No Such Luck
THURSDAY. SEPTEMBER 2, 1971.
Peter Pettigrew is not an early riser by nature. He never has been. Bernadette would often tell people— much to Peter’s chagrin— what a sound sleeper her little Petey had been when he was a babe.
James, on the other hand, liked to rise at the, as Monty put it, arse-crack of dawn. Still does, if the fact that Peter’s being shaken awake before it’s light outside is any indication.
“Morning, Petey!” James beams.
Peter’s thoughts are sluggish as the sky goes from black to grey outside their window. He blinks slowly. A “G’morning.” rolls stickily off his tongue.
The dorm is quiet, save for the light breathing of their sleeping roommates. It’s almost enough to lull him back to sleep.
Almost. James shakes him again.
James’ hair is still wet and his skin is still flushed pink from the shower he’s presumably just taken. Peter’s never understood why his friend showered in the mornings. He was only going to get dirty again throughout the day!
Peter’s brow furrows at the feel of his friend’s moist hands on his shoulders.
“What time is it?” He rubs the sleep from his stubborn eyes.
James shrugs. “Dunno. Six maybe?”
“Six in the morning?!” Peter splutters.
“Yeah. About six, I reckon.”
“Breakfast isn’t until eight!”
“I know.”
“Then why wake me up at six in the morning?!” Peter demands.
“I couldn’t sleep,” James says, as though that is explanation enough.
And somehow it is. James had too much energy to lay in bed for another two hours. So James did what he always does when he’s in the mood to bounce off some walls. He came and found Peter.
Peter, who used to be right next door, is now right across the room. Of course James woke Peter unspeakably early. There was nothing to stop him from doing so. Peter thrills at that.
“Not sure how you lot can.” James runs a hand through his wet hair. Water droplets run down his cheeks. “There’s so much to do! We’re allowed out of the dormitories at sunrise.”
As if the very heavens bent to the will of James Potter, the morning’s first ray of sunlight crests over the Scottish hillside, casting a faint yellowish glow on the room. James refracts the light like a mirrorball.
“We should try to find the kitchens. Maybe we can nick a couple crumpets.”
James is going to go out and explore, with or without Peter.
Peter tosses his blankets to the side. “Let me get dressed.”
“Atta boy, Petey!” James is smiling again. Peter swells.
Their search is ultimately fruitless.
James-and-Peter spend nearly two hours traversing empty hallways and asking unhelpful portraits for directions. At one point, James dares Peter to slide down a barrister. He retracts the dare when Peter immediately looks sick at the thought. But— for some reason— James has decided it’s awfully important that somebody slide down the barrister. So he dares Peter to dare him to do it. Peter obliges, of course.
Yet the kitchens remain elusive and unfound.
James seems a bit put off by this, pouting as Peter drags him to The Great Hall for breakfast. But Peter doesn’t mind it so much. This morning was brilliant, kitchens or not.
***
Breakfast, Peter finds, is also brilliant. The crumpets that he and James had been scouring the castle for materialize on the table precisely at eight. The boys are delighted.
The rest of the school joins them in waves and the chatter in the hall crescendos.
“Remus!”
Peter follows James’ gaze over to the entryway.
Remus looks tired. Peter supposes that makes sense, considering how late the other boy got to bed. Peter wonders where he’d wandered off to. Had he gotten lost? Surely, it’s not that hard to follow the group? Annalena had been quite loud with all her ‘Gryffindors, this way.’ and ‘Keep up, please.’ and such.
The short boy makes his way over to the Gryffindor table. James raises his voice again. “Saved you a seat.” He says, shuffling down the bench a bit.
This is news to Peter. But it really shouldn’t be.
James had insisted on waiting up for Remus after James and Peter had unpacked. It seems that James Potter had set his sights on a new friend. God save Remus’ poor soul.
“Good morning.” Peter greets the boy as he sits down. Ever the polite one, Peter is… tries to be at least. Bernadette raised him to be polite.
“Morning.” Remus mumbles. He doesn’t so much as look at Peter. Instead, the boy busies himself with loading his plate. Nothing but toast! Plain toast! Criminal.
“Sleep well, Remus?” James asks, nicking a crumpet from Peter.
Rude. Peter narrows his eyes at James. In return, James giggles. He takes a large, exaggerated bite out of Peter’s crumpet and chews with his mouth open. Minging!
“I guess,” Remus answers with a shrug, oblivious to James’ crimes.
“You might have asked.” Peter sniffs at James.
James swallows before speaking. “Would you have said no?”
Cheeky boy. Of course Peter would have said yes. “…no.”
“Then all’s well, yeah?” James’ smile is far too bright for this early in the morning.
Peter admits defeat and grabs himself a new crumpet.
“Have either of you two gotten a chance to look at our timetable yet?” His best friend moves on to the next order of business.
Remus nods. “I have.”
“What’s our schedule like?” Peter asks. “Is it good?”
He hopes it’s good. Monty had told the boys plenty of tales from his glory days at school. He’d also told them plenty of horror stories. For whatever reason, those were always the ones that stuck with Peter. He swore up and down that he’d never take Arithmancy after hearing how poorly Monty had done on the O.W.L.S.
“Not sure what qualifies as good, really. We’ve got Charms first today.”
“Brilliant!” James grins. Whether he’s referring to the schedule, or to the success of his diabolical plot to get Remus Lupin to speak, Peter isn’t certain. But his smile is too big to disagree with, so Peter just nods.
Just about when Peter’s decided he’s done with breakfast, the atmosphere in the hall suddenly grows stormy.
If Peter thought Remus looked tired, Sirius Black looks like a living corpse.
He shambles lifelessly over to the Gryffindor table.
Peter knows, without a single shred of doubt, that Sirius Black is about to sit next to him. He knows this because he desperately does not want Sirius Black to sit next to him. Because Sirius Black scares him.
The Heir had been volatile even on the train, but ever since the sorting Sirius had been quiet and tense. Peter felt the need to tiptoe around him, terrified that one wrong step would knock the Heir out of his stupor, and Peter would be the one to lose a head when the boy snapped.
It’s no wonder that none of the other Gryffindor boys wanted to room with him. He hadn’t exactly put any effort into easing their worries about his reputation, had he? When James and Peter had first reached the bedroom, Sirius was just standing in the center of it. Staring. He scowled darkly at them when he noticed their presence. As if they were intruders.
If there had been any chance that there might be an open bed in the other room, Peter would have tugged on James’ sleeve and whinged until the older boy had agreed to leave. Alas. No such luck. Peter Pettigrew’s got rotten luck. Just like his father.
So Peter isn’t surprised at all when The Heir to The House of Black plunks down next to him. It seems Peter’s used up his supply of good luck just getting into Gryffindor.
Unlike Peter, James doesn’t let Sirius’ sour face dampen his mood. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
James must have a death wish. That’s why he’s so daring on a broom, isn’t it? His secret death wish. Peter should have seen it before.
Sirius doesn’t respond.
“Breakfast’s nearly over.” James forges on. “You’ve barely got time to eat.”
“I’m not here for breakfast, thank you,” Sirius says. His tone implies he’s not thanking James. Quite the opposite, actually.
There’s a thud from a different table. A package. Another. Another.
Parcels and letters rain from the sky. The mail owls have arrived.
Remus is the first of their lot to get something. It’s a brown paper parcel, not too large. It barely makes a sound when it lands in his lap.
“What is it?” James leans over, no doubt attempting to read the attached card.
Remus looks… soft. Peter’s surprised at how drastically this changes his features. The smaller boy had been stony and deadpan ever since their meeting on the train. But now, as Remus held his gift close to his chest, stone surrendered to flesh.
“A blanket.” His answer is still short, but his voice sounds less clipped than before.
Next comes James. The Potter family owl, a twitchy tawny little thing called Leopoldo, swoops down and drops a package right in front of him. Then, Leopoldo perches on Peter’s shoulder.
“Hi, Leo.” Peter strokes the top of Leo’s feathered head absently. Peter doesn’t notice whether or not the bird reacts.
He’s looking for his mother’s owl amongst the flock. He’s finding himself less and less sure by the second that she’s sent him something at all.
Peter doesn’t like how much it upsets him: The idea that his mother hasn’t yet sent him mail. It’s irrational, honestly. And not fair to her, either. It’s only the first day. She’d seen him yesterday, for Merlin’s sake. Why should she send him mail just a day later? Just because James’ folks did?
“Hey.”
Peter stops searching the sky for an owl that will never arrive.
“I’m sure it’s for both of us.”
James is sweet. He’s kind. And he’s good. And he’s going to be great.
Peter nods. “Right. ‘Course.”
“We’ll open it tonight, yeah?”
That can be enough. Peter can make it enough. “Yeah.”
Peter is saved from the sticky feeling in his lungs when Leopoldo suddenly puffs out his chest and shrieks.
A dark Great Horned Owl perched on Sirius Black’s shoulder screeches right back and swipes a sharp talon in Leo’s direction.
Peter ducks. Leo strikes. Sirius grasps uselessly at his bird.
“Bad, Leopoldo!” James swats at the ornery birds to no avail.
Peter— thankfully no longer Leo’s perch— wants to help, but isn’t sure that sticking a hand in between two fighting owls is the best course of action.
Remus, on the other hand, doesn’t even pretend to be interested in helping. He stands, carrying his parcel beneath one skinny arm.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” James, through sheer dumb luck, has wrangled Leo away from the other bird.
The tawny owl hoots indignantly, shakes himself once, then flies away. Sirius’ bird doesn’t look any happier for having won the fight.
“Class,” Remus answers. He speaks slowly as if talking to a child. “I recommend you head there soon as well unless you’re hoping to be late.”
James hops up. “Right! Come on, Pete. I’ll race you.”
Peter’s not entirely certain that James even knows where the Charms classroom is. Nevertheless, when James takes off, Peter scrambles to follow.
It’s beginning to feel like a pattern.