Fic: "All Things Right and Proper", Part I
So, the great hp_beholder reveal's been up for two days... Many, many thanks for bethbethbeth for running this fantastic fest and, particularly, for presenting me with a request which proved so immensely enjoyable to answer.
Title: All Things Right and Proper
Author: Donna Immaculata
Rating: R for darkish themes, language, some sexual contents and allusions to drug abuse
Pairings: Petunia Dursley/Vernon Dursley, Augusta Longbottom/Frank Longbottom Sr., Minerva McGonagall/Aberforth Dumbledore
Word Count: 24,700
Warnings: Vernon Dursley as a lust object. Yeah, I know.
Summary: Glimpses into the lives of Petunia, Minerva and Augusta during the events of The Deathly Hallows
Author's Notes: This was written for the hp_beholder fest on IJ for lyras. She asked for character studies, women kicking ass, plot, characters who aren't black or white, 'fade to black' rather than PWP, UST, working around canon, angst with hope, and I tried to squeeze in as many of her requests as possible.
I did squeeze in appearances of Remus, Sirius, Snape, Kingsley and Great Uncle Algie, some Weasleys, cats, goats, obscure crossovers, and divers alarums.
On HP Beholder: All Things Right and Proper
And the version with some more typos fixed here on my LJ:
All Things Right and Proper
wrtten for lyras for the HP Beholder exchange
Part I
The Woodhouses from number fifteen had won the prize for the best-kept front garden this year. That wasn't fair, since Mrs Woodhouse didn't do any gardening herself but employed a professional gardener, and Mr Woodhouse didn't even really live there anymore - everyone knew that their marriage was as good as over and he was spending more time in the city with his secretary than at home with his wife and children, and he certainly hadn't done anything to deserve being awarded a prize by the community, but life wasn't fair and she was used to being dealt the bad hand anyway.
As the car turned the corner, Petunia continued to look straight ahead, refusing to cast a last parting look at the street she had lived in for so long. Instead, she leaned forward and clutched her husband's shoulder, tightly. But Vernon didn't react. He didn't mutter and yell abuses at other drivers, either. And that, more than anything else, made her stomach clench.
"… a great pleasure indeed, and an honour, that has been bestowed on us - to be allowed to escort Harry Potter's relatives to safety. We will bring you to a house that is protected by the most powerful spells you can imagine! We will be Apparating with the car in a few minutes, so you better brace yourselves - you have never been Apparated, have you? No, I didn't think so, you Muggles have your own - very ingenious, very ingenious - ways to move around the country. There's no need to be afraid - you are under the protection of the Order, which has been set up by Albus Dumbledore himself. You have met Albus Dumbledore, I understand? Then you must know that he was a great man, a truly great man, who knew the most powerful magic and in whom you can trust implicitly..." the little man with the top hat squeaked and bumbled, while the woman in the passenger seat was maintaining a stiff and rather cool silence. Petunia could see her face in the rear-view mirror, and she averted her eyes.
Her husband's hands on the steering wheel were looking very large and pink and she could see the hairs on the back of his hands glint in the evening sun. She grabbed her handbag and began rummaging inside, pulling out item after item, but barely aware of what these things were and why she had packed them in the first place.
"Mum," came Dudders' hoarse whisper from the other side of the car. "Mum, what are you looking for?"
"Gloves," she whispered back, aware how shrill her voice sounded, "my rubber gloves... my kitchen gloves… I don't know whether I packed them. We must go back… if I left them… left them by the microwave... I think... I need my gloves, my rubber gloves, what if I have to do the dishes... I need my gloves…"
"Mum," Dudders' voice reached her through the red mist in her head. Suddenly, her hand felt very warm, and when she looked down, she saw that her son had leaned over the bewildered little man, who had finally shut up, and wrapped his hand around hers. His fingers were very short and his nails broad and bitten, but his skin was warm and slightly moist. "Mum, it's all right. We'll find your gloves in your overnight bag. Or if not we'll buy you new ones. I'm sure there will be shops... where we're going..."
"Where we're going…" she repeated, her lips and her tongue feeling wooden as she tried to move them. "Where we're going."
~*~
The safe location was a shabby council house in one of the poorer parts in Manchester. The smell of cat urine and old rubbish bags hung in the air as she walked past the tall wooden fences that separated the back gardens from the road. A group of scruffy looking teenagers was loitering at the corner, but they made way for her as the approached and she saw from the corner of her eye that one of them straightened his grubby t-shirt, shooting her a sly look.
A tall, thin man, who reminded her rather of Sirius - the same long, unkempt hair, the same thin, unshaven face, the same air of intoxicated despair - staggered out of number two, muttering to himself. "…nobody respects fathers, but if I had tits, they'd be shoving massive benefits up me arse…" she heard him mumble as she stepped lightly past him and into the garden next door. She saw the shock on his face when she disappeared in front of his very eyes, crossing the boundary to the safe house, but she didn't worry: Muggle drunkards like him were used to seeing things that were really there, but no-one would ever believe him.
Inside, the house was empty and cold. It was also much larger than it looked from the outside, the ceiling was disappearing in shadows and the stairs leading to the second floor were very long and winded. The family that had lived there had left for Europe as soon as the first rumours of You-Know-Who's return had begun spreading through the wizarding world, and she couldn't blame them: they had lost all their five children in the first war.
Dusty webs hung from the ceiling and walls and giant spiders lurked in the corners, their many eyes glinting in the faint light that trickled inside through the gaps between the boards that covered the windows. Mismatched crockery and dishes were squatting haphazardly on the table. The soot-coated fireplace gaped black and empty like a gate to hell. It was absurd and also depressing to think that she had just set foot into one of the safest places in the country.
The heavy wooden door creaked slowly shut behind her, and her whispered "Lumos" broke the dead silence like a shrill discord. She peeled off her soft leather glove from her right hand and gripped her wand more tightly, relishing the feel of the cool smooth wood under her fingers and the way it seemed to swell at the surge of power shooting through her and pouring out of the wand tip.
The knock at the door made her startle. With another flick of her wand, half a dozen candles appeared out of thin air and spread out to illuminate the entire kitchen. With a second flick, the door fell open.
Five figures stepped into the room in a mess of limbs and bags and stumbling over their feet, with gasps of horror and sharp intakes of breath, until they were all inside. A short man made up the rear, and after closing the door carefully behind him, he turned around to face her and a broad smile appeared on his face.
"How nice of you to welcome us here," he said in a high squeaky voice. "Good evening, Minerva."
~*~
It had been another cold and lonely night, and it was another cold and lonely morning. She had never liked getting up early, but during her girlhood days, it was understood that lying in wasn't an option, especially not at Hogwarts. Later, during her married life, she was so busy presiding over the household and bringing up her son that the days seemed too short even if she got up at the break of dawn. Then, there was another infant to take care of, and when he finally went to Hogwarts, she was so used to be the first person in the house to rise in the morning that habit became hard to shake off.
It was only after the family began breaking apart, leaving her in the empty house, that she began to indulge. She stayed in bed until the late morning, sometimes early afternoon - rarely and guiltily at first, and then more and more often, when it seemed pointless to get up as there was nothing for her to do.
There was one thing, however, that would always be a reason to her get up and face another day. And so, despite the cold that had permeated the room after the fire had gone out during the night, despite the greyness of the sky, she rolled onto her side, moving slowly and cautiously and trying to not put any weight onto her aching hip, and shifted her legs along and over the edge of the bed, until her feet touched the cool wooden floor.
She pushed herself into a sitting position, rubbing her eyes and temples to get rid of the dream visions lingering at the fringe of her consciousness, and rose shakily to her feet. Her joints were giving her more trouble than usual; she would have to ask a healer at St. Mungo's for a cream or potion.
She warmed the water in the washstand with a muttered spell. Then, she began to take fresh undergarments from the chest-of-drawers and pulling them on. She removed the pantalettes she was wearing under her nightgown and replaced them with fresh ones before unbuttoning the nightgown and pulling it off. She didn't look at herself in the mirror until she had put on her chemise. Lacing her corset had become tricky since old Dinky, who always used to do it for her, had passed away. She had never been very good at Charms and the charm she put on the laces would always wear of after a few days and she had to try again to get it right without accidentally suffocating herself.
It took her several attempts, and even then the corset was still a bit too loose around her breasts, which had become soft and saggy and did no longer fill out her bodice like they used to in her youth, but she decided to ignore it. She fastened a plain, narrow petticoat tightly around her waist; a white cotton blouse followed. She stepped into her dark-green shoes that reached just above her ankles and laced them up with another flick of her wand. It was easier to put on her shoes before she put on the heavy skirt. Eventually, she took her green merino-wool dress from the wardrobe, buttoned it tightly all the way up to her chin and smoothed down the creases in the skirt.
Meals had become a solitary event, and she had become accustomed to skipping them. She would get a cup of tea and perhaps a slice of toast at St. Mungo's.
She pulled on her gloves while walking down the stairs. At the door, she stopped before the mirror and, gazing sternly and somewhat defiantly into the eyes of her reflection, placed a tall, vulture-topped hat on top of her grey-streaked hair.
~*~
The house was a disgrace.
The journey to the place had also been a nightmare: they drove for several miles, and her husband didn't speak one word - not even when he noticed how the car didn't get caught in traffic by simply... jumping to the front of the queue whenever there was one.
And then, the woman in the passenger seat asked Vernon to stop the car, and he obeyed, his jaw moving furiously with all the words he so valiantly suppressed, and then the air was full with muttered words and darkness embraced them - a complete, suffocating darkness that pressed down on her lungs and blocked her ears and made her blink furiously in a desperate attempt to escape this nightmare, to stop feeling as though she would never breathe again.
And then it stopped. The car's tires hit the ground and light flooded in, blinding her with its red, angry glare. The setting sun tinted everything around them blood-red and Petunia knew - knew with a certainty that took her breath away - that she had been just transported to a hellish world from where there was no escape.
The red mist lifted suddenly at the sound of Dudders' retching. Her son was pressing both his hands to his mouth. The little man beside him kept shooting him wary looks.
"What are you doing?" she shrieked. "Don't you see he's unwell? Stop the car and open the door at once!"
Vernon obeyed her instantly, pulling over and stopping at the pavement and miraculously avoiding crashing into a police car parked there. Petunia barely waited for the car to roll to a halt, before she pushed open the door, jumped out and ran around the car, dragging Dudders out on his side. One arm wrapped around his broad chest, the other hand supporting his forehead, she watched her son being violently sick over the pavement slabs.
A filthy drunk with long greasy hair and wearing an old parka staggered around the corner and almost bumped right into them. He stopped dead at the sight of Dudders being sick. "I know 'ow you feel, son," he slurred, swaying on the spot. "Better out then in, eh? But don't puke on the nice lady's shoes, she spent ages polishing 'em, by the look of 'em… If she spent the same amount of time polishing 'er bloke's knob, she wouldn't look 'alf as sour-faced, I dare say."
Dudley groaned and the sound pierced right through her heart. She barely registered the drunkard wave his hand derisively and stagger past them, the stench of sweat, alcohol and unwashed hair trailing behind him like a disembodied entity.
Through all this, Vernon remained in the car, staring stubbornly ahead, his hands still resting at the steering wheel. The little man fidgeted nervously and took off his mauve top hat to wipe his forehead with a purple handkerchief, while the woman opened the passenger door and stepped out.
She was young and rather tall, her hair done up in an elaborate do making her seem even taller, and was wearing a dark violet cloak that was billowing in the evening wind as she walked around the car and strode towards Petunia and Dudley.
"Do you need a hand with him?"
"Leave us be," Petunia snarled, supporting her son who had finished vomiting and was now wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Just… go away and leave us be!"
Dudley straightened up, looking greenish around the mouth, but his jaw was already firmly set so that he resembled his father more than ever. She had fallen in love with that manly, decided look on Vernon, when he was younger and fitter and used to be oh so masterful. Dudders had all the makings of a real man, too, and she was proud of her son now just as she used to be proud of her husband then.
"It's okay, Mum, I think she just wants to help," Dudley mumbled. He wasn't looking at her, Petunia, but at the other woman, who looked back at him with an odd expression on her rosy face. Petunia suddenly wondered how old she was.
"Get back in the car," she hissed at her son. Gripping Dudley's muscular upper arm tightly, she forced him back into the seat and climbed into the car after him. She could see that her son was still very shaken and she, too, remembered that night all too well when that boy had dragged Dudders into the house and Dudders had been sick all over the doormat. That one fateful night, which had changed her life all over again. Before that night, it had been her family against those freaks; after that night, Dudders had never been quite the same. He had always been a thoughtful and delicate boy - something that none of his teachers had ever appreciated, seeing just the brash and boyish façade and not the sensitive soul behind it. That night, after he had encountered those… demons, Dudders had become even more withdrawn than he had been before. He would lock himself in his room, listening to moody music, and he would refuse to let her, his mother, in. When she tried to discuss that with Vernon, he would merely shrug and say that a big lad like that didn't use his mummy to run after him all the time.
It was the brush with magic that had changed her son, just as it had changed her sister, all those years back. And while she herself had been so fortunate as to escape the madness of the magical world before, she was now being dragged right into it, and her husband and her son were being dragged with her.
When she slid into the seat, Dudley moved over to make space. The little man moved over obligingly, too, while Vernon grunted in annoyance. Petunia's stomach clenched at the sound.
It didn't unclenched for the remainder of the journey, which took them across a dilapidated estate in some Northern town, where common looking girls were pushing prams and criminal looking boys were loitering on street corners. She pressed her head against the cold window, feeling the reassuring, warm bulk of her son on her other side.
"Mum," said Dudley quietly, "is this where we are going to live from now on?"
And then, the car came to a halt. Vernon turned off the engine and they all got out. They walked around the car. Vernon opened the boot, took out their bags and cases, one by one, and placed them on the pavement. Petunia picked up her smart little overnight bag and remained standing right there, in the middle of the pavement, shaking slightly and unwilling to move until someone pointed her into the right direction. Dudders grabbed his sport bag, grunting at the weight (he must have smuggled his dumbbells in again). Vernon took up the two large suitcases which were full with what were now their entire belongings in the whole world.
"Here along, please, come here along," the little man squeaked. His mauve top hat and his vibrantly blue cloak looked grotesquely out of place against the background of run-down houses and dilapidated fences.
He led the way through a gate into a poky little backyard, followed by Vernon, who didn't bother holding the door open for her. Dudley was close behind her, breathing rather heavily; she couldn't tell whether it was because he was struggling under the weight of his bag or because he was scared. The tall woman stepped in after him and closed the gate.
It was a council house of the worst kind. The moss-covered roof was speckled with bird droppings and a broken satellite dish was dangling from the wall. She could see the mauve top hat bob excitedly by the door as its owner waited for it to open. When it finally did, it was to reveal an interior that was, if possible, even worse than the exterior.
The little man waved them inside, and they half-stumbled past him into a dark room which was insufficiently illuminated by a handful of candles. A thin woman with a stern face and wearing a tall hat was standing in the middle of the room, pointing a thin wooden stick obscenely in their direction.
The little man stepped inside and closed the door. "How nice of you to welcome us here," he said in a high squeaky voice. "Good evening, Minerva."
~*~
Whatever Potter might or might not be for the wizarding world - his relatives were clearly insane.
Minerva had not spent much time with the Dursleys, before she was sure that there was something decidedly wrong with them - even by Muggle standards. The woman was cleaning constantly. She had barely set foot into the house, before unpacking her bag which was cram-full with Muggle contraptions used for household chores - colourful potions which emitted a biting smell, brushes and cloths in various sizes and colours, as well as peculiar devices made from a material that the Muggles called 'plastic' and that, according to Arthur Weasley, was virtually indestructible; these devices seemed to consist of tubes and containers that were joined in a special way. Minerva saw Mrs Dursley use them a few times: she was cleaning the windows using a contraption that discharged a foamy fluid and, as Minerva had to admit, left the windows amazingly clean indeed.
The man was mostly sitting in an armchair in the living room, muttering to himself and reading furiously through the copies of Muggle newspapers that Dedalus Diggle was kind enough to get for him. Dedalus, bless him, was also tirelessly trying to become, as he put it, 'jolly good chums' with the Muggle, who ignored him pointedly, his bushy moustache trembling ominously as he was mouthing the words that he was too scared to utter.
The boy was the most peculiar of all. He spent most of the time in his room, where he was constantly lifting up heavy metal objects and putting them back down. While Minerva could understand the boy's mother's wish to clean the filthy house and his father's desperate need to receive news from his world, she was at a loss as to what the boy was doing. It didn't seem to serve any purpose.
But despite their peculiar habits, Minerva felt an unexpected and unexplained sympathy towards the Muggles. They resembled kelpies out of water. In a way, they were like Muggle-borns who came to Hogwarts for the very first time and were faced with all the splendour and magic. Of course, there was no splendour here, at this desolate place, but there was magic everywhere, and she knew that the Muggles would be helpless as newborn kneazles without a witch or wizard to guide them through. They couldn't so much as light the candles without resorting to the use of 'matches', which she had learned to obtain from the very angry blonde woman who was running the local shop. For all his goodwill, Dedalus wasn't the most competent of wizards to be left in charge of the Muggles, and Hestia, though far more capable, was a young and inexperienced member of the Order and not in the least acquainted with Muggle habits.
That was why Minerva has taken it upon herself to Apparate to the safe house three or four times a week to look after the Muggles. They were Harry Potter's relatives, after all, and Petunia Dursley was even Lily Potter's sister. That, more than anything else, was drawing Minerva to her.
But as much as she was looking for a resemblance - there was none to be found. Not in the face, nor the figure, the way to talk, the movements, the personality. It was as though Lily had got everything that was golden and warm and Gryffindor, while Petunia had got everything that was cold and clipped and sharp.
That evening, when Minerva had Apparated by the house (the man who resembled Sirius was urinating onto a pile of rubbish bags heaped by the fence), Mrs Dursley was in the backyard, sweeping furiously. She had managed to salvage one or two of the plants that had been left behind in the house and had planted them in large pots outdoors, where they looked rather sickly and lost. Minerva had tried to enter into a conversation with her, but Mrs Dursley looked so wrapped up in her chore that she barely acknowledged Minerva's presence. She had entered the house instead, but, suddenly, she felt so much of an intruder that she merely placed the items she had brought (more matches, some Muggle newspapers, and a pot of stew from the dinner table at Hogwarts) on the kitchen table and left instantly.
She Disapparated from behind the house and Apparated in a narrow side street in Hogsmeade; it was dark already, the autumn night falling quickly. Slowly, feeling as though her feet were weighed down with lead, she was dragging herself along the faintly-lit street towards the darkness of the lane leading to Hogwarts.
A door opened on her right-hand side and a flood of light poured into the street. In the doorframe stood a tall, thin man with a long, stringy beard.
He nodded at her, curtly. "Good evening, Professor Minerva."
"Good evening, Aberforth. How's business tonight?"
"I can't complain. It seems more and more people value a good strong drink these days."
"So I have heard. Rumour has it some of the drinks that have been leaving your premises are very strong indeed."
"Ah, but since when have you been one to listen to rumour, Professor?"
She fell silent, gazing up at him. It was uncanny how much he resembled his brother in some respects - and how little in others. The same tall, thin figure, the same piercing blue eyes. But Albus had been true to his name, Albus the White, his beard almost glowing in its whiteness and his clothes always vibrant and sparkling, while Aberforth was more Aberforth the Grey, from his untidy hair, through his dirty nails, to his grubby robes and worn-out shoes.
"Would you like to come in, Professor? Have a drink?"
She startled. "No… Thank you, Aberforth, but I really must go. It's late."
"Can't leave Hogwarts alone, eh?"
"I can't leave the children alone, no," she said with dignity.
"Don't worry about the little blighters. I'm sure my brother knew what he was doing when he left Headmaster Snape in charge."
"He didn't!" She heard her voice rise despite herself. "Snape was put in charge by the Ministry which is -" she broke off. It wasn't safe to even imply as much.
Aberforth was eyeing her with that piercing blue gaze of his. "And so he was. But who left Snape in charge for all these years? Trusting him with his - dare I say it - life?"
"He's made a mistake, Aberforth," she said, very quietly. "One mistake."
"Yes, just one, eh? Nevermind." He sighed. "Good night then, Professor Minerva. You can stop by for a drink any time you like."
The door fell closed with a soft thud, leaving her out in the darkness, and she heard the bolts slide back into place.
~*~
Today was a good day. Alice was sitting on her bed, with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them, tilting her head and humming a song, like a little girl. Frank had got up from his bed and was walking through the ward with her. He didn't talk nor did she expect him to, but his eyes were bright and clear today, and he didn't seem tired even after they had crossed the room two or three times. She even considered taking him along upstairs to the visitor's tearoom, but that might upset Alice who was used to having her husband by her side all the time.
It was nice to see Frank so lively and almost cheerful. On days like these, she could almost see the old Frank shine through, with all his vigour and his courage, and through him, she saw her husband who was long dead and buried, but who had given her the best son she could have ever possibly wished for.
"There, there, Frank," she said softly as he gave a strangled groan and reached out towards a patient who was lying in a bed by the door and tossing and struggling against his constraints. "There's no need to do that. Healer!" she called out through the open door. "Healer! Do something about this man here! He's upsetting the other patients."
As a young and harassed-looking woman wearing healer robes rushed in and pulled the curtains around the bed, hiding the patient and herself from view, Augusta walked Frank slowly back to his bed and motioned him gently to lie back down. It took her some persuasion before he calmed down enough that she could pull his blanket over him and sit down on his bed beside him. Alice was no longer humming; instead, she was staring wide-eyed at her husband.
Augusta sighed and took her son's hand into hers, looking down at him and searching his face for traces of the old Frank, the real Frank, the Frank who was more than just a broken shell. "What would your father say," she whispered, barely a breath, "what would your father say if he saw you like this?" Frank snuggled up to her, turning his head and pressing his cheek to her thigh. Sometimes, he would put his head in her lap, like he used to do when he was a little boy, and she would stroke his hair. It felt so familiar and so comforting, and it reminded her of the days long gone, when Frank was a little boy and her husband was still alive. On special occasions, such as Christmas, Frank Junior would be allowed to climb into his parents' bed in the morning and snuggle between them, and Frank Senior would put his arm around her and there were a real family.
But that was then.
~*~
Vernon had never helped around the house. It was all right and proper, too - he had his work to go to everyday and he earned the money that had bought them the house and the car and the lovely family holidays, while she kept the house tidy and took care of Dudders. Just as it should be.
Except… except that it was no longer like that. Dudders was a big boy now and didn't need her all the time, and Vernon no longer had work to go to. She wasn't sure what would happen if - when! It had to be a when! Surely, this nightmare couldn't last forever? - when they went back to their life and Vernon had to go back to work and explain his absence which had already lasted far, far too long. Nobody knew what had happened to them. The Dursleys from number four, Privet Drive had disappeared without a trace.
She was the only one who carried on in this new house, in this new life, like she had done in the real world. She cleaned and she cooked (she had to use a coal stove which smoked and spit fire and made an incredible mess) and she took care of her son and her husband as well as she could, but they kept shutting her out.
Dudders spent a lot of time locked in the room he had annexed as his. She could hear him lifting weights when she snuck upstairs and pressed her ear to a glass and the glass to the door. Sometimes, she heard nothing, and sometimes, she heard him snuffle, as though he was crying, but she didn't dare knock.
But he, at least, had found an occupation. Vernon, on the other hand, Vernon hadn't. He was sitting in the comfortable armchair all day, reading one and the same newspaper over and over again or, alternately, staring into the fire. Sometimes, he would get up and pace the room - six paces to, six paces fro, six paces to, six paces fro, and she knew her husband well enough to know when to leave him alone.
She had lost track of days. There was no telling how long they had been imprisoned in that gloomy house, which, admittedly, was much larger from the inside than it had looked from the outside. They were allowed into the garden, but, as that Hestia Jones had repeatedly told them, they were on no accounts to leave the premises. As far as Petunia knew, that Hestia and that little man were assigned the task to look after them, which they apparently took to mean 'pop by every other day for a few hours and check whether the... what was the word... Muggles were still alive'.
"This is a safe house," Hestia had explained when she paid them one of her occasional visits. "That means, it is protected by very powerful spells and charms that are intended to keep any potential intruders out. If any of you were to leave, the spells and charms could lose some of their potency. And in any case, the protections would no longer work and you'd be entirely helpless if any of the Death Eaters should come after you."
They had obeyed, naturally. It would have been foolish not to.
And so they had gone on for weeks. Her watch had stopped working - too much magic in the air - and there was no telly or radio. The little man, whose name, as she forced herself to remember, was Dedalus Diggle (a ridiculous, silly name, most suitable for a ridiculous, silly creature like him), had promised to bring them a 'wireless', but he warned them that it would only broadcast news from the wizarding world. "Which might not be of that much interest for you. It is not to be expected that there will be any official news on your nephew. We, the Order that is, might of course receive information regarding Harry Potter's whereabouts from other sources."
No information, regarding the boy or anything else of interest, had reached them so far. All that Diggle and Hestia could tell them was that You-Know-How - she cursed herself for not using his real name, but some irrational fear prevented her from doing so - was rising to power and that the Ministry of Magic and most of the wizarding world had been conquered.
"But we're still fighting and there's still hope," Diggle had said. "Don't you fear a thing, Mr and Mrs Dursley. As long as the Order is active, all is not lost."
At that, Vernon merely grunted. It seemed to Petunia that grunting had become his main means of communication. He grunted when he wished to tell her something and when he wished to be left alone. He grunted as a yes and as a no. He grunted to express annoyance and to express approval. He talked to Dudders sometimes, but as Dudders hardly ever left his room, these were very rare occasions indeed.
That night, she was scared. She had finished cleaning the house, had scrubbed the floors, the entire kitchen, including the oven, swept every corner (vacuuming was out of the question as there was no electricity; they lived like savages. No wonder freaks like that boy felt attracted to that life), and polished every piece of metal she could find. There was nothing left to do and, all of a sudden, she found herself panicking.
Would there be nothing else for her to do, ever? She could always start cleaning anew - and she knew she would; the fight against filth was a never ending one and must be fought every day, tirelessly. But then what? Would she really have to spend the rest of her life working like a slave in a house that she hated, for a family that rejected her?
Petunia tossed to the other side. Vernon had not come up to bed yet - as he was spending his days doing nothing and often dozing for hours in his armchair, he had trouble falling asleep at night. She, on the other hand, had usually been exhausted.
Tonight, she wasn't. The feeling of dread was keeping her awake, and the unfamiliar corners of the room had never looked darker and more ominous. The solitary candle on the chest-of-drawers didn't disperse the darkness but gave it more depth, more texture. She felt the shadows crushing her down into the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut to escape them.
But that wouldn't do. She still knew the threatening shadows to be there. And in the magical world - could it be they were alive? Could it be the demons - Dementors - that had almost taken her son's soul - could they not take on the appearance of shadows? Dudders had never exactly told them what happened, but from the few words that they had got out of him she had understood that it was darkness that had come first, that had embraced him completely, until he couldn't breathe or think.
She opened her eyes abruptly. The shadows were still there, lurking above her, and she stared back in defiance.
She didn't know for how long she had been trying to stare down the shadows. She must have dozed off a couple of times, only to wake up with a start from an uneasy sleep. She heard footsteps on the landing, approaching her bedroom door. It was Vernon's heavy step, reassuringly familiar in this strange place. Her husband entered the room and came over to the bed. He began undressing by the light of the candle, and it was almost romantic. She could see the sharp outline of his silhouette as he stood there, by the chest-of-drawers, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off. Petunia's breath hitched at the intimate display and she felt a sudden surge of affection and - for the first time in months, years even - desire for her husband.
He took off his trousers and placed them neatly over the back of the chair, just as she had taught him. He looked so strong and manly, clad only in his vest and underpants. His upper arms were very thick and she had always liked how effortlessly he could pick her up and carry her in his arms. Not that he had done so, recently. These days were long gone. But with a sudden pang, she wished that they would come back.
He let himself drop onto the bed with a grunt and pulled the duvet over himself. More breathless than ever, Petunia scuttled closer and slid her hand under his duvet in search of his. She gripped it, tightly. It was cool to her touch.
"Dudders is surely asleep." Her heart beating madly, she whispered the words that had always been the signal that she was ready for him to come to her as her husband.
And then he said the five little words that she had been dreading to hear for all her married life.
"This is all your fault."
Vernon's cold, moist hand lay in hers like a dead fish. He pulled it back sharply and rolled over, his back to her.
~*~
Minerva had never truly appreciated how intelligent Severus' thin face was. Over the years, he had been a student and a colleague - sometimes tiresome, sometimes valued, always slightly suspicious - but now that he had become her superior, she was haunted by feelings of guilt for never having tried to understand what was going on behind that severe and ominous facade.
Sitting next to Snape at the dinner table, she couldn't but notice how little he was eating. And it was odd - despite the fact that he had betrayed them all in the worst possible way, that he had sold them out to You-Know-Who and that he had taken the life of the most noble of men - she couldn't shake off the urge to protect him from himself and stop him from self-destruction. He was a former student of hers and she was still feeling some remnants of loyalty and protectiveness with regard to him.
Minerva sighed and pushed a dish of lamb chops towards Snape.
"Eat, Severus."
And as he startled, as though waken from a dream, and looked at her in amazement - his expression unguarded, for once - she added in a slightly more clipped tone: "Don't forget, you do have to keep your strength to be able to do your duty to us all… to Hogwarts."
A thin smile twisted his mouth as he replied: "I would have thought, Professor McGonagall, that you'd rather I didn't."
He was looking straight into her eyes, unblinkingly, and Minerva found herself speaking almost despite herself.
"Better the devil you know, Severus."
For a split second, his eyes flickered to the place where she knew the Carrows were sitting, and with a sudden certainty, she knew that he despised them as much as she did. Driven by a mad impulse, she leaned in slightly and said in a low voice: "You are Headmaster now, Severus. You can put a stop to-"
Severus' face closed down instantly and his voice was void of all emotion as he said: "Put a stop to what, Professor McGonagall? Discipline? I wouldn't like to think that this is what you're implying. I might be forced to report it."
Her face stung as though he had hit her. "No, of course not, Headmaster."
She sat back in her chair and, as he was turning his head away from her, she heard him utter one final threat: "It would be a disaster for this school if we lost you."
He didn't touch the lamb chops and she didn't care. She made sure that all students from her House reached the relative safety of their common room well before curfew, escorted two particularly battered and bruised fifth years and one traumatised second year to the hospital wing, and watched Poppy's mouth turn into a thin line as she tended to the children. She didn't say anything and neither did Poppy; there was no need.
There were Transfiguration essays to grade and lessons to prepare. Minerva entered her study and looked around: at the heaps of parchment and books on her desk, the comfortable armchair by the fire, the table strewn with notes and even more parchments, the fireplace with the glowing embers, the shelf with the many old books, and wondered when, exactly, she had stopped feeling at home there. There was a bottle of good Scottish firewhisky sitting on the table. She had never understood Sirius Black so well as she did now.
Fighting the urge to transform and curl up in front of the fire, Minerva pulled on her travelling cloak and left her study, closing the door quietly. Perhaps it wasn't fair to the children to leave them alone and unprotected, but she felt that tonight, should something happen, all she could do, would be sit down and cry.
The night air was crisp and the wind tugged on her cloak and her hat. She gripped the brim with her hands and ran down the slope, taking deep breaths that cleared her lungs and her thoughts. Without even quite knowing how, she found herself standing in the narrow side street in Hogsmeade, where she stared at the heavy, chipped wooden door for a few moments, before raising her hand to the door knocker.
Aberforth was his usual gruff self when he let her in. He walked over to the bar, took out two glasses, which he polished with a grimy cloth before filling them with a golden liquid from a bottle that he pulled out from somewhere under the bar, and placed one of the glasses before her. They drank in silence, Minerva perched on a tall stool, and Aberforth leaning against the bar, swirling his whisky in the glass.
"It's after curfew," she said at last, not quite looking at him. "There might be trouble."
He shrugged. "The bar is officially closed. I can bloody well have a drink with a friend if I want to."
"Are you alone?"
"Not anymore, I'm not."
"I mean," Minerva cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. The stool was rather wobbly. "I mean, aren't there any of... your more illicit customers here? In the back room?"
"Death Eaters, you mean!" Aberforth took another gulp of whisky and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hah! They think they can come and go as they please, but I'm not having any of that! Curfew means curfew, for them just as much as for everybody else."
"Do many of them come here?"
Aberforth gave a short laugh. "What is this, Professor Minerva? Are you trying to sound me out?" He leaned in, bracing himself on his elbows on the bar, and spoke in a very low and even voice: "Yes, they use my bar as a place to trade illegal potions and poisons. But what am I to do? I leave 'em alone, they leave me alone - that's the deal. And what're you gonna do, Professor Minerva? Report me to the Ministry? To the headmaster of Hogwarts? Hah!"
"Don't be stupid," she said sharply, anger welling up inside her and filling her with the courage and energy she had so desperately missed. "Of course I'm not going to report you. I am merely amazed that you let them use you like that. Your brother -"
"My brother," said Aberforth, his voice rising threateningly, "my brother would have struck a deal with the devil himself if he thought it served his purpose."
"I will never understand how you can talk about Albus like that - desecrate his memory like that! He was the most noble, most self-sacrificing man I have ever known, and whatever he did, he did it-" she broke off, frowning at the sight of the sly smile curling Aberforth's mouth.
"-for a greater good, eh?" he finished the sentence for her. "Ay, that he did. And believe me, if he thought that selling poisons from Hogwarts would help him achieve his aim, he wouldn't hesitate one second." He put down his glass, took up the bottle and refilled Minerva's. "He kept that poisonous snake around for years, because he thought it might be useful."
"I think," said Minerva, "I know why." Aberforth looked up at her sharply and she continued: "I don't mean that I know Albus' reasons, but tonight - I got a glimpse of what he possibly saw. Snape is... Snape can seem like a trustworthy man, sometimes, when the mask drops for a moment." She sighed and took a sip of the whisky. "It happened tonight - Snape let me think that I could trust him, and I did. For that moment, I did. I wanted to believe that he was an ally." She laughed. "There's no fool like an old fool, is there, Aberforth?"
"Is this why you're here now?" he asked, softly, his brilliantly blue eyes piercing her from behind his dirty spectacles. "Looking for an ally?"
"Yes. Yes, I suppose it is," Minerva laughed again and shook her head, as though trying to dislodge dreary thoughts. Aberforth reached out a dirty hand and wrapped it around hers.
"You've found him."
Part II
Part III
Title: All Things Right and Proper
Author: Donna Immaculata
Rating: R for darkish themes, language, some sexual contents and allusions to drug abuse
Pairings: Petunia Dursley/Vernon Dursley, Augusta Longbottom/Frank Longbottom Sr., Minerva McGonagall/Aberforth Dumbledore
Word Count: 24,700
Warnings: Vernon Dursley as a lust object. Yeah, I know.
Summary: Glimpses into the lives of Petunia, Minerva and Augusta during the events of The Deathly Hallows
Author's Notes: This was written for the hp_beholder fest on IJ for lyras. She asked for character studies, women kicking ass, plot, characters who aren't black or white, 'fade to black' rather than PWP, UST, working around canon, angst with hope, and I tried to squeeze in as many of her requests as possible.
I did squeeze in appearances of Remus, Sirius, Snape, Kingsley and Great Uncle Algie, some Weasleys, cats, goats, obscure crossovers, and divers alarums.
On HP Beholder: All Things Right and Proper
And the version with some more typos fixed here on my LJ:
All Things Right and Proper
wrtten for lyras for the HP Beholder exchange
Part I
The Woodhouses from number fifteen had won the prize for the best-kept front garden this year. That wasn't fair, since Mrs Woodhouse didn't do any gardening herself but employed a professional gardener, and Mr Woodhouse didn't even really live there anymore - everyone knew that their marriage was as good as over and he was spending more time in the city with his secretary than at home with his wife and children, and he certainly hadn't done anything to deserve being awarded a prize by the community, but life wasn't fair and she was used to being dealt the bad hand anyway.
As the car turned the corner, Petunia continued to look straight ahead, refusing to cast a last parting look at the street she had lived in for so long. Instead, she leaned forward and clutched her husband's shoulder, tightly. But Vernon didn't react. He didn't mutter and yell abuses at other drivers, either. And that, more than anything else, made her stomach clench.
"… a great pleasure indeed, and an honour, that has been bestowed on us - to be allowed to escort Harry Potter's relatives to safety. We will bring you to a house that is protected by the most powerful spells you can imagine! We will be Apparating with the car in a few minutes, so you better brace yourselves - you have never been Apparated, have you? No, I didn't think so, you Muggles have your own - very ingenious, very ingenious - ways to move around the country. There's no need to be afraid - you are under the protection of the Order, which has been set up by Albus Dumbledore himself. You have met Albus Dumbledore, I understand? Then you must know that he was a great man, a truly great man, who knew the most powerful magic and in whom you can trust implicitly..." the little man with the top hat squeaked and bumbled, while the woman in the passenger seat was maintaining a stiff and rather cool silence. Petunia could see her face in the rear-view mirror, and she averted her eyes.
Her husband's hands on the steering wheel were looking very large and pink and she could see the hairs on the back of his hands glint in the evening sun. She grabbed her handbag and began rummaging inside, pulling out item after item, but barely aware of what these things were and why she had packed them in the first place.
"Mum," came Dudders' hoarse whisper from the other side of the car. "Mum, what are you looking for?"
"Gloves," she whispered back, aware how shrill her voice sounded, "my rubber gloves... my kitchen gloves… I don't know whether I packed them. We must go back… if I left them… left them by the microwave... I think... I need my gloves, my rubber gloves, what if I have to do the dishes... I need my gloves…"
"Mum," Dudders' voice reached her through the red mist in her head. Suddenly, her hand felt very warm, and when she looked down, she saw that her son had leaned over the bewildered little man, who had finally shut up, and wrapped his hand around hers. His fingers were very short and his nails broad and bitten, but his skin was warm and slightly moist. "Mum, it's all right. We'll find your gloves in your overnight bag. Or if not we'll buy you new ones. I'm sure there will be shops... where we're going..."
"Where we're going…" she repeated, her lips and her tongue feeling wooden as she tried to move them. "Where we're going."
~*~
The safe location was a shabby council house in one of the poorer parts in Manchester. The smell of cat urine and old rubbish bags hung in the air as she walked past the tall wooden fences that separated the back gardens from the road. A group of scruffy looking teenagers was loitering at the corner, but they made way for her as the approached and she saw from the corner of her eye that one of them straightened his grubby t-shirt, shooting her a sly look.
A tall, thin man, who reminded her rather of Sirius - the same long, unkempt hair, the same thin, unshaven face, the same air of intoxicated despair - staggered out of number two, muttering to himself. "…nobody respects fathers, but if I had tits, they'd be shoving massive benefits up me arse…" she heard him mumble as she stepped lightly past him and into the garden next door. She saw the shock on his face when she disappeared in front of his very eyes, crossing the boundary to the safe house, but she didn't worry: Muggle drunkards like him were used to seeing things that were really there, but no-one would ever believe him.
Inside, the house was empty and cold. It was also much larger than it looked from the outside, the ceiling was disappearing in shadows and the stairs leading to the second floor were very long and winded. The family that had lived there had left for Europe as soon as the first rumours of You-Know-Who's return had begun spreading through the wizarding world, and she couldn't blame them: they had lost all their five children in the first war.
Dusty webs hung from the ceiling and walls and giant spiders lurked in the corners, their many eyes glinting in the faint light that trickled inside through the gaps between the boards that covered the windows. Mismatched crockery and dishes were squatting haphazardly on the table. The soot-coated fireplace gaped black and empty like a gate to hell. It was absurd and also depressing to think that she had just set foot into one of the safest places in the country.
The heavy wooden door creaked slowly shut behind her, and her whispered "Lumos" broke the dead silence like a shrill discord. She peeled off her soft leather glove from her right hand and gripped her wand more tightly, relishing the feel of the cool smooth wood under her fingers and the way it seemed to swell at the surge of power shooting through her and pouring out of the wand tip.
The knock at the door made her startle. With another flick of her wand, half a dozen candles appeared out of thin air and spread out to illuminate the entire kitchen. With a second flick, the door fell open.
Five figures stepped into the room in a mess of limbs and bags and stumbling over their feet, with gasps of horror and sharp intakes of breath, until they were all inside. A short man made up the rear, and after closing the door carefully behind him, he turned around to face her and a broad smile appeared on his face.
"How nice of you to welcome us here," he said in a high squeaky voice. "Good evening, Minerva."
~*~
It had been another cold and lonely night, and it was another cold and lonely morning. She had never liked getting up early, but during her girlhood days, it was understood that lying in wasn't an option, especially not at Hogwarts. Later, during her married life, she was so busy presiding over the household and bringing up her son that the days seemed too short even if she got up at the break of dawn. Then, there was another infant to take care of, and when he finally went to Hogwarts, she was so used to be the first person in the house to rise in the morning that habit became hard to shake off.
It was only after the family began breaking apart, leaving her in the empty house, that she began to indulge. She stayed in bed until the late morning, sometimes early afternoon - rarely and guiltily at first, and then more and more often, when it seemed pointless to get up as there was nothing for her to do.
There was one thing, however, that would always be a reason to her get up and face another day. And so, despite the cold that had permeated the room after the fire had gone out during the night, despite the greyness of the sky, she rolled onto her side, moving slowly and cautiously and trying to not put any weight onto her aching hip, and shifted her legs along and over the edge of the bed, until her feet touched the cool wooden floor.
She pushed herself into a sitting position, rubbing her eyes and temples to get rid of the dream visions lingering at the fringe of her consciousness, and rose shakily to her feet. Her joints were giving her more trouble than usual; she would have to ask a healer at St. Mungo's for a cream or potion.
She warmed the water in the washstand with a muttered spell. Then, she began to take fresh undergarments from the chest-of-drawers and pulling them on. She removed the pantalettes she was wearing under her nightgown and replaced them with fresh ones before unbuttoning the nightgown and pulling it off. She didn't look at herself in the mirror until she had put on her chemise. Lacing her corset had become tricky since old Dinky, who always used to do it for her, had passed away. She had never been very good at Charms and the charm she put on the laces would always wear of after a few days and she had to try again to get it right without accidentally suffocating herself.
It took her several attempts, and even then the corset was still a bit too loose around her breasts, which had become soft and saggy and did no longer fill out her bodice like they used to in her youth, but she decided to ignore it. She fastened a plain, narrow petticoat tightly around her waist; a white cotton blouse followed. She stepped into her dark-green shoes that reached just above her ankles and laced them up with another flick of her wand. It was easier to put on her shoes before she put on the heavy skirt. Eventually, she took her green merino-wool dress from the wardrobe, buttoned it tightly all the way up to her chin and smoothed down the creases in the skirt.
Meals had become a solitary event, and she had become accustomed to skipping them. She would get a cup of tea and perhaps a slice of toast at St. Mungo's.
She pulled on her gloves while walking down the stairs. At the door, she stopped before the mirror and, gazing sternly and somewhat defiantly into the eyes of her reflection, placed a tall, vulture-topped hat on top of her grey-streaked hair.
~*~
The house was a disgrace.
The journey to the place had also been a nightmare: they drove for several miles, and her husband didn't speak one word - not even when he noticed how the car didn't get caught in traffic by simply... jumping to the front of the queue whenever there was one.
And then, the woman in the passenger seat asked Vernon to stop the car, and he obeyed, his jaw moving furiously with all the words he so valiantly suppressed, and then the air was full with muttered words and darkness embraced them - a complete, suffocating darkness that pressed down on her lungs and blocked her ears and made her blink furiously in a desperate attempt to escape this nightmare, to stop feeling as though she would never breathe again.
And then it stopped. The car's tires hit the ground and light flooded in, blinding her with its red, angry glare. The setting sun tinted everything around them blood-red and Petunia knew - knew with a certainty that took her breath away - that she had been just transported to a hellish world from where there was no escape.
The red mist lifted suddenly at the sound of Dudders' retching. Her son was pressing both his hands to his mouth. The little man beside him kept shooting him wary looks.
"What are you doing?" she shrieked. "Don't you see he's unwell? Stop the car and open the door at once!"
Vernon obeyed her instantly, pulling over and stopping at the pavement and miraculously avoiding crashing into a police car parked there. Petunia barely waited for the car to roll to a halt, before she pushed open the door, jumped out and ran around the car, dragging Dudders out on his side. One arm wrapped around his broad chest, the other hand supporting his forehead, she watched her son being violently sick over the pavement slabs.
A filthy drunk with long greasy hair and wearing an old parka staggered around the corner and almost bumped right into them. He stopped dead at the sight of Dudders being sick. "I know 'ow you feel, son," he slurred, swaying on the spot. "Better out then in, eh? But don't puke on the nice lady's shoes, she spent ages polishing 'em, by the look of 'em… If she spent the same amount of time polishing 'er bloke's knob, she wouldn't look 'alf as sour-faced, I dare say."
Dudley groaned and the sound pierced right through her heart. She barely registered the drunkard wave his hand derisively and stagger past them, the stench of sweat, alcohol and unwashed hair trailing behind him like a disembodied entity.
Through all this, Vernon remained in the car, staring stubbornly ahead, his hands still resting at the steering wheel. The little man fidgeted nervously and took off his mauve top hat to wipe his forehead with a purple handkerchief, while the woman opened the passenger door and stepped out.
She was young and rather tall, her hair done up in an elaborate do making her seem even taller, and was wearing a dark violet cloak that was billowing in the evening wind as she walked around the car and strode towards Petunia and Dudley.
"Do you need a hand with him?"
"Leave us be," Petunia snarled, supporting her son who had finished vomiting and was now wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Just… go away and leave us be!"
Dudley straightened up, looking greenish around the mouth, but his jaw was already firmly set so that he resembled his father more than ever. She had fallen in love with that manly, decided look on Vernon, when he was younger and fitter and used to be oh so masterful. Dudders had all the makings of a real man, too, and she was proud of her son now just as she used to be proud of her husband then.
"It's okay, Mum, I think she just wants to help," Dudley mumbled. He wasn't looking at her, Petunia, but at the other woman, who looked back at him with an odd expression on her rosy face. Petunia suddenly wondered how old she was.
"Get back in the car," she hissed at her son. Gripping Dudley's muscular upper arm tightly, she forced him back into the seat and climbed into the car after him. She could see that her son was still very shaken and she, too, remembered that night all too well when that boy had dragged Dudders into the house and Dudders had been sick all over the doormat. That one fateful night, which had changed her life all over again. Before that night, it had been her family against those freaks; after that night, Dudders had never been quite the same. He had always been a thoughtful and delicate boy - something that none of his teachers had ever appreciated, seeing just the brash and boyish façade and not the sensitive soul behind it. That night, after he had encountered those… demons, Dudders had become even more withdrawn than he had been before. He would lock himself in his room, listening to moody music, and he would refuse to let her, his mother, in. When she tried to discuss that with Vernon, he would merely shrug and say that a big lad like that didn't use his mummy to run after him all the time.
It was the brush with magic that had changed her son, just as it had changed her sister, all those years back. And while she herself had been so fortunate as to escape the madness of the magical world before, she was now being dragged right into it, and her husband and her son were being dragged with her.
When she slid into the seat, Dudley moved over to make space. The little man moved over obligingly, too, while Vernon grunted in annoyance. Petunia's stomach clenched at the sound.
It didn't unclenched for the remainder of the journey, which took them across a dilapidated estate in some Northern town, where common looking girls were pushing prams and criminal looking boys were loitering on street corners. She pressed her head against the cold window, feeling the reassuring, warm bulk of her son on her other side.
"Mum," said Dudley quietly, "is this where we are going to live from now on?"
And then, the car came to a halt. Vernon turned off the engine and they all got out. They walked around the car. Vernon opened the boot, took out their bags and cases, one by one, and placed them on the pavement. Petunia picked up her smart little overnight bag and remained standing right there, in the middle of the pavement, shaking slightly and unwilling to move until someone pointed her into the right direction. Dudders grabbed his sport bag, grunting at the weight (he must have smuggled his dumbbells in again). Vernon took up the two large suitcases which were full with what were now their entire belongings in the whole world.
"Here along, please, come here along," the little man squeaked. His mauve top hat and his vibrantly blue cloak looked grotesquely out of place against the background of run-down houses and dilapidated fences.
He led the way through a gate into a poky little backyard, followed by Vernon, who didn't bother holding the door open for her. Dudley was close behind her, breathing rather heavily; she couldn't tell whether it was because he was struggling under the weight of his bag or because he was scared. The tall woman stepped in after him and closed the gate.
It was a council house of the worst kind. The moss-covered roof was speckled with bird droppings and a broken satellite dish was dangling from the wall. She could see the mauve top hat bob excitedly by the door as its owner waited for it to open. When it finally did, it was to reveal an interior that was, if possible, even worse than the exterior.
The little man waved them inside, and they half-stumbled past him into a dark room which was insufficiently illuminated by a handful of candles. A thin woman with a stern face and wearing a tall hat was standing in the middle of the room, pointing a thin wooden stick obscenely in their direction.
The little man stepped inside and closed the door. "How nice of you to welcome us here," he said in a high squeaky voice. "Good evening, Minerva."
~*~
Whatever Potter might or might not be for the wizarding world - his relatives were clearly insane.
Minerva had not spent much time with the Dursleys, before she was sure that there was something decidedly wrong with them - even by Muggle standards. The woman was cleaning constantly. She had barely set foot into the house, before unpacking her bag which was cram-full with Muggle contraptions used for household chores - colourful potions which emitted a biting smell, brushes and cloths in various sizes and colours, as well as peculiar devices made from a material that the Muggles called 'plastic' and that, according to Arthur Weasley, was virtually indestructible; these devices seemed to consist of tubes and containers that were joined in a special way. Minerva saw Mrs Dursley use them a few times: she was cleaning the windows using a contraption that discharged a foamy fluid and, as Minerva had to admit, left the windows amazingly clean indeed.
The man was mostly sitting in an armchair in the living room, muttering to himself and reading furiously through the copies of Muggle newspapers that Dedalus Diggle was kind enough to get for him. Dedalus, bless him, was also tirelessly trying to become, as he put it, 'jolly good chums' with the Muggle, who ignored him pointedly, his bushy moustache trembling ominously as he was mouthing the words that he was too scared to utter.
The boy was the most peculiar of all. He spent most of the time in his room, where he was constantly lifting up heavy metal objects and putting them back down. While Minerva could understand the boy's mother's wish to clean the filthy house and his father's desperate need to receive news from his world, she was at a loss as to what the boy was doing. It didn't seem to serve any purpose.
But despite their peculiar habits, Minerva felt an unexpected and unexplained sympathy towards the Muggles. They resembled kelpies out of water. In a way, they were like Muggle-borns who came to Hogwarts for the very first time and were faced with all the splendour and magic. Of course, there was no splendour here, at this desolate place, but there was magic everywhere, and she knew that the Muggles would be helpless as newborn kneazles without a witch or wizard to guide them through. They couldn't so much as light the candles without resorting to the use of 'matches', which she had learned to obtain from the very angry blonde woman who was running the local shop. For all his goodwill, Dedalus wasn't the most competent of wizards to be left in charge of the Muggles, and Hestia, though far more capable, was a young and inexperienced member of the Order and not in the least acquainted with Muggle habits.
That was why Minerva has taken it upon herself to Apparate to the safe house three or four times a week to look after the Muggles. They were Harry Potter's relatives, after all, and Petunia Dursley was even Lily Potter's sister. That, more than anything else, was drawing Minerva to her.
But as much as she was looking for a resemblance - there was none to be found. Not in the face, nor the figure, the way to talk, the movements, the personality. It was as though Lily had got everything that was golden and warm and Gryffindor, while Petunia had got everything that was cold and clipped and sharp.
That evening, when Minerva had Apparated by the house (the man who resembled Sirius was urinating onto a pile of rubbish bags heaped by the fence), Mrs Dursley was in the backyard, sweeping furiously. She had managed to salvage one or two of the plants that had been left behind in the house and had planted them in large pots outdoors, where they looked rather sickly and lost. Minerva had tried to enter into a conversation with her, but Mrs Dursley looked so wrapped up in her chore that she barely acknowledged Minerva's presence. She had entered the house instead, but, suddenly, she felt so much of an intruder that she merely placed the items she had brought (more matches, some Muggle newspapers, and a pot of stew from the dinner table at Hogwarts) on the kitchen table and left instantly.
She Disapparated from behind the house and Apparated in a narrow side street in Hogsmeade; it was dark already, the autumn night falling quickly. Slowly, feeling as though her feet were weighed down with lead, she was dragging herself along the faintly-lit street towards the darkness of the lane leading to Hogwarts.
A door opened on her right-hand side and a flood of light poured into the street. In the doorframe stood a tall, thin man with a long, stringy beard.
He nodded at her, curtly. "Good evening, Professor Minerva."
"Good evening, Aberforth. How's business tonight?"
"I can't complain. It seems more and more people value a good strong drink these days."
"So I have heard. Rumour has it some of the drinks that have been leaving your premises are very strong indeed."
"Ah, but since when have you been one to listen to rumour, Professor?"
She fell silent, gazing up at him. It was uncanny how much he resembled his brother in some respects - and how little in others. The same tall, thin figure, the same piercing blue eyes. But Albus had been true to his name, Albus the White, his beard almost glowing in its whiteness and his clothes always vibrant and sparkling, while Aberforth was more Aberforth the Grey, from his untidy hair, through his dirty nails, to his grubby robes and worn-out shoes.
"Would you like to come in, Professor? Have a drink?"
She startled. "No… Thank you, Aberforth, but I really must go. It's late."
"Can't leave Hogwarts alone, eh?"
"I can't leave the children alone, no," she said with dignity.
"Don't worry about the little blighters. I'm sure my brother knew what he was doing when he left Headmaster Snape in charge."
"He didn't!" She heard her voice rise despite herself. "Snape was put in charge by the Ministry which is -" she broke off. It wasn't safe to even imply as much.
Aberforth was eyeing her with that piercing blue gaze of his. "And so he was. But who left Snape in charge for all these years? Trusting him with his - dare I say it - life?"
"He's made a mistake, Aberforth," she said, very quietly. "One mistake."
"Yes, just one, eh? Nevermind." He sighed. "Good night then, Professor Minerva. You can stop by for a drink any time you like."
The door fell closed with a soft thud, leaving her out in the darkness, and she heard the bolts slide back into place.
~*~
Today was a good day. Alice was sitting on her bed, with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them, tilting her head and humming a song, like a little girl. Frank had got up from his bed and was walking through the ward with her. He didn't talk nor did she expect him to, but his eyes were bright and clear today, and he didn't seem tired even after they had crossed the room two or three times. She even considered taking him along upstairs to the visitor's tearoom, but that might upset Alice who was used to having her husband by her side all the time.
It was nice to see Frank so lively and almost cheerful. On days like these, she could almost see the old Frank shine through, with all his vigour and his courage, and through him, she saw her husband who was long dead and buried, but who had given her the best son she could have ever possibly wished for.
"There, there, Frank," she said softly as he gave a strangled groan and reached out towards a patient who was lying in a bed by the door and tossing and struggling against his constraints. "There's no need to do that. Healer!" she called out through the open door. "Healer! Do something about this man here! He's upsetting the other patients."
As a young and harassed-looking woman wearing healer robes rushed in and pulled the curtains around the bed, hiding the patient and herself from view, Augusta walked Frank slowly back to his bed and motioned him gently to lie back down. It took her some persuasion before he calmed down enough that she could pull his blanket over him and sit down on his bed beside him. Alice was no longer humming; instead, she was staring wide-eyed at her husband.
Augusta sighed and took her son's hand into hers, looking down at him and searching his face for traces of the old Frank, the real Frank, the Frank who was more than just a broken shell. "What would your father say," she whispered, barely a breath, "what would your father say if he saw you like this?" Frank snuggled up to her, turning his head and pressing his cheek to her thigh. Sometimes, he would put his head in her lap, like he used to do when he was a little boy, and she would stroke his hair. It felt so familiar and so comforting, and it reminded her of the days long gone, when Frank was a little boy and her husband was still alive. On special occasions, such as Christmas, Frank Junior would be allowed to climb into his parents' bed in the morning and snuggle between them, and Frank Senior would put his arm around her and there were a real family.
But that was then.
~*~
Vernon had never helped around the house. It was all right and proper, too - he had his work to go to everyday and he earned the money that had bought them the house and the car and the lovely family holidays, while she kept the house tidy and took care of Dudders. Just as it should be.
Except… except that it was no longer like that. Dudders was a big boy now and didn't need her all the time, and Vernon no longer had work to go to. She wasn't sure what would happen if - when! It had to be a when! Surely, this nightmare couldn't last forever? - when they went back to their life and Vernon had to go back to work and explain his absence which had already lasted far, far too long. Nobody knew what had happened to them. The Dursleys from number four, Privet Drive had disappeared without a trace.
She was the only one who carried on in this new house, in this new life, like she had done in the real world. She cleaned and she cooked (she had to use a coal stove which smoked and spit fire and made an incredible mess) and she took care of her son and her husband as well as she could, but they kept shutting her out.
Dudders spent a lot of time locked in the room he had annexed as his. She could hear him lifting weights when she snuck upstairs and pressed her ear to a glass and the glass to the door. Sometimes, she heard nothing, and sometimes, she heard him snuffle, as though he was crying, but she didn't dare knock.
But he, at least, had found an occupation. Vernon, on the other hand, Vernon hadn't. He was sitting in the comfortable armchair all day, reading one and the same newspaper over and over again or, alternately, staring into the fire. Sometimes, he would get up and pace the room - six paces to, six paces fro, six paces to, six paces fro, and she knew her husband well enough to know when to leave him alone.
She had lost track of days. There was no telling how long they had been imprisoned in that gloomy house, which, admittedly, was much larger from the inside than it had looked from the outside. They were allowed into the garden, but, as that Hestia Jones had repeatedly told them, they were on no accounts to leave the premises. As far as Petunia knew, that Hestia and that little man were assigned the task to look after them, which they apparently took to mean 'pop by every other day for a few hours and check whether the... what was the word... Muggles were still alive'.
"This is a safe house," Hestia had explained when she paid them one of her occasional visits. "That means, it is protected by very powerful spells and charms that are intended to keep any potential intruders out. If any of you were to leave, the spells and charms could lose some of their potency. And in any case, the protections would no longer work and you'd be entirely helpless if any of the Death Eaters should come after you."
They had obeyed, naturally. It would have been foolish not to.
And so they had gone on for weeks. Her watch had stopped working - too much magic in the air - and there was no telly or radio. The little man, whose name, as she forced herself to remember, was Dedalus Diggle (a ridiculous, silly name, most suitable for a ridiculous, silly creature like him), had promised to bring them a 'wireless', but he warned them that it would only broadcast news from the wizarding world. "Which might not be of that much interest for you. It is not to be expected that there will be any official news on your nephew. We, the Order that is, might of course receive information regarding Harry Potter's whereabouts from other sources."
No information, regarding the boy or anything else of interest, had reached them so far. All that Diggle and Hestia could tell them was that You-Know-How - she cursed herself for not using his real name, but some irrational fear prevented her from doing so - was rising to power and that the Ministry of Magic and most of the wizarding world had been conquered.
"But we're still fighting and there's still hope," Diggle had said. "Don't you fear a thing, Mr and Mrs Dursley. As long as the Order is active, all is not lost."
At that, Vernon merely grunted. It seemed to Petunia that grunting had become his main means of communication. He grunted when he wished to tell her something and when he wished to be left alone. He grunted as a yes and as a no. He grunted to express annoyance and to express approval. He talked to Dudders sometimes, but as Dudders hardly ever left his room, these were very rare occasions indeed.
That night, she was scared. She had finished cleaning the house, had scrubbed the floors, the entire kitchen, including the oven, swept every corner (vacuuming was out of the question as there was no electricity; they lived like savages. No wonder freaks like that boy felt attracted to that life), and polished every piece of metal she could find. There was nothing left to do and, all of a sudden, she found herself panicking.
Would there be nothing else for her to do, ever? She could always start cleaning anew - and she knew she would; the fight against filth was a never ending one and must be fought every day, tirelessly. But then what? Would she really have to spend the rest of her life working like a slave in a house that she hated, for a family that rejected her?
Petunia tossed to the other side. Vernon had not come up to bed yet - as he was spending his days doing nothing and often dozing for hours in his armchair, he had trouble falling asleep at night. She, on the other hand, had usually been exhausted.
Tonight, she wasn't. The feeling of dread was keeping her awake, and the unfamiliar corners of the room had never looked darker and more ominous. The solitary candle on the chest-of-drawers didn't disperse the darkness but gave it more depth, more texture. She felt the shadows crushing her down into the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut to escape them.
But that wouldn't do. She still knew the threatening shadows to be there. And in the magical world - could it be they were alive? Could it be the demons - Dementors - that had almost taken her son's soul - could they not take on the appearance of shadows? Dudders had never exactly told them what happened, but from the few words that they had got out of him she had understood that it was darkness that had come first, that had embraced him completely, until he couldn't breathe or think.
She opened her eyes abruptly. The shadows were still there, lurking above her, and she stared back in defiance.
She didn't know for how long she had been trying to stare down the shadows. She must have dozed off a couple of times, only to wake up with a start from an uneasy sleep. She heard footsteps on the landing, approaching her bedroom door. It was Vernon's heavy step, reassuringly familiar in this strange place. Her husband entered the room and came over to the bed. He began undressing by the light of the candle, and it was almost romantic. She could see the sharp outline of his silhouette as he stood there, by the chest-of-drawers, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off. Petunia's breath hitched at the intimate display and she felt a sudden surge of affection and - for the first time in months, years even - desire for her husband.
He took off his trousers and placed them neatly over the back of the chair, just as she had taught him. He looked so strong and manly, clad only in his vest and underpants. His upper arms were very thick and she had always liked how effortlessly he could pick her up and carry her in his arms. Not that he had done so, recently. These days were long gone. But with a sudden pang, she wished that they would come back.
He let himself drop onto the bed with a grunt and pulled the duvet over himself. More breathless than ever, Petunia scuttled closer and slid her hand under his duvet in search of his. She gripped it, tightly. It was cool to her touch.
"Dudders is surely asleep." Her heart beating madly, she whispered the words that had always been the signal that she was ready for him to come to her as her husband.
And then he said the five little words that she had been dreading to hear for all her married life.
"This is all your fault."
Vernon's cold, moist hand lay in hers like a dead fish. He pulled it back sharply and rolled over, his back to her.
~*~
Minerva had never truly appreciated how intelligent Severus' thin face was. Over the years, he had been a student and a colleague - sometimes tiresome, sometimes valued, always slightly suspicious - but now that he had become her superior, she was haunted by feelings of guilt for never having tried to understand what was going on behind that severe and ominous facade.
Sitting next to Snape at the dinner table, she couldn't but notice how little he was eating. And it was odd - despite the fact that he had betrayed them all in the worst possible way, that he had sold them out to You-Know-Who and that he had taken the life of the most noble of men - she couldn't shake off the urge to protect him from himself and stop him from self-destruction. He was a former student of hers and she was still feeling some remnants of loyalty and protectiveness with regard to him.
Minerva sighed and pushed a dish of lamb chops towards Snape.
"Eat, Severus."
And as he startled, as though waken from a dream, and looked at her in amazement - his expression unguarded, for once - she added in a slightly more clipped tone: "Don't forget, you do have to keep your strength to be able to do your duty to us all… to Hogwarts."
A thin smile twisted his mouth as he replied: "I would have thought, Professor McGonagall, that you'd rather I didn't."
He was looking straight into her eyes, unblinkingly, and Minerva found herself speaking almost despite herself.
"Better the devil you know, Severus."
For a split second, his eyes flickered to the place where she knew the Carrows were sitting, and with a sudden certainty, she knew that he despised them as much as she did. Driven by a mad impulse, she leaned in slightly and said in a low voice: "You are Headmaster now, Severus. You can put a stop to-"
Severus' face closed down instantly and his voice was void of all emotion as he said: "Put a stop to what, Professor McGonagall? Discipline? I wouldn't like to think that this is what you're implying. I might be forced to report it."
Her face stung as though he had hit her. "No, of course not, Headmaster."
She sat back in her chair and, as he was turning his head away from her, she heard him utter one final threat: "It would be a disaster for this school if we lost you."
He didn't touch the lamb chops and she didn't care. She made sure that all students from her House reached the relative safety of their common room well before curfew, escorted two particularly battered and bruised fifth years and one traumatised second year to the hospital wing, and watched Poppy's mouth turn into a thin line as she tended to the children. She didn't say anything and neither did Poppy; there was no need.
There were Transfiguration essays to grade and lessons to prepare. Minerva entered her study and looked around: at the heaps of parchment and books on her desk, the comfortable armchair by the fire, the table strewn with notes and even more parchments, the fireplace with the glowing embers, the shelf with the many old books, and wondered when, exactly, she had stopped feeling at home there. There was a bottle of good Scottish firewhisky sitting on the table. She had never understood Sirius Black so well as she did now.
Fighting the urge to transform and curl up in front of the fire, Minerva pulled on her travelling cloak and left her study, closing the door quietly. Perhaps it wasn't fair to the children to leave them alone and unprotected, but she felt that tonight, should something happen, all she could do, would be sit down and cry.
The night air was crisp and the wind tugged on her cloak and her hat. She gripped the brim with her hands and ran down the slope, taking deep breaths that cleared her lungs and her thoughts. Without even quite knowing how, she found herself standing in the narrow side street in Hogsmeade, where she stared at the heavy, chipped wooden door for a few moments, before raising her hand to the door knocker.
Aberforth was his usual gruff self when he let her in. He walked over to the bar, took out two glasses, which he polished with a grimy cloth before filling them with a golden liquid from a bottle that he pulled out from somewhere under the bar, and placed one of the glasses before her. They drank in silence, Minerva perched on a tall stool, and Aberforth leaning against the bar, swirling his whisky in the glass.
"It's after curfew," she said at last, not quite looking at him. "There might be trouble."
He shrugged. "The bar is officially closed. I can bloody well have a drink with a friend if I want to."
"Are you alone?"
"Not anymore, I'm not."
"I mean," Minerva cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. The stool was rather wobbly. "I mean, aren't there any of... your more illicit customers here? In the back room?"
"Death Eaters, you mean!" Aberforth took another gulp of whisky and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hah! They think they can come and go as they please, but I'm not having any of that! Curfew means curfew, for them just as much as for everybody else."
"Do many of them come here?"
Aberforth gave a short laugh. "What is this, Professor Minerva? Are you trying to sound me out?" He leaned in, bracing himself on his elbows on the bar, and spoke in a very low and even voice: "Yes, they use my bar as a place to trade illegal potions and poisons. But what am I to do? I leave 'em alone, they leave me alone - that's the deal. And what're you gonna do, Professor Minerva? Report me to the Ministry? To the headmaster of Hogwarts? Hah!"
"Don't be stupid," she said sharply, anger welling up inside her and filling her with the courage and energy she had so desperately missed. "Of course I'm not going to report you. I am merely amazed that you let them use you like that. Your brother -"
"My brother," said Aberforth, his voice rising threateningly, "my brother would have struck a deal with the devil himself if he thought it served his purpose."
"I will never understand how you can talk about Albus like that - desecrate his memory like that! He was the most noble, most self-sacrificing man I have ever known, and whatever he did, he did it-" she broke off, frowning at the sight of the sly smile curling Aberforth's mouth.
"-for a greater good, eh?" he finished the sentence for her. "Ay, that he did. And believe me, if he thought that selling poisons from Hogwarts would help him achieve his aim, he wouldn't hesitate one second." He put down his glass, took up the bottle and refilled Minerva's. "He kept that poisonous snake around for years, because he thought it might be useful."
"I think," said Minerva, "I know why." Aberforth looked up at her sharply and she continued: "I don't mean that I know Albus' reasons, but tonight - I got a glimpse of what he possibly saw. Snape is... Snape can seem like a trustworthy man, sometimes, when the mask drops for a moment." She sighed and took a sip of the whisky. "It happened tonight - Snape let me think that I could trust him, and I did. For that moment, I did. I wanted to believe that he was an ally." She laughed. "There's no fool like an old fool, is there, Aberforth?"
"Is this why you're here now?" he asked, softly, his brilliantly blue eyes piercing her from behind his dirty spectacles. "Looking for an ally?"
"Yes. Yes, I suppose it is," Minerva laughed again and shook her head, as though trying to dislodge dreary thoughts. Aberforth reached out a dirty hand and wrapped it around hers.
"You've found him."
Part II
Part III