Be Good
WEDNESDAY. SEPTEMBER 1, 1971.
Platform Nine and Three Quarters is practically a zoo. Families are bustling about, hauling large luggage trollies and just barely avoiding crashes. There are feathers in the air from all the restless owls locked up for the journey. Somebody somewhere has misplaced a toad. It's complete bedlam, really. And at the very center of all of it, eleven-year-old Peter Pettigrew squirms and wriggles in his mother’s grasp. “Mummy,” He cries, “stop it. You’re embarrassing me.”
Bernadette paints her son’s pudgy cheek with sticky pink kisses. His whinging is futile in the face of her affection.
At last, he wriggles free and begins rubbing at the stains with the back of his hand.
“James is letting his mother give him a proper farewell,” Bernadette says, hands on her hips.
It’s true. Peter's friend is putting up considerably less fight, even though it looks like Euphemia is hugging the poor boy tightly enough to leave bruises.
“Send plenty of owls,” Effie says, her voice muffled as she buries her face in her son’s mop of wild hair.
“We will, Mum!” James agrees brightly. He doesn’t seem the least bit put out by the display of affection. Peter shuffles back into the arms of his own mother. Perhaps one last hug wouldn’t be the end of the world.
“I want to hear all about how you like the common room, boys.” James’ father, Fleamont, looks almost as excited as James. “Do they still have that lion head mounted above the fireplace? Pete, your father used to hide-”
Bernadette thwacks Fleamont on the arm. “Monty!” She chastises.
Peter would have rather liked to know the rest of that story. He has a significant number of questions about his father, but should he ever try to broach the topic with Bernadette, his mother was quick to burst into tears. He’d taken to keeping his questions to himself as of late rather than be subjected to the woman’s trembling bottom lip.
“Stop pressuring him, Mont.” Euphemia sniffs, thumbing away the last of her tears, “We’ll be very proud of you regardless of where you’re sorted, James.”
Effie’s smile is sad as she steps away from her son, but it is clear that she is telling the truth. Euphemia can’t help but be proud of James. Peter doesn’t blame her. James, in his father’s old Gryffindor sweater and a new pair of trainers, is the bloody sun. His smile is much too big for his face, and yet, somehow he’s never looked awkward for it. Peter, on the other hand, feels that he’s never looked anything other than awkward, and he can’t help but wonder, briefly, if his mother would ever be proud of him.
Bernadette loves her son, and she had placed no pressure on him to achieve great things to gain this love. But, sometimes, Peter feels as though he’d simply never had the makings of greatness, not like James. James was going to be somebody great someday. James was going to give his mother a reason to be proud of him… If Peter was lucky, they’d still be friends, and he’d be standing somewhere nearby when it happened.
And Peter would be perfectly fine with that outcome. It had been enough so far, hadn’t it? When in doubt, just stand by James, and things will turn out.
Bernadette fumbles through her bag. “James, hang on to this. Will you?” She holds out her hand and makes to give James Peter’s wand.
Peter feels his face grow hot. “Mummy!” His voice is coming out far too high-pitched and warbly, but he can’t help it. “I can hold on to my own wand.”
“Peter Paul Pettigrew, you would lose your own hand were it not attached to your arm when you get nervous. Best to let James hold it until after the sorting ceremony.”
“I’m fairly certain the phrase is head, Bernie,” Euphemia says, still fussing with her handkerchief. “Lose your own head.”
“Oh please, the boy’s not that scatterbrained. Hand suits him just fine. Doesn’t it, Pete?” Monty chortles.
Peter feels his throat constrict a bit. They didn’t mean anything by it. He knows that. Still, his skin is suddenly stuck on too tight and his eyes burn. He tries not to twitch.
The Hogwarts Express, which had been lying dormant in the peripherals of Peter’s attention like some sort of sleeping volcano, screeches and billows smoke.
And suddenly, in an episode of emotional whiplash, Peter Pettigrew is the most curious blend of terrified and thrilled. James grabs his arm and pulls him away from their folks.
“Come on, Pete!” James is graceful enough that his luggage doesn’t impede him as he bounds toward the train, probably from all the Quidditch. Peter’s terrible motion sickness kept him from ever being very good at that game. He stumbles a few times in keeping up with his friend, but he doesn’t let it bother him. Nothing could bother him right then.
He and James hop into the nearest carriage, and James turns to wave again at his parents.
“Don’t forget to write!” Euphemia calls. James just laughs in response.
“Be good, Petey!” Bernadette waves. Peter nods.
Peter Pettigrew doubts, even at the age of eleven, that he will ever be great. So he decides that he will be good. Good enough to make up for it.
The train lurches into motion, and Peter’s breakfast churns in his stomach.
“James,” he gags. “James, we need to sit down.”