FIC: "Clouds of White" for venturous
Recipient: venturous
Author/Artist: purplefluffycat
Title: Clouds of White
Rating: R
Pairings: Filius Flitwick/Peter Pettigrew
Word Count: about 4750
Warnings: Teacher/student slash, in which Peter is 17.
Summary: He would never have looked at the boy, at first. That was the truth by Merlin, and Filius reminded himself of that fact for many years after the event had passed. He was not a bad man, after all. Indeed, quite the opposite; didn't everyone always say that he was cheery and good natured and would go out of his way to help someone in trouble?
Well, yes. And that was quite possibly how the whole thing had started.
Author's/Artist's Notes: Inspired by the prompt: “Filius Flitwick has a fling with a marauders-era student; a schoolboy crush becomes something more, it threatens his career. How he survives,” although this tale has possibly meandered a little from that prompt. Many thanks to venturous for the inspiration, and to bethbethbeth for running this fantastic fest!
***
Circle
He would never have looked at the boy, at first. That was the truth by Merlin, and Filius reminded himself of that fact for many years after the event had passed. He was not a bad man, after all. Indeed, quite the opposite; didn't everyone always say that he was cheery and good natured and would go out of his way to help someone in trouble?
Well, yes. And that was quite possibly how the whole thing had started.
*****
It was a Tuesday afternoon, as he recalls. Late spring; still chill enough for the Scottish gales to bite when they chose, but sufficiently close to summer for the students to be jumpy about exams - flitting from library to common room in the same distracted dance as midge larvae hatching from the lake. Filius had just finished a heavy day of teaching and was looking forward to an appointment with a cup of cocoa and his Victrola, set to 'soothing'.
He dismissed the class - sixth-year Gryffindor/Hufflepuff; moderate ability, medium trouble - and was practically through the door himself when he noticed that there was still a boy in the room after all the others had left, hovering fractiously by his desk.
He suppressed a sigh. “Well there, what can I do for you?”
The boy simultaneously stood up very straight and stared down at his own feet, managing to look like a piece of wrought iron gone wrong. “Well, I was just wondering sir, if I maybe might be able to have an extra lesson - or, you know, just a few minutes - on these Disillusionment Charms? I've nearly got it - or at least I think I have, but James says-”
Not wishing to see his charge flounder for longer than he had to, Filius forced a welcoming smile. “Certainly, young man. They are a bit tricky, aren't they? How about...” he waved his diary over from across the room, and scanned the week's page, “... after supper tomorrow?”
The boy melted from his anxious pose; relaxed thus, he was barely taller than Filius. “Thank you, sir!” he said, and then skedaddled for the exit in the precise manner of someone not wanting to push their luck.
Filius gave a wry smile at the retreating lad - his scurry duck-toed and adding absolutely no elegance to a plump little frame. He Summoned his quill without looking but then paused before adding the appointment to the following evening's square. Come along, old man, you should know all of those Gryffindors' names by now. Sucking the feather for a moment as the class-lists scrolled mentally by, he then rolled his eyes when it clicked into place. Oh, that one. He scribed 'Pettigrew - 6th year' into the space, as then circled it - given the fact that he'd already forgotten the boy once in as many minutes, it was best not to take chances. Clicking the book shut, Filius left his classroom and made his was to dinner.
Balance
Two months and nine lessons later, Filius opened his classroom door one Friday evening to find Peter in tears. The former - that Peter should be awaiting his arrival - was no longer unusual. The sweet young man had become something of a fixture of late, and Filius had to admit he didn’t mind the company. Disillusionment charms were pretty much sorted, but it had turned out they could talk. A bit of Quidditch (definitely more watching than playing for them both), something about pets, his Aunt Winifred’s garden in the spring; all perfectly amiable. In fact, it was uncommonly nice. Filius had plenty of friends, but seldom had he felt so very listened to. Youths were clearly better without the accessory arrogance.
The tears, however, were far less accustomed - and naturally, that gave him pause. Filius was good with students, but had never been overly good with weeping. It made him feel awkward - and quite useless. A witches’ reserve, really; how could an old bachelor really know what to say in such circumstances? He’d usually send the poor child in question off to Poppy or Pomona if at all possible - they’d know what to say.
In this instance, however, no such evasion seemed on the cards. Embarrassed to be caught thus - he must have forgotten the time - Peter scrubbed at his face harshly and took a monumental sniff to try to contain the sobs.
Filius inhaled and tried to arrange his features as sympathetically as possible without looking like a buffoon. Definitely tricky, he thought. But sympathy for the young man swiftly overrode all of that, and he approached, concerned, about to ask what was the matter.
The question was never voiced, however; Peter held one hand against his eyes: “Nothing. Really, it's nothing.”
“It doesn't look like nothing to me,” Filius said kindly, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder. He felt more confident now. “Problem shared and all that?”
A long moment passed - Peter curled into a little ball on the classroom floor, Filius patting his arm in what he hoped was a mildly comforting way.
Finally, Peter seemed to make a decision. Or perhaps it was less of a decision, and more of a dam-breakage. “Oh, I suppose I'm just being silly. They’d say I am, anyway. It's just James and Sirius, and... well, they're like this all the time, I guess, it's nothing in particular,” another almighty snuffle, “it's just that sometimes it gets a bit much...”
Filius was puzzled; he'd seen those boys together - as thick as thieves, or so had believed. Definitely a job for Poppy, after all, then; he found he could manage only the obvious: “But I thought that Black and Potter were your friends?”
“Oh, they are!” It was exclaimed with such clinging ferocity Filius didn't dare suggest that Peter's sobs suggested the contrary.
“Right...”
“I mean, they were only joking, I guess. They're always joking. About me, I mean. They seem to get a laugh, anyway.”
“Mmmm.” It was becoming pretty clear by this point; most popular boys needed a fall-guy to inflate their own egos. Filius had been there himself, once-upon-a-time. “Do you want to tell me what they've been saying?”
Peter shook his head sharply, and a radish hue crept to stain his cheeks.
“Ok, then. I'll just give you some time, and let me know when you want to...” he motioned at the text book in his hands and made for the door, possibly more relieved than a Head of House should have been at the chance to exit. The poor boy needed some space, Filius told himself; he wouldn't interfere.
Yet, there was something in particular about this boy that made his feet dawdle as he crossed the stones. The lad who had described his pet cat at home with quite such delighted animation; who had asked about Filius’ music collection as if he really wanted to know and who kept coming back to talk after supper even though the lessons were mostly done. Surely he owed this young man more than his usual bonhumous evasion?
Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps not: “-Wait.” The word was so soft, Filius wasn't sure it had really been said. He turned his head slowly, hand poised on the classroom door, but then his eyes met Peter's, bloodshot and willing him back.
A long moment passed, in which Filius made up his mind. “How about you come into my sitting room, then? We can have a nice cup of tea.” Peter nodded gratefully, and rose.
As a professor, Filius wouldn't normally let students see his secret passageways - it would simply be asking for trouble. This poor boy wasn't going to make mischief with the knowledge, though - Filius was confident.
So, he waved his wand at the cupboard that housed his store of feathers and birdcages and it swung back into a spiral staircase to his private quarters, the tiny, decorative hole beneath the dresser widening to a passageway the perfect height for his diminutive frame. Peter was somewhat taken aback (Filius had to admit it himself - it was pretty nifty spellwork), but followed upwards with aplomb when Filius gestured that he should.
Some tea-related bustling ensued when they reached Filius’ cozy private sitting room. Not too strong, plenty of milk and sugar, mugs striped like a cheerful mint humbug. Armchairs were pink and just the right size for a pint-sized professor and a boy, short for his years. When they were settled, drinks had been sipped and biscuits passed, Filius leaned forward and raised his eyebrows to Peter, in what he hoped was an encouraging manner.
“Oh, as I said, it’s nothing, really…” A lip began to quiver once more.
“Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’ to me,” Filius said mildly, “What have those lads been up to, then?”
“Well…” Peter mangled one of the sleeves of his robes between sweaty fingers, “They're always saying that I'm... I'm fat, and that's why I'll never get a girlfriend. And I know it's true, but-”
“-Poppycock, dear boy!” Filius was surprised with himself. He wasn't in the habit of interrupting, but something had stirred him to do just that.
Peter frowned, and then, in a very small voice: “What?”
“I mean - people come in all shapes and sizes. Those friends of yours should learn to respect that.”
Peter looked severely unconvinced - his gentle face blotchy red and expression sunken - and all of a sudden, Filius found himself unaccountably angry on behalf of his young charge - how dare those other boys tear his confidence to tatters? He tried again, quite unsure from where the wave of ire had come:
“Look. These ridiculous ideas they're bullying you with are balderdash on no less than two counts!
“Firstly, plenty of people would find your particular form attractive just as it is. Human tastes are nothing if not extremely varied. It's true that the popular opinion might favour those who are average height and all toned-up, but that's just a segment of the world at large. A sizeable minority - maybe ever a silent majority for all I know - will prefer those who are tall or short or skinny or plump. - Just as well for chaps like me, eh?” He made a self-depreciating gesture to his own stature, and was gratified to see the corners of Peter's mouth curl into a smile and his cheeks dimple. Something about it was unaccountably charming.
“And in your particular case-” Filius was visited by that strange sense of giddiness that made him talk a lot when he'd had too much elf-made, even though he hadn't drunk a drop that day, “- In your particular case, I'd wager you have absolutely nothing to worry about, young man. You have a very sweet face and a body to match - someone's bound to love you to bits!” He kept his tone light and encouraging, but suddenly felt the need to grasp the arm of the chair very hard so as not to embarrass himself. A vision of Peter with a first lover flashed before his eyes; the boy's mouth forming a silent 'O' as he felt kisses along his neck and chest; his soft sides and tummy exposed to hungry, marking lips. Filius wasn't sure from where the image had come, but it was singularly arresting.
Valiantly, and more than a little shocked with himself, Filius shook his head to focus on the matter at hand. “And more importantly, - Far, far, more importantly, that is - it's what's inside that counts, not what you look like. The right person - by which I mean someone who really deserves you, my boy - will be someone you feel comfortable with, just being yourself. Someone you can talk to. Someone you trust. Just remember that, will you - and you'll quickly see that everything those boys were saying was tosh of the highest order.”
There was a long pause as Peter furrowed his brow, considering, and Filius persuaded himself to be once more fully respectable. Finally: “Then what should I do about it?”
Pleased to be making some progress with the lad, Filius jumped on the next step. “Well, do you want a girlfriend?”
His enthusiasm, however, was met by another painful pause. “Um, well...” Peter shifted in his seat and radish began to turn beetroot. After another lengthy fiddle with the sleeves of his robes, he muttered, “Yeah, I guess.” It was the least convincing admission of lust that Filius had ever heard.
Filius wasn't sure what made him say the next thing that came out of his lips. Maybe it was simply the thrill of getting to the bottom of a puzzle; the same zeal with which he scribed in the last word of the Daily Prophet Sunday crossword. - Or perhaps it because he wished someone had been quite so forthright with him when he had been sixteen and at sea. “Or perhaps you'd rather have a boyfriend?”
Peter's eyes widened in fright.
“It's really nothing to be ashamed of,” Filius continued, emboldened, seizing the final piece of the conundrum, “Plenty of us wizards are that way inclined, you know.”
A very long beat; Filius cursed himself for having said too much, it wouldn't do to scare the poor lad.
But instead, he saw a wide-eyed curiosity; perhaps even epiphany. “You mean you're... as well?”
He wasn't quite sure when the conversation had turned to concern his own personal life, but Filius sensed that there would be no good to be found from backing out then. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Wow.” Peter nodded. “But you're so... respected.”
At that, Filius had to laugh. “This isn't the eighteen-hundreds, you know! - Despite what some of your macho young colleagues might think.”
His grin was obviously contagious, the corners of Peter's lips tugged upward and a chuckle replaced the sniffle. It was wonderfully heart-warming to see. “Well, thank you, sir.”
“Tush, never mind the 'sir'.”
Again, a moment's pause. “Ok, well. Thank you.”
Swish
“Peter? How on earth...?” It was late - perhaps even early, given the most recent chiming of Filius’ bedside clock. He was nestled in bed with a book and glass of hot milk against the November chill, and had been reading daft tales of hippogriffs and heroes to encourage elusive sleep. He and Peter - now a seventh year, and beginning to flourish - had parted hours ago from one of their chats; Filius blinked hard to make sure it wasn’t just a sleepy mirage in the candlelight. How could the boy have come to be standing in his bedchamber?
“I came through from the classroom,” Peter whispered. Filius was sure that he had closed the passageway behind him, as ever - and there was not room for anything larger than a mouse beneath the cabinet - but such practical considerations were squarely pushed away. The boy was clearly very much there and very much settling gingerly on the side of his bed in his dressing-gown, rump perched expectantly and torso twisted right around to look into Filius' eyes. It was quite, quite bewitching.
Filius just about summoned the presence of mind to bookmark his page and place the volume on the bedside cabinet. “This is hardly the time for a tutorial, now is it?” He tried to chuckle, but the sound died somewhere in his throat. Peter’s gaze searched his face, the boy’s lips moist and softly parted; angelic and perfectly obscene.
With a steady voice, practiced and recited a hundred times, Peter started, “I trust you. And I can talk to you, just being myself. You’re the only one, and you’re the person I want to be with.”
The silence that followed was thicker and heavier than sleep, or spellwork, or narcotics. It wove into every nook of that snug room, cushioning upholstery, warming cockles of a tired old heart, and padding away sharp good sense.
Filius knew he had to say 'no', he had to send the boy away... but yet the words would not reach his lips and he could only stare entranced as the glow framed Peter's features, so young and earnest and unblemished in the flickering gold. Peter swallowed hard, eyes closed and summoning all of his courage. Then - slowly, deliberately - he locked eyes with Filius and pulled on the bow of his dressing gown. The fabric fell away to a cascade at each shoulder, revealing the fact that beneath, he was completely naked.
“Now, Peter...” Filius tried, but his tone - entranced and ragged - betrayed his words. How long had it been, exactly? How many years? And the boy - his boy - was so very attractive.
He knew that he couldn't, mustn't, look; his professional self was shouting that loud and clear. But somehow in the cocoon of his candlelit room that all seemed impotent, and he could do nothing but shiver in awe at the delightful young man who was shrugging a gown from his shoulders and gingerly, deliberately, reclining on his coverlet.
“Please,” Peter breathed, and Filius had never, in all his years of teaching, heard a student ask for something more earnestly.
Paralyzed between duty and want, Filius did nothing - while Peter bravely stood his ground, breathing deeply, not looking away: His soft little body flushed pink and smooth, chubby thighs and belly a perfect dumpling. Mousy-blond curls tousled and lower lip wobbling in excitement and anticipation. He was simply beautiful.
“Cherub,” Filius breathed, unaware that he had said it aloud. And then with fuller voice, “Darling boy...”
“Please...” Peter murmured once more, shifting upon the covers with outstretched arms. “You're the only one who has ever... I mean, I want to be with you.”
And then, something in Filius snapped. Perhaps it had been so very long - but more likely, he thought Peter so very lovely. Someone who wanted him; someone to call his own, even if only fleetingly. The responsible voice in his head was clearly weak in those post-twilight hours; he had been reading tales of castles and hippogriff flights and improbable happily-ever-afters, and for just a moment anything seemed possible. He leapt from beneath the covers - perhaps even levitated, for all he knew - and began to shower Peter with kisses; ill-placed and excited, but very, very sincere. There was nothing between them save for Filius’ paisley pyjamas - and very soon, not even those.
By dawn, Peter was gone, even though he had wanted to stay. But when he returned the next night - and the next, and the next - Filius found he was each time less capable than the last of sending the boy on his way. Soft, warm, naked and smooth beneath his hands, Peter was all the affection, all of the promise he had never had - and it was so very easy to allow him to remain just a little later as light crept through the bed-curtains and the morning-sounds of house elves and Quidditch-trainees clanged outside their muffled, snug nest.
Flick
Dear Filius,
I stopped this from going to press this afternoon. Perhaps we could talk after supper in my office.
Yours,
Albus
The parchment trembled in Filius’ fingers even as he stood alone in his classroom. December gales battered the windows, howling and shrieking; promising the worst.
It was taken down with one of those new-fangled quik-quotes quills (shoddy piece of spellwork, if he'd ever seen one) but the damning headline shone up from the parchment just the same.
GOBLIN TEACHER MOLESTING SCHOOLBOYS? IS HOGWARTS SAFE FOR YOUR CHILDREN?
The article continued:
A well-respected source within the socially-elite section of Hogwarts’ student body has revealed a startling truth regarding one of the school’s most respected teachers. Filius Flitwick - long rumoured to be part-goblin - has been teaching Charms at Britain’s wizarding school for some years. But at what price?
Our attractive and reliable pureblood source has the following to say: “We’ve all seen it. Boys leaving his rooms early in the morning - but we don’t know how he gets them there. Maybe it’s a bribe. Or maybe he hypnotizes them. We’re all really scared.”
The one thing we can know, however, is that this must not be allowed to continue. Goblin magic is mysterious at best, and combined with one of the country’s shrewdest academics in Charms, how can you be sure your son is safe? To read more and to help us petition the Ministry of Magic to investigate these shocking claims, turn to page 7. To read more about Albus Dumbledore's alarming Muggleborn-promotion policy, turn to page 9.
*****
The rest of the day passed in a daze; Filius was nothing but a ball of mal-coordinated nerves when he fell up the staircase to the Headmaster’s study that evening, and tumbled through the door.
Looking up from his papers, Albus smiled kindly. “Filius.”
All the fractious energy that had carried him there sprang at once, like a banshee from a trap. Words fell, end on end: “Yes, yes, I know! I shouldn't have. I never meant to, really I didn't. But he... and then I... and it was just so... But! I won't, I promise I won't. Please accept my word, Albus. I'm not the sort of person who...”
“Shhhh....” Albus soothed, placing a hand on Filius' shoulder. “I know, my friend. I know.”
“You do?” At that, Filius relaxed a fraction; just enough to form a sentence. He bit his lips together and inhaled deeply through his nose. “I'll tell him it must stop.” He didn't turn to look at Albus, but felt the Headmaster's stately nod behind him, beard brushing his ear. “I'll tell him tonight.”
*****
Filius was not in bed when Peter came to him that night, but fully-dressed and perched by the door, hands and stomach both a perfect knot. He had rehearsed what he must say almost as many times as Peter must have practiced his terribly courageous proposition several glowing weeks before. The symmetry made Filius’ heart twist ever more in his ribcage. How could doing the right thing possibly feel so very painfully wrong?
Peter bounced forward to kiss him, unphased as a puppy. Their lips brushed - even now he was weak, Filius cursed himself - but then he found the spine to pull back. “Peter, there’s something I need to say to you.”
“Ok. But there’s something I wanted to tell you, too.” A slight cloud passed across the boy’s brow. “I’m pretty sure it’s not good, but they did make it sound tempting.”
“Mmmm?” This was not going to plan.
“I've had an offer.”
“Of what? Who from?” Spears of protectiveness - or was that possessiveness? - soared through Filius, and he tried to fight them down.
“Some sort of club - or association. Lucius wasn’t very clear. But he said that it would be really good for me if I were to join. That it’s a dangerous world out there, and I’d be better off if I were on the right side… or something; I don’t know. It didn’t sound very nice.
“It’s true, though, I am pretty worried about what I’ll do after Hogwarts - but you'll look after me, won't you? I mean, now that we're...”
Finally seizing his chance: “Peter, I need to talk to you about that.”
The boy’s face looked confused - not even guarded. Filius honestly felt without the heart to continue - to crush the poor lad - but he knew he must. Looking away, he went on: “This - between us, I mean. It has to stop.”
“What do you mean?” Open, watery eyes looked at him with such trust, his own also threatened to well.
“The Headmaster knows, Peter. He has given me one chance to end this, or I shall surely be dismissed. I’m so sorry.”
The pause that Filius had expected did not come, however - but a wave of ebullience. “Then come away with me! Don’t be a teacher any more. We can… we can just be together and… it’ll be fine. You’ll see…”
Don’t be a teacher any more The idea was exotic, alien. And just for a second it all made perfect sense - the wide yonder, a dream and a boy. Perfect and white and forever.
But then Filius looked about him; his rooms; the school; the only place a tiny man with shady ancestry had ever been accepted; had ever achieved a place for himself. He was formed there now -like the gargoyles on the gateposts or the portraits that chattered and sauntered through the very fabric of the castle. Old things are not that flexible; they can brittle-snap if torn away. And dreams and boys surely do not last.
Filius took a deep breath, his lungs feeling old and unworthy. “I’m sorry.”
Repeat
He would never have looked at the rat, at first. Why would one? Most children in the school have a pet of some sort, and rodents had never been Filius’ favourite; sneaky little blighters. Yes, there was clearly something about it - always worming out of the Weasley boy’s bag during Charms, sitting up a little too attentively, eyes just a little too fixed to be random chance. Now wiser to his own silly fancies, however, Filius had firmly decided to pay it no mind.
As it was, long years had passed. Equanimity had been reached in Filius’ heart, even when the world at large was brewing trouble once more - but for all his retired respectability, the boy of twelve years before still nestled with him. There were happy memories, of course - sweet and gentle chats, wide-eyed excitement, and holding one another close in a clouded and cozy non-place that was theirs alone.
But it was always the nightmares that loomed largest. The partings, the discovered-missings, the corpseless funerals. The you'll look after me, won't you?s. Sometimes he awoke in a sweat, the Hallowe’en-morn paper clutched in dreamtime hands; so many lost and killed - but why did his boy have to be one of them?
*****
The transformation definitely came as a shock. Again, it was in his chambers at night, just a day after the incident at the Shrieking Shack, when Filius was on his way to bed. He drew his wand and pressed himself against the wall, recoiling from the thing.
“Filius, don’t you recognize me? It’s Peter!”
The man that the rat could become was unkempt, it was true, but also ugly in a way that had nothing to do with matted hair or yellowing teeth. There was an ugliness in the soul; an ugliness that Filius did not and could not recognize.
“Get away from me,” Filius hissed.
“But don’t you remember how we were together? I need your help. Please, hide me, look after me! Anything!” The man snivelled and fell to his knees on the tatting rug.
Something in Filius’ breast ached sorely with sympathy - Not sympathy, however, for the shell of a being that was then at his feet. “You deserve to be dead, Pettigrew,” he whispered, “How many lives have you now squandered?”
“Please! You don’t understand. I had to…”
“-Preposterous.”
“-Please don’t hurt me!”
Filius was not even aware that his wand was raised and poised to curse until that squeal had come - and at that, he suddenly felt dizzy and sick; visited by a wave of numbness - or revulsion - or possibly just his old friend, weakness.
He turned away from the man. “Just get out. I give you this one chance.”
A small squeak was all he heard before a balding rat ran down his spiral staircase and away for good, under the classroom cabinet.
*****
Upon sober reflection, in the following few weeks, Filius concluded that his boy was still dead, after all. It seemed better that way - for his poor old heart, at least.
As for himself, Filius decided that he probably wasn’t such a good man as all that - and indeed, it might have been better had he realized the fact sooner. Being good didn’t seem to do very much good, now did it? How very long it had taken him to learn.
To corroborate - as if that was going to help - Albus took him to one side one morning after breakfast: “I’m so sorry, my dear friend. It seems that sometimes the wrong thing is the right thing, after all.”
Filius mustered only a wan smile in response. “I know.” - And somewhere in his mind’s eye, a career was sacrificed and a life was saved, and an odd couple of a good-humoured little man and a sweet boy tripped off into clouds of white.
***
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Author/Artist: purplefluffycat
Title: Clouds of White
Rating: R
Pairings: Filius Flitwick/Peter Pettigrew
Word Count: about 4750
Warnings: Teacher/student slash, in which Peter is 17.
Summary: He would never have looked at the boy, at first. That was the truth by Merlin, and Filius reminded himself of that fact for many years after the event had passed. He was not a bad man, after all. Indeed, quite the opposite; didn't everyone always say that he was cheery and good natured and would go out of his way to help someone in trouble?
Well, yes. And that was quite possibly how the whole thing had started.
Author's/Artist's Notes: Inspired by the prompt: “Filius Flitwick has a fling with a marauders-era student; a schoolboy crush becomes something more, it threatens his career. How he survives,” although this tale has possibly meandered a little from that prompt. Many thanks to venturous for the inspiration, and to bethbethbeth for running this fantastic fest!
***
Circle
He would never have looked at the boy, at first. That was the truth by Merlin, and Filius reminded himself of that fact for many years after the event had passed. He was not a bad man, after all. Indeed, quite the opposite; didn't everyone always say that he was cheery and good natured and would go out of his way to help someone in trouble?
Well, yes. And that was quite possibly how the whole thing had started.
*****
It was a Tuesday afternoon, as he recalls. Late spring; still chill enough for the Scottish gales to bite when they chose, but sufficiently close to summer for the students to be jumpy about exams - flitting from library to common room in the same distracted dance as midge larvae hatching from the lake. Filius had just finished a heavy day of teaching and was looking forward to an appointment with a cup of cocoa and his Victrola, set to 'soothing'.
He dismissed the class - sixth-year Gryffindor/Hufflepuff; moderate ability, medium trouble - and was practically through the door himself when he noticed that there was still a boy in the room after all the others had left, hovering fractiously by his desk.
He suppressed a sigh. “Well there, what can I do for you?”
The boy simultaneously stood up very straight and stared down at his own feet, managing to look like a piece of wrought iron gone wrong. “Well, I was just wondering sir, if I maybe might be able to have an extra lesson - or, you know, just a few minutes - on these Disillusionment Charms? I've nearly got it - or at least I think I have, but James says-”
Not wishing to see his charge flounder for longer than he had to, Filius forced a welcoming smile. “Certainly, young man. They are a bit tricky, aren't they? How about...” he waved his diary over from across the room, and scanned the week's page, “... after supper tomorrow?”
The boy melted from his anxious pose; relaxed thus, he was barely taller than Filius. “Thank you, sir!” he said, and then skedaddled for the exit in the precise manner of someone not wanting to push their luck.
Filius gave a wry smile at the retreating lad - his scurry duck-toed and adding absolutely no elegance to a plump little frame. He Summoned his quill without looking but then paused before adding the appointment to the following evening's square. Come along, old man, you should know all of those Gryffindors' names by now. Sucking the feather for a moment as the class-lists scrolled mentally by, he then rolled his eyes when it clicked into place. Oh, that one. He scribed 'Pettigrew - 6th year' into the space, as then circled it - given the fact that he'd already forgotten the boy once in as many minutes, it was best not to take chances. Clicking the book shut, Filius left his classroom and made his was to dinner.
Balance
Two months and nine lessons later, Filius opened his classroom door one Friday evening to find Peter in tears. The former - that Peter should be awaiting his arrival - was no longer unusual. The sweet young man had become something of a fixture of late, and Filius had to admit he didn’t mind the company. Disillusionment charms were pretty much sorted, but it had turned out they could talk. A bit of Quidditch (definitely more watching than playing for them both), something about pets, his Aunt Winifred’s garden in the spring; all perfectly amiable. In fact, it was uncommonly nice. Filius had plenty of friends, but seldom had he felt so very listened to. Youths were clearly better without the accessory arrogance.
The tears, however, were far less accustomed - and naturally, that gave him pause. Filius was good with students, but had never been overly good with weeping. It made him feel awkward - and quite useless. A witches’ reserve, really; how could an old bachelor really know what to say in such circumstances? He’d usually send the poor child in question off to Poppy or Pomona if at all possible - they’d know what to say.
In this instance, however, no such evasion seemed on the cards. Embarrassed to be caught thus - he must have forgotten the time - Peter scrubbed at his face harshly and took a monumental sniff to try to contain the sobs.
Filius inhaled and tried to arrange his features as sympathetically as possible without looking like a buffoon. Definitely tricky, he thought. But sympathy for the young man swiftly overrode all of that, and he approached, concerned, about to ask what was the matter.
The question was never voiced, however; Peter held one hand against his eyes: “Nothing. Really, it's nothing.”
“It doesn't look like nothing to me,” Filius said kindly, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder. He felt more confident now. “Problem shared and all that?”
A long moment passed - Peter curled into a little ball on the classroom floor, Filius patting his arm in what he hoped was a mildly comforting way.
Finally, Peter seemed to make a decision. Or perhaps it was less of a decision, and more of a dam-breakage. “Oh, I suppose I'm just being silly. They’d say I am, anyway. It's just James and Sirius, and... well, they're like this all the time, I guess, it's nothing in particular,” another almighty snuffle, “it's just that sometimes it gets a bit much...”
Filius was puzzled; he'd seen those boys together - as thick as thieves, or so had believed. Definitely a job for Poppy, after all, then; he found he could manage only the obvious: “But I thought that Black and Potter were your friends?”
“Oh, they are!” It was exclaimed with such clinging ferocity Filius didn't dare suggest that Peter's sobs suggested the contrary.
“Right...”
“I mean, they were only joking, I guess. They're always joking. About me, I mean. They seem to get a laugh, anyway.”
“Mmmm.” It was becoming pretty clear by this point; most popular boys needed a fall-guy to inflate their own egos. Filius had been there himself, once-upon-a-time. “Do you want to tell me what they've been saying?”
Peter shook his head sharply, and a radish hue crept to stain his cheeks.
“Ok, then. I'll just give you some time, and let me know when you want to...” he motioned at the text book in his hands and made for the door, possibly more relieved than a Head of House should have been at the chance to exit. The poor boy needed some space, Filius told himself; he wouldn't interfere.
Yet, there was something in particular about this boy that made his feet dawdle as he crossed the stones. The lad who had described his pet cat at home with quite such delighted animation; who had asked about Filius’ music collection as if he really wanted to know and who kept coming back to talk after supper even though the lessons were mostly done. Surely he owed this young man more than his usual bonhumous evasion?
Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps not: “-Wait.” The word was so soft, Filius wasn't sure it had really been said. He turned his head slowly, hand poised on the classroom door, but then his eyes met Peter's, bloodshot and willing him back.
A long moment passed, in which Filius made up his mind. “How about you come into my sitting room, then? We can have a nice cup of tea.” Peter nodded gratefully, and rose.
As a professor, Filius wouldn't normally let students see his secret passageways - it would simply be asking for trouble. This poor boy wasn't going to make mischief with the knowledge, though - Filius was confident.
So, he waved his wand at the cupboard that housed his store of feathers and birdcages and it swung back into a spiral staircase to his private quarters, the tiny, decorative hole beneath the dresser widening to a passageway the perfect height for his diminutive frame. Peter was somewhat taken aback (Filius had to admit it himself - it was pretty nifty spellwork), but followed upwards with aplomb when Filius gestured that he should.
Some tea-related bustling ensued when they reached Filius’ cozy private sitting room. Not too strong, plenty of milk and sugar, mugs striped like a cheerful mint humbug. Armchairs were pink and just the right size for a pint-sized professor and a boy, short for his years. When they were settled, drinks had been sipped and biscuits passed, Filius leaned forward and raised his eyebrows to Peter, in what he hoped was an encouraging manner.
“Oh, as I said, it’s nothing, really…” A lip began to quiver once more.
“Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’ to me,” Filius said mildly, “What have those lads been up to, then?”
“Well…” Peter mangled one of the sleeves of his robes between sweaty fingers, “They're always saying that I'm... I'm fat, and that's why I'll never get a girlfriend. And I know it's true, but-”
“-Poppycock, dear boy!” Filius was surprised with himself. He wasn't in the habit of interrupting, but something had stirred him to do just that.
Peter frowned, and then, in a very small voice: “What?”
“I mean - people come in all shapes and sizes. Those friends of yours should learn to respect that.”
Peter looked severely unconvinced - his gentle face blotchy red and expression sunken - and all of a sudden, Filius found himself unaccountably angry on behalf of his young charge - how dare those other boys tear his confidence to tatters? He tried again, quite unsure from where the wave of ire had come:
“Look. These ridiculous ideas they're bullying you with are balderdash on no less than two counts!
“Firstly, plenty of people would find your particular form attractive just as it is. Human tastes are nothing if not extremely varied. It's true that the popular opinion might favour those who are average height and all toned-up, but that's just a segment of the world at large. A sizeable minority - maybe ever a silent majority for all I know - will prefer those who are tall or short or skinny or plump. - Just as well for chaps like me, eh?” He made a self-depreciating gesture to his own stature, and was gratified to see the corners of Peter's mouth curl into a smile and his cheeks dimple. Something about it was unaccountably charming.
“And in your particular case-” Filius was visited by that strange sense of giddiness that made him talk a lot when he'd had too much elf-made, even though he hadn't drunk a drop that day, “- In your particular case, I'd wager you have absolutely nothing to worry about, young man. You have a very sweet face and a body to match - someone's bound to love you to bits!” He kept his tone light and encouraging, but suddenly felt the need to grasp the arm of the chair very hard so as not to embarrass himself. A vision of Peter with a first lover flashed before his eyes; the boy's mouth forming a silent 'O' as he felt kisses along his neck and chest; his soft sides and tummy exposed to hungry, marking lips. Filius wasn't sure from where the image had come, but it was singularly arresting.
Valiantly, and more than a little shocked with himself, Filius shook his head to focus on the matter at hand. “And more importantly, - Far, far, more importantly, that is - it's what's inside that counts, not what you look like. The right person - by which I mean someone who really deserves you, my boy - will be someone you feel comfortable with, just being yourself. Someone you can talk to. Someone you trust. Just remember that, will you - and you'll quickly see that everything those boys were saying was tosh of the highest order.”
There was a long pause as Peter furrowed his brow, considering, and Filius persuaded himself to be once more fully respectable. Finally: “Then what should I do about it?”
Pleased to be making some progress with the lad, Filius jumped on the next step. “Well, do you want a girlfriend?”
His enthusiasm, however, was met by another painful pause. “Um, well...” Peter shifted in his seat and radish began to turn beetroot. After another lengthy fiddle with the sleeves of his robes, he muttered, “Yeah, I guess.” It was the least convincing admission of lust that Filius had ever heard.
Filius wasn't sure what made him say the next thing that came out of his lips. Maybe it was simply the thrill of getting to the bottom of a puzzle; the same zeal with which he scribed in the last word of the Daily Prophet Sunday crossword. - Or perhaps it because he wished someone had been quite so forthright with him when he had been sixteen and at sea. “Or perhaps you'd rather have a boyfriend?”
Peter's eyes widened in fright.
“It's really nothing to be ashamed of,” Filius continued, emboldened, seizing the final piece of the conundrum, “Plenty of us wizards are that way inclined, you know.”
A very long beat; Filius cursed himself for having said too much, it wouldn't do to scare the poor lad.
But instead, he saw a wide-eyed curiosity; perhaps even epiphany. “You mean you're... as well?”
He wasn't quite sure when the conversation had turned to concern his own personal life, but Filius sensed that there would be no good to be found from backing out then. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Wow.” Peter nodded. “But you're so... respected.”
At that, Filius had to laugh. “This isn't the eighteen-hundreds, you know! - Despite what some of your macho young colleagues might think.”
His grin was obviously contagious, the corners of Peter's lips tugged upward and a chuckle replaced the sniffle. It was wonderfully heart-warming to see. “Well, thank you, sir.”
“Tush, never mind the 'sir'.”
Again, a moment's pause. “Ok, well. Thank you.”
Swish
“Peter? How on earth...?” It was late - perhaps even early, given the most recent chiming of Filius’ bedside clock. He was nestled in bed with a book and glass of hot milk against the November chill, and had been reading daft tales of hippogriffs and heroes to encourage elusive sleep. He and Peter - now a seventh year, and beginning to flourish - had parted hours ago from one of their chats; Filius blinked hard to make sure it wasn’t just a sleepy mirage in the candlelight. How could the boy have come to be standing in his bedchamber?
“I came through from the classroom,” Peter whispered. Filius was sure that he had closed the passageway behind him, as ever - and there was not room for anything larger than a mouse beneath the cabinet - but such practical considerations were squarely pushed away. The boy was clearly very much there and very much settling gingerly on the side of his bed in his dressing-gown, rump perched expectantly and torso twisted right around to look into Filius' eyes. It was quite, quite bewitching.
Filius just about summoned the presence of mind to bookmark his page and place the volume on the bedside cabinet. “This is hardly the time for a tutorial, now is it?” He tried to chuckle, but the sound died somewhere in his throat. Peter’s gaze searched his face, the boy’s lips moist and softly parted; angelic and perfectly obscene.
With a steady voice, practiced and recited a hundred times, Peter started, “I trust you. And I can talk to you, just being myself. You’re the only one, and you’re the person I want to be with.”
The silence that followed was thicker and heavier than sleep, or spellwork, or narcotics. It wove into every nook of that snug room, cushioning upholstery, warming cockles of a tired old heart, and padding away sharp good sense.
Filius knew he had to say 'no', he had to send the boy away... but yet the words would not reach his lips and he could only stare entranced as the glow framed Peter's features, so young and earnest and unblemished in the flickering gold. Peter swallowed hard, eyes closed and summoning all of his courage. Then - slowly, deliberately - he locked eyes with Filius and pulled on the bow of his dressing gown. The fabric fell away to a cascade at each shoulder, revealing the fact that beneath, he was completely naked.
“Now, Peter...” Filius tried, but his tone - entranced and ragged - betrayed his words. How long had it been, exactly? How many years? And the boy - his boy - was so very attractive.
He knew that he couldn't, mustn't, look; his professional self was shouting that loud and clear. But somehow in the cocoon of his candlelit room that all seemed impotent, and he could do nothing but shiver in awe at the delightful young man who was shrugging a gown from his shoulders and gingerly, deliberately, reclining on his coverlet.
“Please,” Peter breathed, and Filius had never, in all his years of teaching, heard a student ask for something more earnestly.
Paralyzed between duty and want, Filius did nothing - while Peter bravely stood his ground, breathing deeply, not looking away: His soft little body flushed pink and smooth, chubby thighs and belly a perfect dumpling. Mousy-blond curls tousled and lower lip wobbling in excitement and anticipation. He was simply beautiful.
“Cherub,” Filius breathed, unaware that he had said it aloud. And then with fuller voice, “Darling boy...”
“Please...” Peter murmured once more, shifting upon the covers with outstretched arms. “You're the only one who has ever... I mean, I want to be with you.”
And then, something in Filius snapped. Perhaps it had been so very long - but more likely, he thought Peter so very lovely. Someone who wanted him; someone to call his own, even if only fleetingly. The responsible voice in his head was clearly weak in those post-twilight hours; he had been reading tales of castles and hippogriff flights and improbable happily-ever-afters, and for just a moment anything seemed possible. He leapt from beneath the covers - perhaps even levitated, for all he knew - and began to shower Peter with kisses; ill-placed and excited, but very, very sincere. There was nothing between them save for Filius’ paisley pyjamas - and very soon, not even those.
By dawn, Peter was gone, even though he had wanted to stay. But when he returned the next night - and the next, and the next - Filius found he was each time less capable than the last of sending the boy on his way. Soft, warm, naked and smooth beneath his hands, Peter was all the affection, all of the promise he had never had - and it was so very easy to allow him to remain just a little later as light crept through the bed-curtains and the morning-sounds of house elves and Quidditch-trainees clanged outside their muffled, snug nest.
Flick
Dear Filius,
I stopped this from going to press this afternoon. Perhaps we could talk after supper in my office.
Yours,
Albus
The parchment trembled in Filius’ fingers even as he stood alone in his classroom. December gales battered the windows, howling and shrieking; promising the worst.
It was taken down with one of those new-fangled quik-quotes quills (shoddy piece of spellwork, if he'd ever seen one) but the damning headline shone up from the parchment just the same.
GOBLIN TEACHER MOLESTING SCHOOLBOYS? IS HOGWARTS SAFE FOR YOUR CHILDREN?
The article continued:
A well-respected source within the socially-elite section of Hogwarts’ student body has revealed a startling truth regarding one of the school’s most respected teachers. Filius Flitwick - long rumoured to be part-goblin - has been teaching Charms at Britain’s wizarding school for some years. But at what price?
Our attractive and reliable pureblood source has the following to say: “We’ve all seen it. Boys leaving his rooms early in the morning - but we don’t know how he gets them there. Maybe it’s a bribe. Or maybe he hypnotizes them. We’re all really scared.”
The one thing we can know, however, is that this must not be allowed to continue. Goblin magic is mysterious at best, and combined with one of the country’s shrewdest academics in Charms, how can you be sure your son is safe? To read more and to help us petition the Ministry of Magic to investigate these shocking claims, turn to page 7. To read more about Albus Dumbledore's alarming Muggleborn-promotion policy, turn to page 9.
*****
The rest of the day passed in a daze; Filius was nothing but a ball of mal-coordinated nerves when he fell up the staircase to the Headmaster’s study that evening, and tumbled through the door.
Looking up from his papers, Albus smiled kindly. “Filius.”
All the fractious energy that had carried him there sprang at once, like a banshee from a trap. Words fell, end on end: “Yes, yes, I know! I shouldn't have. I never meant to, really I didn't. But he... and then I... and it was just so... But! I won't, I promise I won't. Please accept my word, Albus. I'm not the sort of person who...”
“Shhhh....” Albus soothed, placing a hand on Filius' shoulder. “I know, my friend. I know.”
“You do?” At that, Filius relaxed a fraction; just enough to form a sentence. He bit his lips together and inhaled deeply through his nose. “I'll tell him it must stop.” He didn't turn to look at Albus, but felt the Headmaster's stately nod behind him, beard brushing his ear. “I'll tell him tonight.”
*****
Filius was not in bed when Peter came to him that night, but fully-dressed and perched by the door, hands and stomach both a perfect knot. He had rehearsed what he must say almost as many times as Peter must have practiced his terribly courageous proposition several glowing weeks before. The symmetry made Filius’ heart twist ever more in his ribcage. How could doing the right thing possibly feel so very painfully wrong?
Peter bounced forward to kiss him, unphased as a puppy. Their lips brushed - even now he was weak, Filius cursed himself - but then he found the spine to pull back. “Peter, there’s something I need to say to you.”
“Ok. But there’s something I wanted to tell you, too.” A slight cloud passed across the boy’s brow. “I’m pretty sure it’s not good, but they did make it sound tempting.”
“Mmmm?” This was not going to plan.
“I've had an offer.”
“Of what? Who from?” Spears of protectiveness - or was that possessiveness? - soared through Filius, and he tried to fight them down.
“Some sort of club - or association. Lucius wasn’t very clear. But he said that it would be really good for me if I were to join. That it’s a dangerous world out there, and I’d be better off if I were on the right side… or something; I don’t know. It didn’t sound very nice.
“It’s true, though, I am pretty worried about what I’ll do after Hogwarts - but you'll look after me, won't you? I mean, now that we're...”
Finally seizing his chance: “Peter, I need to talk to you about that.”
The boy’s face looked confused - not even guarded. Filius honestly felt without the heart to continue - to crush the poor lad - but he knew he must. Looking away, he went on: “This - between us, I mean. It has to stop.”
“What do you mean?” Open, watery eyes looked at him with such trust, his own also threatened to well.
“The Headmaster knows, Peter. He has given me one chance to end this, or I shall surely be dismissed. I’m so sorry.”
The pause that Filius had expected did not come, however - but a wave of ebullience. “Then come away with me! Don’t be a teacher any more. We can… we can just be together and… it’ll be fine. You’ll see…”
Don’t be a teacher any more The idea was exotic, alien. And just for a second it all made perfect sense - the wide yonder, a dream and a boy. Perfect and white and forever.
But then Filius looked about him; his rooms; the school; the only place a tiny man with shady ancestry had ever been accepted; had ever achieved a place for himself. He was formed there now -like the gargoyles on the gateposts or the portraits that chattered and sauntered through the very fabric of the castle. Old things are not that flexible; they can brittle-snap if torn away. And dreams and boys surely do not last.
Filius took a deep breath, his lungs feeling old and unworthy. “I’m sorry.”
Repeat
He would never have looked at the rat, at first. Why would one? Most children in the school have a pet of some sort, and rodents had never been Filius’ favourite; sneaky little blighters. Yes, there was clearly something about it - always worming out of the Weasley boy’s bag during Charms, sitting up a little too attentively, eyes just a little too fixed to be random chance. Now wiser to his own silly fancies, however, Filius had firmly decided to pay it no mind.
As it was, long years had passed. Equanimity had been reached in Filius’ heart, even when the world at large was brewing trouble once more - but for all his retired respectability, the boy of twelve years before still nestled with him. There were happy memories, of course - sweet and gentle chats, wide-eyed excitement, and holding one another close in a clouded and cozy non-place that was theirs alone.
But it was always the nightmares that loomed largest. The partings, the discovered-missings, the corpseless funerals. The you'll look after me, won't you?s. Sometimes he awoke in a sweat, the Hallowe’en-morn paper clutched in dreamtime hands; so many lost and killed - but why did his boy have to be one of them?
*****
The transformation definitely came as a shock. Again, it was in his chambers at night, just a day after the incident at the Shrieking Shack, when Filius was on his way to bed. He drew his wand and pressed himself against the wall, recoiling from the thing.
“Filius, don’t you recognize me? It’s Peter!”
The man that the rat could become was unkempt, it was true, but also ugly in a way that had nothing to do with matted hair or yellowing teeth. There was an ugliness in the soul; an ugliness that Filius did not and could not recognize.
“Get away from me,” Filius hissed.
“But don’t you remember how we were together? I need your help. Please, hide me, look after me! Anything!” The man snivelled and fell to his knees on the tatting rug.
Something in Filius’ breast ached sorely with sympathy - Not sympathy, however, for the shell of a being that was then at his feet. “You deserve to be dead, Pettigrew,” he whispered, “How many lives have you now squandered?”
“Please! You don’t understand. I had to…”
“-Preposterous.”
“-Please don’t hurt me!”
Filius was not even aware that his wand was raised and poised to curse until that squeal had come - and at that, he suddenly felt dizzy and sick; visited by a wave of numbness - or revulsion - or possibly just his old friend, weakness.
He turned away from the man. “Just get out. I give you this one chance.”
A small squeak was all he heard before a balding rat ran down his spiral staircase and away for good, under the classroom cabinet.
*****
Upon sober reflection, in the following few weeks, Filius concluded that his boy was still dead, after all. It seemed better that way - for his poor old heart, at least.
As for himself, Filius decided that he probably wasn’t such a good man as all that - and indeed, it might have been better had he realized the fact sooner. Being good didn’t seem to do very much good, now did it? How very long it had taken him to learn.
To corroborate - as if that was going to help - Albus took him to one side one morning after breakfast: “I’m so sorry, my dear friend. It seems that sometimes the wrong thing is the right thing, after all.”
Filius mustered only a wan smile in response. “I know.” - And somewhere in his mind’s eye, a career was sacrificed and a life was saved, and an odd couple of a good-humoured little man and a sweet boy tripped off into clouds of white.
***
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