Rat Face

1971

Magic was beautiful and brilliant and everything that the funny old lady had promised when she visited Charity’s house and told her and her parents that the letter was real. 

Charity was one of the first to put on the magic talking hat, right after a boy named Sirius Black. She was so bewitched by the starry ceiling that her name had to be called twice. 

When the Sorting Hat shouted Hufflepuff!, a table filled with friendly-looking children applauded her, welcomed her. 

Charity remembered Professor Sprout’s warning and her parents’ worries. Witches like her were called muggle-borns, and some people didn’t believe muggle-borns should be allowed to learn magic. But, for the first time in her life, Charity felt like she truly belonged somewhere. 

The letter had come on a bad day. Her PE kit split right along the bottom, everyone laughed, and she had to get a spare one from the lost and found box that smelled like wee.

When she read the letter, Charity had been certain it was a mean joke; there was nothing special about Charity Burbage.

There was something special about Charity the Witch. She had a wand, and a hat, and even a little black kitten with white paws.

Charity watched the Sorting Ceremony avidly, cheering for everyone. There was one mousy boy who was under the Sorting Hat for a very long time. Charity felt a pang of pity for the boy. People began to mutter and he shrank into himself. But then the Sorting Hat shouted Gryffindor!, and Peter Pettigrew also had a place where he belonged. 

1972

Charity knew the names of the other muggle-born students in her year. Lily Evans, Dirk Cresswell, Mary Cattermole, Andrew Thomas. 

At Platform Nine and Three Quarters, their parents spoke in hushed voices, sharing pages of the Daily Prophet, debating whether to send their children back into the magical world.

The children all wanted to go back.

A letter had come with the shopping lists, signed by the headmaster himself. At Hogwarts, they would learn how to use their gift of magic. They would learn how to defend against the dark forces in the world. There were ways of tracing underage magic. They were safe at Hogwarts.

Charity looked around, searching for other students she knew. The news was grim. Another attack. They called themselves Death Eaters. The wizard who led them was Lord Voldemort. 

There was a protest. A rally for squib rights. Squibs were like the opposite of Charity, that’s how it was explained to her. She was a witch who was born into a non-magical family. A squib was a muggle who was born into a magical family. 

The Death Eaters attacked the rally. Every squib was killed. The largest, deadliest attack that year. The Death Eaters called it purification.

Charity held her cat to her chest as she boarded the train. Everyone said it was a war now. She had to be ready.

1973

Charity watched them in the Great Hall. She watched them in Herbology. 

Everyone knew their names, the four boys from Gryffindor. 

James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. 

James and Sirius were loud and brash, fooling around while Remus tried to keep them in line. 

Peter stood back, watching his friends, wide-eyed and smiling as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. 

Charity saw them in Hogsmeade too, running from Zonko’s to Honeydukes to the Three Broomsticks, weaving between the Aurors stationed throughout the town. She hid among the other Hufflepuffs, her eyes catching on Peter as he struggled to keep up on shorter legs, throwing snowballs at a boy from Slytherin named Severus Snape, Lily Evans shouting at them as James and Sirius clutched their stomachs and laughed. Peter laughed along with them. 

Things were less funny when Professor McGonagall had to take a leave of absence. Her younger brother was murdered by Death Eaters. 

When the last Hogsmeade weekend was canceled after another Death Eater attack, the laughing stopped completely. 

Lord Voldemort became You-Know-Who. 

On the train back home, Charity watched the four boys go into their own compartment, Peter trailing behind with watery eyes. Scared of what waited for him, but brave enough to go back.

1974

The day the muggle-born Minister Jenkins stepped down and they got the pure-blood Minister Minchum instead, Remus Lupin was absent from Herbology. 

Remus was absent a lot. The same time of the month, every month. Charity kept her thoughts to herself, watching the three other Gryffindor friends surround Remus in a protective orbit. 

Charity wished she could make friends just as good, just as close, but she never had the trick of it. She was friendly with her classmates, with everyone really, but the things that made her odd in primary school made her odd in magic school as well. She was too big, too quiet, read too much, and why was a muggle-born taking Muggle Studies? Surely she already knew everything there was to know about muggles!

James and Sirius partnered in Herbology as they always did. Peter was left alone, looking nervously between the pots and plants and tools. Charity’s heart ached for him, like it ached when he sat under the Sorting Hat for so long. 

She may not have been a Gryffindor, but she could be brave too. 

“Do you want to work together?” she asked. 

Peter jumped, and she couldn’t help but smile at how skittish he was. 

“W-what’s your name?” Peter asked. 

Charity didn’t let it bother her. They had never spoken before. Why would Peter know who she was?

“Charity Burbage,” she said, putting her hand out. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Peter’s hand was small and warm in hers, and she realized she would always, always root for the underdog. 

1975

The weekly attacks became daily attacks. The news was all deaths and disappearances and more dementors at Azkaban. No one knew who was a Death Eater, not even the Death Eaters. It could have been anyone. You-Know-Who was using the Imperius Curse, he was training his army of anonymous Death Eaters how to cast it too. 

At Hogwarts, they were untouchable. The headmaster was the only wizard the Dark Lord feared. They were safe.

Fifth year passed Charity by in a whirlwind of fear and death and studying for O.W.L.s she hoped she would pass and live long enough to use. 

Things were scary, but they had been scary for a long time. 

The four Gryffindor boys were beacons of light, laughing and shouting and hexing Slytherins in the halls. Charity wasn’t a prefect but Lily Evans was, and she admired how Lily stood by her friend in Slytherin, how she stood against such brightly burning boys, even how she called James Potter a toerag. 

Charity couldn’t be that loud, couldn’t be that bold. She didn’t know how. 

Everyone seemed larger than life to her. James and Sirius. Lily and Severus. Even the lower year Barty Crouch, whose father had been rapidly promoted through the Ministry, the new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, working closely with the Minister, cracking down on dark magic, hunting down the elusive Death Eaters terrorizing them all. Barty seemed immensely proud of his father. 

Charity found herself on the periphery of that brighter world, catching glimpses, wondering what it was like to be so much. Sometimes she would catch Peter watching them too, standing on the outside looking in, waiting for an invitation. 

The jokes grew meaner, the spells crueler. Teasing became bullying became dueling in the corridors. 

For the first time, someone called her a mudblood to her face. Charity had heard slurs before, but she never imagined one would be directed at her. It came as a shock. It was a nonsense word, a childish insult, but it still stung because Charity knew what it meant. What they really thought of her. Knew the word was intended to wound.

Charity heard it again, in the strangest of places. 

She spent her Defense O.W.L. answering questions and watching Peter biting his nails, nervously moving his feet, unable to sit still. She smiled encouragingly and Peter squeaked and blushed, loud enough that Professor Flitwick reprimanded him. 

When it was over, Charity joined the flow of students onto the grounds. There was a war, but the sun was still shining, the wind still blew, birds still sang. Hogwarts was safe. 

The four boys sprawled under a tree, laughing, playing with a snitch, Peter cheering them on. 

Under a clear summer sky, Charity watched James Potter suffocate Severus Snape with soap bubbles as Sirius Black laughed, Remus Lupin pretended to read, and Peter hid behind Remus.

Lily Evans stormed up from the lake and demanded they stop. 

Severus cut a gash down James’ face. 

The ruby splatter of blood. 

Cheering and laughter as Severus was hung in the air. 

They were hanging people now. 

Peter laughed along with them. 

Lily Evans was the only one standing against it. 

“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!”

Things were falling apart fast. 

Professor Flitwick came out before it went any further. 

Charity imagined herself up there, her robes hanging down, exposed. People laughing and laughing. 

She watched the crowd depart. 

She watched Severus limp to the hospital wing. 

He wouldn’t want help from her either.

She wondered what it said about Peter that he had laughed with everyone else. 

She wondered what it said about her that she had stood there and done nothing. 

Were they strong enough to live in this sort of world?

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