Harry Potter 1. Beaten

No. No, it wouldn't do. He thought about what daddy would say if he knew. All he could do was hide in the lavatory until class started again. The door opened, and he could hear boys coming in. They were loud, at least three of them, but maybe more. He hid in one of the stalls, pulling his feet up off of the floor. Still sobbing, he managed to stifle his moans before they were silent and heard him.  
  
"I'm sure he went in this way! I saw him."  
  
Shadows passed the opening at the bottom of the stall.  
  
He could feel the boys' sneers as one began to bang on the stall door just two toilets down.  
  
"Come on out little crybaby, we won't hurt you, we just wanna play a game."  
  
BANG! The first door swung open with ease and hit the inside of the stall, revealing nothing but air.  
  
"We know you're in here twerp! You're just making it harder on yourself."  
  
BANG! The wall next to him shook, the door next to him hitting the inside with a second thud.  
  
He tucked his knees up close and hid his wand behind the toilet so that they didn't take it to get him in trouble. Using spells in the corridors was strictly forbidden, and they loved to shoot rather crude but simple spells with his wand, and the teachers though him a trouble maker because of the spells they thought he had performed.  
  
He let out a whimper as he braced for the door to come flying open and curled up further into the fetal position on the toilet seat.  
  
BANG! Some malicious Slytherin third years stood malevolently at the door, eyes darkened with the pleasure of tormenting the tiny first year before them. Besides, they were in rival houses. And, he wouldn't tell.  
  
"GOTYA!" The closest one stormed in, neatly trimmed, short, dark hair stark against the white of his face. He sneered, a smile that could even be mistaken for friendly if it was in different context. This grin was one of such absolute sincerity and sweetness that it was more terrifying than any gnarled grimace.  
  
Tears began to stream down the little boy's face, even though he tried to fight them, not wanting them to see him cry.  
  
"Aw wook, widdle cwybaby Petey is gonna go cwying to mummy again."  
  
Not a word of resistance made its way from little Peter, he simply resigned to his fate this time, going limp in the midst of the pushing, shoving, hitting mass of boys, the four of them being as rough as they liked within the conditioned nature of civilization. Even as twelve year olds they had already mastered the art of being discreet. They also knew how to pick a silent mark for their desire to cause pain. Still, the boy at their feet, in his awkward chubbiness and trembling nature had been a dream come true for the gang. They had never managed to continually pick on a boy for more than a month before someone caught on. This little boy had no friends, no one who even seemed to notice his existence save for them. And he would never tell, somehow they just knew.  
  
When they had finished the beating, they searched his pockets, taking the remainder of his Bertie Botts' Every flavour beans and his few saved knuts that he had been trying to transport safely to the Gryffindor boy's dormitory, although he wasn't sure how safe his things were even there. They heard someone coming down the hallway and stood up just in time to see Mrs Norris, the caretaker's spying cat, enter the doorway. Peter was hidden behind their feet, and the footsteps stopped at the door and the owner of the footsteps spoke in a scratchy, wheezy voice, "What is it? Boys getting into trouble again in the toilets? Well, let's stop their fun before they can make a mess out of my plumbing."  
  
Mrs Norris began to sniff around, searching for any incriminating evidence to bring to Filch's attention. Her back twitched, scraggly fur rippling across her body. Her tail swished devilishly.  
  
The caretaker Filch shouted into the room, "What's going on in here? All you boys, I know you're in there you four, get out before I come in there. You're causing trouble, I know you're up to no good." The four stepped outside, obviously smug with the knowledge that they would not be called on anything without proof. Mrs Norris turned to go through the doorway, satisfied that they were moving.  
  
No one noticed the heap of boy in the corner, silent and shaking, soundless sobs wracking his body.

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He had always hated it at home. But he knew there was some way to be safe. Mummy had always stopped it, always protected him. But daddy, was scary. Mummy was so sad all the time, so sad indeed. He was afraid of daddy, but mummy would save him. But then, when mummy wasn't looking, when mummy wasn't around, daddy would hit him. Hit him hard, so hard. He must be bad then, that's why everybody hated him. It was why daddy hit him. Mummy loved him, but that was her job. Mummy had saved him from daddy before anyways. But daddy, daddy said he was getting fat, that he would never amount to anything. Daddy was always right, even if books said he was wrong. He knew he could always escape daddy in those books. Daddy and his truths. Daddy and his hurting. Not big books, but books with bright moving pictures, ones that would show him that beasts like him could become beautiful things. He only had to be patient and good. Then he could show daddy that he wasn't bad. That he didn't have to hate him anymore. Daddy would kick him under the table when mummy couldn't see, and when he made a face he would simply tell her it was a tummy ache. Because daddy was right when he said don't tell mummy. Don't tell, its our little secret. Our little game. But mummy would find out, mummy did find out. And that's when she started to save him; he wouldn't be hit, but mummy would. This meant he was really bad, because daddy would say when mummy couldn't hear, tell him that he was making him do it, making him because he had told mummy. But he hadn't, he didn't, and wouldn't. But daddy was right, it was his fault. Then mummy got sick. She couldn't save him and daddy would hit him. Then mummy went to the hospital, and he was left with no one at all. He would go out with daddy, out and smile. Because he was happy with daddy, daddy loved him, and he hit him because he was bad and that he didn't want him to be bad. This must mean he loved him. He never told, and daddy would smile when he would accidentally step on someone's shoe and tell him that its okay, accidents happen. But at home, he would tell him to be more goddam careful.  
  
He was always clumsy, but the day in the store had been Bad. They had been shopping in a store called "Practical Magic." The store had things like remembralls, coffee tables that walked on clawed feet and would compensate for a bump and nothing would be spilled, carpets that would vaporize garbage as soon as it hit the floor, diaries that corrected spelling and would turn into blank pages if ever opened by another person. He was entranced by the mirrors that could show him how he would look if he changed his hair, or even what he would look like when he was older, or with different coloured eyes. He would stare at the glass objects that served many purposes, the crystalline glow of the glass made his eyes wide with wonder. He picked one up as if under a spell and just then someone behind him bumped him, bumped him hard and it slipped. He watched the globe with a night sky sparkling inside tumble to the floor, slipping through his sweaty child-sized palms. He grasped for it but it went As if in slow motion, no it was in slow motion, the clock globe fell, and shattered, spraying glass jewels and mist across the floor. His mouth pursed in an 'o' and a tear fell down his cheek. Even when the plump little store owner came and told him it was alright, he stood there and stared at the mess. That goddam mess, the mess that he had made and made his daddy look like a fool. The mess that had made daddy hit him so hard that he bled; bled and wept.


	2. Boys Will Be Boys

Peter didn't sleep easily that night, he wished he could be homesick, but he hated it there and he hated it here. The teachers looked down at him, they knew he was bad. He wasn't smart either, so he was useless. He lay awake, looking at the ceiling. The boy who spent a lot of time away was sleeping next to him. He missed school about three days a month. Even so, he managed to get the highest marks in the class. But that marked him as different, so he was alone. That boy was always tired, his hazel eyes were pale and sleep deprived often. Peter wondered if he was just like himself. There was something there underneath those eyes, something that only a shared knowledge could recognize. He saw pain just like his own. People who don't know it by experience don't recognize it. But Peter saw in the boy with dusty brown hairs eyes the pain that they shared but kept to themselves. Still, Peter knew that this boy wasn't bad, this boy was simply lonely. He heard the light breathing to his right, saw the uncomfortable twists and turns in his sleep. Nightmares were something gratefully foreign to Peter, but he still knew those when he saw them. 

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Class was the next day, the young professor McGonagall was teaching her transfiguration class. Even for such a young teacher she was strict, even though the Slytherins could sometimes frazzle her. She rarely lost her cool, and she tried to be fair. And she was, because she had been a student up until fifteen years ago herself. She understood the kids a little better than some of the other professors, and she had been watching Peter Pettigrew very carefully. Still, she had no idea what it was that troubled her about him. She decided to contact the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.

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Peter stared at his books, trying to make sense of the incantations. His eyes tried to trace every movement of the diagrams, following their movements. Even though he had seen professor McGonagall demonstrate, he couldn't remember it. Watching closely, he mimicked the wand movements. No, not left; it was right. Flick, not jab, no! He couldn't seem to get it. Professor McGonagall came around, and asked him how he was doing. "Can you turn the matchstick into a needle yet, Peter?" He nodded, but he had lied. Of course not. Inside he felt like bawling. But he couldn't let her know that he was a bad boy, a stupid boy. "Let's see then." Oh no, the plan had backfired, he shouldn't have been so stupid, stupid, stupid. He tried, going pale as he did the wrong thing over and over. "Peter, would you please stay here after class?" She said softly so that the rest of the class couldn't hear.  
  
Oh no, this was bad. No, he was bad. He couldn't focus for the rest of class, his hopeless incantations becoming less than ineffective and starting to become dangerous as the matchstick set itself alight and began to burn green flame. Suddenly, class was over. He stayed and stared at the desk. Professor Minerva McGonagall sat, tight lipped at her desk until the last stragglers had left.  
  
"Peter, come over here to my desk." Peter stood up but never made eye contact, he knew what was coming next. He flinched as she raised a hand to the loose bun in her hair to push back a few stray strands. This unnerved her, she had no idea what to do, but she knew she had to say something. "Peter, why did you lie?"  
  
He stared at his feet, robes dangling to the floor covering all but his toes.  
  
"Peter." Her voice was gentle but firm. Still, something broke her normally strict attitude. Something was different here, something, something, something... "Peter, if something is bothering you, just tell me."  
  
No, he couldn't do that, he was bad and saying that would make her want to hit him. But he saw in her eyes a real compassion, not the superficial love his daddy gave him. Still, he couldn't, couldn't say. He put a jagged fingernail up to his mouth, a nervous habit of nibbling had cut them down to the quick. He had to keep the secret. He could be a good boy.  
  
McGonagall watched as he began to rock back and forth, not seemingly noticeable to himself. Her eyebrows knit and her lips disappeared into one thin line. "Peter, you can go for now, but please, you won't get in trouble for asking for help." She gave a sincere smile, but as he started for the door she began to bite her thin lower lip.

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Remus woke with a start, the ghosts of his nightmares following him into wakefulness. His body had broken out into a cold sweat. He looked around the room, it seemed he had given the boy in the bed to his left quite a start. The little round face turned to him, wide-eyed but intrigued. "Are you alright?" asked the face peering through the darkness, pools of light from a crescent moon illuminating only the accents of the two boys faces in the blackness. The silver gilded eyes of the round boy looked over with genuine concern, something that made Remus Lupin rather uncomfortable and he shifted his gaze to the window on the far end of the room behind the boy's head. He didn't even know his name.  
  
"I'm Remus," he said. "What's your name?" The awkward whispers cut through the silence.  
  
"I'm..." he considered something for a second, "Peter."  
  
The two had unspoken questions for one another, kindred spirits, isolated in their own fears. They were there, connecting but never really making a breakthrough with each other. They both slept easily that night, somehow changed by such a simple exchange of words.

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Potions class was with the Ravenclaws, and Peter saw the one boy who always sat by himself. His dark greasy hair shimmered in the torchlight of the dungeons. Peter somehow knew that he excelled in this class, and he knew a fair amount about the Dark Arts. This boy both intrigued and frightened Peter, even as a ten year old. In the library, this boy could always be seen with his hooked nose in a book. They were working on a simple potion for curing boils, and Peter as always was having problems. Professor Falask was sitting silently, grading papers from his fifth year class. His long pointed nose was out of proportion with his face, and he had tiny spectacles through which he always squinted.  
  
Then Peter saw them, the other two Gryffindor boys who shared his dormitory. One had round glasses and a permanent mess of dark hair. The other boy was most certainly a very attractive young boy who had a bright future ahead of him. Both of these boys were charismatic and had won over many of the older students up into fourth years. The one with the glasses was known to everyone as James, and the other was Sirius. The two were known by everyone, even Peter and Remus knew them, although they were the outsiders, set apart by their differences.  
  
The two boys sat near the greasy haired boy. They constantly talked and giggled, laughing at some joke that only they seemed to find funny. Then Peter's ears picked it up, a faint farting noise. He almost giggled himself, then he caught it and turned back to properly adding the ingredients. He stuck out his tongue in concentration. He noticed Remus for the first time in class, carefully but deftly adding each ingredient.  
  
He turned back to the two dark haired boys, suddenly a purple spark jumped out from underneath the cauldron that the two had been prodding with their wands. The greasy haired boy was getting ready to put his finished potion in a flask when the spark landed in the cauldron and it went up in flames, then exploded getting green liquid everywhere and all over the greasy haired boy. He turned around, covered in green and sprouting welts all over his face. A look of pure fury had possessed his face, and the other two boys were momentarily stunned out of their laughter. The suprise on their faces didn't end there.  
  
"You idiots! What were you doing that for? You wrecked it. You ruined my potion, I'm going to fail because of you." he hissed. His dark eyes burned with a fervour that actually frightened the other two. Then James spoke, "It was an accident, we're sorry." his voice was low.  
  
Sirius suddenly retorted, he obviously wasn't sorry, "Sorry for what? He doesn't care that its an accident. You can see that."  
  
James looked shocked at Sirius' behaviour. He didn't usually act this way. But what James didn't realize is that some deep contempt, a primal force had lit inside of him. Even Sirius wished he could take that moment back, but he couldn't.  
  
Severus got up and headed for the hospital wing, passing the ever oblivious professor Falask who had not seen anything. James finished their potion, and corked a third flask, handing it in under the other boy's name.


	3. Bad Books

Peter was staring out the window, gazing across the now snow layered school grounds. He was lost in thought as usual, but something was different. They hardly talked still, but being in each other's presence somehow lessened the weight on both of them. Remus was curled up by the fire with a book, one on the defense of the dark arts, and he was engrossed in the story. Still, he looked more pale than usual and Peter had noticed. He must be getting sick again, he was such a sick little kid. Peter was still slightly concerned, but wasn't going to press the fragile symbiosis between them.  
  
Christmas was coming soon, but Peter didn't want to go home. Still, he had to try and be a good boy and go home for Christmas. And maybe he would get to see mummy at the hospital, even though he hadn't yet. Maybe he was good enough going to school, good enough for daddy. Remus was going to go home to his parents too, and Peter thought that was good because he was looking awfully ill lately. He sensed something really wrong with the pallid boy sitting a few feet from him. And he knew that whatever it was, he shouldn't ask - at least not yet. 

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Back at home Peter was in his room, reading his books, looking at the brilliant pictures, safe from his daddy for the time being. Safe from the pain, and he didn't have to try to be good while reading, he could be somewhere else away from it all. His small collection of toys and books made his small room seem barren as well. The little bed of his had one blanket on top of the mattress, it had pictures of puppies on it, they used to play, running across and chasing each other around. But the puppies now were tired and smelly, their once vibrant colours faded with time. One had a rip through it, a gaping hole in the blanket where it had once resided. He had a mirror and a dresser in his room, books resting on top of the dresser, carefully leaned against each other for a lack of book ends. His few toys - a box of moving zoo animals that he had gotten for his seventh birthday, a balding stuffed wolf that he had owned since he was five that he had always kept, even with all of the emergency stitches in it, and a potions set that he had never opened because it would make a mess - were piled haphazardly in a corner. His clothes were always away where they belonged, it was bad to leave them on the floor.  
  
They didn't have a Christmas tree, it was too expensive and too messy. They had a tree once, the needles that fell off had pricked Peter's feet and daddy had hit him for yelping and crying. He could hear daddy now, coming in from the living room, where he had been sleeping on the couch. Peter had been here for a whole day now, and he had seen daddy only once because daddy had gone to sleep. Daddy was coming with the heavy footfalls Peter only heard when daddy was mad. He had made his own food, a sandwich, and had been careful to clean everything up and put it away. He hadn't been rude or ignored daddy. Why was he mad?  
  
The door opened after a moments jiggling of the doorknob. The scent of alcohol wafted up Peter's nostrils and that sent a chill down his spine like never before. It was strong, as strong as daddy's arm. Peter shrank back, realizing that there was no escape, the small window was too high for Peter to even reach if he could have fit through it.  
  
"You little twit, can't you get outside and play sometimes? You're always shut up in here reading those damned books!" He was slurring his speech, and he staggered drunkenly toward the little boy cowering in the corner like a trapped animal. "You need to be more manly, get out of the house and play some quidditch or something." This was utter nonsense because not even daddy had a broom, but Peter knew he had to get one, otherwise he would be a bad boy. It didn't matter that he didn't even know how to play quidditch either, and he couldn't play with anyone because there was no one to play with. He had to just be a good boy and play quidditch. He noticed the warm salty tears soaking his face and the front of his robes because of the difficult task ahead of him. He looked back to daddy and cringed. He was bad, bad for his books. The books were bad, he knew it now. That's because daddy was right and the books were wrong.  
  
Daddy advanced on the tiny figure that was his stepson. He began to raise his arm and brought it down with force across the side of the boy's round face. The room exploded in light for a moment and Peter leaned and spit out a bloody tooth onto the floor, that had only happened once before, but that tooth had been getting loose. This was one of his molars. He turned up to face the man towering over him as the hand was brought down against other side of his face sending tears and blood flying. Then the feet that always wore heavy boots even inside the house began to dig into his ribs, a sickening crack was heard once amidst the series of thuds. He must have been bad, really bad. The books were bad. So very bad. The beating continued into the night.

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In the morning, Peter looked into his streaky mirror to see a swollen face, with a dark line of marks befitting of knuckles spilling purple and green discolourment across his otherwise red and puffy face. His one eye was slightly shut and refused to open more than two thirds of the way. His ribs hurt when he breathed, he was so very bad. So very bad for reading books. He began to gather his picture books and his story books and carried them outside into the back yard. He tossed them in a heap of dirt and realized he had nothing to light the fire. He went inside and got his own wand, knowing full well that he shouldn't use magic. He took it out and debated a moment before deciding that the books were much worse than the trouble for casting a spell. He pounded his fist against the wand and babbled nonsense to it until the inevitable happened: sparks. And he hadn't needed to use a spell for this magic. The books caught easily and began to burn under the three o'clock full moon. He stood and watched until the embers died amongst the ash, the last bits of paper that had been caught in the heat settled on the ground and he went inside to sleep as well as he could on broken ribs.

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The next morning Peter sat chewing his toast carefully because his face was sore and the missing tooth had left an oozing hole ion his gums. Peter asked his dad cautiously if he could see mummy at the hospital, daddy's response was terrifying. He slammed his hands on the table and Peter's toast bounced on the plate, the piece he had half eaten dropped back to the plate a second later as Peter's mouth dropped open. He had been bad. "She's not at the bloody hospital you little git! You're so stupid, she left you here because you're a bad little boy who asks stupid questions." He didn't bother to hit the little boy, he had done enough of that last night and saw no point. He may as well have hit him judging by the look on his bruised little face. Peter's tears were now for the loss of his mummy who had given him hugs and kisses and sung sweetly to him before bed. She'd left him, he must have been bad. So very bad.  
  
Peter was excited, today was Christmas, the only day besides his birthday that he got presents. The bruises from last week had become a slight discoloured tenderness, although his ribs still hurt and the swelling hadn't completely gone. He woke early and lay in bed until he heard daddy getting out of bed. It felt like he had been laying there for hours and he went to check the clock in the hall. 12:37. It had been long, six hours or so at least from the time he had awoken. He rushed out, grinning a slightly lopsided smile because of the soreness of his face. Daddy just looked at him funny and asked, "What are you so happy about?"  
  
"Its Christmas!" he beamed. Surely santa had been here by now.  
  
"So?"  
  
"But... I thought Santa came." No, he was a bad boy. Why would santa come? Not after the books. Not after using magic and not getting punished. Not now.  
  
"Santa isn't real, you're old enough to know that by now." As always, daddy was right.  
  
"But, but..." He searched desperately for a way to finish the sentence.  
  
"But, but!" Daddy mocked. "But nothing, now get your little arse out of my house. And don't come back until you've grown up."  
  
Peter stood, breathless for a moment and headed for his room, he got his robes and stuffed wolf. He also picked his favourite zoo animal - the once brilliant deer which had one antler broken off and claw marks left from the tiger getting into the deer's compartment. He wrapped it all up in his puppy dog blanket just as his dad came stomping down the hall. "I'm going!" He squeaked, the terror evident in his voice at being bad and not leaving right away. The footsteps kept coming. "I said I'm leaving!" tears nearly choked the words silent.  
  
The door swung open. He dashed past daddy, even though he should have been punished for disobeying. His father caught him in the backside with a booted foot and Peter yelped in pain as the fire shot up his spine and his gait changed briefly as he ran. He ran to nowhere because there was nowhere to go. They lived in the middle of nowhere anyways, so he had been nowhere all along. There was nothing around his house, nothing for miles because muggles were nasty and there were no wizards outside the little town they lived near. Peter curled up in some bushes and then began to cry and slowly sobbed his way into a fitful sleep. 


	4. Back Again

Peter awoke to a sound, although he didn't recognize what it was immediately. It was a barred owl, a huge grey bird. Peter was puzzled for a moment and then grabbed the parchment from around its leg. There was a quill and piece of parchment as well. Who would send him a letter? Bad boys don't get letters. It wasn't a red howler either. Just an ordinary white envelope, addressed to one Peter Pettigrew. The beautiful loopy handwriting was wondrous to Peter, and his first hesitations became an eager glee as he nearly tore open the envelope. It was from Remus. Peter began to read.  
  
_Dear Peter,  
  
Merry Christmas. How are you doing? I haven't much to say, but I'm sure you're having fun on the holidays. I'm not enjoying it, but I'm feeling kind of sick. I got a book about Vampires, maybe you can look through it with me. There's loads of neat pictures and all.  
  
Remus_.  
  
Peter clutched the letter to his chest. He sat for a brief moment, just inches away from tears. He grabbed the quill in his frozen hands and began to write back in his own scrawling chicken scratch. He hoped that Headmaster Dumbledore would be able to read it. 

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Albus dumbledore was in his office, quietly reading when an owl arrived. A rather large specimen, it dropped low and landed gracefully on the desk, save for a few papers that had caught slightly in the lift of the bird's wings. Dumbledore looked up, his eyes flashed slightly upon the sudden intrusion, but not a look of malice or impatience, more a brief moment of pain. As he opened it his face fell and he closed his eyes in thought, and he began to write back. The letter in front of him sat gaping, its words gaping up at him and not going away.  
  
_Deer Dumbeldore  
  
I am not comming back to skool, I kant make it back even if I deservd to. I wuz bad and Daddy made me leave the howse. Tell Remus that I miss him and that he shood hav a good krismas becuz he was good enuff to get krismas.  
  
Peter P_  
  
Dumbledore got up silently to do something in secrecy. He notifed Professor McGonagall of his intended absence and after that he simply vanished. 

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Remus curled up tightly in his bed, he felt so sick and the gash on his arm hurt. He couldn't go to the hospital wing, it was something he had to keep secret. Normally he would have gone to Dumbledore, but Dumbledore was gone. The redness began to soak through his pajamas again. It wasn't bleeding steadily, but it would soon be getting on the sheets. His head hurt, and he needed to sleep, but the moon that was just beginning to wane cast a sickly glow across his ghastly face.  
  
He thought of home and playing in the sunshine, even the beautiful sunsets. But the summer heat faded to a humid night with a cool breeze. He began to dream and the dream became reality. The darkness surrounded him, but he was out in the forest, reading a book. He had lost track of time, and even when it was getting dark he automatically grabbed for his wand and muttered "lumos." He didn't hear it coming, even if he had been awake to the world, his little seven-year-old legs couldn't have carried him to safety fast enough. But it was always the same, in his dreams he could hear the snarls and grunts and he just sat there, reading about creatures of darkness, fascinated by dangerous things. Sitting without noticing. Remus always watched as the beast crept up behind him, on its hind legs, hideous and grinning. The werewolf would always bring its claws across the back of his neck, raking in shallow to the flesh but deep into the soul. He couldn't cry out though, he could only take the beating of this half man, half monster. If only he had gone home before dark like his parents had always told him.  
  
Other sounds were coming while Remus took vicious slashes from this monster that nearly killed him. He heard the words "Avada Kedavra!" and he could see the feet of his father. The words were empowered and full of fear and rage. Remus could still see even though he didn't feel conscious. He watched the next sequence of events in more fear than when he was being mauled. The half beast began to shift and falter. Bones could be heard snapping back into normal human posture, joints popping into different positions; hair seemingly disappearing entirely off the body. The face of naked man before him was dead and cold and his body landed facing him, eyes staring at nothing, right through Remus. A trickle of blood flowed from the man's mouth and nose. Dog tags around his neck identified him, and Remus's father came and took them, yanking them roughly from the man's lifeless body. He came to Remus's side, although he didn't think that Remus could have survived. The pallid and cold light of the full moon made the his face look as dead as the man beside him. He then tried to stand up but found he did nothing more than let out a strangled sob. Remus's father came and held him, immediately repairing the worst of the damage, but tears streamed down his face at the fate of his beloved son, accursed for all time afterwards by living, waking nightmares. 

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Peter crept silently up the stairs to the Gryffindor tower, somehow relieved by being allowed to return to school. He thought he had been bad enough not to be allowed anywhere. His dad was probably really mad that he had been bad, and maybe school was bad too, they had books. But not Peter's books. Peter's had been bad. Dumbledore managed to catch up with Peter who had darted off immediately. "Peter, I have to take you somewhere. Come with me."  
  
In the hospital wing, Peter sat and waited for Madame Hart to come in. Dumbledore stood in silent glory, short silver beard hanging poker straight around his neck. Madame Hart came bustling in, having being woken up after just going to bed. She was not in the greatest of moods but she saw this chubby little boy covered in faded yellowed bruises and immediately went pale. She began work immediately, applying salve to his bruises and when she made him take off his shirt she notices a very red, swollen and misshapen lower left rib cage. Immediately she took out her wand and rolled up her sleeves, speaking soothing words as a stream of pale blue shot out and almost instantaneously the swelling was gone, and Peter noticed that he didn't hurt so much. Dumbledore and Madame Hart left for bed, seeing that he was comfortable. He began to nod off when he noticed the bed next to him. A sleeping Remus shuddered in his sleep. He gazed at Remus's squinched face, and moments later he was shuddering too. The two boys shared a fitful sleep, both dreaming of inescapable monsters. 


End file.
