The French Girl

The horrible mix of snow and factory smog nearly snuffed the life out of Peter as he walked back from the market, buried toes to teeth in his only coat thick enough to keep the chill out. His mother insisted he wear a scarf to avoid breathing the worst of the fumes and she had wrapped it around his face like a mummy, doing a more thorough job of choking him out than the ash ever could.

He dipped his head down and kept close to the buildings to avoid the spray of black slush that was thrown up onto the sidewalk every time a car passed. The bottom of his shop bag, less than half full of all the stuff he needed, was already completely soaked through. If he slowed down anymore, it would surely rip all the way through and what little he had been able to afford would be lost entirely.

His house sat at the end of a small side street, buried beneath the shadow of one of the many factories.

This one had been dying a slow death for years, although most of the workers refused to see that. Instead, the ones that hadn't been killed off already by the toxic sludge seemed determined to die right alongside it. Peter's dad was one of them. So he had been told. His mum never liked to talk about it, but she kept them close.

Maybe she couldn't afford to move.

Or maybe she liked to see the place he died, like a widow kneeling beside a grave.

Peter never cared to know why. All he cared about was the dirty looks thrown at him every time he ducked into their ramshackle home and the way he could never get the acidic smell out of his nose.

All he cared about was how much he hated the grit on his skin.

Peter dipped his head and walked faster, walking just a little bit faster now that he could feel the cold seeping into his shoes.

He turned onto his street and scowled.

The perennial stoop dwellers – the Carmichaels – were at it again, their numbers bolstered by the holiday and the onslaught of never ending cousins, uncles, aunts, and hangers-on that always seemed to multiply exponentially around this time of year. They seemed to have multiplied in the last six months, their curly blonde hair cropping up everywhere he turned every time he so much as stuck his head outside. Their mother hardly had the time to discipline them, what with her fulltime occupation of being angry and drunk, but they weren't usually so unruly. Today, instead of setting their sights on the neighborhood strays, they were too busy shouting across the street to notice Peter shuffling towards them.

Peter was content to mostly ignore them, as he always did - although the desire to pull out his wand and show them just how meaningless their little jibes really were had increased exponentially – but for some reason he decided to look up from his shoes and at what they were shouting at.

It was a girl.

No.

She was an angel, unlike any girl he had ever seen before.

Prettier than Lily Evans, with hair blonder than Mavis Fawley and eyes that could rival that of Alice Sharp, Peter was very much struck dumb by everything about her. From the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, to the bright blue of her coat that would soon be ruined by the Birmingham sludge, there was not a single thing about her that looked like she belonged.

She rolled her eyes and turned her back to the Carmichaels, holding her shoulders high as she stuck her perfectly shaped chin up in the air.

Peter stayed rooted in place, terrified by the very idea that she might see him in mothy coat, as he made up his mind about what he should do.

He always dreaded walking past the Carmichaels, but he dreaded it even more now.

The thought of her –her- being witness to his humiliation was just about the worst thing he could imagine.

And he had imagined a lot as far as humiliation was concerned.

But the thought of turning tail and walking the other direction might be worst.

"Oi! Pettigrew come meet the frogette!"

Peter stood frozen in place, appalled at being perceived.

He debated with the optics of turning and running away before more of them started to notice him, but that would probably be the worst of all. So he gripped his soaked shopping bag tighter and walked the rest of the way down the street.

"Petey, where you been, mate?"

They were not, by any stretch of the imagination, mates. But his mum liked their mum and she would pinch his ears if she knew he was rude without cause.

"School," Peter said, clearing his throat and trying his best not to blush as the girl looked at him. Her eyes narrowed, perhaps thinking him as gormless as he felt. But then again, how bad could he really be, by comparison and all things considered. "Northern Scotland."

He tried his best to smile at her.

"Oui?" She smiled back, pale cheeks turning a light red. "So far away?" She turned her back to the nearest Carmichael and leaned forward, smiling even wider. "Tell me everything! Maman says it's much too cold." Her enthusiasm nearly bowled him over, but he just about managed to keep a straight face.

"Helene!"

Just as she looked ready to ask him more, a heavily accented voice shouted from the depths of the house. Peter supposed it shouldn't come as a total shock to him that his neighbors had French relatives, considering he never had a long enough conversation to figure it out, but it was still a little alarming. It was too cultured for them – the family that seemed to communicate exclusively with throwing pots and pans at each other – and he couldn't quite reconcile it in his mind.

Helene blushed crimson and looked down at her feet, a true look of disappointment on her face.

"I should go," She said, giving Peter her full attention. "I will see you later, yes? You can tell me all about Scotland."

She looked like she might sincerely mean it.

Which, of course, was impossible.

But before Peter could really ponder it, she gave him a small wave and disappeared inside her house.

"Rude bitch. She completely ignored us," One of the Carmichaels seethed, glowering at the closed door.

Peter, too stunned to even speak, walked the rest of the way back to his house in a blur. He blocked out the sound of them.

His tongue tasted funny.

His hands were sweating.

His left foot was numb.

Peter Pettigrew was in love.

He opened his house and walked inside, fully committed to the robust fantasy that he had built up in his mind in the last fifteen and a half seconds. They would have three kids, all boys of course, and live in the south of France and very, very far away from Birmingham. They would not have to smell smog or blow soot out of their noses or see the mildly inbred faces of the Carmichaels ever again.

"She's a muggle, you know."

Like a bucket of cold water, his sister, Petra, stepped out of the kitchen the moment he stepped inside and hurled the first of her barbs at him. She had changed clothes while he was gone, abandoning her usual uniform of holey sweater and tight black pants for a skin tight red dress.

"Who cares?" Peter said, voice quivering at the end. There was no reason for either of them to give a single solitary fig about blood status. Their dad was a muggle and up until he died their parents seemed perfectly content with their life – different worlds be damned.

"Where's mum?" Peter asked, stepping past her to drop the weekly shop on the old kitchen table.

"Why are you dressed up?"

"Rabastan is coming over."

"Here?"

Their house was thoroughly lived in- complete with the resident dust bunnies, threadbare furniture, and one bathroom. They were too poor for the Lestranges to even know about, much less drop in on for dinner. Peter was perfectly aware that his sister was pretty, if not a total and complete shrew-hag, but there was no way she was pretty enough to make up for all the ways they lacked.

"Yes, here." She dismissed him, lips pursed. "You got some letters, by the way."

"From who?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Go change, he'll be here any minute. You smell like muggles."

Her face twisted up in disgust at the very idea.

At the very idea of fifty percent of who she was, who he was. As if she could simply will it away with a tight red dress and a nice dinner with a pureblood man.

For a moment, he felt himself wanting to agree with her, just to avoid the conflict.

Petra held out a letter and dropped it into his hands, turning her back to him without a second glance. But Peter hardly noticed, too busy snatching them from her and running up the stairs to his room before she had more time to tear him down. He was used to her awfulness. He was used to the way she made him feel so very small and insignificant. What he wasn't used to was how angry he felt when she dismissed Helene and, even worse in his mind, letters from his friends.

He slammed his bedroom door and wedged his desk chair under the doorknob just to be safe.

He hopped on his bed and tore open the letter, not even bothering to see who it was from before he began to read.

Peter,

Happy Christmas! I hope this letter finds you well. I saw the most charming rock formation and it made me think of you, Peter-meaning-stone. I realized we did not get to talk before we both left from King's Cross, so I wanted to how you are doing? My sister has refused to speak to me since I got home. The house is so quiet. Anyway, write me back!

Lily

Peter was dumbfounded.

Even more, his entire stomach burned.

She couldn't possibly be serious.

There were so many people she could turn to if she was that bored- Snape, Mavis, Alice, Remus, and so on and on and on. And maybe she did. But even being included on that list felt like a bolt of lightning straight to his gut.

As far as Peter was aware, his sister had never even come close to a friendly conversation with anyone, let alone had any actual friends. According to her and her alone, she was popular during her time at Hogwarts, but she never once mentioned anyone by name outside her never ending list of men she wanted to marry.

The fact that he had real friends – ones that thought of him during Christmas no less – made Peter feel lighter than air.

That feeling carried him all the way through changing his clothes and going downstairs.

Because, though she might be a social climbing, soulless harpy, he now had something she never would.

Real friends.

And now, just across the street, there might just be another one.

"Peter!"

Peter jumped at the shriek from downstairs. He folded the letter and stuffed it under his pillow for safekeeping. He quickly stripped off the his clothes and threw them aside, fully aware of what Petra would want him to wear. It was the only semi-formal clothing he owned apart from his Hogwarts uniform. He smoothed down his hair and practically tripped over his own feet to get back downstairs before she well and truly started to scream.

"And this is my younger brother, Peter," Petra said, shooting him a look the moment he bounced down the stairs. His mother, perched once again in the only chair that gave her the appropriate amount of back support. Petra stepped in front of her, shoving her legs to the side to make more room for herself in front of Rabastan.

Peter paused on the last step.

He wasn't sure he had ever seen someone so unpleasant looking. Tall and lanky, with sallow, acne scarred skin and chapped lips. If Peter was a girl he might actually have been repulsed. Instead, he found himself smirking just a little bit. His sister deserved to kiss that. If she was going to continue to forgo any and all dignity, it was the very least the universe could provide.

"Hello," Peter said, stepping fully into their small living room.

Rabastan turned his gaze on him.

"Petra tells me you were sorted into Gryffindor," He said, like he expected Peter to respond with some sort of disappointment.

"I was," He said, sharing a look with his mother.

"At least it wasn't Hufflepuff." Rabastan pulled off his coat and discarded it carelessly onto their threadbare couch. "Mudbloods and sympathizers, the lot of them. But Gryffindor has so much potential if only they can be guided in the right direction."

"I suppose," Peter said, unsure of what he was supposed to say. Peter didn't have the foggiest of which direction Rabastan was even talking about.

Truthfully, he didn't really care.

Rabastan followed Petra into the kitchen, leaning close to whisper something into her ear that caused her to let out a honk of laugh that she probably thought was charming. Apparently it was because Rabastan slid his hand down her back and just managed to ghost her backside before Peter was too disgusted to keep watching. He shook his head and walked over to help his mother haul herself out of her chair and hobble to the kitchen. Her back had been giving her fits for years and wasn't showing any signs of getting better.

They couldn't afford St. Mungo's and Petra refused to let her go see a muggle doctor.

"Chin up, Petey," His mother whispered as they walked together. "Did you talk to the pretty girl across the street?"

"I did."

"I think she would make for better company," She said, a conspiratorial look on her face that she quickly masked when they stepped inside the tiny kitchen.

"Peter, I was just telling Rabastan that I think the two of you should spend more time together. He has so much to teach you." Rabastan eyed Peter, a strange expression on his face. Petra pinned him in place with the intensity of her gaze and if he wasn't already in such a fantastic move, he might just have found it within himself to snark back.

And really, what could be the harm?

Huh. Really, what could be the harm?