Passageways and Revelations
A hundred wings beat the air, feathers floating down across the breakfast table while the students as one leant over their food protectively. Brisk December air trailed the birds through the Great Hall’s massive windows – open for days to let the light of clear blue skies flood through, their material charmed with insulation against the dropping temperatures. The weather moving into winter was incredibly picturesque in the Scottish countryside, and holiday buzz was in the air – it was Sunday, and at the end of the week students would travel home to their families.
Some of the students, at least…
Peter felt his shoulders sink with relief when one of the school’s tagged owls planted itself before him on his plate and snapped up his bacon triumphantly. “Oh, cheers.” He made a face at the tawny owl and lost a battle with his grin when the animal only tilted its head back. “Alright then, give it over.”
The owl stuck out its leg, and Peter took care to untie the letter without scratching it. He reached over to James’s seat and snatched a scrap of bacon to thank it for keeping still, upon which the owl chirped and took off. Peter glanced to where James was stood by the buffet chatting to Lily and figured his friend wouldn't notice the food theft. With the owl departed, he had the letter to worry about now.
Peter had been exchanging correspondence with his mother over the mess that was the holidays. They weren't overly religious. That being said, holiday was a time for the family, and since his parents’ divorce that only became more sacred. Even Val would be coming in for it. But Peter couldn't stand the thought of returning home just then.
They would ask him about his classes, his house, his friends. They would know, when he failed to give substantial answers, that he had weak magic at best; barely any participation in Gryffindor’s clubs and activities; could only call himself friendly with a couple people, already felt James slipping away. And then they'd start making fun of him, Hendrix and Val offering snark and advice alike always with the undertone of knowing it was a lost cause. Peter Pettigrew, no one knows what house he'll someday build but you can bet it'll be just down the road. His aunt had said as much years back: “That one’s not going far.”
He tore open the paper with angry hands, accidentally ripping the letter on the process and laying the pieces flat on the wood of the table like a puzzle so he could still read his mother’s messy script. His bacon-less plate was shoved aside, forgotten.
Peter,
I can understand that you want to stay in school – goodness knows Val never wanted to come home. If you reconsider please just take the train, we miss you so much and I know your siblings will throw a fit when they hear you aren't coming. Still, this is your decision to make. If you don't change your mind we'll send your presents over by owl.
I am proud of you, Peter, alright? Whether you love school or you hate it, whatever you need. All of us here love you very very much.
Sending you all the hugs and kisses in the world,
Mum
He was horrified to find his eyes teary. Wiping them on his sleeve as quickly as possible, he scanned the even messier scrawl at the bottom.
We won the soccer championship, can't believe you missed it. Did they teach you to make things fly yet I want to see how high I can get away with kicking the ball on the field
Don't tell mum though
Why do you have dads newspapers all over your room? Is that why you aren't coming home, because he won't be here? I don’t want you here anyway
Of course Hendrix was snooping around while he was gone. Peter folded the letter as small as possible and stuck it into his jeans pocket before sucking in a deep breath, focusing on blowing out all his guilt on the exhale. That was it, then. He wasn't going home for the holidays. He'd done it.
Now what in hell was he going to do, alone, for the entirety of the break?
“Oi, Pete!” James plopped down beside him, frowning instantly at his plate. “Did you feed your owl my bacon? It left its feathers all over, mate!”’
“Must have stolen some food when I wasn't looking,” Peter shrugged, glancing from his friend to the redhead now gathering food herself across the room. “How's Lily?”
James rolled his eyes, lips pressed together to hide the sheepish smile that always told Peter he was blushing. His best friend was so far from subtle. It was almost comforting. “She's fine. Anyway! Please tell me your mum is making you go home. My parents nearly blew the chandelier when I asked them to stay, I think they're going crazy in the house on their own.”
“No such luck, James.” And while Peter did feel bad – James had apologized an hour after the nickname incident at dinner, nearly crying as he stated over and over that he was sorry for his reaction (and not listening when Peter tried to reciprocate an apology for his own rudeness) – the relief as his mother's permission sunk in was enough to drown that out. “Why d’you want to stay so bad anyway?”
He regretted asking instantly; James’s arms shot up so fast he whacked Peter across the face, gesticulating wildly. “We're in – oh, sorry – we’re in a castle, for Merlin’s sake! Do you know how many staircases are in this bloody place?!”
“The last idiot to try counting found four hundred fifty-seven,” Remus commented from across the table. He had made a quick trip to restore a mountain of food to his plate, but only picked at it, looking disinterested. “That's including the non-mobile ones, though.”
“Four hundred fifty-seven!” James exclaimed, thrusting a finger at Remus now and causing the other boy to lean away with a wary eye. “Where do all of them lead? It's the perfect time to explore, Pete! And I'm missing it!”
He pouted heavily; if Peter knew one thing about his long-time best friend, it was that he hated being left out of things. It was probably how he managed to launch himself out of bed at the crack of dawn on the bloody weekend . While Peter considered his options, Black, taking a seat beside James at the table (never far from Peter’s best friend), leaned over to contribute his two cents. “I've heard the ghosts throw a party when everyone's gone. A real rager. And they probably know all the secrets to the castle.”
James pouted harder. Peter sighed. Nothing to it. “We could always explore today instead? It wouldn't be the same, maybe, but we have all day-”
“Pete!” James shouted, grabbing Peter in a hug and drawing the attention of nearly half the table. It was a fairly sparse table – most of the older students didn't bother with breakfast on a Sunday, for whatever reason – but still. “You're a genius! Oi,” he turned on the other two boys in the conversation, what Peter had been afraid of. “You lot coming? Lupin, d’you know the castle layout too, or just the number of staircases?”
Eyebrows raised. “It changes, you know. Magical castle and all?”
“Yeah, but-”
“He's in,” Sirius interrupted, eyes alight at the prospect of adventure. “Where do we start?”
↯
They started with Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower and far more eager to indulge their questions about the castle than most of the student body’s relentless badgering about how he had died. Usually there was at least some bloody gash or curse-shriveled marking… in any case, he offered the four First-years direction easily enough, head bobbing enthusiastically as imparted his treasured wisdom, and soon they were strolling down the third-floor corridor searching for an old witch’s statue.
“But is the witch old in the statue, or is the statue old because it was made a long time ago?” James mused as they walked, ignoring the neighboring portraits who tried to snag them into an avid argument to their right. “How will we know?”
“When we get to it and there's a secret passage,” Sirius sniffed haughtily. Peter frowned.
“Not the biggest secret, is it? if Nick’s going around telling people.”
Sirius ignored him. “Maybe we'll make it off of Hogwarts grounds. We could have an escape plan!”
“From what?” Peter questioned, baffled. When he went unanswered for a second time he clamped his mouth shut and stuffed his hands into his pockets, watching the third-floor hallways pass as with no small amount of longing to disappear down them. Why had he even suggested this? Why had he come along?
“Found it.”
It was spoken matter-of-factly, so monotone that it took all of them a second to register the words and spin around. Lupin had lagged behind, and when they backtracked to the little alcove that had attracted his attention, Peter did a double take. Both the witch and the statue looked positively ancient. She had the biggest hunchback he’d ever seen, grizzled hand gripping the grizzled wood of her cane. Her other hand was outstretched, as though she’d been frozen in that pose, died encased in stone. Lupin indicated the plaque at her feet: ‘Gunhilda of Gorsemoor’.
“Who would want to preserve that ?” Sirius asked, breaking the silence with a wrinkled nose as he stepped forward with his wand. “Dissendenum.”
There was a bang , and then a hiss, and they threw themselves back as a jet of purple light shot from Sirius’s darkwood wand and pushed into the statue. After a moment it resurfaced in a field all around the stone, crackling with pulses of brilliant color, that hummed different frequencies as the glow intensified and dimmed in turn. Peter scrambled further back, pressing himself against the corridor wall – the corridor, they’d done magic in the corridors, they were going to be in so much trouble and Hogwarts wouldn’t let Peter stay anymore over break, all because-
“I don’t think that was the spell,” James remarked. He squinted at the statue and took a step forward, waving a hand in front of Gunhilda’s one eye. “Hello?”
“James,” Peter hissed. His friend cast a shrug over his shoulder.
“I don’t think she’s going to do anything.”
“What was the spell supposed to be?” It was Sirius, voice shaken but curious despite the mess he’d gotten all of them into. He was watching James with the statue, but a moment later had stepped forward, hesitant hands moving closer, closer to the purple glow until he was pressing pale fingers to cool stone–
His hand pushed in.
Gasping, Sirius yanked his hand back, and a moment later James had a hand on his wrist, wrenching him away further. The two boys stumbled to a stop several paces from the statue, studying Black’s pale hand for a quiet moment.
“It’s a hand,” James commented.
“Always has been.”
“And it isn’t purple.”
“I’m going to see how far in I can go,” Sirius announced, and then he was shaking James free to turn back to the statue. No one stopped him as he stepped forward, one hand, one foot, his torso, his head vanishing into the purple haze and then-
“OH FUCK, FU-”
A crack sounded and then Sirius vanished entirely from view, as though sucked into the statue and out of existence. The boys shouted, surging forwards, but James’s hand groped around within the statue and came up empty. He looked to the other two, face unnaturally pallid. “I’m going in. Lupin, come on, Pete keep watch yeah?”
“I want to-” he began to protest, but James silenced him with a shake of the head and then he was dragging a very apprehensive Lupin after him and with two more shouts of surprise, they were gone too.
Peter glared for awhile at the stone. Gunhilda leered back at him. By the time cold air began to filter through the corridor and they still hadn’t returned, he began to wander, looking for a different entrance – a ghost to question – anything. They couldn’t be dead, right? The castle wouldn’t actually kill them, and there was no way Sirius could have cast too advanced of a spell. They were eleven, Salazar’s sake. James was not going to die at eleven. Not if Peter had anything to say about it. He caught sight of vividly colored portraits and ran over, realizing a moment too late that these were the raised voices of an argument he really didn’t want to be dragged into, not now of all times-
“You, boy! Yer a wizard, ain’t ya? What’re yer thoughts on goblin mating?”
“Listen, I've really got to-”
“Oh, call it what it is,” the second figure snarked, a round wizard wearing an extremely disgruntled expression under his dingy hat. He appeared to have a fox hanging onto his arm by the teeth (Peter would've been annoyed too). “It's breeding sentient creatures, don't try to sugarcoat-”
“Ahm not ,” fired back the first wizard, whose cowboy hat and desert backdrop looked so incredibly out of place against his flowing midnight robes. “All I ahm saying is we've seen it ‘tween other creatures, if a gian’ an’ a wixen can-”
“Disgusting. You just wanna see what a centaur would look like with a hook nose-”
“They would have cross-breeded before now if they were more open to strangers! I would simply expose them to shared living environments-”
“A centaur and a goblin?! ” The former came out sounding like cen-shu-ar with that drawl of an accent. Peter watched helplessly as the second wizard wrinkled his nose and opened his mouth to respond.
“Oi, shuddup! I've found one!”
It was a frazzled witch, rushing into frame – from where, Peter had no clue, there were no portraits down the wall in that direction – and eagerly leading a far less enthusiastic goblin that was for some reason decked entirely out in chainmail armor. The first wizard beamed.
“Aw, ace, Luce! Tell me, pardner, has you ever considered a relationship wid one o’ ‘em beautiful centaur folk? Ah can assure you Ah found a mare most willin’!”
Peter covered his eyes. His skin burned in second-hand embarrassment. Against his better judgement, he gave into the curiosity and peeked through his fingers – the goblin looked about as unimpressed as goblins always seemed to.
“I'm female.”
He choked, but in the portrait the wizard’s shoulders only slumped, and he rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “What’re ya doin’ here then? Ya think I brought ya in for some crowbait? I got a real first-water, Luce will you please-”
“I have an answer!”
The words were out before Peter could think better of it. It got the cowboy to stop talking at least… and now he had two wixen and a goblin staring him down. The goblin reached to her side and hefted the holstered mace in her hand, cocking her head. Peter flinched and rushed to speak.
“How long have you lot been in portraits for?”
The goblin frowned. It didn’t do much to improve her complexion. When she spoke, it was in broken English, with an accent that spoke to the guttural alphabet of Gobbledegook – Peter had seen it in some movie as a kid. “What year is now?”
“‘71. Uh, 1971, sorry.”
“Hmm.” She made a few clicking sounds, from somewhere within her mouth, then spoke again. “Over ten centuries.”
The wixen cast her disconcerted looks. When she glared back they hurried into a chorus of “1500s.” Her anger turned scathing.
Peter rushed to de-escalate. His mind was racing to keep up with the thumping in his chest- “Right. So, uh, you haven't heard! There's been developments in this – in, um – inter-relationships – between cultures? Yeah! So, culturally – I have information. That you need.”
“I have not heard of this,” the goblin frowned. Luce groaned in exasperation and looked over to her.
“Will you just go back to the eighth floor already?”
“This is far more offended than I have been in awhile,” the goblin hummed. She leaned against her mace, propped up in the desert sand. The sun blazed down on them all from a diamond blue sky. “A welcome change from the fleeing students who frequent my painting. Although it is quickly growing tiresome.” Her gaze lowered to Peter. “You were saying something, wizard?”
“I'll trade,” Peter said firmly. He forced his eyes not to dip to the weapon, which he’d just realized had green goblin blood from its thick spikes. “You tell me why students are hiding by your portrait, and how, and I'll tell you what I've heard.”
“Ah, a gambler!” The previously outraged wizard whooped, clapping calloused hands together in excitement. Peter took a step back. “Ay, Lucy, where’d you find her?”
“I fight in the Goblin Wars that divide my people,” the goblin spoke, ignoring the wixen’s now-resumed bickering. “My lover paints it after I die in battle, and put my face on front line. We hide the wall that lead to a blocked space. Students like to be between us and end to have intercourse.” She winced. “It is unfortunate.”
“Shit,” Peter breathed. The goblin’s expression twisted in confusion, but she nodded along. “Um. I can put you guys somewhere else?”
She looked him up and down, as if considering whether or not he was actually capable of such a thing. His ego twinged (again) and he lifted himself onto his tiptoes to look bigger.
“Alright. I will convene with the residents of my portrait as to where we would like to be transferred to. Come find us on the eighth floor next week.”
“Oh. Sure.” It'd be over break, he could sneak away right? Provided he could keep his promise. “Um. I've gotta go, so sorry-”
“But yer research! Wizard, if you’d’a give opinion on a hippogriff-”
“Oh that’s it-”
Peter turned tail and ran, hearing the shouts’ echoes bouncing off the stone behind him. He wandered a random path, only aiming downward – if he missed lunch maybe there would be leftovers. As long as he didn't think about a goblin doing… that… with a centaur, he had enough of an appetite for one of those sandwiches, he thought-
“PETER!”
He spun, taking in the two figures rushing up, a third tagging along behind with large bags turned inside out, but still easy enough to read as they neared. Honeyduke’s. His jaw dropped to the scuffed stone floor.
“It led to Hogsmeade town!” James stage-whispered, and threw himself onto Peter. “Turned out the statue covered a chute, we all fell when we went in – Sirius hit his head –” he gestured to one Sirius Black, a massive bump forming on his forehead just below his hairline, grinning maniacally. “But it led us straight into Honeyduke’s! Honeyduke’s, Peter, we got you so many of those sucking candies-”
“And chocolate,” Remus offered, lifting the bags in his hands. “Where’ve you been anyway?”
It evoked a tragic mix of rage at the disregard for his concern – when they'd told him to wait there, for all they knew he was still anxiously standing guard while they shopped for sweets – and being so touched that they'd thought of him while there. He thought he might cry. He fish-mouthed for a moment, trying to come up with something to say, an expression to wear, any reaction at all.
And then Sirius slurred, “uh oh, concussion,” and vomited a pumpkin-juice-orange mess onto all of their shoes, and Peter was saved from answering.
↯
The castle interior glowed, candlelight somehow warmer than usual and tinged an alternating green, red, yellow, blue, white, in some mismatched attempt to satisfy all the muggle holidays Hogwarts students might be celebrating. Wreaths hung on the doors and mistletoe on the ceiling; if you stared at the plates of cookies and glasses of milk in the common room for too long, they'd eat and drink themselves, and dreidels strewn across tables in the Great Hall would, once spun, follow the unfortunate spinner until they'd finally dropped, singing loudly to festive tunes with the wrong lyrics. Every so often, a gnome would pop out of a patch of the pulled-up flowers decorating the corridors, and by the time all the leaving students had finished with breakfast they were causing such a ruckus that the majority of the kids were climbing over themselves to leave.
From the outside, the castle looked regal and magnificent as ever. They trudged out in the December snow wearing thick boots that allowed them to tuck in the hems of their pant legs. It was a good job the cold had hit, because Peter’s trainers had been discarded along with the rest of theirs after Sirius had been sick over them. As a reward for his concussion, Sirius had been charged with taking the garbage bag to the house elves to handle, but Peter was pretty sure he'd just thrown it in the lake. As Peter hadn't been about to go swimming anyway, he refrained from commenting.
The Hogwarts Express was belching purple smoke into the cloudy sky above Hogsmeade when they arrived. Lupin walked with Lily, who had her head swinging this way and that as though seeking out someone. That someone was decidedly not James, who had slunk away after that realization, sticking by Peter’s side instead and regaling him with everything he was excited for about going home. The jealousy seemed to have faded. Nevertheless, Peter was so distracted by the glinting train and shouting students that he nearly punched James in shock when he suddenly grabbed the taller boy around the shoulders, pulling him in close.
“I'm going to miss you so much, Pete,” James wailed. Peter patted his back and rolled his eyes. “I cannot believe you are abandoning me in my time of need!”
Not over it, then. “Technically, you're abandoning me,” Peter pointed out, squeezing James tightly for a moment (sue him, it was nice to be hugged) and pushing back. “With Sirius Black, no less.”
James’s eyes widened. “I forgot!” He glanced around furtively, or as furtive as James Potter could ever be. He leaned in closer, and blue eyes met brown.
“If he says anything – if he does anything – you owl me, okay? I'll come right back, I'll find a way. Or you can come to me and we just won't tell your mum. I mean it, Pete.”
“He's your friend,” Peter said weakly, fidgeting with his hands and quickly averting his gaze from the sincerity pouring out of James’s expression. His heart was so full.
“You're my friend,” James said firmly, and Peter couldn't resist hugging him one more time.
“Oi Potter, you coming?”
“Yeah, Benjy!” James hollered back in Peter’s ear. When they separated again he had lowered his voice considerably. It was almost hard to hear over the sudden clanging of the train’s bells. “I mean it, Pete. And owl me anyway. Promise?”
“Yes, I promise,” Peter laughed. He had anxiety tying itself in a knot in his gut but James would always be the same, he thought with more than a little gratitude. James had been and would always be his rock. He loved him for it. The rushed beating of his heart carried him through waving enthusiastic goodbyes at the train as it squealed into motion, kept him warm during the trudge back, and he made for Gryffindor Tower with a small spring in his step.
Sirius was already there, studying Remus’s book – the Hogwarts history one – as it lay open on his bed. He was on his stomach in front of it, legs kicking, but bolted into a straight-backed sitting position when Peter entered. His eyes flashed through a spectrum of emotions: fear, confusion, anger. Peter had a moment of horrified realization that he was about to be cursed into oblivion, and then Sirius was spitting at him, “what are you doing here?”
“Staying over vacation,” Peter huffed, choosing to ignore the brewing tension. His stomach felt like lead again. Just great. “It wasn't a secret I was staying. Don't blame me that you didn't check.”
“Why?” Sirius demanded, way too quickly to have processed Peter’s answer. His annoyance mounted.
“I don't owe you any kind of explanation, I think.”
“Oh, someone's bold.”
That cruel tone had crept back in. The one Peter knew to dread, that popped out when he was calling Peter “Wormy” or purposely speaking over his opinion or spitting too- strong hexes in the Defense classroom that was now dreaded in Peter’s mind. He cringed back instantly. Had he really just tried to talk back to Sirius Black? What was wrong with him? If Sirius beat him up right then and there no one would be around to hold him responsible. Bloody hell, no one would even notice!
“I-I-I’m s-sorry,” Peter stammered. He looked away, humiliated as he scurried over to his four-poster. It was only from within the safety of the hanging curtains, open but still a comforting separation, that he felt able to meet Sirius’s eyes. They burned steel against his own. “I-I-I'll stay out of your way, promise.”
Sirius watched him for a moment, and Peter held his breath and fought with everything he had against the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. The silence stretched on, five seconds, ten, and then Sirius mumbled “whatever”-
and that was that.
The rest of the day was awkward, to say the least. They seemed to be in quiet agreement that it was time to catch up on the assignments each professor had been piling on in anticipation of the holiday break. Peter wondered idly if they understood the meaning of a break.
Evidently not, really, because he was bent over a half-roll of parchment essay for Charms on the significance of spell categorization hierarchies throughout the day’s sunlight hours. At some point he’d migrated to one of the tables in the common room. It wasn't his favorite place to hang out – usually it was loud and stuffy with bodies and conversation, and he couldn't get a seat – but now it remained pleasantly empty, and he sat in a cushy chair by the window to let the cool air wash over him as he worked.
All in all, it was the most productive he'd been in a long time, and sitting down for an awkward dinner with everyone who'd stayed at school couldn't dampen his mood. He made brief conversation with a third-year Ravenclaw who asked him about his workload. In return, Peter questioned whether it would get better or worse in later years. The boy thought for a moment before telling him it would become more interesting, which Peter sourly thought pretty much answered the question in itself.
He was so relieved to have the essay off his shoulders, in fact, that it took him until getting back to the dorm to realize that Sirius hadn't been at dinner. He wasn't in the dorms either, and Peter was left too distracted by his curiosity to get anything done. Grumbling to himself, he tugged the curtains shut around his bed and lay down to sleep. Maybe he'd get up early tomorrow to avoid the breakfast crowd, try and find that eighth-floor portrait. Or maybe he'd sleep late. His last thought before drifting off was that it sure was nice to be on break.
His first thought upon waking up was that he would never sleep in a shared room again if he could help it.
He'd been startled awake by creaking floorboards and a whispered oath. Stirring in the blankets, he blinked sleepily at the deep maroon of his curtains in the dark and heard Sirius’s voice speak fuzzy and distant.
“Creature!”
The whisper came harsh and trembling. Peter frowned. When the crack of – apparition? Was someone else there ??! – hit, he jerked so hard on his blankets he accidently tangled one leg under his torso. Ow. Definitely not a fan of roommates.
“Master Black summoned creature into the filthy lion quarters, creature has his duties to fulfill, oh yes, Master Black is being very rude, very rude indeed.”
Peter gaped. A house elf. That was a very irritated house-elf muttering about duties and insulting Gryffindor.
That was the Black family’s house elf ?!! And its name was… Creature?
He would have peeked, his curiosity having gotten the better of him, if he hadn't been so terrified of being caught eavesdropping.
“Yeah, yeah, skip the pleasantries. Is she angry?”
“Creature does not know who-”
“Maman,” Sirius hissed. “Is Maman angry about my Sorting? Or – how angry is she?”
A pause. Then: “Master and Mistress Black are most displeased and disappointed. Creature has repaired Master’s rooms of any damage done.”
Sirius released a breath. “Okay. Okay, fine.”
“If Creature may return to his obligations towards the righteous members of the Black family–”
“No. I mean, wait. I just want-”
“Creature must be going.”
“Tell me about Reggie first. Please, Creature.”
Peter frowned. Who's Reggie?
“Master Regulus is eating, sleeping, and attending his tutoring in a timely manner,” Creature said, and for the first time his croaked voice carried emotion. Fear, or maybe just apprehension… “Master Regulus has been bought new gowns, in green and silver. He attempted to send a letter to Master Sirius that was burned unopened.”
“Fuck.”
“Master Regulus might like Master Sirius to know that he has acquired for himself a red-and-gold tie on his latest shopping excursion.”
This silence stretched, unbroken for awhile. Peter didn't dare breathe. When Sirius spoke, his voice hitched with tears. “O-okay. He shouldn't – he needs to keep it hidden, I – okay. Okay, Creature, thank you.”
“Creature lives to serve the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.”
“Yeah, I know.” Some of the sardonic tone had bled back into Sirius’s voice. Peter was unsurprised to find himself relieved. “Take care of him please.”
“Creature lives to serve-”
“Shut up, you know what I mean. Tell him-”
“Creature is being summoned.”
Another crack, this one coming across as almost violent, as though the elf had ripped gashes into the air to step through towards Black Manor. Peter thought of the newspaper photograph, and shuddered. The motion made his bed creak. He froze.
“Thought you could get away with listening in?”
The voice came from just outside the curtains. Peter yelped and scrambled up the bed to press himself to the headboard as Sirius yanked them open in one wild movement. His eyes blazed, his wand was in hand and sparking red. In the middle of the night, surrounded by Gryffindor trappings, it was like coming face-to-face with fire incarnate. “Well? Not even going to deny it?”
“I didn't mean to,” Peter gasped, watching the bright magic flicker in and out of existence. “I'm sorry, I swear-”
“If you tell anyone about this-”
“I don't know anything!”
“If you repeat anything you heard, I swear to you-”
“I don't even know who Reggie is!”
“Don't call him that,” Sirius snapped all at once, grip tightening on the wand as his knuckles clenched white. His voice was thick as he spat the harsh words. “He's Regulus to you. Nothing else.”
And something in his tone gave Peter pause, triggering some recognition in his brain even through the terror he felt at the Black heir's wandpoint. Nothing else.
He's Regulus to you.
Master Regulus has acquired for himself…
Creature lives to serve the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.
Master Regulus has been bought new gowns.
Oh.
“Oh,” Peter breathed, widened eyes meeting Sirius's. “You have a brother.”
There was a long moment as the words landed. Sirius’s wand shook, and now he looked more scared than intimidating. “You can't-”
“I wouldn't,” Peter interrupted. He felt seized by the sudden urge to reassure his bully. It was crazy how perceptions could change on a dime. “I swear I won't.”
“Okay.” Sirius hesitated, but his shoulders had already slumped, and soon enough he was turning away. “Go to sleep.”
Peter didn't respond. Instead, he waited until his roommate’s curtains had been pulled shut before pushing out of bed and shoving his feet into the fluffy slippers his mother had forced him to pack. He passed as quietly as possible down the stairs to the common room and froze face-to-face with the House Elf tidying up the couch pillows.
“Can Filly be getting Sir anything?”
He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Today has been so much, his mind was so overwhelmed. “No, I was just going to sit for a little-”
“Filly can bring Sir some cakes!” Filly squeaked, drawing herself up to a height still dwarfed by the throw pillows in her arms. “Would Sir like some tea?”
“No, I-” he had a thought and paused. “You can bring me food?”
The house elf dumped the pillows unceremoniously on the floor and dusted off her hands on her cloth toga. “Anything Sir desires!”
“Huh.” Nobody had told the first years that. “Alright. Do you think you could get me some of the food from dinner tonight?”
He left the tray on Sirius’s bedside table, and when he woke in the morning both the food and Sirius were gone. The next time they crossed paths, although it was awkward, Peter would almost say that the two of them were civil. He was in a good mood – on his tiptoes, craning his neck to spot James in the crowd – when it all came crashing down.
Because he spotted Remus Lupin first. And Remus Lupin’s shoulders were hunched, and his body was hidden by so many layered sweaters under a jacket that couldn't even close over them, and he had a jagged gash still scabbing over across the length of his face.