*Wensleydale clomps down the stairs and slides into a booth. He has been wearing his current outfit for a week, and, while he has been showering, it is still gross. He is casting sidelong glances at the front door.*
Peter, who is deliriously happy today, spots Wensleydale and hurries over to his booth. He greets Tim and Adam politely before turning to Wensley.
"Hullo," he says with a smile. "Remember me, Peter Pettigrew? You never did tell me your name, or how you knew all about me. Still convinced that this place is all a costume party, by the way?"
His tone is joyful, not upset. It's a moot question whether anything could upset him at this minute.
Peter glances sceptically at Wensley. "Oh, pull the other one, it's got bells on. I mean, honestly, couldn't you have picked a better name for your author than the name of the reporter who does the celebrity gossip column for the Daily Prophet?
"Not that I'd be surprised if there were books about Harry Potter. The boy's practically a cottage industry. I think that so-called writers have written more unauthorised bios about him--for magazines, usually--than they did about Lady Diana Spencer. Or Princess Di, to the ignorant."
Novels. Going to be seven of them, currently five out. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone; Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets; Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban; Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire; Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. The sixth is going to be Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. They've made movies out of the first three.
"Hmmph," Peter snorts. "I suppose that's one way of avoiding lawsuits. Just claim it's all fiction. Harry's a minor, so he'd have trouble suing; his guardians wouldn't want the world to know that he was THAT Harry Potter. And the wizarding world keeps itself pretty circumspect. So even if the gossip columnist changed something outrageously for the sake of her unauthorised-bios-cum-novels, wizards and witches would keep quiet."
He glances at the boy. "It's a lot simpler than trying to deal with people who think that magic is nonexistent. Or tricks. Or delusions. Or that anyone who believes in them is mad, or a charlatan, or both. Muggles know NOTHING about magic or the wizarding world--my mum was proof of that--but they'll fight like hell to prove that what they don't know is so."
Peter rolls his eyes. "Boy-who-still-refuses-to-tell-me-his-name...not everyone in this bar is from the same time as you. There's a chap named Ulfin Kingsman who's from Arthurian times. There's a woman here--her name is Cordelia Naismith Vorkosgian--and she's from so far in the future that Earth itself is practically legend. My fiancee is from 1811 England. I arrived here 9 July 1996.
"Oh, and Harry--who just turned sixteen, by the way--comes in here every now and again to be with Sirius. I can't wait to see his reaction when you tell him he doesn't exist."
"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, even if the feeling isn't mutual." Peter grips Wensleydale's hand in his silver one, sensing that this may be a convincer. Metal hands are not supposed to be body temperature, or feel as if they have muscles and bones beneath the surface
( ... )
Peter frowns. Why hadn't he noticed that boy before? Well, he had, actually--but then Adam had just...faded out of Peter's notice.
Strange.
Peter automatically glances at Adam, trying to sense if the boy is a magic user or not. He's not, exactly, but there's something there...
As he tries to focus on the unnameable something, he loses his balance and falls against the table. For a second, he's a bit disoriented, and he can't quite remember what he was thinking about.
Liz, undoubtedly. Who else would a newly engaged man be thinking of, if not his fiancee?
"Hello, Adam," he says pleasantly. "I'm very pleased to meet you."
"Hullo," he says with a smile. "Remember me, Peter Pettigrew? You never did tell me your name, or how you knew all about me. Still convinced that this place is all a costume party, by the way?"
His tone is joyful, not upset. It's a moot question whether anything could upset him at this minute.
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You're not real. You're fictional.
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"Since when?"
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"Not that I'd be surprised if there were books about Harry Potter. The boy's practically a cottage industry. I think that so-called writers have written more unauthorised bios about him--for magazines, usually--than they did about Lady Diana Spencer. Or Princess Di, to the ignorant."
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He glances at the boy. "It's a lot simpler than trying to deal with people who think that magic is nonexistent. Or tricks. Or delusions. Or that anyone who believes in them is mad, or a charlatan, or both. Muggles know NOTHING about magic or the wizarding world--my mum was proof of that--but they'll fight like hell to prove that what they don't know is so."
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No, Harry would be an adult, now, if he existed.
Which he can't.
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"Oh, and Harry--who just turned sixteen, by the way--comes in here every now and again to be with Sirius. I can't wait to see his reaction when you tell him he doesn't exist."
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*he pauses, then goes very pale*
Bloody hell, you really are Peter Pettigrew.
*he sticks out a hand, which shakes slightly. His voice is weak*
Jeremy Wensleydale. Pleased to meet you. Or... would be, if you weren't a traitorous bastard.
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Right... well in that case, I am pleased to meet you.
Why didn't Adam ever explain all of that to me?
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Adam. He's one of my best mates.
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Strange.
Peter automatically glances at Adam, trying to sense if the boy is a magic user or not. He's not, exactly, but there's something there...
As he tries to focus on the unnameable something, he loses his balance and falls against the table. For a second, he's a bit disoriented, and he can't quite remember what he was thinking about.
Liz, undoubtedly. Who else would a newly engaged man be thinking of, if not his fiancee?
"Hello, Adam," he says pleasantly. "I'm very pleased to meet you."
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And you, Peter.
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