The Hatstall

The silence was deafening. If it had been possible for Peter Pettigrew to melt into the floor, he would have, content to slip between the cracks of the fine tiles in the Great Hall and forget the whole messy ordeal had even happened.

He was a Hatstall.

The embarrassment burned through him, sharp like a hot knife between his ribs, and he was certain it would be all he was remembered for.

Of all the awful things Peter had imagined happening to him, and he had imagined an awful lot thanks in part to his chronic overactive imagination and a case of crippling anxiety, it had never occurred to him that there might not be a place for him at all. He wondered if it were possible to be turned around at the door, to be sent back to the waiting train with nothing more than an apologetic, if not pitying, smile and several recommendations for how to live life amongst muggles.

The boy he met on the train, Sirius, watched him with his mouth open from the Ravenclaw table. The other boy, James, had been sorted just before him, the misery clear as day as he walked to the Slytherin tables. His face buried in his hands, nothing visible but the wild tufts of black hair that he ran his hands through in an almost compulsive manner.

Peter's own hair, a helmeted mess that made him look like a lumpy gobstone buried deep in the Sorting Hat, was making him sweat. His hands itched to reach up and fix it, to mess up the glue like gel his mother had insisted he wear until it finally looked effortlessly cool. She said it would be smart, like he cared about being there, but all it had achieved was a myriad of mocking looks thrown in his direction from the other kids who knew where they wanted to be and where they belonged.

Perhaps, when they looked at him, they saw that he didn't belong anywhere.

He was not brave.

He had never been clever, or ambitious, or loyal.

They knew it and now the Sorting Hat knew it.

He had thought about which house he wanted. Agonized over it, really, for years. His older sister had been sorted into Slytherin ten years before and had been bragging about it ever since. She was cunning and clever and everything that old Salazar would have wanted from a student.

This was all they would remember him for.

The Hat hummed, a pensive sound that echoed in his mind.

"Gryffindor!"

It didn't register at first. He sat there, waiting, waiting, waiting, until Professor McGonagall lifted the Hat off his head and ushered his shaking body down the steps and towards the table full of his new housemates.

Dinner in the Great Hall was a frenetic and noisy affair and Peter found himself overwhelmed before it had really even begun.

After the sorting was finished, he found solace in the food, piling his plate higher until he could barely see the red-head sitting across him. Barely. He caught sight of her wide green eyes, slightly glassy with all the excitement, staring at him from around a particularly long buttered noodle. Her own plate was scant, not even a leaf of lettuce in sight, and Peter felt a blush creep onto his face the longer she stared at him.

"What's your name?"

Posh.

High class.

Peter felt his blush deepen until he was certain it had found a permanent home on his face.

"Peter," He managed to get out between his bites. His accent felt rough even in his own mouth. He could only imagine what it sounded like to her.

"Peter." She smiled and scooted closer, finally grabbing a little something from the pile of chicken legs. She set them neatly on her plate, positioning them with an almost compulsive precision. "Meaning stone."

"What?"

"Your name. It means stone."

The blank look on his face caused her to backtrack, leaning back in her seat as she busied herself crafting the perfect plate that he really didn't think she was going to touch. She glanced at him occasionally, chagrined and thoroughly embarrassed by his apparent lack of interest in what she was saying.

His desire to sink into the floor increased tenfold.

"What's your name?" He had to practically tear the words from his chest, unaccustomed to talking to someone so very normal.

And female.

And pretty.

"Lily Evans."

Lily. The name suited her- pretty as a flower. The thought embarrassed him further.

Next to him, two of his fellow housemates laughed loudly, bits of food flying from one of their mouths as he threw his head back and practically cackled. The noise added to the already loud meal, making Peter want to shrink even further in on himself. Lily seemed to notice his feelings, a horrifying proposition that Peter would think on for the next several weeks, and leaned forward.

"It's all very exciting, isn't it?"

Exciting was, perhaps, not the word Peter would use. Anxiety inducing? Yes. Daunting in all its possibilities, good and bad? Absolutely. He had spent the better part of the last year going overall the ways coming to Hogwarts could be bad and horrible and possibly ruin his life, but none of those scenarios had included the pretty red-head sitting in front of him.

His sister would laugh at him if she could see him now. Gormless and stuffing his face. The sound of her laugh echoed in his mind before he pushed it away.

"It is," Peter finally managed to say.

"Did you know much about Hogwarts before today?"

"Of course," He said, wondering for a half a moment why she wouldn't have.

And then he realized.

She was muggle-born.

"My friend told me as much as he could." She leaned to the side and waved, a bright smile lighting up her face. Peter followed her gaze, surprised to find her looking at a skinny boy sitting at the Slytherin table. James sat next to him, hair just as black although decidedly cleaner looking, and the perfect picture of a miserable mess. The unnamed boy didn't notice her waving at first, content to throw smug looks sideways at James for the time being. After a moment, he finally looked over at her, peering through a curtain of greasy hair. He managed a small smile and an even smaller wave before he turned back to his dinner.

"I never thought I would be Gryffindor." Lily leaned back, turning her attention back to Peter.

"Me either."

"Neither," Lily said, taking a bite of chicken before she realized he was staring again. "Sorry, it's a hard habit to break. Tuney, my sister, always says people hate it when I do that."

"I don't mind."

Lily visibly relaxed, smiling even brighter at him. "I think we'll be friends, Peter." She said it with such confidence he couldn't help but nod in agreement. "The greatest, in fact."

The mocking laugh of his sister was, mercifully absent, as he scooted closer to the table and listened to Lily as she enthused about the train ride. Sinking beneath the floor lost its luster as he settled into the meal, plate of food all but forgotten. He was determined now. He might be a Hatstall, but Peter Pettigrew was determined to be remembered for something else, something greater. He couldn't shake the feeling that meeting Lily Evans might just be the start of that.