A/N: This is a little piece almost in play form, written in mostly dialogue between the Thenardiess and Eponine, age four or so. I don't know if the way the Eponine talks is too grown up, but I tried. And I've always seen her as something of a precocious child, I don't know why. For example, if she lived today, she'd be the kid who skipped kindergarten and then ended up at the high school that's also a rehab center. Or a detention center. However, that's far off-track, so all I'll say about this piece is that I rather like it.
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
1819
"Maman?"
"Yes, Eponine, cherie?"
"Why're we so mean to the Lark?"
A sigh. "Because scum like 'er shouldn't be allowed to live."
"What's she done?"
"It's not what she's done, but what she will do, and what her mother did."
"What was that?"
"Oh, I hope you never have to find out, it's so horrible. And the Lark'll only end up the same way, out on the streets, dying young, with a brat or two of her own. And maybe, someday, you'll have to take her kid in. And then you'll know. The Lark ain't worth anything. She's a bit of trash. She doesn't deserve to be treated well."
A nod, a smile. "I get it, Maman. Merci." She plants a kiss on her mother's cheek, gives her a hug. Then she turns to the little girl sweeping the floor in hearing distance. "Lark! I want my doll. Fetch her for me."
"Yes, Ponine." She whispers the words, and gets the doll, taking the slap for being to slow without words, just a cry of pain.