Ficlet: The Dragon Hide Book Bag
First off, a huge, heartfelt...
THANK YOU
...to the anonymous soul(s) who gave me paid LJ time yesterday. I can't tell you what a lovely surprise that was. There will be fic for you soon (you can reply here anonymously and leave a prompt, if you'd like) and more polls in the meantime. *feels special* I appreciate it enormously. M.
***
Continuing with last week's meme about every day objects:
For
sambethe: The Dragon Hide Book Bag
Characters: Peter, James
Gen, 600 words, a harmless G
As the youngest child in a family of plump, talkative witches, Peter Pettigrew understood the economy of favors that made small, tight-knit groups work. He listened and waited and nodded and laughed, and in return he was coddled and favored and petted and spoiled.
The transition to the small, tight-knit environment at Hogwarts should have been easy, but after four days of school, Peter found himself at the far end of the third floor toilets, pink-eyed and sniffly, spilling his heart in a long letter home.
It was the cruelty that he wasn't used to, Peter decided; girls were nicer. Black had a mean streak; Potter ignored him; Lupin said things that sounded fine at first but were rather insulting if you thought abut them too much. In the four days since Peter had arrived, he'd lost his favorite quill, the strap to his new dragon hide book bag, and his first History of Magic assignment, and Peter had a sneaking suspicion that his roommates were responsible for all three.
Shame on them! I don't know Professor McGonagall, but I could write to Horace about the dragon hide strap, Peter's mother wrote to him after receiving his owl. He should pay more attention to his Potions students. I paid good Galleons for that bag.
But Peter hesitated, knowing how little his sisters appreciated his mother's strong-armed interventions. Sooner or later things would get better, wouldn't they?
Halfway through the second week, they did. Peter was sitting at breakfast, guarding his bag with one hand while buttering his toast with the other, when an owl weighed down by a large, brown-paper parcel swooped over his shoulder and headed for Potter at the far end of the table. Peter watched curiously as Potter ripped open the parcel and read a note tucked inside, his smile slowly fading.
Serves him right, whatever it was, Peter thought, biting his toast viciously.
A moment later Potter was at his elbow, nudging him.
"Sluggy told my mum about the strap," Potter said dully, talking to a point just past Peter's ear. "She says I need to apologize and give you this."
Peter peered inside the brown paper and saw a dragon hide book bag. It had two extra buckles and a pocket on the outside, but Potter must have described it to his mum, because it looked almost the same as his.
Peter looked at Potter, who couldn't quite meet his eyes, and heard his mother's voice in his ear: He should pay more attention to his Potions students. I paid good Galleons for that bag.
But Potter was here and Mum wasn't.
"It's okay," he said, trying to sound casual. "You keep it."
Potter's eyes widened. "Really? I mean, what about yours?"
Peter gestured to his own bag. "I'm using my scarf for a strap," he said. "Mine's a bit bigger, anyway."
Potter blinked at him owlishly. "I didn't mean to take it, you know," he said. "It's just that—"
A few students brushed by them on their way to class, talking loudly, and whatever the story was, Peter didn't hear it. It didn't matter. The exchange of favors had begun, and two days later Black returned his favorite quill with a sheepish look and a long and unconvincing story about how he'd confused it for his own.
Peter carried his dragon hide book bag for four years, until the buckle that held the flap closed finally snapped. Potter carried his for all seven. Once, toward the end of their last year, Peter overheard him refer to it as "the bag Pete gave me, back in first year, when you were all gits, and Wormtail was the only one I could depend on," which made Peter smile to himself. He hadn't forgotten the awkward eleven-year-old repeating his mother's apologies, but he'd forgiven Potter and moved on. That was how small, tight-knit groups worked, and Peter was at the center of this one.
...to the anonymous soul(s) who gave me paid LJ time yesterday. I can't tell you what a lovely surprise that was. There will be fic for you soon (you can reply here anonymously and leave a prompt, if you'd like) and more polls in the meantime. *feels special* I appreciate it enormously. M.
Continuing with last week's meme about every day objects:
For
sambethe: The Dragon Hide Book BagCharacters: Peter, James
Gen, 600 words, a harmless G
As the youngest child in a family of plump, talkative witches, Peter Pettigrew understood the economy of favors that made small, tight-knit groups work. He listened and waited and nodded and laughed, and in return he was coddled and favored and petted and spoiled.
The transition to the small, tight-knit environment at Hogwarts should have been easy, but after four days of school, Peter found himself at the far end of the third floor toilets, pink-eyed and sniffly, spilling his heart in a long letter home.
It was the cruelty that he wasn't used to, Peter decided; girls were nicer. Black had a mean streak; Potter ignored him; Lupin said things that sounded fine at first but were rather insulting if you thought abut them too much. In the four days since Peter had arrived, he'd lost his favorite quill, the strap to his new dragon hide book bag, and his first History of Magic assignment, and Peter had a sneaking suspicion that his roommates were responsible for all three.
Shame on them! I don't know Professor McGonagall, but I could write to Horace about the dragon hide strap, Peter's mother wrote to him after receiving his owl. He should pay more attention to his Potions students. I paid good Galleons for that bag.
But Peter hesitated, knowing how little his sisters appreciated his mother's strong-armed interventions. Sooner or later things would get better, wouldn't they?
Halfway through the second week, they did. Peter was sitting at breakfast, guarding his bag with one hand while buttering his toast with the other, when an owl weighed down by a large, brown-paper parcel swooped over his shoulder and headed for Potter at the far end of the table. Peter watched curiously as Potter ripped open the parcel and read a note tucked inside, his smile slowly fading.
Serves him right, whatever it was, Peter thought, biting his toast viciously.
A moment later Potter was at his elbow, nudging him.
"Sluggy told my mum about the strap," Potter said dully, talking to a point just past Peter's ear. "She says I need to apologize and give you this."
Peter peered inside the brown paper and saw a dragon hide book bag. It had two extra buckles and a pocket on the outside, but Potter must have described it to his mum, because it looked almost the same as his.
Peter looked at Potter, who couldn't quite meet his eyes, and heard his mother's voice in his ear: He should pay more attention to his Potions students. I paid good Galleons for that bag.
But Potter was here and Mum wasn't.
"It's okay," he said, trying to sound casual. "You keep it."
Potter's eyes widened. "Really? I mean, what about yours?"
Peter gestured to his own bag. "I'm using my scarf for a strap," he said. "Mine's a bit bigger, anyway."
Potter blinked at him owlishly. "I didn't mean to take it, you know," he said. "It's just that—"
A few students brushed by them on their way to class, talking loudly, and whatever the story was, Peter didn't hear it. It didn't matter. The exchange of favors had begun, and two days later Black returned his favorite quill with a sheepish look and a long and unconvincing story about how he'd confused it for his own.
Peter carried his dragon hide book bag for four years, until the buckle that held the flap closed finally snapped. Potter carried his for all seven. Once, toward the end of their last year, Peter overheard him refer to it as "the bag Pete gave me, back in first year, when you were all gits, and Wormtail was the only one I could depend on," which made Peter smile to himself. He hadn't forgotten the awkward eleven-year-old repeating his mother's apologies, but he'd forgiven Potter and moved on. That was how small, tight-knit groups worked, and Peter was at the center of this one.