Peter Pettigrew's No Good, Very Bad Day

Peter Pettigrew was tucked away between the stacks in the library, sitting crosslegged with his back against Spellbooks A-M , a large and somewhat hairy book resting in his lap.

He chewed the tip of his quill absently. James was always on him about that, chewing on his quills. Teased him about it quite mercilessly, actually. In response, Peter laughed a little too loud to really sound genuine-no one noticed, no one ever noticed.

He hated being made fun of. Which was unfortunate, really, as it happened all the time. An easy target for Sirius' and James' barbs, he was, and while he knew they meant it all in good fun, and shoved them away with a muttered "Shut up, you lot", he always ended up laughing a little too loud, a little too harshly.

He wondered if they knew the difference between his laughs-the real one, the one he laughed when a prank went off just right or when James nudged him and whispered something lewd during Potions.

And then there was fake one-the one he laughed when Sirius said how could anyone miss that question on Kneazles, any half-wit would know that, and Peter knew he'd left it blank. And later when they got their tests back, James would snatch the incriminating scroll full of blanks and crossouts from Peter's hands and wave it around laughing."What's this, Wormtail? Run out of ink or something?" and smack Peter's head with the rolled-up object of embarrassment.

Peter went back to nibbling gently on the end of his quill again. It was quiet in the library-silent as a tomb, actually. Nobody sat in the library on Friday nights. Nobody but him. Remus' parents were visiting and taking their only, precious son they still didn't know what to make of out to dinner. Sirius and James were headed to lust over the newest broom model-Hummingbird something or other.

He didn't want to be alone with just the two of them.

When Remus was there, it was alright but when it was just Padfoot and Prongs, they formed their own private world full of Quidditch (which Peter couldn't work up an active interest in, though he tried) and girls (which Peter had plenty of active interest in; unfortunately, unreciprocated).

There had been one girl, fifth year. Marge Meddlefirth. A portly, red faced Hufflepuff girl who wore orange and brown interchangeably. This had made her the butt of Sirius' witticisms more than once; most frequently she was compared to a pumpkin who had lost its patch. Peter had the bad luck-worst luck in the world, he thought-to have caught her watery, brown eye. The whole thing had been horrible from the start. First, she'd started wearing ribbons (orange and brown) in her ashy brown hair. Then she'd started batting her eyelashes at Peter in class, clumpy mascara giving her a constantly shocked look.

Lastly and most appallingly, after she'd finished reading a rather poor essay on the merits of lawn gnomes to their Herbology class, she had asked Peter to the ball via poetry read rather hastily under the irate professor's "That will be ALL, Ms. Meddlefirth"s.

"Your blond hair is gold like corn, Your eyes are blue like the sea, You make my heart sing like a horn, Peter-would-you-go-to-the-ball-with-me?"

He had sunk down in his seat with a moan, squeezing his eyes shut in horror as the class broke into raucous catcalls and laughter.

"You make my heart sing like a horn, Peter! Did you hear that?" Sirius had shouted over the din, incredulous and amused. "A goddamn bloody horn, Peter!"

Marge Meddlefirth had retired to her seat after it was clear no response was forthcoming, and she couldn't have heard it if there was.

Sadly for Marge, the sorry story did not end there. It was her own fault, Peter told himself viciously. If she hadn't bloody followed me...

She'd cornered him in the corridor after class, looking nervous and shy. "Did you hear my poem, Peter?"

He had gawked at her. "Did I hear...did I...of course I bloody heard your poem, you cow! The entire class heard your stupid, inane, babbling poem!"

To Peter's annoyance, Marge had promptly burst into tears, large sobs making her second chin wobble as she tried to squelch the sobs down with pudgy pink fingers pressed over her mouth.

Peter had stared at her, rage flushing his cheeks red. "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?" he'd shouted, and perhaps it wouldn't have been so loud if he hadn't felt like crying himself. Marge recoiled in shock, smudgy eyes wide, and took off down the hallway still wailing.

Peter stood there panting, watching her go. Fury and pity and shame welled up inside him and he stormed back to Gryffindor Tower and into his room. It wasn't until he'd drawn the curtains around his bed did he unclench his fists, his nails left little red semicircles in his palms, a few of which were tinged with blood. He lay on his back, staring at the canopy, and gulped down a sob.

Trying to calm his shaky breathing, he had pretended he was somewhere else, not here, and thinking that even if he skipped dinner he'd still have to see everyone tomorrow morning.

His plan to escape to the countryside of India had been interrupted as the curtains of his bed were thrown back. The other three Marauders had clambered onto his bed, surrounding him, loud and cheerful.

"That was hilarious! Did you ever see that coming, Padfoot?"

"I definitely never saw that coming, Prongs."

"I haven't laughed that hard since we charmed Rosier's face purple third year!"

Sirius had sat up straight and started doing an impression of Marge, complete with facial expressions and falsetto voice qualities, "Your blond hair is like yellow corn-"

"Gold corn, twat, get it right."

"Shut up, Prongs," Sirius glared and began again. "Your blond hair is like gold corn,

Your blue eyes are like the sea, you make my heart sing-make my heart sing--sing-"

By then he was laughing so hard he was doubled up into a ball.

"A horn! A horn! Like a bloody horn!" James gasped through his mirth.

Remus was hiding something that sounded suspiciously like chuckles behind a hand. "Come on, you guys, that's not on," he admonished, but the effect was broken by the fact he too could not stop laughing.

Sirius, who was rolling around still impersonating Marge, grabbed Peter by the collar. "Oh, Peter, Peter Pettigrew, love of my sad little life, wouldn't you please take me to the ball!"

"She's probably got a great big sail of a dress picked out!" James.

"Orange and brown!" Sirius.

"Well, yes, what else?" Remus.

Peter smiled thinly. "Shove off, you lot."

"Aw, Petey, what's the matter?" Sirius, sounding not the least concerned.

"The matter is," James began seriously. "The matter is...her heart is singing like a horn!"

The two started howling with laughter again.

Peter curled into a little ball, burying his head with a moan. "My life is ruined."

"It's not that bad."

"Yes, yes it is, Moony. My whole life is ruined."

"People forget things over time."

"Not this sort of thing. People will remember this forever. I'll be getting a job and the interviewer will read my resume and go 'Christ, you're Peter 'heart sings like a horn' Pettigrew!' and laugh me out of his office!"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not." Peter sniffed.

Remus sighed and got up off the bed, stepping over the writhing bodies of Sirius and James who had managed to start an argument over something and were occupied wrestling on the floor by Peter's bed. He began walking over to his own bed.

"There are worse things than being embarrassed, Peter."

"No, there aren't," Peter whispered, staring blankly at Remus' receding back. "I hate it. I hate it more than anything."