i solemnly swear,

 He limped toward the desk, his wooden foot clunking with the movement, and steadied himself on the desk with his elbow. The downside of needing a cane? Trying to do things with two hands. He considered, momentarily, summoning a chair to sit in but that would be a sign of weakness; besides, all the furniture in the place was surely vermin infested. 

He picked up the unclaimed, stranger’s wand and placed his own ebony want to its tip. With a whisper of “priori incantatem”, the wand began to wispily reveal its secrets. First, a stunning jinx (“Typical, must’a missed,” he muttered), but he kept his own wand firmly attached; next came a flash of green light, the Avada Kedavra (“Got the spirit, I’ll give ‘em that, could use better aim”); then, with a sparkle of light, a tracking charm (“Looking for someone, were you?”). He removed his wand from the other, and pocketed the stranger’s wand. 

His magical eye was trained on the box, that almost emitted a dark, violet glow, but his normal eye narrowed on Pettigrew, waiting for a reaction. His hands did not shake as he undid the golden latch on the box, even as, as it was revealed, the book let out a loud shriek of agony. “Nasty thing you’ve got, here,” he muttered, more to himself than Peter. 

He had to admit, the book did seem to be bound in human skin, though now, at a gentle stroke of Moody’s finger, it was tough as dragon hide. “Ridens cadaver,” he read aloud, the words carved deep into the horrendous cover. “‘The Laughing Corpse.” His fingers itched to open it, but something–maybe the way the book was subtly beating as if it had a heart and the way his magical eye didn’t seem to be able to look directly at it–stopped him.

he seems even more startled to be addressed directly, squeaking again and absentmindedly picking up one of his rats, distracting his nervous hands with soft fur. he prefers his wand, but moody might take that as some sort of threat, and peter's poor nerves can't take the mere thought.

"well," he begins, glancing around and lowering his voice to a hushed whisper, "well. some folks whisper that you-know-who isn't really dead, sir. or he's going to come back from the dead, but most of them seem to think he's not really dead, and any day now he'll come and take out greyback. um. people talk about greyback too. claim he can turn into the wolf whenever he wants. dunno if i believe that, but there's some, uh ... regulars. of mine. who'd hope to learn to do the same?"

he releases the rat, letting her scurry off - she beelines along a railing to watch the front door.

"most of the you-know-who stuff is kinda nonsense, but some of it's from ... people who'd know that sort of thing, if you catch my drift. so, i dunno, maybe there's something to it." he glances once more at the book, grimaces, and looks firmly at the wall instead.

“Listen I’m just saying Black’s Breathtaking and Boisterous Beverages has quite the ring to it, and one of these days I will absolutely get the charm right and it will be the best goddamn thing you’ve ever tasted! I will not hear a single word against a fizzing whiskey.”

It was a special kind of bliss, just the two friends perusing the fair with no apparent haste. 

he bumps his shoulder against sirius'. "i think whiskey's not meant to fizz. bad mouth-feel. like carbonated wine." he twists to walk backwards, taking sirius' hands in his to let his friend steer him away from colliding with anyone. "philandering! you've been called worse. dunno, skeeter's just kinda ... mean. mean in like the opposite way to me, y'know? and the last thing i want is some like, evil opposite me snooping around in normal me's secret dealings. like eating cheese in front of my fridge at odd hours."

“I am excited!” He shouted back in the same tone that Peter had used, making his voice more nasally in a fairly spot-on impression of his fellow marauders. “But if you pick me up again I might have to act like I don’t know you for a little bit. I have a reputation to maintain, Petey, c’mon.”

But Sirius couldn’t help also feeling excited. Perhaps not quite at the same level as Peter, but the air was warm, the music was loud, and, at least in this area, everything was decked out in green and gold. “I heard – and granted, I heard it from Rita fuckin’ Skeeter of all people – that Jones was hurt. I hope she’s wrong for once because the Harpies need her.”

their arms hook together, and peter lets sirius drag him along, just as he has since they were eleven - cheerfully, and without much of a care for their destination, so long as they're together.

Both Alastor’s eyes settle upon the mousy man – if he could even be called that, he was barely older than a child – and his brown one narrowed, what was left of an eyebrow quirked in suspicion. 

“Not who you were expecting, Pettigrew?” The name dripped with disdain. Of all the self-proclaimed ‘marauders’, Peter Pettigrew was his least favorite. James and Sirius, reckless though they may have been, at least had some backbone. Remus, though more on the reserved side, seemed to have a logical head on his shoulders that the others lacked. But, all three of them didn’t live in squalor as Pettigrew seemed to. 

“I really thought it was Black that was supposed to do the pick up this evening, but unless you’re implying that I’m mad,” That magical eye whirled in its socket, dizzying him slightly, but work it for the effect, “Or you’re lying to me, I don’t-” He paused, his eye catching on an interesting object behind the desk. “Is that a muggle gun? Expecting petty criminals to rob you, eh?” 

he jumps a little when moody cuts himself off, stammering and stumbling over his own words for an explanation. "he was! sirius, i mean. you say yourself, sir, constant vigilance! it's good to check, uh, and you should do the same for me, really. a-and, uh, i have a permit. for the gun." pettigrew blinks large, watery eyes at him and adds, "m-most wizards don't have the sense to know what to do if i pull out a gun, sir. and i'm not so good in a duel."

it's a bit more than he intended to spill, squeaky and nervous, but none of it's really incriminating or untrue. he's prepared, and in front of mad-eye moody, there's worse things to be.

still, greengrass doesn't put their foot in it as much as they could. in fact, peter's oddly mollified by having the marauders be called his tagalongs. and their good taste in teams, obviously.

what does he know about greengrass? slytherin, pureblood by name alone, maybe a little older than sirius, first name ... mint? no, minthe.

"okay pete, riddle me this," james says. he's sitting up in his family's box, elbows resting on his knees, gaze flitting back and forth between the players. he's far from bored, but itchy beneath his skin; it's a telltale sign of under stimulation, and he'll cut that off at the head, thanks. "building your dream team - sign, waitlist, refuse: chiyo kogawa, edgar cloggs, basil horton?"

"it's not something you'd want to decide in a vaccuum, without knowing who they're playing with," he muses, because peter is the sort of guy who likes psychoanalyzing players and breaking down their individual playstyles, strengths and weaknesses. he does the same to normal people just as often. james knows an uncomfortable amount of his classmates' weaknesses, even now.

he laughs at his own joke as he bustles about, pulling out a collection of secondhand clothes he brought all the way from the shop. it's routine, at this point - remus shows up, and peter shows off all of the goodies he's saved for his friend's perusal. remus is no sooner settled that he ends up with an armful of green scarves, jumpers, and even a pair of gloves or two.