Shrinking
MONDAY. SEPTEMBER 6, 1971.
Peter is pants at magic.
It’s not exactly a secret. Feathers weigh tons when on the other end of his wand. Matchsticks are only matchsticks, never needles. And don’t even get him started on potions.
He’s pants at most of it, and the professors have all taken notice. Which is just awful, honestly. He’s been at Hogwarts for less than a week, and he can already tell he’s on some sort of list. That’s quite alright, Mister Pettigrew. Flitwick’s voice said lesson after lesson. Quite alright.
Flitwick couldn’t be more wrong. It was as far away from alright as it could possibly get. See, things wouldn’t be so awful if Peter’s peers had the decency to at least pretend to be struggling. But they don’t. Not the ones that matter, at least.
Trevor Gillybum struggles in Potions, sure. And Devyn Fisher had somehow caused a small fire in his attempts to transfigure his matchstick. Objectively, Peter is probably doing better than them. But they’re not important. Peter’s roommates are important. And Peter’s roommates already seem bloody brilliant.
Remus had some trouble with his broom on Friday, but that was easily the worst of it. It’s easy to see why, too. That boy is always reading. He’s very responsible. Very good at saying ‘no’ when James wants to go explore this place or that. Peter is not so strong.
Despite his fair performance, The Heir genuinely looks bored in every class. He’d been the only person who managed to see any progress during Transfiguration, and he hadn’t even smiled about it! It’s infuriating. Peter would never say so, of course. Sirius is far too snarly and snappish for Peter to even consider it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t think it. The best thing Peter can say about The Heir is he’s at least kept his distance since Thursday morning.
Then there’s James. James has always been brilliant– even in homeschooling. So, Peter’s not surprised that classes here seem to come easy for him too. Of course they do. He’s James Fleamont Potter.
Peter only wishes some of that ease would rub off on him. Given what he puts up with for James’ amusement, he feels he’s probably owed some of it. Sunrise is simply too early to search for boathouses, belltowers, or whatever else the older boy dreams up.
Clearly, his wish has gone ungranted, seeing as he’s currently the only boy scrubbing Devil’s Snare slime off his jumper in the bathroom.
“It wasn’t that bad,” James repeats. “Honest!”
Peter frowns, but he can’t force himself to respond. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. It always does when he’s embarrassed. He feels small and twitchy. He feels like he’s shrinking.
“It was sort of funny, really.” James tries again.
The dark stain on Peter’s sleeve isn’t going anywhere. He’s tempted to give up.
“D’you want help?”
Peter shuts off the faucet and prays his face isn’t as red as it feels. He shakes his head. “Can we just go?”
James pushes away from the stall he’d been leaning on and throws an arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Peter is glad to be heading to Defense Against the Dark Arts, at the very least.
For obvious reasons, Defense is the class Peter had been most nervous for. But, in a fortunate turn of events, the intended professor had received a better offer to teach at Durmstrang, leaving the post empty mere days before the start of term. Professor Binns is filling in for the time being, meaning the class is a total joke! It’s practically a free period. Peter could use a free period right about now. The monotone droll of Binn’s voice might be a welcome sedative.
But Binns never comes.
Instead, a man ambles in a good twelve minutes after class was meant to start. The first thing Peter notices about the man is his height. He’s not inhumanly tall– not like the groundskeeper– but he’s tall enough that his hat brushes the doorframe when he enters the classroom.
That’s the second thing Peter notices about him: his clothes. He’s not dressed in the typical robes of a professor. Truthfully, his clothes are more akin to muggle clothes than anything one might see Slughorn in. A round cap sits on his head, and he’s sporting what appears to be a brown leather coat.
The third thing Peter notes is that the coat is on inside out.
“Sorry I’m late,” The man says, “this place is a maze.”
He takes off his cap and places it on the desk. The Gryffindors buzz confoundedly in their seats. A curly-haired girl raises her hand; she’s met with an amused look.
“Yes?”
“Where’s Professor Binns?” She asks. She looks around, squinting as though the ghost might be in the room– simply more translucent than usual.
“Not a clue,” the man says, taking a seat behind the Professor’s desk. “If I had to wager a guess, though, I’d say it’s likely he’s in his own classroom.”
His own classroom. Peter’s stomach sinks slowly. There goes free period.
“Where are my manners?” The presumed professor peels off his coat. “I should probably introduce myself. I’m Professor Alderton.”
As he speaks, the words scrawl themselves out on the blackboard behind him. He never even touched his wand. Something inside Peter sours a bit. This man does wandless magic without even looking, and Peter can’t consistently lift a bloody feather. It’s not exactly a wonderful feeling.
Next to Peter, James lets out a little excited breath. His hand shoots into the air. Professor Alderton points at him.
“Are you an Auror?” James is leaning forward in his seat, eyes all aglow.
Alderton laughs. “Not at the moment. At the moment, I’m a professor. Don’t I look the part?”
He does not, but Peter would never say so. That would be rude. Bernadette always warned against that.
James would. He does so by laughing. Alderton doesn’t seem to mind.
“You’ll find I’m horribly underqualified, I think.” He says. “Now, I assume you’ve got textbooks?”
***
Professor Alderton doesn’t seem underqualified at all. A bit unorganized, perhaps. But not underqualified.
The textbooks were quickly discarded upon his declaration that the first chapter was ‘rubbish.’ The book had been expounding on the philosophy involved in the decision to attack or defend. Useful, Alderton claimed, But not to children. Not in this day in age.
Instead, he insisted the first spell they ought to learn was the wand lighting charm.
Peter was thankful that the professor had scattered the students about the overly large classroom after his brief lecture and demonstration. It meant Peter couldn’t see his friend’s progress.
He couldn’t see their successes, and nobody could see his failures. And failures is the proper word. He hasn’t managed to summon even a flicker of light. He feels impossibly small. Peter might not be pants at magic. He might not even be shite. He might just be a squib. That’s probably what it is. His father’s wand feels heavy in his hand.
“How is it going over here?” The Professor’s voice pulls Peter from his spiraling thoughts. He’s not sure what he’s meant to say.
He sort of wants to lie. He wants to say that everything is just swell. But he doesn’t. He just blinks up at the broad-shouldered man.
Alderton smiles kindly at him. “That bad?”
Peter sniffs, shuffling uncomfortably in place. He nods. He can feel his face flushing. It feels like dozens of ants are crawling around on his face.
“Let’s see it then, shall we? I’ll try to help.” Professor Alderton steps back. It’s not as though the spell requires much space, but perhaps it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Peter grips his wand firmly. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and hopes.
“Lumos.”
He hears no reaction.
Peter peels his eyes open and finds the end of his wand still dark. He wants to cry. He wants to cry, and he hates himself for it just a bit.
Professor Alderton’s eyes have gone all wide. He reaches out a hand towards Peter, then retracts it quickly as if he might get burned.
“May I?” He asks tentatively.
Peter hasn’t got a clue what the man is referring to. He nods anyway.
Alderton gingerly plucks Peter’s wand from his hand. He holds it so tenderly. He holds it like it’s something precious.
He holds the beechwood nightmare like it’s made of glass.
“I know this wand.” He says.
Peter knows it too. Thirteen inches, far too big for his small hands. Mummy said he’d grow into it. Beechwood. Incredibly beautiful. Rigid. Unbending. Phoenix core. Phoenix core. It ought to be incredibly powerful. It was incredibly powerful in the hands of its previous owner if the snippets of Monty’s stories he managed to hear before Bernadette cut the man off were any indication. But in Peter’s hand, it’s practically just a stick.
“This is…” Alderton suddenly looks all misty. “You’re Paul’s boy?”
Peter has never been referred to as Paul’s boy. But he is. So he nods. “Yes, sir.”
“I knew your father.” The Professor’s light attitude has dissipated like a vapor in the wind. His smile is mournful now. His eyes shimmering with remembrance. “He was a good man.”
His father was a great man. He’s heard that all his life. He knows. He knows he should be happy to have his father’s wand. It’s like an heirloom. He suddenly feels guilty for calling it a nightmare in his head.
“You didn’t get your own wand?” Alderton asks, straightening up and handing the wand back over. Clearly, whatever fog had consumed his thoughts has rolled on.
Peter shakes his head. “Mum said I ought to give Dad’s wand a go.”
Alderton purses his lips. His brows furrow. Peter’s heart quickens in his chest. They stay like that for a long while, Peter fretting and Alderton considering, before Alderton suddenly steps back again.
“Try it again,” He says.
Peter does not want to.
“Try it again, but this time, don’t think so hard about the spell.”
That seems counterproductive.
“Your father didn’t tend to think too hard, you see.” The professor chuckles fondly. Peter shrinks ever smaller. “Just try it. Don’t think about the spell. Just imagine you need the light.”
Imagine you need the light.
Peter does. He imagines that he’s deep in the castle dungeons. He imagines James is there. They’ve found a secret passageway, but it’s pitch black inside. James insisted they go in regardless. Peter followed. And now, he imagines, they don’t know which way is up. He imagines. He breathes.
“Lumos.”
His father’s wand hums to life. It glows. Sporadic but bright. It shines a pale green like some magnificent glowworm.
Professor Alderton is smiling. His eyes are nearly as bright as the light from the spell. “Well done, my boy! Well done.”
Peter finally stops shrinking.