The Marauders: Year Three | #Wattys2016

I Knew You Had It In You

I Knew You Had It In You

Peter huddled into the pocket of Albus Dumbledore's coat. In the frenzy of the werewolf fight, he'd run for the door the instant he'd felt the cold air brush his whiskers, ducking from the pocket of the abandoned cloak by the fire hearth that he'd previously sought refuge in. It wasn't until he got closer that he realized he recognized the smell of the headmaster and changed his route. He'd climbed the headmaster's robes silently, unnoticed, and tucked himself hastily into the pocket, curling up and trembling at the very bottom of it.

Surely Dumbledore's pocket was as safe a place as one could ever be.

He heard Dumbledore command Sirius to go back to his office, to wait there, heard Sirius ask about Remus, about James... and finally about him, Peter.

An afterthought. Always an afterthought. Always last to be mentioned, always last to be asked of.

Peter shivered.

When Dumbledore stepped into the night, Peter felt the pocket swing, thumping against Dumbledore's side. He clutched the cloth with his tiny paws and twitched, waiting, wondering what to do now. He considered revealing himself, but he wasn't entirely positive he could and he certainly didn't want to try to turn back to a person while he was in Dumbledore's pocket - that would be nothing but awkward - and so he rode along as Dumbledore walked away from the Shrieking Shack. Then he paused and there was a CRACK! and Peter felt quite squeezed as Dumbledore disapparated from Hogsmeade into the mountains.

Dumbledore had been right, of course, he had come out quite close to the cave where the fighting between Resistance members and Death Eaters still raged on and he reached to withdraw his wand, only just barely missing feeling the rat curled at the bottom. Peter could hear cries of pain and shouts, spells that sounded intimidating and awful and he knew this was something that he didn't want to be anywhere near - even in Dumbledore's pocket!

"Dumbledore's here!" shouted Flitwick, and the Resistance members fought with renewed vigor against the Death Eaters. Even Hagrid was blasting stunners with his pink umbrella.

Peter scrambled out of Dumbledore's pocket, though, eager not to be any part of the fight. He slid down the length of the headmaster's robes, and ran for it, squeaking and weaving his way along the path, away from the cave as Dumbledore joined the others in the battle.

The moon was low in the sky, soon dawn would come. Peter's whiskers flicked and fluttered as he ran as fast as his little rat legs would carry him, which, considering how tiny he was, was pretty fast for a rat. Faster than he probably could run as a boy, at least... which, considering how round he was, wasn't very fast at all for a boy.

He reached a plateau in the mountain, and, not wanting to go so far that he would get lost and never find his way back, he ducked into the trees there and, scared it wouldn't work, he concentrated quite hard on turning back into a boy.

To his absolute amazement -- it worked.

He sat down on a log and panted, clutching his heart, staring up through the trees to see the flashes of colored light that came from the various duels raging by the cave. Peter felt dizzy, leaned down and put his head between his knees, taking deep breaths.

There were footsteps in the woods behind him. Softly gliding steps, more of a floating than a walking. He slowly lowered himself down to the ground before the log, holding exceptionally still, rather wishing he hadn't turned back from his rat form just yet.

"Where is the Boy?" came a low, rasping voice. Peter recognized it at once as the same he'd heard from the mirror in first year and he trembled. It was Lord Voldemort! Here, in the forest once again.