Peter doesn’t let his stride slow even as confusion clouds over his features, dangling a mystery in front of him that he hesitantly pockets, smooth as ever and determinedly not cautious of appearing shady. That’s the worst way to get caught and he’s not even sure of the crime yet.
Remus is ill, whisked away to Madame Pomfrey’s the morning he woke up with a horrendous cold, stuffy voice revealing enough through simply its whine - distinguishably odd even to Peter’s half-asleep brain at the time.
James and Sirius, however, were perfectly fine if you weren’t including their slight sulking, misery shared generously between the two as the day’s prank had seemingly been foiled with the absence of their fourth member.
They would’ve just replanned it anyways since it wasn’t particularly spectacular, filler, one might say, as a brighter idea brewed in the background; the setting being their shared dorm, of course.
Thus, it makes zero sense for him to settle atop his bed in an empty room.
He hadn’t been with them. He’d spent lunch in the library, pouring over fictional books to rid himself of the world in which he still has mountains of homework to complete; mountains that he’d much rather tear to shreds than actually do if the churning of his stomach and lighting of his nerves at the thought were anything to go by.
The past few months in which he had risen his grades a brilliant amount aren’t quite yet down the drain, he knows, and he can only hope that since the excitement of the recent quidditch match is beginning to pass, he might have a chance to meet his study date again.
Peter wouldn’t consider himself needy but he misses the roaming hands over his body, callused and guiding as they snatch his pen not unkindly and show him what to do, as they cup his face and pull him closer for fluttery kisses and as they undo his shirt buttons and snake around his torso.
He lolls his head against the wall and stares up at the ceiling, mind brushing over the thought of the stars stuck on the ceiling of a distant dorm room to further contemplate his own empty one.
James and Sirius aren’t in fact planning a storm which could only mean; they’re in the middle of one already - of their own design still but Peter can’t help but pull his knees to his chest and rest his head upon them for a moment, fighting the urge to scrape a hand over his still sleep-haggard face, wondering if their would be mess left over, if the chaos would drag on or whatever the like. Marauders Plans are complex and often end far later than one might expect; that’s the beauty of them even if the upkeep is somewhat rough with their wandering attentions.
He can’t help but hope for a fun distraction; desperate for the sunny residue that comes with any outlandish prank, anything that’d maybe steal his mind with the proved efficiency of dark romantic eyes.
He isn’t expecting for the lights to go off.
Unnatural darkness covers the room and he can’t tell if it’s a spell that invited the shadows or if it’s a spell that had shut the window curtains.
He lifts himself up, scrambling for his wand, before he realises he must have left it in his drawer; the drawer on the other side of the pitch-black room.
Before he can foolishly attempt to traipse across - an uncertain matter depending on which side of his brain won out - a dim light appears from within James’s veiled bed.
The curtains are drawn but an orange glow emanates, making clear most only the shadows of two boys and the red of the curtains.
Peter too late recognises the set up from his own home, from previous mischief of the marauders. He crosses his fingers with a wish that doesn’t leave the tip of his tongue as he watches on; how likely would it be that they aren’t as prone to violent pillow fights as his siblings?
The curtains open.
James and Sirius are both sitting in the middle, pressed arm to arm to both get the most dramatic positioning, and their faces are hit by the light expelled from James’s wand the most, not a shadow to be seen which cannot be said for the flickering shapes across their lower bodies.
It’s James who speaks first and when he does it’s unusually not much at all, “What’s this, Peter ‘Wormtail’ Pettigrew?”
A shadowed object is tossed across the room, fluttering to the floor like a dark butterfly right before Peter’s feet.
He picks it up and feels the soft thin fabric, tracing the edges with a roll of his eyes despite the egging curiosity.
He calls out, “A tie, Prongs. Y’know, the thing Remus has to do for you.”
“It’s not just that!” Sirius squawks, ever the drama queen.
“Sorry?” Peter tries awkwardly.
The stiff silence is answer enough.
They give him five seconds more, five that is not enough to question his and their sanity’s before the wand is snatched out of James’s hands and pointed towards Peter childishly menacingly.
The light dances across the room in bold large shapes with tiny slivers connecting them, whirls across the room in a way that captures him despite the suddenness of the waltz.
It shines into his face and he screws his eyes close for only a second before he looks back down to the tie.
Oh.
Oh.
The tie is silver and green, meadows and stars intertwining, jewels hanging in the night sky and the deep lakes and gazers fields their faithful companion.
His mind falters for a second before he shakes off the dawning horror to glance them both in the eyes.
James isn’t there however.
He opens the curtains, allowing sunshine to flood in on the surprisingly nice day - in terms of weather only.
The glare of the sun pricks into his neck as Sirius says, “Go on, turn it over.”
Peter reluctantly does as told, even as the pieces slot into place and he realises there truly is no way out of it.
On the back of the tie, there sewn in with grace to every small stitch is ‘E.Rosier’.
”Look..” Peter trails off, his distinct wittiness and lying ability deciding it to be one of many times to disappear on him, laughing from a distance as he grasps for straws.
He doesn’t have to talk, it seems.
”You’re dating Rosier?” James has took charge and Peter can’t deny that it hurts to see the sneer on his childhood friends face, the myriad of emotions that seem to have culminates into a storm with his clenched knuckles and furrows brows.
It’s the two of them, entrapped in a bubble, even as Sirius sits only meters away.
”He’s not that bad..”
Peter expects Sirius to speak up at that but instead he’s still left alone with James’s shining eyes.
“Not that bad, hah? He’s the Rosier Heir.”
James motions wildly as he says it, arms flying about and face not loosing a curl of its angry steam.
Its extinguished though much quicker than it had come like a blanket dropped on top of a candle.
The moment feels intimate between the two and Peter swallows heavily.
“Is he good? For you?”
Peter nods desperately, head bobbing up and down before settling to stare into James’s eyes again.
The brown seems to whirl around as if reflecting the boy’s tumultuous feelings before they shut once and reopen with a fire ignited.
”If he hurts you, he’ll get way worse than what Aubrey did.”
It’s a statement, plain and true with no honey to weaken it.
Peter is fully sure at the moment and he just barely resists diving into the other’s arms, content at the conclusion.
The bubble is finally speared as Sirius rises to clap him on his back and pull him closer by an arm around his shoulder to whisper despite the lack of others, “Alright, now, good Pete. Our man on the inside. I’ll be needing you for reconnaissance.”
He suppresses the grin that threatens to rise, wondering distantly how many kisses he’d owe Evan for his role in the coming chaos.