I'm going to coin the term 'tragedy hammer' and say that it has been applied liberally to my head.

Someone asked me if I write happy things. I'm trying. Really. Working on a fluffy Molly-Arthur-new-baby-Bill piece. And a Ted/Andromeda bit of school-years fluff. FLUFF. PROMISE. 3

je regrette rien

The others leave him behind, really, curled into their own private trio. He simmers on the settee at the Order's Christmas party.

Caradoc Dearborn sits down next to him and strikes up a conversation. And they're not really friends. The laugh and talk together when their paths cross, but they're not friends.

Everyone thinks (hopes, pretends) he's missing, for a while. Peter knew before he'd even seen the back of the handsome, blond Welshman that he was dead.

His mother smiles at him when he comes home one evening to visit her. Out of the blue, for no reason at all, she says to him, "I am so very proud of you, Peter."

Dorcas Meadowes does not like Sirius Black. Genial, even-tempered Dorie goes rigid when he comes around, taut with dislike and disapproval. Sirius teases her for it, a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he tests the limits of her tolerance and brittle porcelain politeness.

She likes Peter. She and Fabian invite him around to tea a few times. (He uses that excuse a lot, when it's Sirius asking where he's been.) When Fabian dies, he helps her move her things to his sister's ramshackle house in Devon. After they've packed, Peter sits in her emptied flat with her and lets her cry and tries not to cry himself.

He thinks they're friends. Dorie knows before she dies.

She comes to save him, leaves her safe little hideaway and comes after him when he sends out a false cry for help. He didn't expect it to be her. He doesn't know who he expected.

No one's ever done anything like that for Peter before. She dies for her trouble, her eyes clouded in hurt and betrayal when she looks at him and understands. There isn't any anger in her hazel eyes, just the deepest sadness Peter's ever seen. With a flare of green light, well…then there isn't anything in them at all.

"I think it's Moony," Sirius says simply, the words flowing out with a misleading ease. Sirius' face is twisted in pain. Peter's heart jumps to his throat, thrilled, they don't suspect him.

It sinks back down, even lower into his stomach. They don't suspect him.

Around Christmas, he sees Caradoc's pregnant girlfriend struggling around Diagon Alley with Mrs. Dearborn. He sneaks by, grabs a table at Florean Fortescue's right behind her, orders a hot cocoa and pretends to read the Prophet.

The place is empty (it's mid-December) and the girl (something Jones. Heather? Helen?) sits quietly as Caradoc's mother orders her a sundae and demands she finish it.

After a few minutes, she stills. "I think I'm going to have the baby today," she whispers, her face obscured by her black hair. She cries into her ice cream, and Mrs. Dearborn dissolves into tears, as well.

Lily and James invite him around to Sunday dinner in July, a little before Harry's birthday. Remus and Sirius are off somewhere, on Order business or personal business. They're not there.

Harry giggles from his seat and plays pick-it-up-for-me with his 'Uncle Wormtail' and the soft-toy rat Peter gave him for his birthday.

"It's his favorite toy, Peter," Lily smiles, and Peter's mouth goes slightly dry as he hands the toy back to the baby. Harry smashes the already matted, drooled-on fur to his face and shrieks for attention before he tosses it down again.

He escapes into the sewers, his paw bleeding. And somewhere up above, Sirius laughs.

Peter runs. He is safe.

There is nowhere to go.