One of the only memories I have of my father is a day we spent on a beach in Normandy. My father, a native Frenchman, had insisted on a vacation to Normandy, rather anywhere else. As my mother slumbered inside the hotel room, my father coaxed me out onto the beach, out into the sand. While I was preoccupied with the crabs in the sand, he tried to take my picture. Most of the time, he was unsuccessful in gaining my attention. After all, I was only two.
"Viens, mon amour," he said quietly, laughing as I ran sand grains through my fists. Come on, my love. "Look at me, Audrey."
Instead, I had thrown a small shell at his left knee. My father had laughed and snapped a picture of my childish features.
"Pas beaucoup d'un bras, sa fille. Mais c'est bien. Tu seras belle. The most beautiful." Not much of an arm, daughter. But that's alright. You will be beautiful.
My father died a year later when he drowned in the coast off Moher while vacationing in Ireland. The picture he took of me at age two now sits in my bedroom, above my mirror, the last bit of him I have.
But he was right, I did turn out beautiful. Now don't get me wrong, do not judge me, for I am not conceited. Not in the slightest. But beauty is the only attribute that seems to grace me. I was never much use in school. Maths was hopeless and English was not my strong suit. Sciences bored me to death, and languages usually left me confused. I really flourished in arts, with painting and such, but even so, my works were nothing compared to my more talented and more practiced classmates.
My mother decided that my good looks would be put towards marketing. Yes, that's right, marketing. My own mother used me like meat to attract dogs. She put me to work in her paper shop at age fourteen, hoping that my straight blonde hair, blue eyes, straight white teeth, hollow cheeks, and slender frame would bring customers into the store. So, for the past three years, I've put up with the suggestive, salivating men that come in to shop, and the jealous girls that sit outside, glaring.
The summer that I was seventeen started out no differently than usual. I awoke to the smell of burnt toast, no doubt that my mother had burnt in the toaster. I hastily made my bed, took a shower, washed my face and teeth, and then dressed. I pulled back my hair into a braid that just reached my shoulder blades and then slipped on my work smock, still that hideous shade of blue that had lasted for the last few years.
Downstairs, my mother was trying to convince my twin sisters, Clemence and Joie to eat their oatmeal.
"Mum, this is absolutely disgusting," Clemence said, pushing the oatmeal away from her. Joie just spooned some oatmeal discreetly into her napkin, folded it, and put it in her lap.
"Done, Mum," she sang, getting up and slipping the napkin into her pocket. I hid my smile as she passed and resisted patting her on the back. I grabbed a piece of burnt toast off the table and my mom started, and then glanced up at me.
"Open the shop, will you?" She asked me, without any morning greeting. "I won't be able to be in until two. I have to go pick up a shipment today."
"How come we can't have shipments sent here?" I asked, laying the crust of the toast on the table. Clemence took advantage of the situation by quickly dumping out her oatmeal into the potted plant on the windowsill.
My mother gave me a look that clearly read she thought I was mentally handicapped.
"We live in St. Ottery Catchepole. Our town, this isn't even a town; this is just a village…is nothing. How would you like to get them to deliver here, hmm?" My mother mumbled something else and turned away. She ran a hand through her frazzled blonde hair and reached for a packet of cigarettes on the counter. "Adrian's idea of course. Always a dreamer, wanted some little romantic town. He never should have left France. No sense, none at all."
"Don't talk about dad like that," Clemence said, standing up abruptly. She threw her bowl down on the kitchen counter and it shattered into a thousand bits.
"You were only one when he died!" My mother said, as if that was any explanation for her words. Clemence gave her the dirtiest look a thirteen year old could muster, and then ran up the stairs after Joie.
"You've really done it now, Mum." I walked past her, unable to look her in the eyes.
Believe it or not, my mother was not always like this. She used to be young and beautiful. When my father was alive, she was a slim and stylish mother that used to take me on walks around the village. She was successful and happy. But when my father died, everything changed. My mother had found out that she was pregnant with my sisters while vacationing, and when they were born, she couldn't stand to see them. The twins reminded my mother of my father so much that she withdrew from her children. Even me. And now, so much later, my mother still can't stand the sight of us. I believe we represent what she could've been if my father had stayed alive. But now, she's older, meaner, and wider. She smokes constantly and doesn't date, and tries to avoid us as much as she can. Occasionally, she provokes us.
"She doesn't even know anything," my mother hissed angrily.
"She knows that you were just talking about dad and you weren't using the kindest of tones."
"He was my husband," my mother screamed, standing up from her chair. "He wasn't your father or their father. He was my husband, first and foremost." My mother kicked her chair aside and ran up the stairs, like a toddler having a temper-tantrum.
I left the house feeling slightly more refreshed. Although my mother had proven to be an insensitive wart, yet again, I was almost free for the day. The paper shop was my haven. Although it wouldn't seem to be, seeing as I work there for no wages and have odd customers come in just to ogle me, I don't mind. I like the smell of the different papers and parchments as I place them on the shelves. I like being able to test all the new inks and fountain pens we get in, and stacking all the blank journals and agendas on small tables.
I had just crossed the street when I heard a banging from my house. Clemence and Joie were climbing out of their bedroom window.
"What are you doing?" I called out, shielding my eyes from the blinding sun that was beginning to peak around the side of the house.
"We're going to Derek's for the day," Joie called back. "Mum said we're not allowed out. But we're going anyway."
"Be careful getting down that drainpipe," I shouted with a wink. Instead, Clemence full on jumped from the roof, landing on the balls of her feet, like a cat. Joie followed, laughing as she did so. My sisters had absolutely no concept of safety, but they didn't seem to mind. They had never come to any harm, so I was not in a position to stop them.
"Bye," they chimed out joyously, hopping on their bikes and pedaling away. I shook my head and smiled at them, and then continued on my way to the paper shop. It only took me a good five minutes to reach the shop, and I reached into my smock, fitted it in the lock, and opened the door. I flicked on the lights, breathed in, and shoved a doorstopper under the crack of the old, cracked door. I straightened a few stacks of paper and went to stand behind the counter.
I had only been in a few minutes when the first customer came in. He was a guy I had never seen before, maybe in his early twenties. He glanced at me, blushed, and then began to look at the shelves.
"Is there anything I can help you find today?" I asked the question from behind the counter, to create a physical barrier I hoped he would not cross.
"Oh," he said, breezing by thick parchment. He had an Australian accent, so he obviously wasn't from around St. Ottery. "I'm just looking." He looked me up and down as he said so. I resisted the urge to gag, and then gave him a tight-lipped smile. At that moment, another person walked into the store, another customer. This guy was closer to my age, and had a head of flaming red hair.
I'd seen this boy before. I assumed he lived in the village, as I had seen him walking by himself and some other red heads down by the bakery and such. He always had a smile on his face. He glanced at me and offered a wide, genuine smile that had no trace of lust behind it. That was a first. I blinked in reply.
"What about this paper?" The Australian asked, puling attention back to him. He ran his hand over a soft tissue paper, nearly crinkling it. "It's soft, isn't it?"
"Well, it is tissue paper," the redheaded guy said, not looking at either of us. He hummed slightly and picked up an agenda, then flipped through the pages. I raised an eyebrow, but truthfully, I felt like laughing at his comment.
"He's right, actually," I began to explain, coming out from behind the counter. "This kind is actually a special we have from China, it's pressed…" I stopped talking as the guy reached out and grabbed my arm.
"It's not softer than your skin," he leered.
I put the paper back on the shelf and yanked my arm back. I had been leered at, whistled at, and commented upon, but hardly ever was I groped.
"I'll bet it is," the redhead said, suddenly appearing at my side. He reached out and ran his fingers over my skin. "Scaly," he said, shaking his head. He stuck out his tongue in disgust. I didn't feel uncomfortable at his touch. In fact, the opposite. I resisted the urge to laugh as he pulled a face. I should've been insulted by that comment, but I knew that he was defending me, in some weird, twisted way. I pressed a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.
"You should really treat your customers better," the Australian told me seriously.
"What, by letting them hit on her when she clearly isn't interested?" The red head cocked his head and shrugged his shoulders. He turned his back and continued to talk, as if having a pleasant chat, rather than a slight argument. "I'll bet you'll be a big hit in strip clubs, mate. It's where you belong." The Australian gave him a dirty look, and then wheeled about and left the shop in a huff. I returned to the counter as the redhead continued to browse the shop.
"Usually, I would consider that to be something a right arse would do, but I appreciate it," I told him, reaching down for a cloth so I could polish the counter.
"It's no problem," he said, somewhat mischievously.
"But my skin isn't really scaly, is it?"
He laughed and ran a hand through his bright hair.
"Not at all."
I nodded and pulled out a magazine to flip through. A few moments later, he came back up to the counter, a pack of parchment in one hand, and a deck of playing cards in the other.
"That's going to be three euros," I said, ringing it up. Immediately, he froze.
"Er. Three euros, yeah?"
"Yes," I replied, somewhat tersely, and drew a bag out from one of the drawers.
"Er…" he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a toffee, some lint, and a curious looking silver coin that looked as if it was foreign currency.
"You know what?" I asked, looking down at the contents of his pocket. "It really doesn't matter. Just take it."
"Ah, no, just give me a minute. My mum gave me some money, I'm sure."
"No, seriously. You did me a favor, consider it returned."
He gave me a curious glance, as if trying to figure out if I were serious or not.
"Is this just some way you're trying to pick me up or something? Trying to get me to date you? Because I really insist, it's too much too soon. You're coming on a little strong."
"Oh am I?" I asked with a laugh. He was funny. I picked up the bag and handed it to him. "No strings attached. Promise."
"Okay," he agreed, taking the bag. "Thanks, girl from the paper shop."
"Have a nice day, random ginger," I replied. He grinned and left the shop, only glancing back once, through the window. As he went, I realized that he was the first male customer to come in to the shop in the past five years and didn't make a move on me.
And that was the first time I met Fred Weasley.