"Escaping Wonderland" DvD Commentary, Part 2
Part 1 of the commentary is here. Next up is Silver, the post-OotP Remus story. Hopefully, as that is fairly short, I'll be able to get the entire commentary into one post.
***
Inevitably, he got lost.
It wasn't his fault. He simply didn't know all of the movements for the staircases; which ones required hopping, or dancing a jig, or skipping the seventh step from the bottom on alternate Tuesdays. More than one staircase began moving while he was still on it, forcing him to cling to the banister with both hands. As he clung, he struggled not to think about what would happen if he fell God-alone-knew how many hundreds of feet onto cold hard flagstones before the staircase grounded itself on a landing once more.
After this happened several times, Peter--without quite realising he was doing so--began searching for alternatives to staircases.
Again, Peter's trying to avoid direct danger by taking another, possibly safer path.
He walked down miles of corridors, dodged around shady corners and searched for portals through tapestries and behind statues. Anything was better than being on a staircase that was moving and not connected to anything.
He tried very hard to ignore the fact that his location was looking more and more unfamiliar each second.
I'm not lost. I'm...exploring. Yes, that's it.
He shoved away the portion of his mind that was demanding to know exactly where he was exploring, and how he was going to get back to Gryffindor Tower, and kept walking.
As he'll do in the future, Peter is continuing along a path that's gotten him lost-even though he knows that turning back might work better.
He saw some odd things as he walked along.
At the end of one corridor was an alcove with a window seat. A chessboard holding a half-finished chess game was resting on the window seat. Something on the chessboard...or maybe the chessboard itself...was snoring. The snoring made Peter deeply uneasy, and he hurried away.
This scene, and the two following it, are from Alice's Adventure's Through The Looking Glass, And What Alice Found There. The snoring coming from the chessboard is coming from the Red King. In Through The Looking-Glass, Tweedledee and Tweedledum tell Alice the following:
“He's dreaming now," said Tweedledee: "and what do you think he's dreaming about?"
Alice said, "Nobody can guess that."
"Why, about you!" Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. "And if he left off
dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?"
"Where I am now, of course," said Alice.
"Not you!" Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. "You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream!"
"If that there King was to wake," added Tweedledum, "you'd go out -- bang! -- just llke a candle!"
I couldn't resist the meta of having a character from one fictional world encounter a character from another fictional world who was, supposedly, dreaming of, and creating, both worlds.
One room had a small door through which Peter could barely squeeze, though he was anything but a large child. Once in, he found himself in an alien forest, filled with cool shade, dappled sunlight filtered through green leaves, and enormous trees that seemed to stretch to infinity.
It was fortunate, perhaps, that Peter was a city boy; thoughts of exploring this wilderness simply did not occur to him. He hung back, staring at the trees, wondering what they were and where they were...and what he was, too, for that matter.
The wood in which things have no names is also from Through the Looking-Glass. Alice loses her name as she enters, just as Peter does, but progresses through the wood anyway, getting it back again after she exits. Peter sees the peril of losing his identity, and backs out as best he can. Note, though, that Peter thinks in terms of WHAT he is...not who he is.
The sudden loss of his name didn't frighten Peter as much as it annoyed him. Have to go back the way I came, he thought. I know that I had a name before I came in here.
Nevertheless, it took a fair bit of time. Even after he turned around to leave, Peter could not remember what a door was, or how a doorknob worked. That he got out at all was an accident; he simply pushed too hard on the door and ended up falling flat on his face in the corridor. He lay there for a few moments as his memory flooded back. Then slowly he stood up on nervous and tottering legs, stared very hard at the green light shining in the forest within the room--and bolted.
Shortly after that, he came upon a hallway containing nothing but a mirror. He approached it cautiously; he didn't think any harm could come from a mirror, but doubtless Snow White's stepmother had once thought the same way.
Peter is starting to approach fairy tales as if they might be real.
It looked like a mirror, but it didn't reflect anything in the hallway. Most assuredly it did not reflect him. Instead, it seemed to be a window, and through that window Peter could see a railway carriage. On the left side of the compartment was a bearded man, all dressed in white paper and reading a newspaper. Beside him was a goat clad in formal man-about-town clothes. Across from the man and the goat was a little girl with long fair hair. She was clad in the kind of clothes Peter had seen in E. Nesbit's fairy tales about Victorian children: a porkpie hat with a feather, a skirt with a row of tucks round the bottom, a muff, striped stockings and pointed black shoes. She looked no more than seven or eight years old, and appeared to be half asleep.
Here's a picture of that illustration: Alice in the Railway Carriage.
The weird thing about the scene--aside from the fact that it was in a mirror at all--was that the compartment appeared to be going sideways. It made Peter feel rather dizzy.
"But...you're travelling the wrong way," he said at last in a helpless voice, as if this, on top of all the other bizarre things that had happened since he came to Hogwarts, was really too much.
Peter is playing the part of the Railway Guard, who sticks his head into the window of the carriage, studies all of the inhabitants-first with a telescope, then with a microscope, then with an opera-glass-and then says exactly what Peter said.
The little girl turned to him and stared, a puzzled expression sweeping across her face.
A frisson of fear ran up Peter's spine. She heard me. She's somewhere else, some other time, some other world...but she heard me.
And then a sound like a window being slammed shut reverberated from the mirror--and the compartment vanished, and the mirror was only a mirror once more.
After the Guard speaks, he shuts up the window and goes away.
Peter gulped, and stared at the mirror. He didn't particularly want to stare at the mirror. He was just afraid of what it might do if he looked away. He was already trapped in one magical world, and he couldn't bear the idea of being pulled into another.
"An ickle Mudblood wandering around where it isn't supposed to be," said a gloating, unpleasant voice from down the hallway. "Stupid little Mudbloods should know better. Could get in terrible trouble.”
And just as Peter's worrying about being sucked into another reality, he's abruptly forced to deal with some huge problems from his own world.
Slowly, dreading what he was about to see, Peter turned toward the voice--and nearly received a hex in the face. Only a swift dodge to the right saved him.
The speaker was Evan Rosier, a tall, arrogantly handsome blond boy of fourteen or so who was regarding Peter with a contemptuous smile. Beside Rosier was his constant shadow, Theophilus Wilkes, a dark stocky boy with a perpetually mulish scowl. Behind Wilkes was Carlisle Avery,
Avery and Wilkes don't have first names in canon, so I named them.
who had once promised to kill Peter's whole family. "They'd be safe if you hadn't shoved your way in where you didn't belong," he'd added, with the air of a judge handing down a sentence. "It'll be your fault when they die screaming in agony. Maybe I'll even let you watch."
Peter will see the corpses of his sisters, their husbands and their children, but he won't watch them die. They will, however, die because of him.
In the centre of the group was Bellatrix Black, a tall, elegant girl of thirteen with long, Victorian-style, sausage-shaped black curls and pale eyes. Bellatrix specialised in charming adults into thinking she was sweet, and she was very good at it. Peter couldn't understand how she managed to do it. All any grownup had to do was look her in the eyes. Those cold, emotionless, stone-dead eyes.
I think that there was always something wrong with Bellatrix, but no one wanted to admit it.
Bringing up the rear, of course, was Severus Snape, a gangly, greasy-haired, sallow-skinned first year, who cursed and hexed much as other people breathed--automatically and unthinkingly.
Notice that Snape's "gang of Slytherins" is largely comprised of people older than he is. Most will leave school before he does, leaving him largely alone in fifth year--which permits Snape's worst memory to occur.
It wasn't the whole gang--Rodolphus Lestrange was missing, as was his younger brother Rabastan, the only Hufflepuff who ran with this crowd--
I get tired of Slytherin being the de facto evil house. Personally, I think that Hufflepuffs would make wonderful minions. Look at the house virtues. Hufflepuffs are patient, hard-working, loyal...what self-respecting Dark Lord wouldn't want someone like that on his side?
and a goodly number of their hangers-on weren't present either...but Peter felt that the ones who were present were more than sufficient.
"Leave me alone," he said, hating the fact that his voice seemed to be about two octaves higher than usual. "I haven't done anything to you. So leave me alone."
I don't blame Peter for being scared. Imagine being eleven years old and suddenly learning that you have the wrong bloodline, and that because of that, there are people-some of whom you'll have to live with for the next seven years-who consider you bereft of all rights and unworthy of existence.
"You have, really," said Rosier in a thoughtful tone. "Your mere existence is an offence against nature."
"Isn't it marvellous how it squeaks?" said Bellatrix, her tone dripping with sugar. "Like a little mouse, just before the cat breaks its back."
Please notice the word "it." Bellatrix doesn't consider Peter to be human.
Peter wondered if he dared turn his back on them and bolt down the hall. He suspected that might be a very bad idea. Before he could come to a conclusion, however, he heard someone say, "Locomotor Mortis!"
His legs snapped together and he toppled to the floor, frozen from the waist down.
"Should have made it the Full-Body Bind, Avery," said Snape critically. "He can still use his wand."
"I rather fancy it this way," said Bellatrix. "It's far more maddening--the creature can use its wand, yes, but it doesn't have the faintest idea of how to fight properly."
For "properly," read "magically." Moreover, Bellatrix is wrong. Peter does, indeed, know how to fight.
"So what should we do with it?" said Avery, surveying his handiwork critically.
"Kill it, what else?" grunted Wilkes. "No one would guess if it had an accident."
And Peter's previous deduction that the bullies of Hogwarts will kill him is borne out.
Peter flattened himself against the flagstones. No. Please, no.
An indignant meow came from Peter's right-hand pocket.
Peter flinched. Oh, no, Nathan, not now. Keep quiet, and we might still have a chance to get out of this.
He really didn't think the kitten would keep quiet. Nathan was being squashed, and Nathan most emphatically didn't like it, for the meow escalated to very loud squalling.
Bellatrix glanced toward him. "Stop that noise," she commanded.
"It's not me!" Peter protested over the yowling.
"I told you to be quiet. And if you're not going to be quiet, I'll give you something to scream about." And Bellatrix strode over to where Peter was lying, rolled him over on his back, and pointed her wand at his face. "Incen--"
Nathan exploded out of Peter's pocket like a claymore mine, biting, scratching and clawing Bellatrix's hands.
To quote from the Annotated Pratchett File:
"A Claymore mine is an ingenious and therefore extremely nasty device. It is a small metal box, slightly curved. On the convex side is written "THIS SIDE TOWARDS THE ENEMY" which explains why literacy is a survival trait even with US marines. The box is filled with explosive and 600 steel balls. It has a tripod and a trigger mechanism, which can be operated either by a tripwire or, when the operator doesn't want to miss the fun, manually. When triggered, the device explodes and showers the half of the world which could have read the letters with the steel balls. Killing radius 100 ft., serious maiming radius a good deal more. Used to great effect in Vietnam by both sides."
Nanny Ogg's cat, Greebo, goes off like a Claymore mine in Lords and Ladies. I figured Nathan was just bloody furious enough to do the same.
Bellatrix shrieked, grabbed the kitten by the scruff of his neck and flung him against the stone wall.
Nathan screamed.
And then there was a terrible silence.
Bellatrix smiled. "Good. That's one beast dead. And now for the other."
Peter stared up at her. "You murdered him!"
Bellatrix glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Why yes," she said, grinning broadly. "I do believe I did."
She raised her wand.
It didn't occur to Peter to draw his own wand.
He doesn't think of magic as a way of fighting back. After all, he's only been at Hogwarts a month...and we know he's not adapting well.
And with his legs frozen, kicking her or running away couldn't happen.
But there was nothing stopping Peter from using his fists, teeth and nails against her, and that was precisely what he did. Most of his blows went wild, either not hitting Bellatrix at all or only glancing off of her, but he made up for inefficiency with quantity.
"I hate you," he gasped as he swung at her with all his might. "I hate you, you bitch, I wish you were dead--"
Bellatrix stepped backward. "You touched me. You vile, despicable little insect." She glared at the other Slytherins. "What are you just standing there for?"
"Waiting for you to defeat him, of course," drawled Snape. "Surely a Black in her third year can defeat a Mudblood in his first without requiring any help."
Snape has just evened the odds a bit, simply by twitting Bellatrix's pride. If the others join in now, they'll be making it look as if Bella couldn't handle Peter alone...and she won't thank them for it.
Peter rocked back and forth a bit. Bella was just a few feet away from him…if he could just get up enough momentum...
He didn't roll into Bellatrix quite as hard as he would have liked to. She didn't fall. But he did knock into her hard enough to make her lose her balance...and drop her wand.
He flung it at the mirror, hoping that whatever world lay beyond that glass would swallow it. No such luck. It bounced off the mirror and rolled into a shady corner.
Her pale eyes narrowed as she turned to look at him.
There was nothing very different in her expression; that was as calm as ever. But her eyes--
A stray line from a poem he'd had to memorise scurried across his mind: And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming.
Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven. I had to memorize it as a child, and recite it to company...so Peter gets that bit of backstory as well.
Oh dear God, she's crazy. And she's going to kill me.
And then she reached for him, and clawed at his eyes.
***
For the next few minutes (which lasted for an eternity, as far as Peter was concerned), Peter fought to keep his head and his eyes away from Bellatrix's strong hands and sharp nails. As if from a distance, he heard spells raining down on him: the Babbling Curse, which would have kept him from casting spells if he'd been using his wand;
The Slytherins are accustomed to using spells that help against magic-users. This doesn't always work, as here.
the Knee-Reversing Hex; Rictusempra, which made him laugh uncontrollably to the point that he had trouble breathing.
He had just rolled away from an Entrail-Expelling Curse
All of these spells are canonical, by the way. I checked the Lexicon.
when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Moments later, a familiar voice was demanding, "What in Merlin's name is going on here?"
McGonagall. Thank God.
"Professor! Oh, thank goodness you're here!" With tears in her eyes, Bellatrix glanced up at the Transfiguration professor.
"Miss Black," in a decidedly stiff voice. "Suppose you tell me what has transpired here."
Bellatrix's voice filled with passion. "We came by, just minding our own business, and we saw him tormenting a cat. And before we could so much as call out, he flung it against the wall. Killed it dead. Go look, if you don't believe me."
I never! Peter thought, outraged. I'd never do that, never in a million years!
As if in a dream, he heard McGonagall walking toward the wall.
"And then"--Bellatrix was actually sobbing by now--"we tried to restrain him, we tried, but he fought like a savage. He grabbed my wand and threw it away and I don't know where it is..."
"I take it that none of you checked to see how the cat was," McGonagall said dryly, interrupting what Peter considered to be an award-winning piece of performance art.
"Yes, we did," said Wilkes, sounding bewildered. "We all did, but there wasn't anything we could do-oof!"
Rosier just elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up. I should have written that in.
"Really?" said McGonagall, picking up Nathan. "I think, then, that you should do a bit more studying. It might be helpful in the future if you could tell the difference between life and death. A minor detail, perhaps, but useful."
"The...the cat..." Bellatrix had turned a very delicate shade of green.
"Stunned, Miss Black," said McGonagall with what Peter thought was a trace of satisfaction. "But not dead. So you see, your...zeal...was considerably misplaced." Glancing at Peter, she winced. She shifted the kitten to her left arm, removed her wand from her robe pocket and waved it gracefully. "Finite Incantatem."
As the curses and hexes faded from his body, Peter stood up slowly on tottering legs.
McGonagall studied him for a few moments. "Are you quite all right, Mr Pettigrew?"
There was only one possible answer to that, even if it wasn't the truth. "Yes, ma'am."
"Ma'am," said Avery, and sniggered. Wilkes joined in a few seconds later. The laughter stopped abruptly when McGonagall turned a quelling eye on them.
"I thank you for your concern about etiquette," she said sternly, "but I am not offended by non-academic honorifics. Now. Follow me, please."
"Where are we going?" Bellatrix sounded both petulant and worried.
"To the Headmaster's office, of course," said McGonagall coolly. "Where else?"
***
It was astonishing how quickly McGonagall took care of matters. Swiftly, she led them all to another hallway, caught the attention of a passing prefect, and sent a message to Madam Pomfrey. In what seemed like mere seconds, Madam Pomfrey scurried into the hall and took the stunned bundle of kitten from McGonagall.
Madam Pomfrey shook her head and looked very sombre. "How did this happen?" she asked.
Bellatrix opened her mouth. McGonagall gave her a measuring look until she shut it again.
I picture McGonagall as having a zero bullshit threshold. She knows Bellatrix is lying.
Then McGonagall turned to Madam Pomfrey. "We don't know yet," she said in a forbidding voice. "Though I intend to find out."
Once Madam Pomfrey had headed off to the infirmary with Nathan, McGonagall guided the children to Dumbledore's tower office.
It was a small, circular room filled with overflowing bookshelves, odd mechanical devices that might have been toys, tools or weapons, a crystal ball and a large stone bowl graven round the rim with what looked like some sort of peculiar alphabet. The school Sorting Hat rested atop a bookcase, while a sword encrusted with gleaming rubies hung on the wall. Gazing solemnly at all of them was an immense orange-red bird that almost might have been on fire.
Of Dumbledore there was no sign.
"Figures," whispered Rosier to Avery. "All this fuss to get us here, and the old fool isn't even present."
"Old fool? Well, perhaps, Mr Rosier. On occasion, perhaps."
And there, sitting at his desk, was Dumbledore.
Peter blinked. Dumbledore must have been there all along, he decided at last. Their eyes had just been playing tricks on them.
Personally, I think that Dumbledore was playing tricks. He does this a number of times in the series. It's never explained how he does it.
Dumbledore gazed at the children, and for a moment an expression of dreadful sorrow filled his eyes. Then he turned to McGonagall. "Very well, Professor. What happened?"
McGonagall spoke of the scene she'd stumbled upon. Bellatrix and her friends re-told the tale of Peter's cruelty to animals. By the time they were done, Peter scarcely recognised himself in the monster-boy they'd depicted.
At last, Dumbledore spoke to Peter. "Is this true, Mister Pettigrew?"
Peter kept his head low, gazed at the floor with intense concentration, and shook his head.
"Mister Pettigrew. I want you to look at me, and to speak clearly when you do. Did you do this?"
Peter looked up, an expression of pure misery on his face. He shook his head once more, then spoke. "No. No, I didn't."
"Are you saying we're lying?" said Bellatrix in a wounded voice. As she looked at him with grief-stricken but understanding eyes, she tapped him on the wrist to attract his attention, then curled her strong hands with their long fingernails into talons.
Peter winced. All right, I obviously can't call her a liar and keep my eyes.
"No, I'm not saying you're lying," he said. "I'm saying you're mistaken. There's a difference."
I give him points for trying to be diplomatic and truthful at the same time.
"Someone hurt the cat," said Dumbledore. "It is hardly the kind of thing that could have happened by accident. Was it an accident?"
"No." Perhaps it would be wiser to pretend that Nathan's injuries were accidental, but he couldn't.
"You say you did not do this."
"I don't just say that I didn't," Peter said firmly. "I didn't."
"You also say that Bellatrix and her friends had nothing to do with the cat's injuries."
"Yes, sir." Well, it was what he was saying. It wasn't true, but he was definitely saying it.
My Peter does this a lot-he keeps to the strict letter of the truth and lets people assume what they want.
Dumbledore frowned. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, Mister Pettigrew, but you seem to have eliminated all possibilities. The cat did not suffer an accident. You did not harm it. They did not harm it. What, pray tell, is left?"
Peter thought for a minute. "Attempted suicide?" he offered, in a weak voice.
Dumbledore gazed at him in exasperation. "How could a cat attempt suicide?"
He chose to come with me, thought Peter bitterly.
"You would be amazed," murmured McGonagall. She glanced at Peter. "What were you doing down that hallway?"
At least he could answer this question honestly. "I was looking for your office. I needed to talk to you."
"May I ask what you wished to speak to the Professor about?" inquired Dumbledore in a tone that made it perfectly clear that he expected, nay, demanded an answer.
Peter glanced at the avid eyes of his schoolmates and decided that nothing could be more hazardous to his health than admitting, in their hearing, that he hated magic and the entire wizarding world. He shook his head.
"No, sir," he said politely. "You may not ask, and I won't answer--not in their hearing, anyway." So saying, he nodded toward the Slytherins. He bit his lower lip, suddenly looking terribly young. "And please don't insist that I do so. I can't. I just can't."
In a perfect world, that would have been the end of it.
This was not a perfect world.
Dumbledore was insistent that Peter state why he'd been looking for Professor McGonagall, and that he come up with a proper story about who had injured Nathan. Peter was equally determined not to say a word.
As if they were riding a roundabout at a fun fair,
In America, that would be “a merry-go-round at an amusement park.”
the two travelled in circles for quite some time before McGonagall interrupted, addressing the Slytherins. "As young Mister Pettigrew is reluctant to speak, perhaps an examination of wands--yours and his--would be in order. Of course, there is no assurance that he was necessarily using magic to torment the cat, but if you were indeed trying to restrain him, I would expect to find some Binding Charms. Does this meet with your approval, Headmaster?"
I love McGonagall.
"It does indeed," said Dumbledore, and Peter was surprised by how grimly pleased the Headmaster seemed to be.
McGonagall examined Peter's wand first. Few spells emerged from it, and even fewer were recent ones. The Slytherin wands, on the other hand, were a dead give-away.
"Professor," said Rosier, visibly sweating. "We can explain--"
"I think," said Dumbledore in a soft voice, "that you have all said more than enough. I cannot tell you how disappointed I am in each of you. I shall speak to each of you tomorrow after classes. Individually."
"And I," added McGonagall sternly, "shall be speaking to your Head of House.
Who was revealed to be Slughorn, when HBP came out.
I shall be recommending that, since you show such proficiency in wand use, he might wish to teach you about how to perform tasks without them."
"You may return to your common room now," Dumbledore concluded. His voice said that they had best not go anywhere else.
The Slytherins filed out, shooting Peter poisonous glares as they did so. Peter gazed up at them, his whole face begging.
I didn't tell. They figured it out for themselves. Don't blame me...
It was all true, and yet he knew that they would blame him. They would always blame him.
He sighed as the last one--Severus Snape--exited.
"Now that they have gone," Dumbledore said, "would you be so kind as to tell us why you were looking for Professor McGonagall's office?" The words were gentle; the eyes were blue steel.
"I-I wanted to ask her something."
"Which was?" prompted McGonagall.
The words came out in a rush. "Please can I go home?"
"Home?" repeated McGonagall as she stared at him over her glasses. "You've only just got here."
"I know," Peter said, "but I don't have to stay here. I haven't set anything on fire by being angry or broken any windows since I arrived. I've learned not to do magic. I'm safe now. So please, when may I go home?"
"Peter," said the Headmaster in a terrible and gentle voice, "you haven't learnt anything of the kind. The protective spells of the castle keep you from having accidents."
Well, that was a setback. But not an insurmountable one.
"How soon can I start learning how not to do magic?"
McGonagall blinked. "Mister Pettigrew--don't you want to be a wizard?"
"God, no!" Peter blurted out, and then clapped his hands over his mouth. He'd just blasphemed against God and the wizarding world, and he wasn't sure which crime would be punished more severely.
McGonagall, for her part, seemed to be in shock. "'No'? But--why?"
There were a thousand reasons, but Peter couldn't put them all into words. And some of his previous attempts to explain problems, such as the lack of Muggle inventions or the sensation he had of living a thousand years in the past, had failed miserably. He fumbled for something halfway explicable. "The other day in Transfiguration, we were turning beetles into buttons."
"Yes," said Professor McGonagall in a puzzled tone. "It's a standard first year lesson."
"See, that's one of the things I don't like."
"You could become better at Transfiguration--"
Peter shook his head. "That's not what I mean. It's--it's not fair. It's a cruel thing to do. It's like a bully pouring boiling water in an anthill to see what will happen. If I haven't got any buttons, wouldn't it make more sense to go down to the corner shop and buy some, instead of taking a bunch of living insects and turning them into something that's not alive? I wouldn't like it, being turned into an un-alive thing just because someone could."
He took a deep breath. "And it's all like that--Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration. Everything's about doing something with magic that doesn't need to be done with magic--like lighting a fire, or making something fly to you instead of you walking across the room to get it--or cursing other people to hurt them or spells to protect other people from hurting you..."
What it comes down to is that he sees magic as unnecessary, immoral or dangerous. And he doesn't want to live in that kind of a world.
He chewed on his lower lip and snuffled. "And there's more--a lot more--but I don't know how to say it all. Just--please may I go home? I won't tell anyone about Hogwarts, I won't, I swear!"
He's close to tears, and no wonder. He's just gotten lost, been hexed and cursed within an inch of his life, fought in hand-to hand combat with Bellatrix, argued with the Headmaster to keep from tattling and told the Headmaster and his Head of House-two very important adults in his life--that he absolutely hates magic. This has NOT been a good day.
"There must be something you like about Hogwarts," said Dumbledore.
Peter considered. He couldn't think of a thing. At last he shook his head.
"Not even Quidditch?" hinted McGonagall.
"No. Not even Quidditch."
Peter finds Quidditch incomprehensible. He'd far rather play football.
"And there is nothing you like about the wizarding world, either? " Dumbledore inquired.
"No, sir."
Dumbledore sighed, sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, regarding Peter with perplexity. "You would truly return to the Muggle world, never to practice magic again?"
The whole concept of hating magic is alien to Dumbledore. He truly can't understand why anyone would leave the wizarding world willingly; to him, it simply doesn't make any sense.
For a moment, Peter could almost see his family flat, could almost hear automobiles and buses rushing down Birmingham streets. He could smell the curry from the Pakistani takeaway nearby, and the scent of fresh bread and cookies from the bakery where his mother worked. He could feel the thud of his trainers against a football.
Then it was gone, and he was back in the magical world that was holding him prisoner.
The contrast was so great that it nearly made him sick.
There must be a signpost showing the exit to the Twilight Zone, he thought bleakly. There must be a door out of Narnia, a way back to Kansas.
"Peter," said Dumbledore--and the pity in his voice was enough to set Peter's teeth on edge--"it is as I told you. Your powers must be trained. If they are not, you will remain a danger to yourself and others. They will not be fully trained for some time to come."
Peter looked at him, dreading the answer to the question he must ask. "How long will it be before I am trained?"
"Not long," Dumbledore said genially. "No more than seven years."
"Seven YEARS!" Practically my whole lifetime.
And what he would be like after serving a seven-year-sentence in Elfland, he didn't want to know.
Anything can be a prison if you don't want to be there and can't escape.
Dumbledore rambled on for some time. Struggle, control, need for proper training, it's for your own good, Peter.
Peter didn't bother listening. He couldn't. Three sentences in his mind kept beating to the rataplan of a drum, drowning out Dumbledore's words: You lied. You lied to me, to get me trapped here. And I hate you for that.
For Peter, this was the first betrayal. I don't think he ever entirely forgave Dumbledore. This might also have something to do with why he didn't go to Dumbledore after being turned; I can see him fearing that Dumbledore wouldn't try to free him from bondage to Voldemort, but would instead want to use him as a double agent. For the good of the world, of course. Always for someone's good.
At last Dumbledore finished his monologue. "Now, Peter," he said. "Do you understand?"
Not for worlds or galaxies could Peter have answered yes to this.
"No, sir," he said dully. "I don't understand. And I don't think I'm ever going to. Excuse me." He walked over to the office door, then paused.
"It really would be better for everyone," he said in a high, trembling, desperate voice, "if you'd just let me go home."
***
On his way back to the Gryffindor dorms, Peter stopped off at the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey was there, looking a bit more cheerful than she had a few hours before.
"Peter! About your cat..."
Here, away from the Slytherins and the deceptively confusing Headmaster, Peter could admit the truth. "I didn't hurt him. I swear I didn't."
Poppy Pomfrey made a sound that, in a lesser woman, would have been a snort. "Bless you, Peter, I didn't think you'd hurt Nathan. Some children are beasts, and that's all there is to it."
She leaned down and patted a bundle of blankets in a box. "He's just a bit woozy and his muscles ache. I'll give him a bit of Blood-Replenishing Potion and some Invigorating Solution, and he'll be fine."
Peter stood stock-still for a moment. "You mean there's actual magical medicine?" he said at last. "Because when I come here, what you generally do is remove curses."
"Of course there's magical medicine," said Madam Pomfrey, staring at the boy. "Healers and mediwitches couldn't get on without it. I was just about to start making some for Nathan. Would you like to help?"
Peter looked dazed. "You mean there's actually some magic that's good?"
Madam Pomfrey looked sad as she smiled, and Peter couldn't fathom why. "Yes, lad," she said, tousling his hair. "There really is."
I suspect that Poppy Pomfrey has a very good idea of what's been going on. After all, she sees the hexed and cursed and wounded children on a daily basis.
"I'm not much good at magic," Peter said at last. "It scares me."
Madam Pomfrey looked exasperated. "Of course you're not very good at it. You've only been here a month."
"I'll ruin your ingredients. I'll-I'll poison Nathan or something."
Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "I don't think you will. And they're my ingredients. I'll take the chance on their being ruined."
Better some ruined ingredients than a ruined child. I think that Poppy Pomfrey is hoping to counter some of Peter's growing hatred for magic-and for himself-with the knowledge that there is good magic, and there are some things he can do well.
Peter took a step forward. "Well..."
"Do you want to try?"
A nod. A hesitant nod, but still...a nod.
"Good. Then come over here." She guided him to a counter, rummaged about till she found a stool for him to stand on, and a knife and a chopping block to use. Then she opened a jar, and removed a handful of what looked like dark brown commas.
"Chop these peeled shrivelfigs very evenly and very fine. Otherwise the Invigorating Solution won't work. I'll check when you're done, all right?"
Peter nodded, and began earnestly chopping shrivelfigs.
He still didn't trust magic. And he really didn't like the fact that he'd been tricked into coming to Hogwarts.
But maybe, just maybe, if he could use his magic to help instead of hurt, to make people and animals better instead of turning them into things...
Well, maybe attending school in Narnia-Oz-Elfland might be bearable after all.
Turning point number one for Peter-his first lesson in Healing Magic. As we know from canon, his Healing skills will be pivotal later, in a horrible sort of way. I wish there were a way to make the ending of the story more hopeful, but the problem is, we've seen Peter twenty years or so down the road, and we know what becomes of him.
What might not be so obvious is the continued influence of Wonderland on his life. He will end up living out someone else's dream (first Dumbledore's, when he joins the Order, and then Voldemort's, when he's turned); he will lose his name and his identity; and he will spend a good portion of his journey through life "going the wrong way."
***
Inevitably, he got lost.
It wasn't his fault. He simply didn't know all of the movements for the staircases; which ones required hopping, or dancing a jig, or skipping the seventh step from the bottom on alternate Tuesdays. More than one staircase began moving while he was still on it, forcing him to cling to the banister with both hands. As he clung, he struggled not to think about what would happen if he fell God-alone-knew how many hundreds of feet onto cold hard flagstones before the staircase grounded itself on a landing once more.
After this happened several times, Peter--without quite realising he was doing so--began searching for alternatives to staircases.
Again, Peter's trying to avoid direct danger by taking another, possibly safer path.
He walked down miles of corridors, dodged around shady corners and searched for portals through tapestries and behind statues. Anything was better than being on a staircase that was moving and not connected to anything.
He tried very hard to ignore the fact that his location was looking more and more unfamiliar each second.
I'm not lost. I'm...exploring. Yes, that's it.
He shoved away the portion of his mind that was demanding to know exactly where he was exploring, and how he was going to get back to Gryffindor Tower, and kept walking.
As he'll do in the future, Peter is continuing along a path that's gotten him lost-even though he knows that turning back might work better.
He saw some odd things as he walked along.
At the end of one corridor was an alcove with a window seat. A chessboard holding a half-finished chess game was resting on the window seat. Something on the chessboard...or maybe the chessboard itself...was snoring. The snoring made Peter deeply uneasy, and he hurried away.
This scene, and the two following it, are from Alice's Adventure's Through The Looking Glass, And What Alice Found There. The snoring coming from the chessboard is coming from the Red King. In Through The Looking-Glass, Tweedledee and Tweedledum tell Alice the following:
“He's dreaming now," said Tweedledee: "and what do you think he's dreaming about?"
Alice said, "Nobody can guess that."
"Why, about you!" Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. "And if he left off
dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?"
"Where I am now, of course," said Alice.
"Not you!" Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. "You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream!"
"If that there King was to wake," added Tweedledum, "you'd go out -- bang! -- just llke a candle!"
I couldn't resist the meta of having a character from one fictional world encounter a character from another fictional world who was, supposedly, dreaming of, and creating, both worlds.
One room had a small door through which Peter could barely squeeze, though he was anything but a large child. Once in, he found himself in an alien forest, filled with cool shade, dappled sunlight filtered through green leaves, and enormous trees that seemed to stretch to infinity.
It was fortunate, perhaps, that Peter was a city boy; thoughts of exploring this wilderness simply did not occur to him. He hung back, staring at the trees, wondering what they were and where they were...and what he was, too, for that matter.
The wood in which things have no names is also from Through the Looking-Glass. Alice loses her name as she enters, just as Peter does, but progresses through the wood anyway, getting it back again after she exits. Peter sees the peril of losing his identity, and backs out as best he can. Note, though, that Peter thinks in terms of WHAT he is...not who he is.
The sudden loss of his name didn't frighten Peter as much as it annoyed him. Have to go back the way I came, he thought. I know that I had a name before I came in here.
Nevertheless, it took a fair bit of time. Even after he turned around to leave, Peter could not remember what a door was, or how a doorknob worked. That he got out at all was an accident; he simply pushed too hard on the door and ended up falling flat on his face in the corridor. He lay there for a few moments as his memory flooded back. Then slowly he stood up on nervous and tottering legs, stared very hard at the green light shining in the forest within the room--and bolted.
Shortly after that, he came upon a hallway containing nothing but a mirror. He approached it cautiously; he didn't think any harm could come from a mirror, but doubtless Snow White's stepmother had once thought the same way.
Peter is starting to approach fairy tales as if they might be real.
It looked like a mirror, but it didn't reflect anything in the hallway. Most assuredly it did not reflect him. Instead, it seemed to be a window, and through that window Peter could see a railway carriage. On the left side of the compartment was a bearded man, all dressed in white paper and reading a newspaper. Beside him was a goat clad in formal man-about-town clothes. Across from the man and the goat was a little girl with long fair hair. She was clad in the kind of clothes Peter had seen in E. Nesbit's fairy tales about Victorian children: a porkpie hat with a feather, a skirt with a row of tucks round the bottom, a muff, striped stockings and pointed black shoes. She looked no more than seven or eight years old, and appeared to be half asleep.
Here's a picture of that illustration: Alice in the Railway Carriage.
The weird thing about the scene--aside from the fact that it was in a mirror at all--was that the compartment appeared to be going sideways. It made Peter feel rather dizzy.
"But...you're travelling the wrong way," he said at last in a helpless voice, as if this, on top of all the other bizarre things that had happened since he came to Hogwarts, was really too much.
Peter is playing the part of the Railway Guard, who sticks his head into the window of the carriage, studies all of the inhabitants-first with a telescope, then with a microscope, then with an opera-glass-and then says exactly what Peter said.
The little girl turned to him and stared, a puzzled expression sweeping across her face.
A frisson of fear ran up Peter's spine. She heard me. She's somewhere else, some other time, some other world...but she heard me.
And then a sound like a window being slammed shut reverberated from the mirror--and the compartment vanished, and the mirror was only a mirror once more.
After the Guard speaks, he shuts up the window and goes away.
Peter gulped, and stared at the mirror. He didn't particularly want to stare at the mirror. He was just afraid of what it might do if he looked away. He was already trapped in one magical world, and he couldn't bear the idea of being pulled into another.
"An ickle Mudblood wandering around where it isn't supposed to be," said a gloating, unpleasant voice from down the hallway. "Stupid little Mudbloods should know better. Could get in terrible trouble.”
And just as Peter's worrying about being sucked into another reality, he's abruptly forced to deal with some huge problems from his own world.
Slowly, dreading what he was about to see, Peter turned toward the voice--and nearly received a hex in the face. Only a swift dodge to the right saved him.
The speaker was Evan Rosier, a tall, arrogantly handsome blond boy of fourteen or so who was regarding Peter with a contemptuous smile. Beside Rosier was his constant shadow, Theophilus Wilkes, a dark stocky boy with a perpetually mulish scowl. Behind Wilkes was Carlisle Avery,
Avery and Wilkes don't have first names in canon, so I named them.
who had once promised to kill Peter's whole family. "They'd be safe if you hadn't shoved your way in where you didn't belong," he'd added, with the air of a judge handing down a sentence. "It'll be your fault when they die screaming in agony. Maybe I'll even let you watch."
Peter will see the corpses of his sisters, their husbands and their children, but he won't watch them die. They will, however, die because of him.
In the centre of the group was Bellatrix Black, a tall, elegant girl of thirteen with long, Victorian-style, sausage-shaped black curls and pale eyes. Bellatrix specialised in charming adults into thinking she was sweet, and she was very good at it. Peter couldn't understand how she managed to do it. All any grownup had to do was look her in the eyes. Those cold, emotionless, stone-dead eyes.
I think that there was always something wrong with Bellatrix, but no one wanted to admit it.
Bringing up the rear, of course, was Severus Snape, a gangly, greasy-haired, sallow-skinned first year, who cursed and hexed much as other people breathed--automatically and unthinkingly.
Notice that Snape's "gang of Slytherins" is largely comprised of people older than he is. Most will leave school before he does, leaving him largely alone in fifth year--which permits Snape's worst memory to occur.
It wasn't the whole gang--Rodolphus Lestrange was missing, as was his younger brother Rabastan, the only Hufflepuff who ran with this crowd--
I get tired of Slytherin being the de facto evil house. Personally, I think that Hufflepuffs would make wonderful minions. Look at the house virtues. Hufflepuffs are patient, hard-working, loyal...what self-respecting Dark Lord wouldn't want someone like that on his side?
and a goodly number of their hangers-on weren't present either...but Peter felt that the ones who were present were more than sufficient.
"Leave me alone," he said, hating the fact that his voice seemed to be about two octaves higher than usual. "I haven't done anything to you. So leave me alone."
I don't blame Peter for being scared. Imagine being eleven years old and suddenly learning that you have the wrong bloodline, and that because of that, there are people-some of whom you'll have to live with for the next seven years-who consider you bereft of all rights and unworthy of existence.
"You have, really," said Rosier in a thoughtful tone. "Your mere existence is an offence against nature."
"Isn't it marvellous how it squeaks?" said Bellatrix, her tone dripping with sugar. "Like a little mouse, just before the cat breaks its back."
Please notice the word "it." Bellatrix doesn't consider Peter to be human.
Peter wondered if he dared turn his back on them and bolt down the hall. He suspected that might be a very bad idea. Before he could come to a conclusion, however, he heard someone say, "Locomotor Mortis!"
His legs snapped together and he toppled to the floor, frozen from the waist down.
"Should have made it the Full-Body Bind, Avery," said Snape critically. "He can still use his wand."
"I rather fancy it this way," said Bellatrix. "It's far more maddening--the creature can use its wand, yes, but it doesn't have the faintest idea of how to fight properly."
For "properly," read "magically." Moreover, Bellatrix is wrong. Peter does, indeed, know how to fight.
"So what should we do with it?" said Avery, surveying his handiwork critically.
"Kill it, what else?" grunted Wilkes. "No one would guess if it had an accident."
And Peter's previous deduction that the bullies of Hogwarts will kill him is borne out.
Peter flattened himself against the flagstones. No. Please, no.
An indignant meow came from Peter's right-hand pocket.
Peter flinched. Oh, no, Nathan, not now. Keep quiet, and we might still have a chance to get out of this.
He really didn't think the kitten would keep quiet. Nathan was being squashed, and Nathan most emphatically didn't like it, for the meow escalated to very loud squalling.
Bellatrix glanced toward him. "Stop that noise," she commanded.
"It's not me!" Peter protested over the yowling.
"I told you to be quiet. And if you're not going to be quiet, I'll give you something to scream about." And Bellatrix strode over to where Peter was lying, rolled him over on his back, and pointed her wand at his face. "Incen--"
Nathan exploded out of Peter's pocket like a claymore mine, biting, scratching and clawing Bellatrix's hands.
To quote from the Annotated Pratchett File:
"A Claymore mine is an ingenious and therefore extremely nasty device. It is a small metal box, slightly curved. On the convex side is written "THIS SIDE TOWARDS THE ENEMY" which explains why literacy is a survival trait even with US marines. The box is filled with explosive and 600 steel balls. It has a tripod and a trigger mechanism, which can be operated either by a tripwire or, when the operator doesn't want to miss the fun, manually. When triggered, the device explodes and showers the half of the world which could have read the letters with the steel balls. Killing radius 100 ft., serious maiming radius a good deal more. Used to great effect in Vietnam by both sides."
Nanny Ogg's cat, Greebo, goes off like a Claymore mine in Lords and Ladies. I figured Nathan was just bloody furious enough to do the same.
Bellatrix shrieked, grabbed the kitten by the scruff of his neck and flung him against the stone wall.
Nathan screamed.
And then there was a terrible silence.
Bellatrix smiled. "Good. That's one beast dead. And now for the other."
Peter stared up at her. "You murdered him!"
Bellatrix glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Why yes," she said, grinning broadly. "I do believe I did."
She raised her wand.
It didn't occur to Peter to draw his own wand.
He doesn't think of magic as a way of fighting back. After all, he's only been at Hogwarts a month...and we know he's not adapting well.
And with his legs frozen, kicking her or running away couldn't happen.
But there was nothing stopping Peter from using his fists, teeth and nails against her, and that was precisely what he did. Most of his blows went wild, either not hitting Bellatrix at all or only glancing off of her, but he made up for inefficiency with quantity.
"I hate you," he gasped as he swung at her with all his might. "I hate you, you bitch, I wish you were dead--"
Bellatrix stepped backward. "You touched me. You vile, despicable little insect." She glared at the other Slytherins. "What are you just standing there for?"
"Waiting for you to defeat him, of course," drawled Snape. "Surely a Black in her third year can defeat a Mudblood in his first without requiring any help."
Snape has just evened the odds a bit, simply by twitting Bellatrix's pride. If the others join in now, they'll be making it look as if Bella couldn't handle Peter alone...and she won't thank them for it.
Peter rocked back and forth a bit. Bella was just a few feet away from him…if he could just get up enough momentum...
He didn't roll into Bellatrix quite as hard as he would have liked to. She didn't fall. But he did knock into her hard enough to make her lose her balance...and drop her wand.
He flung it at the mirror, hoping that whatever world lay beyond that glass would swallow it. No such luck. It bounced off the mirror and rolled into a shady corner.
Her pale eyes narrowed as she turned to look at him.
There was nothing very different in her expression; that was as calm as ever. But her eyes--
A stray line from a poem he'd had to memorise scurried across his mind: And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming.
Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven. I had to memorize it as a child, and recite it to company...so Peter gets that bit of backstory as well.
Oh dear God, she's crazy. And she's going to kill me.
And then she reached for him, and clawed at his eyes.
***
For the next few minutes (which lasted for an eternity, as far as Peter was concerned), Peter fought to keep his head and his eyes away from Bellatrix's strong hands and sharp nails. As if from a distance, he heard spells raining down on him: the Babbling Curse, which would have kept him from casting spells if he'd been using his wand;
The Slytherins are accustomed to using spells that help against magic-users. This doesn't always work, as here.
the Knee-Reversing Hex; Rictusempra, which made him laugh uncontrollably to the point that he had trouble breathing.
He had just rolled away from an Entrail-Expelling Curse
All of these spells are canonical, by the way. I checked the Lexicon.
when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Moments later, a familiar voice was demanding, "What in Merlin's name is going on here?"
McGonagall. Thank God.
"Professor! Oh, thank goodness you're here!" With tears in her eyes, Bellatrix glanced up at the Transfiguration professor.
"Miss Black," in a decidedly stiff voice. "Suppose you tell me what has transpired here."
Bellatrix's voice filled with passion. "We came by, just minding our own business, and we saw him tormenting a cat. And before we could so much as call out, he flung it against the wall. Killed it dead. Go look, if you don't believe me."
I never! Peter thought, outraged. I'd never do that, never in a million years!
As if in a dream, he heard McGonagall walking toward the wall.
"And then"--Bellatrix was actually sobbing by now--"we tried to restrain him, we tried, but he fought like a savage. He grabbed my wand and threw it away and I don't know where it is..."
"I take it that none of you checked to see how the cat was," McGonagall said dryly, interrupting what Peter considered to be an award-winning piece of performance art.
"Yes, we did," said Wilkes, sounding bewildered. "We all did, but there wasn't anything we could do-oof!"
Rosier just elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up. I should have written that in.
"Really?" said McGonagall, picking up Nathan. "I think, then, that you should do a bit more studying. It might be helpful in the future if you could tell the difference between life and death. A minor detail, perhaps, but useful."
"The...the cat..." Bellatrix had turned a very delicate shade of green.
"Stunned, Miss Black," said McGonagall with what Peter thought was a trace of satisfaction. "But not dead. So you see, your...zeal...was considerably misplaced." Glancing at Peter, she winced. She shifted the kitten to her left arm, removed her wand from her robe pocket and waved it gracefully. "Finite Incantatem."
As the curses and hexes faded from his body, Peter stood up slowly on tottering legs.
McGonagall studied him for a few moments. "Are you quite all right, Mr Pettigrew?"
There was only one possible answer to that, even if it wasn't the truth. "Yes, ma'am."
"Ma'am," said Avery, and sniggered. Wilkes joined in a few seconds later. The laughter stopped abruptly when McGonagall turned a quelling eye on them.
"I thank you for your concern about etiquette," she said sternly, "but I am not offended by non-academic honorifics. Now. Follow me, please."
"Where are we going?" Bellatrix sounded both petulant and worried.
"To the Headmaster's office, of course," said McGonagall coolly. "Where else?"
***
It was astonishing how quickly McGonagall took care of matters. Swiftly, she led them all to another hallway, caught the attention of a passing prefect, and sent a message to Madam Pomfrey. In what seemed like mere seconds, Madam Pomfrey scurried into the hall and took the stunned bundle of kitten from McGonagall.
Madam Pomfrey shook her head and looked very sombre. "How did this happen?" she asked.
Bellatrix opened her mouth. McGonagall gave her a measuring look until she shut it again.
I picture McGonagall as having a zero bullshit threshold. She knows Bellatrix is lying.
Then McGonagall turned to Madam Pomfrey. "We don't know yet," she said in a forbidding voice. "Though I intend to find out."
Once Madam Pomfrey had headed off to the infirmary with Nathan, McGonagall guided the children to Dumbledore's tower office.
It was a small, circular room filled with overflowing bookshelves, odd mechanical devices that might have been toys, tools or weapons, a crystal ball and a large stone bowl graven round the rim with what looked like some sort of peculiar alphabet. The school Sorting Hat rested atop a bookcase, while a sword encrusted with gleaming rubies hung on the wall. Gazing solemnly at all of them was an immense orange-red bird that almost might have been on fire.
Of Dumbledore there was no sign.
"Figures," whispered Rosier to Avery. "All this fuss to get us here, and the old fool isn't even present."
"Old fool? Well, perhaps, Mr Rosier. On occasion, perhaps."
And there, sitting at his desk, was Dumbledore.
Peter blinked. Dumbledore must have been there all along, he decided at last. Their eyes had just been playing tricks on them.
Personally, I think that Dumbledore was playing tricks. He does this a number of times in the series. It's never explained how he does it.
Dumbledore gazed at the children, and for a moment an expression of dreadful sorrow filled his eyes. Then he turned to McGonagall. "Very well, Professor. What happened?"
McGonagall spoke of the scene she'd stumbled upon. Bellatrix and her friends re-told the tale of Peter's cruelty to animals. By the time they were done, Peter scarcely recognised himself in the monster-boy they'd depicted.
At last, Dumbledore spoke to Peter. "Is this true, Mister Pettigrew?"
Peter kept his head low, gazed at the floor with intense concentration, and shook his head.
"Mister Pettigrew. I want you to look at me, and to speak clearly when you do. Did you do this?"
Peter looked up, an expression of pure misery on his face. He shook his head once more, then spoke. "No. No, I didn't."
"Are you saying we're lying?" said Bellatrix in a wounded voice. As she looked at him with grief-stricken but understanding eyes, she tapped him on the wrist to attract his attention, then curled her strong hands with their long fingernails into talons.
Peter winced. All right, I obviously can't call her a liar and keep my eyes.
"No, I'm not saying you're lying," he said. "I'm saying you're mistaken. There's a difference."
I give him points for trying to be diplomatic and truthful at the same time.
"Someone hurt the cat," said Dumbledore. "It is hardly the kind of thing that could have happened by accident. Was it an accident?"
"No." Perhaps it would be wiser to pretend that Nathan's injuries were accidental, but he couldn't.
"You say you did not do this."
"I don't just say that I didn't," Peter said firmly. "I didn't."
"You also say that Bellatrix and her friends had nothing to do with the cat's injuries."
"Yes, sir." Well, it was what he was saying. It wasn't true, but he was definitely saying it.
My Peter does this a lot-he keeps to the strict letter of the truth and lets people assume what they want.
Dumbledore frowned. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, Mister Pettigrew, but you seem to have eliminated all possibilities. The cat did not suffer an accident. You did not harm it. They did not harm it. What, pray tell, is left?"
Peter thought for a minute. "Attempted suicide?" he offered, in a weak voice.
Dumbledore gazed at him in exasperation. "How could a cat attempt suicide?"
He chose to come with me, thought Peter bitterly.
"You would be amazed," murmured McGonagall. She glanced at Peter. "What were you doing down that hallway?"
At least he could answer this question honestly. "I was looking for your office. I needed to talk to you."
"May I ask what you wished to speak to the Professor about?" inquired Dumbledore in a tone that made it perfectly clear that he expected, nay, demanded an answer.
Peter glanced at the avid eyes of his schoolmates and decided that nothing could be more hazardous to his health than admitting, in their hearing, that he hated magic and the entire wizarding world. He shook his head.
"No, sir," he said politely. "You may not ask, and I won't answer--not in their hearing, anyway." So saying, he nodded toward the Slytherins. He bit his lower lip, suddenly looking terribly young. "And please don't insist that I do so. I can't. I just can't."
In a perfect world, that would have been the end of it.
This was not a perfect world.
Dumbledore was insistent that Peter state why he'd been looking for Professor McGonagall, and that he come up with a proper story about who had injured Nathan. Peter was equally determined not to say a word.
As if they were riding a roundabout at a fun fair,
In America, that would be “a merry-go-round at an amusement park.”
the two travelled in circles for quite some time before McGonagall interrupted, addressing the Slytherins. "As young Mister Pettigrew is reluctant to speak, perhaps an examination of wands--yours and his--would be in order. Of course, there is no assurance that he was necessarily using magic to torment the cat, but if you were indeed trying to restrain him, I would expect to find some Binding Charms. Does this meet with your approval, Headmaster?"
I love McGonagall.
"It does indeed," said Dumbledore, and Peter was surprised by how grimly pleased the Headmaster seemed to be.
McGonagall examined Peter's wand first. Few spells emerged from it, and even fewer were recent ones. The Slytherin wands, on the other hand, were a dead give-away.
"Professor," said Rosier, visibly sweating. "We can explain--"
"I think," said Dumbledore in a soft voice, "that you have all said more than enough. I cannot tell you how disappointed I am in each of you. I shall speak to each of you tomorrow after classes. Individually."
"And I," added McGonagall sternly, "shall be speaking to your Head of House.
Who was revealed to be Slughorn, when HBP came out.
I shall be recommending that, since you show such proficiency in wand use, he might wish to teach you about how to perform tasks without them."
"You may return to your common room now," Dumbledore concluded. His voice said that they had best not go anywhere else.
The Slytherins filed out, shooting Peter poisonous glares as they did so. Peter gazed up at them, his whole face begging.
I didn't tell. They figured it out for themselves. Don't blame me...
It was all true, and yet he knew that they would blame him. They would always blame him.
He sighed as the last one--Severus Snape--exited.
"Now that they have gone," Dumbledore said, "would you be so kind as to tell us why you were looking for Professor McGonagall's office?" The words were gentle; the eyes were blue steel.
"I-I wanted to ask her something."
"Which was?" prompted McGonagall.
The words came out in a rush. "Please can I go home?"
"Home?" repeated McGonagall as she stared at him over her glasses. "You've only just got here."
"I know," Peter said, "but I don't have to stay here. I haven't set anything on fire by being angry or broken any windows since I arrived. I've learned not to do magic. I'm safe now. So please, when may I go home?"
"Peter," said the Headmaster in a terrible and gentle voice, "you haven't learnt anything of the kind. The protective spells of the castle keep you from having accidents."
Well, that was a setback. But not an insurmountable one.
"How soon can I start learning how not to do magic?"
McGonagall blinked. "Mister Pettigrew--don't you want to be a wizard?"
"God, no!" Peter blurted out, and then clapped his hands over his mouth. He'd just blasphemed against God and the wizarding world, and he wasn't sure which crime would be punished more severely.
McGonagall, for her part, seemed to be in shock. "'No'? But--why?"
There were a thousand reasons, but Peter couldn't put them all into words. And some of his previous attempts to explain problems, such as the lack of Muggle inventions or the sensation he had of living a thousand years in the past, had failed miserably. He fumbled for something halfway explicable. "The other day in Transfiguration, we were turning beetles into buttons."
"Yes," said Professor McGonagall in a puzzled tone. "It's a standard first year lesson."
"See, that's one of the things I don't like."
"You could become better at Transfiguration--"
Peter shook his head. "That's not what I mean. It's--it's not fair. It's a cruel thing to do. It's like a bully pouring boiling water in an anthill to see what will happen. If I haven't got any buttons, wouldn't it make more sense to go down to the corner shop and buy some, instead of taking a bunch of living insects and turning them into something that's not alive? I wouldn't like it, being turned into an un-alive thing just because someone could."
He took a deep breath. "And it's all like that--Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration. Everything's about doing something with magic that doesn't need to be done with magic--like lighting a fire, or making something fly to you instead of you walking across the room to get it--or cursing other people to hurt them or spells to protect other people from hurting you..."
What it comes down to is that he sees magic as unnecessary, immoral or dangerous. And he doesn't want to live in that kind of a world.
He chewed on his lower lip and snuffled. "And there's more--a lot more--but I don't know how to say it all. Just--please may I go home? I won't tell anyone about Hogwarts, I won't, I swear!"
He's close to tears, and no wonder. He's just gotten lost, been hexed and cursed within an inch of his life, fought in hand-to hand combat with Bellatrix, argued with the Headmaster to keep from tattling and told the Headmaster and his Head of House-two very important adults in his life--that he absolutely hates magic. This has NOT been a good day.
"There must be something you like about Hogwarts," said Dumbledore.
Peter considered. He couldn't think of a thing. At last he shook his head.
"Not even Quidditch?" hinted McGonagall.
"No. Not even Quidditch."
Peter finds Quidditch incomprehensible. He'd far rather play football.
"And there is nothing you like about the wizarding world, either? " Dumbledore inquired.
"No, sir."
Dumbledore sighed, sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, regarding Peter with perplexity. "You would truly return to the Muggle world, never to practice magic again?"
The whole concept of hating magic is alien to Dumbledore. He truly can't understand why anyone would leave the wizarding world willingly; to him, it simply doesn't make any sense.
For a moment, Peter could almost see his family flat, could almost hear automobiles and buses rushing down Birmingham streets. He could smell the curry from the Pakistani takeaway nearby, and the scent of fresh bread and cookies from the bakery where his mother worked. He could feel the thud of his trainers against a football.
Then it was gone, and he was back in the magical world that was holding him prisoner.
The contrast was so great that it nearly made him sick.
There must be a signpost showing the exit to the Twilight Zone, he thought bleakly. There must be a door out of Narnia, a way back to Kansas.
"Peter," said Dumbledore--and the pity in his voice was enough to set Peter's teeth on edge--"it is as I told you. Your powers must be trained. If they are not, you will remain a danger to yourself and others. They will not be fully trained for some time to come."
Peter looked at him, dreading the answer to the question he must ask. "How long will it be before I am trained?"
"Not long," Dumbledore said genially. "No more than seven years."
"Seven YEARS!" Practically my whole lifetime.
And what he would be like after serving a seven-year-sentence in Elfland, he didn't want to know.
Anything can be a prison if you don't want to be there and can't escape.
Dumbledore rambled on for some time. Struggle, control, need for proper training, it's for your own good, Peter.
Peter didn't bother listening. He couldn't. Three sentences in his mind kept beating to the rataplan of a drum, drowning out Dumbledore's words: You lied. You lied to me, to get me trapped here. And I hate you for that.
For Peter, this was the first betrayal. I don't think he ever entirely forgave Dumbledore. This might also have something to do with why he didn't go to Dumbledore after being turned; I can see him fearing that Dumbledore wouldn't try to free him from bondage to Voldemort, but would instead want to use him as a double agent. For the good of the world, of course. Always for someone's good.
At last Dumbledore finished his monologue. "Now, Peter," he said. "Do you understand?"
Not for worlds or galaxies could Peter have answered yes to this.
"No, sir," he said dully. "I don't understand. And I don't think I'm ever going to. Excuse me." He walked over to the office door, then paused.
"It really would be better for everyone," he said in a high, trembling, desperate voice, "if you'd just let me go home."
***
On his way back to the Gryffindor dorms, Peter stopped off at the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey was there, looking a bit more cheerful than she had a few hours before.
"Peter! About your cat..."
Here, away from the Slytherins and the deceptively confusing Headmaster, Peter could admit the truth. "I didn't hurt him. I swear I didn't."
Poppy Pomfrey made a sound that, in a lesser woman, would have been a snort. "Bless you, Peter, I didn't think you'd hurt Nathan. Some children are beasts, and that's all there is to it."
She leaned down and patted a bundle of blankets in a box. "He's just a bit woozy and his muscles ache. I'll give him a bit of Blood-Replenishing Potion and some Invigorating Solution, and he'll be fine."
Peter stood stock-still for a moment. "You mean there's actual magical medicine?" he said at last. "Because when I come here, what you generally do is remove curses."
"Of course there's magical medicine," said Madam Pomfrey, staring at the boy. "Healers and mediwitches couldn't get on without it. I was just about to start making some for Nathan. Would you like to help?"
Peter looked dazed. "You mean there's actually some magic that's good?"
Madam Pomfrey looked sad as she smiled, and Peter couldn't fathom why. "Yes, lad," she said, tousling his hair. "There really is."
I suspect that Poppy Pomfrey has a very good idea of what's been going on. After all, she sees the hexed and cursed and wounded children on a daily basis.
"I'm not much good at magic," Peter said at last. "It scares me."
Madam Pomfrey looked exasperated. "Of course you're not very good at it. You've only been here a month."
"I'll ruin your ingredients. I'll-I'll poison Nathan or something."
Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "I don't think you will. And they're my ingredients. I'll take the chance on their being ruined."
Better some ruined ingredients than a ruined child. I think that Poppy Pomfrey is hoping to counter some of Peter's growing hatred for magic-and for himself-with the knowledge that there is good magic, and there are some things he can do well.
Peter took a step forward. "Well..."
"Do you want to try?"
A nod. A hesitant nod, but still...a nod.
"Good. Then come over here." She guided him to a counter, rummaged about till she found a stool for him to stand on, and a knife and a chopping block to use. Then she opened a jar, and removed a handful of what looked like dark brown commas.
"Chop these peeled shrivelfigs very evenly and very fine. Otherwise the Invigorating Solution won't work. I'll check when you're done, all right?"
Peter nodded, and began earnestly chopping shrivelfigs.
He still didn't trust magic. And he really didn't like the fact that he'd been tricked into coming to Hogwarts.
But maybe, just maybe, if he could use his magic to help instead of hurt, to make people and animals better instead of turning them into things...
Well, maybe attending school in Narnia-Oz-Elfland might be bearable after all.
Turning point number one for Peter-his first lesson in Healing Magic. As we know from canon, his Healing skills will be pivotal later, in a horrible sort of way. I wish there were a way to make the ending of the story more hopeful, but the problem is, we've seen Peter twenty years or so down the road, and we know what becomes of him.
What might not be so obvious is the continued influence of Wonderland on his life. He will end up living out someone else's dream (first Dumbledore's, when he joins the Order, and then Voldemort's, when he's turned); he will lose his name and his identity; and he will spend a good portion of his journey through life "going the wrong way."