it to his class on time.
James Potter was a force. He was impossible to ignore– dazzling enough to draw you in, but too blinding to really observe for long. Peter had been blinded, and now he was left reeling with his vision still covered in white splotches and spots, slowly walking alone beneath the cover of the darkening clouds up above, and holding a broken bike which wasn’t his own.
No one could deny James Potter of anything. Not the teachers, not the girls, and certainly not Peter himself. Peter could never ignore James. He would never dare.