Chapter Text
1964
No single memory is grown until its value is experienced to the fullest extent.
A row of thickly knit blackberry bushes looms over the sitting form of a young boy- a familiar buffer. Ignorant of the purple juice staining the skin of his hands, the child smudges a deck of cards with sticky, half-formed fingerprints and spreads it out on the grass in a disorderly arc: a facsimile of a game his Papi often plays.
The sun’s heat beats down on him from a clear sky while a cool breeze ripples through the air, a soothing balm on his ruddy skin. Pale blonde hair, sure to darken with time, brushes against his brow as he leans forward and plucks up a card.
The blackberry bushes rustle, neighbors call greetings to one another beyond the acre he’s tucked in, and the peace of a warm summer afternoon reigns supreme over Corvallis, Oregon.
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1966
Despite them being open to any chance for an extra playmate in their younger years, Peter’s interactions with the neighborhood’s other children was often limited to sidewalk card games and stealing rocks from Mrs. Oliva’s fountain (chalky when dragged against cement, perfect for drawing). That being said, there was little else for him to do at that age.
Well- perhaps caring for the fledgling strawberries (largely staring them down as if the fruit would enlarge and ripen before him if he hoped hard enough) in their garden counted.
So, of course he was uprooted a month later. Mami received a position at a newspaper firm in Southern California, and the Pettigrews settled on a two-bedroom house in San Luis Obispo. Peter overheard her tell Aunt Koki it had taken seven years of collective savings for them to buy it.
Peter missed Oregon’s blackberry bushes, sprouting like weeds wherever there was space or an absence of fed up neighbors with gardening shears, and the forest behind his backyard (whether or not he had been allowed to explore it was entirely beside the point). He wanted to wander about town with a throng of muggle kids he vaguely knew just one more time, bare feet slapping against hot pavement as they ran the final stretch to Dairy Queen, haven of havens.
Their new neighborhood was sort of similar. The roads were kind of gravelly, there were plenty of plants in everyone’s front yards, and the backyards were all very big. Papi started setting up a garden in theirs, but it would look bare for a while longer.
Really, it was a saving grace that the Pettigrews lived at the edge of town, because it only took Peter ten minutes to reach the hills if he ran, and he would have gone mad with boredom if he'd been stuck in his new house until the school year began. The hills were filled with so many new types of grasses and trees, even if there were very few of the latter, and the cacti were in full bloom.
And the yellow flowers were everywhere; from afar, it looked like a goddess had taken a paintbrush to every dip, hollow, and curve of the hills, leaving only a few streaks of green to remind Peter that the sun itself wasn’t shining through the earth.
Ok.
So, maybe that was dramatic, but could you really blame him? Plus, he didn’t have long to enjoy them if Mami was right about the hills turning brown in late summer.
All this ran through Peter’s head as he lay sprawled on the wrinkled covers of his new bed, listening intently to the ticking of the hallway clock as if it would lull him to sleep. A breeze slipped in through his open window, and kissed his brow. Peter could hear the absence of the coop that had sat right outside his window at home.
Creepingly, like the knowledge had been hovering over him for weeks and was getting closer by the second, he realized that he would never again wake up early to harvest eggs and feed the chickens. That he would never spend another afternoon before dinner playing with (read: antagonizing) the hens beneath a setting sun. Peter’s lower lip wobbled as his eyes welled with tears, blurring the moon’s silvery rays with the shadows clinging to the edges of his room.
He wanted to be at home, not San-ispo or whatever. He wanted Lolly. He wanted to bury his face in her salt-and-pepper feathers ‘cause she was his best friend and she always made everything better and it wasn’t fair! Peter curled onto his side, biting down on his covers to muffle the sob rising up his throat. Why did Mami have to make us leave? California would never be his home, and Peter wanted to be home so badly that he vaguely missed Saint-George, and he always crowed Peter awake hours before sunlight.
Peter caught himself mid-sniffle. He really shouldn’t have been crying about something so small. Darry always said that only weak little kids cried at meaningless stuff. And honestly, he was being selfish, ‘cause Mami was so excited about this job and she was going to tell him all about her first story with the paper on Tuesday.
And California was kind of nice. School was school- his peers weren’t thrilled enough with his personality to interact with him beyond kickball and class-work. Peter was fine with it, he didn’t need their company, but... sometimes he wished not being so thoroughly excluded was an option. Mami and Papi didn’t want him saying stuff he shouldn’t on accident. Apparently kids weren’t very good at keeping secrets. But Peter was, they just didn’t know.
He tried to further analyze why he wasn’t allowed muggle friends, but Peter’s thoughts were blurring together, and his skin was feeling more like static with every blink. The phantom scents of fir trees and dew drew his eyes closed.
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Despite waking up in a miserable mood, it was worth mentioning that Peter’s sleep wasn’t interrupted once last night. School finished early, so he and Mami were enjoying a peaceful lunch (ham and cheese sandwiches), while she told him about a string of robberies she was reporting on. He didn’t understand half the terms she was using, but Mami explained the most important ones and assured him he would figure out the rest.
The one-sided companionable chatter was halted by some sort of racket coming from their next door neighbor’s house. Mami looked out the kitchen window and said that a guy in a tie and shorts was screaming at his wife, and that Mrs. Terrence was pulling out of the driveway. Peter hoped he would shut up soon.
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Peter woke up to a world blanketed in darkness, and the same neighbor drunkenly shouting at Mrs. Terrence even though Peter was pretty sure Mrs. Terrence wasn’t there, and that his neighbor was dumb. By the time his eyes got droopy again, golden light was filtering through his green curtains.
His eyes were all dry and his mouth tasted weird when he woke up, but he supposed that was normal. He shuffled into the kitchen and climbed, with some effort, on top of a wooden chair.
“Was macht er?”
“Hm?”
“What does he do?”
Papi turned around to set an empty bowl down in front of Peter.
“The loud guy,” Peter exhaled as if it was obvious, “He woke me up last night!”
Peter furrowed his brows in annoyance and let his head fall on top of the table with a thunk.
“Hey- careful- you’re gonna knock your bowl over.”
Peter craned his neck up to see that a bottle of milk and a box of cereal had been placed on the table, too. Peter sat up on his knees to reach the cereal box. Only a few pieces spilled, this time. Pouring the milk was… a process.
“You still haven’t-”
Papi waved away Peter’s nagging and leaned into the hall.
“Hey, Ann! Do you know what’s going on with the drunk next door?”
Some shuffling sounds. A door closed. Mami started walking down the short hallway, her suit and scarf impeccable and her eyes lit with humour.
“Sarah Terrence is taking a break from George Terrence, but I’ve been reliably informed she’ll return within a week. I think he works at a supermarket.”
Papi snorted. “George? Our rooster’s been replaced?”
Mami kissed Papi on the cheek, and laughed. Peter did not. He hated people named George now.
“I hope Mr. Terrence trips every day and never gets to drink beer again!” His lower lip jutted out into a pout, as if his consternation alone was cause for such a punishment.
Mami smiled and stuck a spoon in Peter’s bowl. “I’m sure Mrs. Terrence feels the same way, Petey.” Peter liked the neighbor lady already.
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George’s dog, a slobbering pug, had apparently made driving Peter insane as much its goal as it was its master’s, because it was chasing Peter down on his first day of winter break like its cursed life depended on it.
A familiar, polished wooden door reflected the sun’s sharp midday light like a beacon, thank Merlin. Peter scrambled up the driveway and entrance steps, chest heaving, and darted in, slamming the door shut behind him with a deep sigh of relief. Regretfully, his dramatics had only made it harder to catch his breath. He really wanted to sit down, but Mami always said it was easier to breathe if he was standing. Peter’s legs ached in silent rebellion.
Time ticked by slowly. After a few minutes of clutching the doorframe with his fingertips, back pressed against the cool wood separating him from the growling beast outside, Peter managed to steady his heartbeat and open his eyes. They widened.
Verdammt
This was not his house.
“Hello! Do you want a glass of water?”
An old woman in a plain yellow button-up and a long floral skirt glanced over at him, clearly amused, from her kitchen, and reached to open a cupboard.
“...”
She filled a cup with water anyway.
“So, what brings you over to my side of the neighborhood?”
”Du entführst-” Peter caught himself, but his words still came out coated in a brutally German accent.
“You are kidnapping me?”
She paused, as if to sparse out what he was saying, and laughed. She laughed?!
“You are going to kill me?!”
The woman sobered slightly at this. “Kiddo, I do not have any interest in harming you or stealing you from your parents.”
She walked over to Peter and eased herself down onto one knee to meet him at eye level, holding a cup of water in front of him until he detached a hand from the door frame to hold it.
She didn’t relinquish it.
“I think you might need both hands.”
Peter rolled his eyes discreetly, but did as she suggested, his worries distant for the moment as the dryness of his throat forced itself into the forefront of his mind. Who knew cold water could taste this good? By the time he’d emptied the cup, the woman had left him alone. Muffled clacking sounds alerted Peter to her presence in what turned out to be her living room. She looked up and smiled at him.
“My name is Frances Teller. What’s yours?”
Peter hesitated, still suspicious of her despite being the intruder.
“Peter…”
Frances nodded and didn't comment on the absence of his last name.
“Well, Peter, would you like to learn a board game? I’ve set up something called “chess.””
“Oh.” Peter examined the little wooden figures, pausing longer on the horse-head one.
“I think Mami knows this game.”
“It is well known amongst us grown-ups.”
In hindsight, that was probably what did it for Peter. If grown-ups played it, so would he.
“‘Kay, I guess I can try.”
Frances clasped her hands together. “Attaboy! Sit, sit, that couch is made for more than looking at.” Frances’ excitement came to a standstill.
“When do your parents want you home by? They’ll need to know you’ve been at my house, and I haven’t welcomed your family to the neighborhood yet.”
Peter scrunched his nose up in thought. “By four, I think?”
“Ah, plenty of time. I won’t give you an earful on symbolism quite yet, but know that this game contains multitudes.”
“Multi-what?”
Frances sighed, “I’ll explain when you’re older, Peter. Now, tell me what you think the most important piece on this board is.”
Peter smiled nervously. “The horse?”
“No, but that’s a fantastic guess! The most important piece is the king.” Frances picked up a tower with a cross on top “He can’t do very much, but the game ends if a king is completely trapped.”
She put the black king back on his square and picked up the horse, “This one is called a knight, funnily enough. It moves in “L’s.”
Peter listened intently as Frances instructed him, his eyes almost comically focused on the board where she was tracing the movements each piece could make.
By the time the clock struck 3:55, Peter and Frances had played one long game of chess, and she had said that he did pretty good, seeing as Peter was still an anklebiter. He didn’t know what that meant, but she didn’t say it like it was a bad thing, so Peter smiled proudly and sipped at the orange juice Frances had poured for him.
“Peter, you have been the perfect guest, but I bet your parents are missing you.”
She stood up with an exaggerated groan, pushing down on her knees to leverage herself up, and beckoned at Peter to help her collect their dishes. She had made them sandwiches because she said she was a slow cooker and really bad at baking.
The sun wasn’t truly setting yet, so the world was cast under a pleasant, pale violet shadow. It was a short distance to Peter’s house, but he dragged it on with questions about the different plants in their neighbors’ front yards. Apparently, Frances wasn’t very good at taking care of plants, but she had read her fair share of books about them. She promised to lend them to Peter, and he grinned up at her like Christmas had come early.
Other than Peter’s occasional exclamations of joy or shock, their little conversation was held in murmurs hardly louder than the scuffing of their shoes against the sidewalk.
A lacquered oak door, an evenly trimmed lawn, and a cream and pastel blue porch. He knocked on the door too quietly, suddenly nervous that his parents wouldn’t let him go to Frances’ house again. He wasn’t supposed to spend a lot of time at muggles’ houses. Frances smiled fondly down at Peter and knocked for him.
Papi’s muffled voice sounded from somewhere inside the house, and a few moments later the door opened to reveal a measured smile and calculating blue eyes.
“Hello there, ma’am. Peter.” Papi’s admonishing gaze pinned Peter to the floor before flicking inside, directing Peter to wait in the kitchen. Peter gave Frances- Mrs. Teller, a strained and fleeting smile before darting behind Papi’s legs and to the left: inside the kitchen, but only just, so that he was close enough to eavesdrop.
“I’m Frances Teller, one of your neighbors. It is very nice to meet you…”
“Nicholas Pettigrew, but you can call me Nick. And likewise.”
A pause for a handshake.
“I’m sorry for not introducing myself earlier, I was exhausted after spending the summer with my grandchildren, and it just slipped my mind.” Papi hummed in understanding, and she continued.
“As for how I met Peter, he accidentally ran into my house
around noon because George’s old pug was chasing him. I gave him
some water, and, since he said he was expected back at four, I
thought I’d introduce him to the wonders of chess.”
Papi huffed in humour at that. “I’m sure he took to it like
a fish to water. Thank you for keeping an eye on him, but I’m
afraid Peter won’t be enjoying your company for a little while.
I’ll have to discuss it with Anna. You understand, of course.”
His tone was charming and plastic, like when he floo-called people from his job at MACUSA.
Mrs. Teller chuckled warmly. “I imagine I do, dear. I raised five children on my own, and one can never be too careful.”
“Oh, a big family! My wife has a few younger siblings and I’m sure she would love to get to know you and commiserate. I’ll drop by later with the details, but how does next Saturday work for you? We can chat and chow.”
“Of course! I’m just three houses to the right. The one with garden gnomes. Now, have a good evening,” a barely audible sound that must have been Mrs. Teller patting Papi’s arm, “and tell Peter I thoroughly enjoyed our time together. You have a very smart boy.”
“You’re too kind. Have a good evening as well.”
The door clicked closed and Papi sighed heavily, his face
stern and disappointed despite the cheeriness of his tone just
moments ago. “You can come out now, Peter.”
Peter, who was already peeking out from behind the small wall separating the kitchen from the hallway, stepped out with his head hung in guilt and his gaze pinned to the floorboards.
“I don’t need to explain to you what you did, you clearly knew and did it anyway. Go to your room and do some homework or reading until bedtime. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Peter looked up in shock at this. “Aber- was ist mit dem Abendessen?” He thought Papi must have misspoken, but he just raised an eyebrow in response.
“English next time, Peter. Anyways, if you are ready to disobey your parents in bigger ways, then you are ready for bigger punishments. You ate at Mrs. Teller’s house, didn’t you?”
Peter nodded forlornly, holding back the rebuttal dancing on the tip of his tongue. He had had one sandwich three or so hours ago. One glance at Papi, who was already pointing an expectant finger in the general direction of Peter’s room, told him that that tid-bit wouldn’t make a difference. He turned around and trudged away as directed. Why did Papi have to be so unfair?
Peter locked the door behind him and went straight to his school bag and its many notebooks, a plan already forming in his mind. The sun was fully set when he finished the chess set. He had drawn the pieces individually on torn out squares, and the board itself was made with two sheets of paper glued together to make a large checkered square. The boxes were scribbled on with a chunky black crayon Peter had neglected for at least a year now.
It wasn’t perfect, but Peter swore to himself that he would practice with it every day until he could visit Frances again. The thrill of petty rebellion was a fickle thing, however, and with his project completed and stashed away, the world felt too-quiet and lonely. Peter ignored it at first, in favor of clumsily tugging on his pajamas and situating himself on his bed to see his full body in the mirror across the room.
He thought he looked rather sad. Sadder than he’d ever been in Corvallis at least. Sadder than Lolly would have let him be. Papi wouldn’t let her come with them, but he wasn’t letting Peter make any friends, and Lolly would have made everything better. Peter hugged his arms as frustrated tears welled in his eyes, blurring his view of his reflection.
For a moment, he imagined her warm body settled on his lap, her beak occasionally tugging at his pants to adjust her “nest,” as she so often had. Petulant anger rose up in him at the thought of Papi withholding so many happy things from Peter, at the thought of Mami allowing him to. Peter laid down to muffle his cries in his pillow.
Sleep didn’t overtake him, so much as it settled on him like a haze. Somewhere in-between all of it, a blanket was tucked snugly up against his shoulders and his bedroom light was turned off with a click. Peter awoke sometime later to the sound of George singing, though that was being generous, ‘Oh My Darling Clementine,’ and a female voice’s acidic “Shut the hell up, dammit! You’ll wake the whole neighborhood!”
Too little too late, Peter thought. He resigned himself to glaring at his open window until the sky turned grey.