Post by Peter Pettigrew on Oct 10, 2007 3:25:43 GMT -5
•» [ Basics ] «•
Full name: Peter
Nickname(s): Pete, Petey, Wormy, Wormtail
Date of Birth: October 30th
Age: 16
Martial Status: Single and not for lack of trying.
•» [ School ] «•
Desired Year: 6th year
Wand: Chestnut, 9¼", dragon heartstring.
Pet: A fidgety, short-sighted little owl with a propensity to fly into walls.
The owl's name is Brutus, and for some odd reason, Peter gets awfully nervous having to feed it mice.
House: Gryffindor, which came as something of a shock to him.
•» [ Family ] «•
Heritage:
British, at least as far back as anyone cares to remember.
Financial Status:
Money has always been tight. As a whole family unit, they must be frugal. Peter expects rather little in the way of inheritance.
When it comes to personal wealth, Peter saves up money most admirably. Then, inevitably, he spends it all in one go in a rash ill-advised move; winding up with something expensively useless he didn't really want.
Father:
Peter Oswald Pettigrew is more than just his son's namesake. He's positively the image of his son at a later age, which is to say that he's precisely the way everyone supposes young Peter will turn out. He's redfaced and remarkably mundane, seemingly made of starched shirts and horrible ties. He shrinks away from his wife's wrath and defers to her on disciplinary matters. He doesn't often speak up from his armchair in the corner of their living room, and when he does, it'll be in an apologetic tone; sorry in advance for wasting anyone's time with his opinion. Every sentence is equipped with superfluous words such as 'if you wouldn't mind', 'not to be a bother', 'if it isn't a terrible interruption' and 'begging your pardon'. Father and son are allies of a kind, struggling vainly under the same thumb. Peter doubts very much whether they've ever had a conversation amounting to more than a total sum of ten words.
Mother:
Martha Pettigrew is the absolute image of an overbearing, controlling mother one wouldn't wish to have. Her near-constant letters have nary a word to say that isn't admonishing or advisory with an unspoken threat -- which isn't to say that Peter's badly treated at home. She's just rather on the strict side, and that's that. What his mother would think is a dark cloud over Peter's head much of the time, and her behaviour in general keeps poor Peter in a state of perpetual embarrassment and mortification. If one should happen to break one of her infamous house rules, they'd be chided most severely for something like a decade. After the dust has settled, just when one dares to hope that their error might have been forgotten, the tirade will begin anew. On the bright side, the Pettigrew's neighbours often marvel at the impeccable neatness of the home she keeps.
Siblings:
None. His parents, like a throwback to some archaic institution, sleep in separate beds -- giving Peter cause to wonder how he ever came to exist at all.
Other Family:
Oh, they're all rather disappointingly alike.
•» [ Appearance ] «•
Character Representation:
Undecided.
Hair Description:
He has this nearly sandy hair that falls just short of being blond by definition. The length and cut are rather strictly regimented (fairly short and worryingly precise) and one expects he'd get Howlers from his mother if he ever tried to grow it out or demonstrate individuality of any kind. It seems a tad on the thin side, and Peter worries -- unduly at this stage -- about going bald, as it 'runs in the family'.
Eye Description:
Much in the way his hair grasps at blond and misses the mark, his eyes fumble towards blue but don't quite make it there. They aren't gray either, which makes the true name for the colour something of a mystery to the universe. He's beyond trying to work it out, as he never had an eye for colour anyway.
Physical Appearance:
Peter is not a tall fellow, and though he's still hoping for a final growth spurt, that possibility is looking increasingly remote. He never completely lost what his mother would term 'puppy fat', and while it would be unfair to say he was overweight precisely, he has a certain rounded quality about him; in the face as well as the body. It has been noted that, when wearing certain facial expressions, Peter loses his chin altogether. His eyes go wide at the drop of a hat, and as a result he often looks -- well, surprised and alert.
Predominant Feature:
He has an odd rodent-like quality which tends to crop up when he's nervous, first and foremost; or worried. It's something about the nose or the beady quality his eyes acquire; tricky to pinpoint exactly what the cause, but there.
Clothing:
His wardrobe is all unremarkable trousers and interchangeable buttoned shirts. Everything would be up-to-the-minute in style, if one happened to be dressing a twelve-year-old from a conservative family. This too young, too proper and yet on a budget impression is easily explained: Peter's mother buys all his clothes. There are some truly tragic options that surface now and then amongst his weekend wear which earn him some light ribbing from the more fashion-conscious students.
•» [ Mind Set ] «•
Sexual Preference:
Oh, very very straight.
General Attitude:
Peter isn't sure he can discuss this by himself.
What would James, Sirius and Remus say?
He decides to be impressionable -- more than that, he wants to be. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to have to be his own person. He'd rather follow an example, and there are such wonderful examples around to choose from that he can't see how that could possibly present a problem. As much as he might desire the limelight, attention of the positive kind also terrifies him. There's an element of risk involved in being a leader that he could never warm to. He doesn't want to be the person to blame when things go wrong. Almost everything he says is in agreement, and almost everything he does is in response to a suggestion.
There are days when he wishes he could stop time marching on, so everything could stay the way it is. At the same time, he entertains the faint hope that his best mates might slow down someday and let him catch up to them -- in skill and intelligence, if in no other sense. Dull as he is and rather unassuming, he wants there to be more to his own life than there is.
His own mind scares him just a little sometimes. He's found a lot of conflict rattling around in there that he didn't imagine was possible for any one person to contain. He hears an awful lot from himself about fear, even more about responsibility and secrets and how he doesn't want them. Oh, but there's a brave voice underneath it all; a voice that occasionally tells him what he owes to the people who've been good to him -- so now and then he'll do something just because. The rest of the time, the other voices win out, and Peter does what's best for Peter.
It's only natural.
He knows he's lucky. He wants to be a part of something, truly involved and welcome, but at the same time his own self-depreciating nature refuses to let him be a real part of the group; a real Marauder. He knows what he's good for, and it isn't much. He's grateful for what he has, but -- as thick as he can be -- he knows that school can't last forever. He worries sometimes that there might not always be safety in numbers, or a club to be part of, or people around on which to model himself. If he wasn't part of something, says the voice, then who would he be?
Those are dangerous thoughts.
One day he'll have to sit down and give real consideration to them, even though thinking things through was never one of this strong points. He has an aversion to peering into the murky depths of his own bloody brain to work matters out. For now, he's nothing if not good old Pete, likely to be found standing in a corridor (red faced and red handed) under the withering look of Professor McGonagall, swearing blind that he has no idea where the dungbombs came from and even less of a notion who Sirius Black and James Potter are. Gryffindor loyalty and all that.
He's a good person when he has good examples.
Likes:
- Pranks.
- Food.
- Feasts (Don't they just sound good?)
- Lollies.
- Full moons. (The whole ritual reeks of acceptance.)
- Being included.
- Anything the other Marauders like.
- Butterbeer.
Dislikes:
- Full moons (It's a point of inner conflict, though he's not going to be the first to say it.)
- Homework.
- Classwork.
- Rejection.
- Being hungry.
- Getting letters from home.
- Dumbledore. The Headmaster looks right through him, and it's creepy.
- Firewhiskey.
Abilities:
Well, he's... um. Wait just a minute, he'll think of something.
He can hear pudding.
He's at least half alright at Care of Magical Creatures.
With a whole lot of help from James and Sirius, he miraculously managed to become an Animagus during his fifth year. He's fairly certain that accomplishing this was the single proudest moment of his life. If it weren't so terribly secret, rest assured that he'd broadcast this ability to everyone within earshot all of the time.
Bad Habits:
x Chews on his pencils.
x Bites his fingernails.
x Twitches when he lies.
x Stares off vacantly into the distance during class.
x Can't make up his mind without a little 'help'.
x Cheating on tests.
x Copying Remus' homework, with or without his permission.
History:
What history?
The boy popped into existence between two comically mismatched, obviously loveless individuals and has been pointedly avoiding talking to either of them ever since. He really doesn't want to know how much of a late bloomer he was or precisely when they realised he was an utter disappointment. Discovering that he wasn't, in fact, a squib had to have been the highlight of his childhood. He's never been fantastically magical, but at least he made the grade; he's been grateful for that forever. That was one of the good bits in his ordinary life. Perhaps, he often reflects, he should win a prize for being so very ordinary.
When he was about five he used to play a game where the giant cardboard box someone had left on the street outside their house was his castle. That box, the site of many an innocent (if unimaginative) games, was his home away from home. He'd scurry to the absolute back with his knees to his chest and resist the urge to emerge, except for mealtimes. He cried for about three days straight when it rained and then snowed and the box disintegrated before his eyes. One time he got absolutely smashed on about a thimble of firewhiskey (thus why he doesn't like it) and told this story to the Marauders, who laughed hysterically at his expense with the exception of Remus -- who, Peter recalls, tried to look sympathetic for all of thirty seconds before dissolving into a fit of laughter faster than cardboard outside in the Winter.
He remembers the day his mother brought Brutus home -- lamenting the fact that owls were messy and demanding that Peter keep the creature in his room -- but he can't for the life of him work out how he'd ever earned his friends' trust. He honestly doesn't remember the moment when they'd first started talking, or when they'd decided to be friends. He supposes it was simply because he was there, they let him in because he'd have looked awfully sad and lonely standing outside the metaphorical circle by himself. It was geographical convenience too -- his bed in the boys' dorm is right there, practically on top of theirs.
Anyway, that past he can't entirely remember makes him fairly happy in the present.
•» [ Sample RP ] «•
||ooc: My apologies to the person playing Remus, this intro completely butchers him. This was previously posted, by me, to a wonderful place called L-Nox, but I'll advertise on my own time. xD||
Remus Lupin was having the strangest dream.
Peter, James and Sirius were in it, and it seemed they were having a grand old time. His dream-self was laughing far too much. The boys' dorm room could hardly contain the Marauders, the state they were in.
There was something completely prohibited in an enticing brown bottle floating around. He'd taken an inordinate amount of convincing even to try the stuff, and it'd burned his throat on the way down. His dream-self gave it another go.
The sensible half-waking Remus felt that was rather a stupid thing to do.
There were a lot of things he would've liked to tell dream Remus.
To start with, any dare hatched by James Potter was not 'Superrific, Prongsie!' -- in fact, very few things in this world were 'Superrific, Prongsie!' -- and if they were, Remus was quite certain that an evening stroll through the castle in his underwear wouldn't have made the grade.
All in all, sensible waking Remus was quite glad to be an objective observer, as opposed to that simpleton.
And then he opened his eyes.
"Oh, bloody hell."
In Lupin's case, waking up in an odd location with a clouded memory and little or nothing to cover his shame might've been the result of several different things. There were some choice explanations he could've entirely forgiven himself for.
Firewhiskey and the Marauder-popularised 'Dare or Dare' wasn't one of them. He almost wished they hadn't long since expunged the 'Truth' option.
It took some blind fumbling about (and this cupboard saw quite a lot of that) but he eventually ascertained the dimensions of his makeshift bed. His wand had rolled off between a broom and a dustpan, but he had the good fortune of finding it incidentally.
A slither of light from beneath the door wasn't enough to go on, so his first course of action was clear. He gave an uncomfortable cough before casting, rather ashamed of all this: "Lumos."
The small beam of light was enough to brighten the cramped space. If Remus hadn't known he was only wearing boxer shorts before, then he was all too well informed now.
The fog that had settled over his recollection of the previous evening lifted with an unappreciated haste, and Remus had a certain sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that suggested he didn't want to know. He wasn't badly hung-over at all: in fact, slight muscle pain (from sleeping oddly) and a dull headache were all he had to show for his misdeeds. Sadly, that meant he couldn't even say he'd been awfully drunk.
The dare had been very specific. He wasn't supposed to leave the castle or linger in secret passages and he couldn't return to the common room until first light. The task wasn't considered complete unless he'd also made it to the ground floor at some point. Thus, here he was in all his glory - far too much Remus Lupin for anyone's tastes.
He was certain of hearing the shuffling of feet outside, and the general sounds of a lively castle. It was definitely daytime.
'How,' he wondered, 'would Padfoot get out of this?'
After some consideration, Remus concluded that Sirius would strut back to Gryffindor Tower exactly as he was, as though the impromptu underwear-modeling was a gift to all womankind.
But of course, Sirius wasn't body-conscious with imperfections aplenty, scars and an ever-present bite mark to hide.
He glanced about for other options, the illuminated wand serving its purpose only until he found what he was looking for. "Nox."
Remus shuffled out of the broom cupboard with what looked to be an old tablecloth around his shoulders. The tablecloth had the rather tall sixth year covered down to the ankles, but he had to hold it in place with one hand and keep his wand in the other. There was no room for error. It looked like a very minimalist attempt at a cloak.
He started off towards the stairs in a determined yet awkward fashion.
Would he do it all again if he had last night to live over?
In a heartbeat.
Peter, James and Sirius were in it, and it seemed they were having a grand old time. His dream-self was laughing far too much. The boys' dorm room could hardly contain the Marauders, the state they were in.
There was something completely prohibited in an enticing brown bottle floating around. He'd taken an inordinate amount of convincing even to try the stuff, and it'd burned his throat on the way down. His dream-self gave it another go.
The sensible half-waking Remus felt that was rather a stupid thing to do.
There were a lot of things he would've liked to tell dream Remus.
To start with, any dare hatched by James Potter was not 'Superrific, Prongsie!' -- in fact, very few things in this world were 'Superrific, Prongsie!' -- and if they were, Remus was quite certain that an evening stroll through the castle in his underwear wouldn't have made the grade.
All in all, sensible waking Remus was quite glad to be an objective observer, as opposed to that simpleton.
And then he opened his eyes.
"Oh, bloody hell."
In Lupin's case, waking up in an odd location with a clouded memory and little or nothing to cover his shame might've been the result of several different things. There were some choice explanations he could've entirely forgiven himself for.
Firewhiskey and the Marauder-popularised 'Dare or Dare' wasn't one of them. He almost wished they hadn't long since expunged the 'Truth' option.
It took some blind fumbling about (and this cupboard saw quite a lot of that) but he eventually ascertained the dimensions of his makeshift bed. His wand had rolled off between a broom and a dustpan, but he had the good fortune of finding it incidentally.
A slither of light from beneath the door wasn't enough to go on, so his first course of action was clear. He gave an uncomfortable cough before casting, rather ashamed of all this: "Lumos."
The small beam of light was enough to brighten the cramped space. If Remus hadn't known he was only wearing boxer shorts before, then he was all too well informed now.
The fog that had settled over his recollection of the previous evening lifted with an unappreciated haste, and Remus had a certain sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that suggested he didn't want to know. He wasn't badly hung-over at all: in fact, slight muscle pain (from sleeping oddly) and a dull headache were all he had to show for his misdeeds. Sadly, that meant he couldn't even say he'd been awfully drunk.
The dare had been very specific. He wasn't supposed to leave the castle or linger in secret passages and he couldn't return to the common room until first light. The task wasn't considered complete unless he'd also made it to the ground floor at some point. Thus, here he was in all his glory - far too much Remus Lupin for anyone's tastes.
He was certain of hearing the shuffling of feet outside, and the general sounds of a lively castle. It was definitely daytime.
'How,' he wondered, 'would Padfoot get out of this?'
After some consideration, Remus concluded that Sirius would strut back to Gryffindor Tower exactly as he was, as though the impromptu underwear-modeling was a gift to all womankind.
But of course, Sirius wasn't body-conscious with imperfections aplenty, scars and an ever-present bite mark to hide.
He glanced about for other options, the illuminated wand serving its purpose only until he found what he was looking for. "Nox."
Remus shuffled out of the broom cupboard with what looked to be an old tablecloth around his shoulders. The tablecloth had the rather tall sixth year covered down to the ankles, but he had to hold it in place with one hand and keep his wand in the other. There was no room for error. It looked like a very minimalist attempt at a cloak.
He started off towards the stairs in a determined yet awkward fashion.
Would he do it all again if he had last night to live over?
In a heartbeat.
•» Animagi «•
Animagi Form:
Rat.
Why You Chose That Form:
Where 'J.K. Rowling told me to.' will not suffice, I will simply say that Peter lives and breathes rat. He has the same level of comfort with confined spaces, the same self-preservation instinct and the precise same attitude towards predators.
Sample RP In Animagi Form:
Peter Pettigrew was going to die, there was no doubt about it.
It was just a matter of when and which one of them was going to be responsible. There was always something out there that wanted to kill him.
Didn't they appreciate that? Oh, no. A great bloody stag and a shaggy slobbering dog didn't have to worry about them and their eyes in the night. He was food. He was less than a meal. He'd worked it out in Arithmancy, and he was roughly a quarter of a meal and no mistake. He wouldn't even taste very good. His last act as a wizard would be to give some owl indigestion.
He could feel danger everywhere. Imminent doom was every little vibration on his whiskers. Another friend was on the air, but he wasn't friend anymore. He wasn't safety; hadn't been since moonrise. The human part of Peter thought of the floor in the Owlery, and he idly wondered whether this might be the night when they tempted fate too much.
His nose twitched every second towards danger and imminent doom, until it was almost all he could think about. But there was one other thing on his mind -- a little knot at the base of the big tree. Wouldn't it be a marvelous thing, if he could scurry over there and press it? There'd be lots of kudos in it for him, maybe food later. Oh yes, and the sooner he did that, the sooner they'd all be in the nice safe tunnel; the nice, safe, dark tunnel that led to the unsafest thing of all.
The stag and the dog would protect him from the unsafe things, but first he had to help them -- he worried about the eyes in the night and they worried about the great sweeping branches, whipping through the air overhead, oblivious to little terrified things like him. Those branches promised nasty impact to anything bigger. Peter stopped to look and tensed, realising he couldn't crane his neck to see that far up without revealing his position. He scurried onwards to the important place on the tree, carving an awkward path through the tall, tall grass.
He was going to die, there was no doubt about it.
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