November cried day and night and knew no sleep. The cold tears of rain had scored its face with mud furrows and the wind tore the remainders of its withered leaf crown and cast them on the ground, and feet of the wizarding world – different feet, big and small, witches’ and wizards’, pureblood and muggle-born, had trodden them to dark mush. Pettigrew wished he was one of those shreds, unseen, unconcerned about. Like he used to be just a month ago. To think, he used to want to soar high, but October had taught him that some creatures aren’t meant to raise their snouts from the ground. He thought he became a man this year, now Salazar Slytherin’s post-mortem grin on his forearm was laughing at him, telling him he was still just a boy, the same boy who hid his face in his mother’s skirt and flushed a deep red when someone’s eyes found him.
The long-nailed tips of his fingers clawed at the hem of his own sleeve, eager to cover up the evidence of his downfall, even here, among lineal Slytherins and his brand new ilk, where it was an honour too great for half-blood Gryffindor vermin. Every now and then, he could swear he felt the Dark Mark scalding his skin, heralding The Dark Lord’s call – but it was a mere illusion, a distant echo of his pleas gnawing on his brain especially viciously when the air of Dark Arts mixed with waning daylight, and Bella’s sensual affair with Cruciatus reminded him of his own dances with it. She was here too, glib and merry and all smiles – not meant for him, naturally, but the shift in her expression compared to the very first time suggested she might consider elevating him to the status of a nice footrest. He would gladly oblige and get on all fours at once, as long as it meant no Dark Lord. Even in his thoughts, he still couldn’t bring himself to saying his name. His name! It was entirely too much to bear, and the memory of that face, aristocratic nose wrinkled at the stink of piss left in the wake of the wide range of magical treatments, was enough to bring Pettigrew’s hands to his eyes. Still a kid, still a kid, hiding from the Big Bad Wolf behind his palms.
After pooling the information – dear Merlin, why bring Lily’s pregnancy into this, what had she done to them? – he slunk away to rummage a cabinet for cheap booze house elves had saved for themselves. He knocked down two shots in one gulp, no less, but he couldn’t tell if the tears prickling in his eyes were caused by burning in his throat or his heart. His forehead bumped into the glass, and for a minute her relishes the coolness of it – like he’s sleeping in a tomb, forever at peace, free from all this.
His hands shot up and raked through a sandy shock of hair as if that could banish the furious, vengeful hum of the spilt Secret from his head. He all but jumped through the ceiling at the clicking of heels behind him, and as his wrists went limp from relief, the bottle nosedived and spilt a few drops of its contents onto the shoes that undoubtedly costed more than his entire life.
She was in her fourth year when he graduated. A Slytherin, of course, someone like her simply couldn’t end up somewhere else. She’d been taller than him even back then. Now, with what he’d done weighing down on his shoulders, she was towering over him. A lightning bolt of bitter envy scoured through him and died just as quickly. She never had to go through something like this, never would, she didn’t even have to mar her perfect skin with the brand of terror incarnate.
“I am so– so sorry, Ophe…Miss Avery. I didn’t…” No, he couldn’t say that he hadn’t seen her. He was the least important thing in the room, not her. His lips convulsed into an abject grin that had more of a toothache than greeting in it. Now she knew, too. “How are you doing this evening?”
