Chapter Text
His scarf fluttered in the wind, lapping up snowflakes that melted on its thick wool tongue. James straddled the low stone wall that ran along the outer perimeter of the courtyard, leaning over the edge at an angle that made Peter wince.
They had slipped outside between lessons, headed for an empty corner of the courtyard, dropping their bags in a jumble. Only a few older students had braved the October chill and its light snowfall, and they curled their backs into the stone-hewn niches and took shelter under the curved archways, huddling around floating balls of blue flame, lighting cigarettes and pipes with their wand tips, searing the falling flakes in a thick cloud of warm, sweet smoke. After Charms, James’ lips had hooked into that familiar grin, a dare-with-teeth, and he had tugged Peter by the elbow out onto the courtyard.
“It’s too stuffy in here, and everyone’s sniffling all over the place. I’m sick of it. Let’s get some air.”
Peter started to point out that by standing outside for twenty minutes, they were liable to start sniffling themselves, but with James, you picked your battles.
They had survived their first month at Hogwarts, and Peter was starting to find his rhythm. There was something comforting about the constancy of life at Hogwarts, the timetabled classes and the regular meals and even the common room curfew, although James considered that to be more of a suggestion than a rule.
In the first weeks, fear had roiled in Peter’s stomach. If he had to sum it up, if he had to name that ever-present sense of swelling dread, he’d say that he was afraid of being found out. Some days, Peter felt like an impostor. Some days, it felt like he was just waiting for a professor to stop mid-lecture and turn an all-knowing eye on him and say, You don’t belong here. Like he would walk into the Great Hall for dinner one night, and the Sorting Hat would be perched back on its stool, and McGonagall would unfurl her great big scroll of parchment, and this time, there would only be one inked name: Pettigrew, Peter. And when Peter stepped forward, when he pulled the Hat over his ears for a second time, it would whisper I knew I was right, and it would hiss I know where you belong. And then, SLYTHERIN would echo out, and James wouldn’t even meet his eye, and Peter would be whisked away, his gold and red tie changing to silver and green with a slight pop, and that would be it. Some days, Peter felt like a lie sheathed in skin.
He waited for the day when he would find James at breakfast, the center of attention, surrounded by laughing smiling bright brilliant people, people like James, and there wouldn’t be room for Peter anymore.
Peter spent weeks waiting for the ax to drop.
But instead, the leaves molted from golden-green to blood-red to ash all over again, and October shivered in, colder and drier, and then snow started to kiss the spires of the castle, and the ax never fell. And one day, Peter woke up, and he wasn’t waiting to be left behind, to be forgotten, to be found out as a fraud. He woke up, and he looked around the dormitory - at Lupin’s empty, perfectly made bed, and Black’s tousled hair and tangled sheets, and then he settled on James’ still-snoring frame, and he realised, this is home now and it’s mine, I belong here.
And so now, as James pushed open the heavy wooden doors and slipped out into the courtyard, grinning up at the bright white snowflakes and beckoning for him to follow, Peter didn’t feel like he had to tread gently. He walked towards his friend, and he grinned back, and he thought, I am home. And then he scooped some snow off the top of a shivering gargoyle statue and packed it tightly and whipped it at James’ back, his bright, boyish laugh piercing the grey clouds hovering above. He wished he could take a picture of this moment, but he didn’t need a photograph to remember the feeling; it was indelible.
A brief tussle had ensued, snowballs ricocheting off tall stone columns and burst powder staining black robes, and then a truce was called. And James led the way to the edge of the courtyard, where the wind blew cruelest. Its harsh gusts pulled pink into Peter’s cheeks.
James threw his fluttering scarf around his neck in another loop, stretching one leg out over the ledge - Peter’s hands reflexively twitched; he was used to catching James, to pulling him back to the ground, to steadying him. Peter nervously leaned against the ledge and peered over the edge, his stomach turning at the steep drop below. James just kept grinning, dark eyes dancing, one leg hooked on the courtyard floor, one leg swinging in the wind.
Halloween was just a week away, with its promise of a feast and a bit of festive cheer to lift the grey dullness cast by weeks of cloudy skies. James had spent the breakfast hour rhapsodizing on the merits of various pumpkin-flavored delicacies, musing on the likely menu for the Sunday table. James was eager for the end of October, and the first Quidditch match of the year - Hufflepuff versus Slytherin, slated for the second Saturday of November - but Peter had liked the quietness of this month. September had passed in blinding rush, but October felt settled, still, comfortable.
The only mystery of October had come on the first Monday of the month. James and Peter had spent Sunday in the common room, scrawling Potions essays with speedy quills and flicking drops of ink back and forth, cheerfully splattering noses and foreheads. Black had spent the day as he spent most of his weekends - wrapped in his quilt and curled on the window ledge in their dormitory, or else silent behind drawn bed hangings. Peter often wondered how and when Black did his work - and he got good marks, much to James’ chagrin, but neither boy had ever seen Black burn the night oil writing an essay in the common room, or practicing their charms coursework in the dormitory, let alone stepping foot into the library.
Although, to be fair, the library was more Lupin’s territory, and so when James and Peter stretched their stiff limbs and rubbed bleary eyes and headed down for dinner as the sun set above the Forbidden Forest, it wasn’t particularly surprising that they had gone a whole day without seeing Lupin.
Black had emerged from Gryffindor Tower for dinner, taking up his customary, solitary seat, but Lupin never showed. James didn’t seem to notice the boy’s absence, but Peter did, and it gave him some pause. But then the custard materialized on a shining platter, and James had muttered something deliciously funny about a gaggle of Hufflepuff girls, and the tall boy and his books were forgotten, until the time came to turn in for the evening, and Lupin’s bed remained empty and perfectly made.
“Hey, James - where d’you reckon Lupin is? Have we seen him around today?” Peter had asked, gesturing towards the bed.
Curiosity flickered across James’ face, but then he shrugged, puzzled. “Dunno…a bit strange, he’s not usually out late…”
Black’s voice crossed the room, rough and barely audible. “Said his mother was ill. Had to go home.”
James and Peter exchanged a brief look. Black rarely spoke except in short, curt tones during morning shower jockeying and lazily, flatly when called upon in class.
“Right then,” James replied, nodding in Black’s direction. But Black was perched on the window ledge, and his forehead pressed to the glass, his back to the boys. James rolled his eyes exaggeratedly; Peter stifled a chuckle.
They slept. Peter assumed that Lupin would return for their morning lessons - he didn’t seem like the sort to skive off - but he wasn’t in Transfiguration or History of Magic. He wasn’t at lunch in the Great Hall. He missed afternoon Charms, and dinner.
James was unperturbed at Lupin’s absence - “You know he’s gone to see his mum, our resident drama queen said so. Who knows how sick she is. Now come on and pass us the trifle.” - but something in Peter’s chest rattled. Sometimes, Peter felt like his bones knew when trouble was coming, when something had gone wrong. Back at his grandmother’s, sometimes he could sense a petrol bomb before it exploded, like a sort of sharp thud against his ribcage. When the soldiers tore through their neighborhood with guns and ready fists, Peter could sense their footsteps before the thumping march echoed across the stone, a kind of strange buzzing in his esophagus. Peter learned to listen to his body’s alarm bells, and he honed this innate sensitivity to impending danger. It was how he survived, how he had known to stop short on the street that Tuesday, when he was just nine years old, when he was almost blown to pieces as the street caved in, a bomb bursting in water lines below the asphalt. Danger had felt like a sharp tug in his stomach, like a hook had sunk into the meat of his belly and a chain was pulling him backward, away from the soon-to-be crater.
And in the night, contemplating the emptiness of Lupin’s bed, the danger felt like teeth at his throat. But James wasn’t worried, and so Peter shouldn’t be either, and plus, that potions essay wasn’t going to write itself.
Lupin’s bed remained unoccupied.
Peter awoke that Tuesday and rubbed his neck gingerly, across the spot where his pulse raced closest to the surface, and he tried to think about toast and tea and sausages, and not that gnawing sensation in his gut that said be careful, something’s coming.
Lupin reappeared in the afternoon, the first Gryffindor to their double Herbology lesson with Ravenclaw. Deep-set half-moons glowed purple under his bleary eyes, and although he looked like he might topple off his stool, he remained attentive as ever for the entire lesson. At the end of the lesson, he leaned heavily against the worktable as he slid to the ground, gingerly drawing his bag across his shoulders and slipping out in a pack of Ravenclaw first-years. Peter’s mouth had fallen open as Lupin had stood shakily, but he wasn’t sure what to say. Should he offer to help the boy with his bag? Should he ask after his mother? Should he just walk in step with him back up to the Tower?
But Lupin was gone before Peter could make a decision, and by the time he returned to the dormitory after dinner, Lupin’s curtains were drawn tightly.
Weeks later, Lupin’s peculiar absence was still on Peter’s mind. He had clearly been weakened by his trip home - Peter reckoned that his mother must be on her deathbed, to have her son return to school looking like he was the one with a fatal illness - but he was, as ever, pleasantly distant, and Peter didn’t feel like it was his place to intervene.
As he watched the snow dust James’ dark, wiry hair, with Lupin back in his thoughts, Peter cleared his throat.
“Remember how Lupin was gone back at the start of the month?”
James turned to catch Peter’s gaze, shaking his head vigorously and laughing lightly as melted snow sprayed Peter’s robes, springing from his hair.
“Come on, James - his mum was sick, he was gone for days -“
“Oh, yeah, yeah. What about it?”
“I dunno…I mean, he came back all gone over - he looked pretty sick, you know? He still sort of does, all pale and thin?”
James’ brow furrowed at this, his eyes flickering as he turned through his own memories of the preceding weeks. Lupin, always one foot out the door, standing up from the table, headed down to the library - but yes, Peter was right. He always looked tired, and he held himself like he was just barely stitched together.
“Yeah, no, I know what you mean…But if he was sick, he’d just go to Madam Pomfrey? She’s a dear, she’d fix him right up.”
James harbored a slight crush on the young matron of Hogwarts, and often found himself swinging by the Hospital Wing for cures to various ailments.
Peter nodded slowly, because James was probably right. But something still felt off about Lupin, and it felt like the ghost of teeth at his neck.
James appraised Peter’s expression; his face was clearly stained with worry. This mattered to Peter, and while James couldn’t really see how anything could be wrong with Lupin - other than his slightly obsessive devotion to his coursework and his seeming disinterest in making friends - he wanted to reassure Peter.
“I mean, mate, his mum is pretty ill, right? That’s probably what it is. Maybe we should check in on him, try to get him to do something other than study all by himself, see how he’s doing. How’s that?”
Peter nodded with more certainty this time. “Yeah, let’s do it. Something for Halloween, maybe.”
James’ eyes lit up and he wobbled excitedly. Peter’s stomach twisted unpleasantly - it was a long, long way down - but James straightened up and murmured dreamily, “The pumpkins, Peter…”
Peter rolled his eyes. “If you’re so soft on them, mate, maybe I ought to give you some alone time this weekend…”
James glittered, and Peter - who knew James’ mind like his own, in so many ways - knew that steam was building up for one of James’ classic rambling declarations of adoration! and passion! and pumpkiny-goodness! But before James could begin reciting the sundry joys of toasted pumpkin seeds, the courtyard door clanged open, whipped furiously in the swirling wind, and a dark-headed figure, bowed against the brutal blast, emerged into the courtyard.
James twitched in interest, glancing up at the newcomer. Within seconds, a scowl twisted across his lips, tugging at his eyebrows. Peter turned around, and saw Black’s familiar snarl of scraggly curls, just as the boy slid out of sight behind a solitary column.
“Now, I’d pay to know what’s wrong with him,” James muttered in a low, curious voice.
And while his voice was coated in distaste, as the weeks had worn on, James had begun to reluctantly reconsider his initial assessment of the Black boy.
It had been easy to write him off in the early days of September, especially after the fight in the dormitory. Black was all teeth, all disdain, all distance, and James didn’t much care for that kind of pricklier-than-thou persona. And he had been cruel about Peter, and James simply couldn’t allow that. So he had snapped back.
And after that, Black made himself easy to overlook. Hard to forget, because he was always simmering just at the edge of your vision, but easy enough to disregard.
James had heard the whisperings of older students, and he knew that Black was supposed to be in Slytherin, that many people thought the Sorting Hat had made some kind of mistake, or a sick sort of joke, out of sending a Black to Gryffindor. And at first, it seemed like Black agreed with this general consensus, like he was angry about his relegation to Gryffindor. James had expected Black to slither up to the Slytherins, to turn traitor to his house and go running, tail between his legs, back to his kind. But Black hadn’t done any such thing.
Instead, he spent the weeks alone, a tight coil of stiff energy. James and Peter had long since given up trying to draw Black (or Lupin, for that matter) into their fireside games and their late-night study sessions, but James couldn’t help but keep an eye on the boy who is always alone. He couldn’t figure out why Black seemed content to be a solitary, stormy figure - picked last for partners in class, always wrapped up in the room, staring out that window, apart at meals, never getting a letter from home. That kind of separation, that distance, that loneliness, made James shiver. He hated to be alone.
James is relentless, curious, magnetically drawn to the boy who seems to be his perfect opposite, and yet who sleeps just feet away.
Peter registered the distraction of curiosity that flickers in James’ eyes when Black comes up in conversation these days, when he bursts out onto the courtyard that afternoon, and he mistrusts it, just a little bit. Peter is wary of Sirius; he senses a kind of danger there, like a lump in his throat.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him, I just think he’s…not very nice,” Peter offered quietly. “If he wants to be all angry and alone, let him. You’ve already tried to be friendly.”
James nodded slowly, but Peter could tell that his friend hadn’t quite sunk back to earth, that he was still floating in the air, considering the boy with the grey eyes and the thin lips. James’ ever-whirring mind, at once mischievous and yet surprisingly insightful, is one of Peter’s favorite things about his friend. But sometimes, Peter wished that James would just settle.
After another moment, James’ eyes clicked back to Peter, and he grinned. “You’re right, mate. He’s just a puzzle, you know?”
James loves puzzles. But he’s eleven years old, and he hasn’t quite learned how to think outside of himself, and so his attention inevitably flits from quandary to quandary.
“Might do well to keep an eye on him, though,” James added, with one last thoughtful glance to the column which hid Black from view. “Now, onto more important matters. What are we going to do to cheer up Lupin…”
James can’t help but whistle softly to himself that Monday night, as he traipses back to Gryffindor Tower. November was already proving to be a good month. He and Peter had manages to pin Lupin in one place for a decent hour before the Sunday feast, by enticing him to play Wizard’s Chess by the fire. Lupin had been off by himself, scribbling an over-long essay on curling parchment, but James had noticed the slowing of his quill and the fleeting looks directed towards Peter and James’ rousing match. After Peter had narrowly trounced James - as much as he hated to admit it, James did usually lose to Peter - they both sidled over to Lupin. “Do you play?” Peter had asked. “Because if you’re at all decent, it’d be great to play someone who’s a bit of a challenge…” A small smile snuck into the corners of Lupin’s mouth. “I’ve never played with a magical set before, but yes, I’d - I’d like to,” he said quietly, after a moment’s hesitation. The rest of the hour was passed pleasantly - Lupin made quick work of Peter, and even quicker work of James - and the three boys had gone down to the feast together, James chattering on about pumpkins.
And even though he had earned a detention today - tardy to Transfiguration, again, but he couldn’t help it, he’d gotten distracted by this particularly intriguing portrait on the sixth floor - it felt like a good sort of day. The corridors were empty - it was late, well past time to be in the common rooms - and James took his time. There was so much to love about going to Hogwarts, but more than anything else, he loved the castle itself, with its twisting trick staircases and its hidden halls. It felt alive, and he loved having it all to himself.
James began to round the corner to his right, just a few moments away from the Fat Lady’s portrait, when he heard muffled voices down the other end of the long, dark hall. There’s a steely edge to those voices, and it’s the sort of tone that always makes the hair on the back of James’ neck stand to attention. Without even considering any other alternative, James turned and headed towards the noise.
He arrived at the edge of the shadows, at a curve in the corridor where the moon’s light streams in from the windows and puddles on the stone floor, illuminating four figures. James paused for a moment, trying to sort out the scene.
He recognizes the smallest boy - a first-year Slytherin, called Snape - from a shared class. Stringy, black hair and a hooked nose, small even for their age. James had never given the boy much thought - never really given any Slytherin much thought, to be honest - but it was clear that he was at the mercy of three older boys, also wearing the green and silver ties of a Slytherin, and not much mercy glinted in their eyes. One of the boys holds Snape’s wand in his wand, lazily twirling it in his fingers, with his own pointed directly at the boy, who knelt against the wall. The other two boys laugh, and sneer insults at the first-year.
James is bold and foolhardy, slow to anger on his own account but quick to rush to another’s defence. He drew his wand and steps out from the shadows.
“Leave him alone,” James said loudly. All four boys turned sharply at the sound of a bystander. The older boys grinned haughtily at the sight of another potential victim; Snape dropped his gaze back to the floor.
“What are you going to do about it, then?” asked the boy with Snape’s wand, laughing cruelly. “Care to take us all on, then?”
James shrugged. The idea that a first-year might not fare well against three older boys, especially when the boys in question are Slytherins, hadn’t even crossed his mind. He knew a few jinxes, sure, but he didn’t know much about countering spells. He didn’t even have a plan, necessarily; he just couldn’t ignore that prickling sensation on his neck, the feeling of needing to stop something bad.
Snape remained motionless, his knees drawn tightly to his chest.
“If I have to,” James replied, as if it was the most natural thing to do.
The boy with Snape’s wand laughed again. He was clearly in charge, a head taller than his friends, his light brown hair damp with sweat. “Go back to your house, and don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he said to James. But James simply shook his head.
A flash of irritation darkened the boy’s face. One of his friends muttered, “Just hex him and be done with it, Mulciber. We’ve got to get back to the dungeons.”
The boy called Mulciber nodded slightly, and turned his wand on James. James swallowed quickly, an edge of fear beginning to thicken on his tongue. What was he thinking, challenging these three boys, all alone, late at night, and clearly that Snape wasn’t going to be any use…
But before Mulciber could send a hex James’ way, a cold voice called out from the shadows further down the corridor.
“Having fun?”
Mulciber and his cronies twisted around again, wands raised.
“Oh,” Mulciber crowed, “Look who it is.”
Black stepped into the moon’s light, his eyes quickly assessing the scene. James could have sworn that the faintest of grins ghosted Black’s lips, which were almost always drawn in a thin, permanent line. But as quick as it came - if it had in fact been there at all - it was gone, and Black glared fixedly at Mulciber. And then, instantly, quickly, as soon as Black was in arm’s reach of the Slytherin, there was a sharp crack -
- and James expected to see the flash of a hex, some sort of spell cast against Black, but instead, he was treated to the shock of Mulciber stumbling backwards, dropping Snape’s wand in surprise, clutching his nose with the now-free hand. Blood seeped through his fingers.
Snape’s fingers scraped across the stone, hurriedly retrieving his wand.
James took a step forward, certain that now some sort of attack would come, because these boys weren’t just going to let Black punch one of their own, were they?
And now, it was Black’s turn to laugh. A strange sound, unfamiliar to James’ ears, despite sharing a room with the other boy for a month’s time. “See, Mulciber? I fixed it for you.”
It was as if Mulciber’s two friends had been Stunned - James could see their shoulders freeze in surprise - but they did nothing to avenge their leader.
Mulciber’s hand fell from his nose, sticky with blood, which flowed freely over his lips. He spoke thickly, “You always were a freak, Black. Knew it even before you went to Gryffindor.”
Black seemed to consider this for a moment. “You’re probably right. Going to do anything about it?”
And somehow, improbably, impossibly, it seemed that the answer to this was no, because James watched in shock as Mulciber stalked past Black, his two friends following quickly, heading off towards the stairs to the dungeons.
James shot Black a quick glance, but he held his tongue for the moment. His mind was abuzz with questions for Black, but first, he turned to Snape and offered the boy a hand.
Snape meets James’ eyes for the first time, and there is nothing but spite written across his face. He recoiled at the outstretched hand, and pulled himself up, backing away from James.
“I didn’t ask for your help, you’re just as disgusting as any dirty Mudblood,” Snape snarled, rushing out of the moon’s light, and down the shadowy corridor. Black stood silent, unmoving. For a moment, nothing happens.
James tucks his hands into his robes and straightens his spine.
His father had told him to anticipate this. And it’s not as if life before Hogwarts had been free of the snide comments, the suspicious glares, the cruel denial of his very presence at a shop counter. But for the most part, that kind of vitriol had been reserved for his brief excursions into the Muggle world. James knew that this was racism, bigotry, discrimination, because those were words his parents had taught him, words they had never shied away from. But it wasn’t until his eleventh birthday that his father had told him that magic was no cure for cruelty.
“James, you’ve got to understand - when you go to Hogwarts, not everyone will like you. It won’t be like it is here, in Godric’s Hollow. Some of them will hate you, because of your skin, because you’re different. Because you’ve got a black father, and a white mother. Some of them will get over it. Some of them won’t. And it isn’t right or fair, but you have to know - you can’t ever forget - they are the wrong ones, not you.”
James had nodded jerkily, and his father continued, pulling his son to his side.
“It won’t just be the Muggleborn children, either. There’ll be children from pureblood families who’ll have grown up learning to think they’re better than us. And it won’t matter to them that you’re pureblood, too. That’s why all this shite - ah, don’t tell your mum I’ve been swearing in front of you again - that’s why all of this blood status talk isn’t worth anything. It’s just an excuse for some people to say they’re better than the rest.”
The Potters had lived in Godric’s Hollow for generations, where they were beloved and respected by their neighbors. James had not yet known this kind of intimate hatred, the kind of pain that was clearly written across his father’s face as memories of his own years at Hogwarts swirled to the surface of the present. And so his father had to warn James of what might come, of what would surely come, of the racism in the wizarding world.
“But James, no matter what anyone says, you’ve just got to know it here,” he said, pressing his hand over his son’s heart, “that you’re extraordinary, and that they’re not worth you.”
“So, are you telling me to just ignore it?” James asked quietly, thinly.
His father shook his head firmly, and kept his hand on James’ chest. “Never. Memorize their faces, and some day…But for now, don’t let them see where it hurts. Don’t let them in here,” he said in a low, strained voice, gently tapping the skin above James’ racing heart.
Standing in the corridor, bright stars prickling the night sky, all silent save the shallow breaths of two boys on the edge of anger and Snape’s fading footfalls, James felt the specter of his father’s touch.
James inhaled deeply, swiftly, and turned to Black, cocking an eyebrow. “Would’ve thought you’d’ve had some sneaky spell up your sleeve, didn’t peg you as the sort to go in for Muggle duelling.”
Black’s eyebrows quivered briefly; James could see the other boy considering his carefully constructed nonchalance, weighing his own next words carefully.
“Sometimes, that works just as well,” Black said finally, with a shrug, his eyes tentatively darting up to meet James’ gaze. He holds it.
A breath’s pause, and then a grin cracks open Black’s face. “I mean, it’s not like either of us knew anything to stop them. You realize Mulciber and his lot are third years, right?”
James smirks back. “We ought to, though. Learn some tricks. For next time.”
Black laughs.
The two boys head home, footsteps echoing across the stone. A companionable quiet settles. As they approach the Fat Lady, who disapprovingly tutted at the lateness of the hour, James turned back, and broke the silence.
“You’re not like the rest of your lot, are you?” he asked, although it is more a statement of fact than a question. There’s a truce on his tongue.
Black’s lips curl up again - the most James has ever seen this boy smile - and he tilts his head to the side. “Must not be, if I ended up here with a bunch of lowly Gryffindors.”
The Fat Lady’s portrait swung shut as the two boys scrabbled into the common room, headed for the dormitory stairs. They took them together, side-by-side, naturally in sync.
There were still conversations to be had - the hostility of the previous month wouldn’t evaporate overnight, brotherhood wouldn’t come with the dawn’s rise - but something was shifting.