Here's the next update earlier than promised.

Peter's POV- Morning 1st September 1971-

The happy scene in the Potter house could not have been any more different from the situation unfurling at the same time in the Pettigrew household. The house was small and dirty and in a bad part of London. It may once have been well cared for by the Victorian working-class muggle family which had once inhabited it. The tiled step would have been whole and the red tiles polished carefully by the wife/mother of the house every day. She would also have ensured that the brick front was clean, the windows wiped and the frames newly painted. If she had not, the neighbours would have commented immediately, and she would have been the talk of the neighbourhood. She may have been a Mrs Brown, Smith, Jones, Owens, anything and probably would have had a large number of well turned out children, perhaps lacking shoes but clean and well-presented nonetheless. When Mr Something had returned home, he would have kissed her cheek and gratefully eaten the simple, but well cooked dinner she would have made and then settled down with a pipe.

Since this scene, the neighbourhood had taken a huge turn for the worst. Even its name, Greenfield Street, seemed a cruel irony. The small terraced houses were dirty, the bricks so coated with soot that their original colour could not be guessed at, although now it was a grimy grey-black. Most of the windows were smashed, cracked or so coated with grime that it was impossible to tell their condition, let alone see anything through them. The purpose of these windows was debatable, especially considering that fact that any light which got through would be a miracle. Red tiles were cracked in front of the battered doors and some were even spread over the road, indicating perhaps a fight, or maybe a small riot. Some roofs had holes in them and weeds grew in the tiny front yards. In fact, one would be surprised to hear that the whole road was in fact occupied.

Number 53, the Pettigrew House, was relatively clean by the standards of the rest of the street. Patches of the original brick colour sneaked around the sooty covering. The tiles were mostly whole and there were only a couple of weeds, either with useful properties or pretty flowers. It was occupied by the older Mrs Mildred Pettigrew, her daughter-in-law the younger Mrs Enid Pettigrew and Enid's son, Peter Pettigrew.

Mrs Mildred Pettigrew, called the Battleship by most of the local children, but definitely not in front of her, was the terror of the road and of her daughter-in-law and grandson. She had rod straight iron grey hair which was always done in a bun at the base of her skull with never a hair astray. Mrs Pettigrew always wore black, in morning for her husband who had died at least twenty-years ago and sat as though she always wore a corset, which she did. She was skinny and mean and deemed all of the modern generation as slatterns and shirkers. It was surprising for those around her when she did not start a sentence with 'in my day.' All her neighbours spoke to her politely, for mysterious things happened to those who were disrespectful to her. It would be a while before the street forgot the Patricia Turner case, even though it had occurred more than three years ago now. Pat had been the golden girl of the street. A beautiful seventeen-year-old girl with golden hair always perfectly curled, always well dressed in modern, home-made fashion, always well made-up, bright, constantly laughing and working hard as a telephone operator until her hoped for acting career kicked off. She had already had offers from various play producers and even a possible radio and television. The darling of the street. They were all so proud of her, especially her parents and her brothers, she was their only daughter. She even had a steady boyfriend, Kenny Stevens who worked down the road as a grocer. Everyone loved her, except for Mrs M. Pettigrew. It had all started when Pat had been coming back home from a particularly long shift. She had been trying out a new dress style and had had the misfortune to walk past Mrs Pettigrew's house whilst the aforementioned lady was looking out of the window. She had shot out of the door at a surprising rate, considering her age of at least eighty and stood in front of Pat, blocking her way. She had called Pat a disgrace for her clothes and that they disgusted her. If the younger woman had just walked on, or apologised, it all would have blown over, however, she was tired and irritable and had told the older woman that it was none of her business how Pat dressed and that it would do her good to lighten up and not be so vile to everyone. She had then stormed off. Any observers may have noticed Mrs Pettigrew's lips tighten as she stalked back into Number 53. Two weeks later Pat was dead in a hospital morgue, a freak accident. The whole road knew though, they suspected Mrs Pettigrew and became even more wary of her. Children were warned about her and her family. They were deemed strange and dangerous.

Enid and her son Peter could not have been more different to Mrs M. Pettigrew. Peter's father had been the apple of his mother's eye, but his son, Peter, took more after his mother. Enid was small, with mousy-brown hair and large, grey nervous eyes which always had a slightly nervous, haunted look, as if she was waiting for the next blow to come. Peter, other than being chubby, was exactly the same. He demonstrated, according to his grandmother, no recognisable talent and it was, in her frequently expressed opinion, a miracle that he had got into Hogwarts at all, considering the fact that he never did anything right. According to Mrs Pettigrew, he was like his mother, a muggle born, unlike Mrs Pettigrew who considered herself a pure blood witch, whose only interesting life events had been her attendance at Hogwarts and then her marriage, at eighteen, to Mr Pettigrew, who had died in an accident whilst visiting a dragon sanctuary in Romania less than a year later. Peter had been born about a month after. Enid had little imagination and was very docile, she had never even considered moving out of her mother-in-law's home with her son. She just meekly did the chores under the constant critical gaze of Mrs Pettigrew.

The 1st September 1971 began in the same way as practically every other day in Number 53, Greenfield Road. Peter, sleeping in his small, plain whitewashed room, was woken by the sounds of his grandmother scolding his mother. ('If you had any self-respect or talent you would have done that properly. Breakfast is cold, the clothes are dirty, the house is filthy. I let you and your useless excuse for a son stay here out of the goodness of my heart and what is it that you do exactly?!') He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and placed his pudgy feed on the bare wood floor. After a minute or so, he padded carefully to the door, listened for a moment, then, with a surprising turn of speed seemed to fly into the small, similarly sparse bathroom. Passing by the mirror, he carefully washed, paying special attention to his neck, hands, and behind his ears, knowing that his grandmother would check and attack the offending body party with carbolic soap.

The boy then dressed, folding his blue striped pyjamas and placing them gently in the top of his perfectly packed trunk. The initial P had been painted on the trunk, over a badly scraped off T. It had been his fathers and so had to be well maintained and cared for. After closing the trunk, and putting on a firmly ironed shirt and trousers, he tentatively walked downstairs. Pausing by the kitchen door before entering, assessing the atmosphere.

'Enid, the bacon is burning. No! Just take it off the stove! You're a witch are you not, use your wand!'

So, it's one of those mornings, the eleven-year-old would have thought, if he dared.

'Peter! Stop skulking behind the door and come in! Hurry up! You're just like your mother, always looking shifty the both of you! If only Thomas had survived, he would not have put up with this nonsense. He would have given you two your own house so you would be out of my hair and I could enjoy my retirement. He may have even found a use for you. Don't blubber. Boys in my day would have been ashamed. There's your breakfast, if you can call it that. Eat.'

Enid tentatively smiled at her son as she placed the plate of bacon, eggs, friend potatoes and sausages before him and slipping a pack of Bertie Bott's every flavour beans into his hand under the table. Luckily for her, Mrs Pettigrew was sitting in the rocking chair in the corner of the room and too busy reminiscing to notice her.

'…Of course if that Norwegian ridgeback hadn't ….' The elderly woman did not notice that the daughter-in-law and grandson were not listening to her, the former washing up and the latter focused on his food.

'You've finished. Good. Now wash, as you know cleanliness is next to godliness. And bring your things down. You will not bring further shame on this family by making us late for the train. It's amazing you will be on it as it is, let's not tempt fate.'

The boy nearly fell over his own feet in his haste to get away to his grandmother. He only stopped scuttling when the door was firmly shut behind him. Although he was terrified of going to Hogwarts, he was equally terrified of staying here, with his grandmother, whose tongue could cut like a knife, to be honest Peter spent most of his life in a state of fear or terror. His grandmother was right in one respect, he did take after his mother in that way. He was scared of socialising, of not socialising, of lessons, of almost everything. But anything, anything, in his mind had to be better than staying on Greenfield Road, where, even if his grandmother had allowed him to play with the muggle children, their parents would not allow them to play with him, again due to Mildred.

'Petey? Are you nearly ready? Grandmother says we need to leave in a minute.' He heard his mother's whisper through the door. 'Please come out Pete. She's getting tetchy, you know how it is.'

The minute he came out of the bathroom, Peter's mother pulled him into a hug. 'I love you Pete. And I'll miss you. Grandmother will too, I think, in her own way. I'm awfully proud of you. Don't worry, you'll be fine.' She kissed his cheek and smoothed his hair. She did not let him see the fear that ignited in her own heart due to the worried look on her son's face. 'You'll make good friends. I know you will.'

'Enid! Stop mollycoddling him and let's get on! He's got a train to catch!'

Pulling out her wand, Enid levitated the trunk and owl cage down the stairs. The owner swiftly followed the trunk.

'Please tell me you have your wand.' Peter winced and scampered up the stairs, returning a minute later carrying the item. They all stood by the fireplace in the parlour, which was only used on special occasions. Enid went first, with the trunk and owl, followed by Peter ('Enunciate, Peter!') and then Mrs Pettigrew. A dizzy ride later through the floo network, Peter whimpering in terror until he fell headfirst out of the fireplace at the other end. A couple of boys laughed, but were soon chivvied on by their parents. Luckily for Peter's small amount of confidence, the floo near the station was relatively quiet, as the family were early.

After collecting himself, and being glared at by his grandmother, Peter scurried after his mother and grandmother down the street and into King's Cross station. As far as King's Cross ever is, it was quiet. The muggle families and commuters stared at the motley party, owl and child in tow. However, their interest had waned by the time Peter, Enid and Mrs Pettigrew walked briskly through the barrier and onto the platform beyond.

I have to admit that this chapter was a bit of a battle as Peter is not my favourite character by a long shot. However, it was interesting thinking about him and what could have happened to make him such a rat, in both senses of the word. I hope you enjoyed it. Please review. The next update should be within the next week, if not sooner. Thanks for reading :)