FIC: Dreams Crashing on a Spotless Kitchen Floor (Petunia, Figg)
Title: Dreams Crashing on a Spotless Kitchen Floor
Author: minerva_fan
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Angst
SPOILERS: HBP, massively
Prompt: 4. There are people who pt their dreams in a little box and say, "Yes, I've got dreams, of course, I've got dreams." Then they put the box away and bring it out once in a while to look in it, and yep, they're still there. These are great dreams, but they never even get out of the box. It takes an uncommon amount of guts to put your dreams on the line, to hold them up and say, "How good or how bad am I?" That's where courage comes in.--Erma Bombeck
Word Count: 1749 words
Beta: elemental_fey
Summary: She wakes in the middle of night, screaming. With a single spell, Petunia Dursley's life is changed, and the dream-turned-nightmare she put out with his help seventeen years earlier returns with a vengeance.
She wakes in the middle of the night, screaming. It is an usual occurance, and it startles Vernon no end. Oh, she thinks to herself, you've had another nightmare. He will be horrified, try to calm you, try to quiet you.
He will tell you that it's only in your head, she reminds herself as her thin frame shakes with the power of the dream. He will tell you, hush, Sweets, and roll over in bed.
But she does not roll over and go to sleep when he tells her these things. She cannot, for something is wrong, something so profound she can feel it in her veins.
She sits up in bed, stepping towards the window, as if somewhere in the middle of the Surrey night she can find a hint as to what has changed. As if somewhere in the Surrey night, she will find answers.
What has changed? she asks herself as she draws on her robe. The curlers in her hair feel heavy, and she absently pulls them out as she leaves Vernon snoring in the bed. She doesn't notice them dropping at her feet as she pads down the hallway, down the stairs to the living room, towards what, she does not know.
It's no surprise when the knock comes. She opens the door, oblivious to her hair falling in messy ringlets around her shoulders, to the sheerness of her dressing gown and robes. She opens the door, and in walks Arabella Figg.
She's known Mrs. Figg was a witch for years. No sense telling Vernon, especially since the woman has no more magic than the toaster. But it's better, she thinks, to have one of Them watching The Boy, rather than a neighbor who might be shocked to see her telly suddenly sprout wings and fly to the attic.
"What's happened?" she asks without a word of hello. Mrs. Figg is an odd one, and has never been keen on niceties, so Petunia doesn't bother with them. She's feeling odd, a weakness in her limbs, a burning sensation in her veins. She knows something terrible has happened. "What's wrong?" she adds as she leads the older woman, fretting and terribly upset, to the couch.
"It's terrible. It's all over the Wizarding world," the old lady mutters.
Petunia wants to slap her, but thinks perhaps a cup of tea might calm her down. She stands, motioning the old woman to join her in the kitchen, where she sets the kettle to boil. Vernon sleeps heavily, she thinks absently. He's never heard me before when I've scrambled about in the middle of the night for tea or a good read on the lounge. "Arabella, you must calm down," she says, her voice modulated but still firm. "Please tell me what happened."
"He's gone! He's gone, and they killed him! Oh, it's horrible, I say. It's unbelievable."
"Who's gone?" she asks firmly. Her skin feels on fire, now, and her head is beginning to sway. "Who has killed whom?"
"Snape." Arabella Figg wrings her hands slightly, then grabbs Petunia's free hand as she moves toward the kettle, which is beginning to steam. "Severus Snape has killed Albus Dumbledore!"
She doesn't hear the kettle whistle as she falls onto her perfectly tidy kitchen floor.
***
Vernon is there when she rouses, and his face is red and concerned. Mrs. Figg has said nothing to him, she gathers, though her face is pinched and worried as she helps Vernon guide her to the kitchen chair. It takes much effort to reassure her husband and to get him, please, to go back to sleep.
After all, she reminds him, he has work in the morning.
With a final glance at the two women, Vernon Dursley gallumphs back up the stairs to his nice warm bed.
Petunia does not feel well at all, and she accepts the tea Mrs. Figg offers her with shaking hands.
"How is this possible?" she asks, her voice hoarse, and quietly should Vernon return unexpectedly. "How is it possible that Dumbledore is dead?" She feels it stirring already, and knows that Mrs. Figg is not lying. She is not mistaken, and it is already too late.
She knows in her blood that Dumbledore is dead, because that is what woke her from her dreams.
The jolt of a spell dying with the wizard who cast it.
The jolt of a binding being snapped, and the rush of magic through her untried veins, overwhelming her in its unexpected strength.
As long as I live, Petunia, you will not be burdened with magic. This in exchange for giving her sister's orphaned child a home. This after the shock of developing magic so late in life, after marriage, after childbirth, when her once-forgotten dreams had resurfaced.
They were so proud. She remembers the bitter words to Harry. We have a witch in the family!
One witch. One child to be proud of, to dote over, to parent with love and generosity. One witch in the family.
Then two. For exactly one night, there were two Evans witches.
Then he struck, and there was one Evans witch.
She'd felt it, too, that night. Had bolted upright in bed, waking Dudley in his crib with her cries, as if she'd been shot in the chest with a lightening bolt. Felt her sister dying, and felt the new magic surging in her blood, uncontrollable, raging, terrified.
He came to her, left the child on her doorstep. He sent those horrid owls to her, telling her of his plan, of how he would help her deal with this new "talent" of hers.
The deal was hard-bargained. He'd wanted a witch to protect Harry, and it took a lot for her to get what she wanted.
As long as I live, Petunia, you will not be burdened with magic. This was the only way she would take him in.
She would never be a freak like her sister.
No. No, she would never be a target, like her sister.
As long as I live, Petunia, you will not be burdened with magic.
Petunia feels the tears burning on her cheek, and to her surprise, Arabella takes her cheek in her old, wrinkled hands. "It's a terrible thing, love," she whispers, and holds the younger woman as she cries.
Does she know, Petunia thinks. Can she already feel it growing stronger inside me, now that The Old Man is no longer here to stop it?
How long will it be, she wonders, before I can't control it? Before things start exploding, and Harry isn't here to blame? Before glasses disappear at the zoo, and car radios begin to whiz about the dials randomly? Before it all begins to happen again, just like it did the night that Lily dies?
"Mrs. Figg," she whispers, because she can't bear to say what she must say in her own voice. "I need your help."
It seems such a ridiculous thing to say. She needs help? The greatest threat to You-Know-Who has been killed in an act of unblushing betrayal, and Petunia Dursley presumes to need help? She almost laughs, but Mrs. Figg does not seem to find any humor at all in the situation. Her face is solemn, and she nods as she asks what she can do to help.
But Petunia can only laugh. Hysteria, she tells herself. It is hysteria. The Old Man is dead, and I'm a witch, and I'm asking a…a, what do they call them? A Squib for help.
The tea in her cup is cold. She drinks it anyway. "I need help with magic."
Arabella looks confused. "Petunia, you know I can't do-"
"I can," she says, her voice still light and dizzy with shock. "I can do magic, but I don't know how. I need help."
Mrs. Figg's reaction is not what she might expect. There is just a nod, as if she'd suspected it all along. "He's been binding your powers, then?"
Petunia just nods.
"That would explain the fainting," she mutters as she stands, heading toward the spice cabinet. "Doubt you have anything even remotely herbal in here, do you, Pet?" And Petunia can hear the hint of disgust in her words; she understands it.
At one point in her life, she would never have believed it possible-to be given the gift of magic, only to willingly have it bound. When she was a child, when she was eleven, and no owl ever came to invite her into Lily's magical world, she would have sold anything-from her soul to her body-to have even a bit of magic in her.
But seventeen years ago, she felt magic in her veins and it terrified her. She felt magic in her veins, and it only served as a reminder of what magic had stolen from her.
Seventeen years ago, she silenced that foolish child's dream for a more practical life, a safer life. These wizards live centuries, she knew. She would be protected as long as Dumbledore lived.
"I have some chamomile tea," she says dully. "Dudders was having trouble sleeping after the…after what happened last summer, so I bought it for him." She chokes on the word. Magic. Magic!
How could she ever have wished for it? How could she have been jealous of her sister's talents? Her curse?
And now, Mrs. Figg is in her kitchen, scowling through her spice rack and her refrigerater and muttering about fools and spells and the end of the world.
Now, she is a witch, and has more power than the woman she has turned to for help.
Now, like her sister, like her nephew, Petunia is a target.
She takes the tea Mrs. Figg has steeping in the cup. It is oddly spicy, something she'd never serve in her home, but actually quite good. She feels it burning down her throat, and the slight discomfort calms her.
"They will be sending the children home right after the funeral," Mrs. Figg says, her hands forming crooked knots with her fingers. "I'll inform the Order of what has happened, and Harry will be here soon enough."
Petunia nods.
Her dreams, her nightmares, have come back to her. And now, all she can do is wait, in the hopes that maybe, somebody might be able to help her stuff them back into that box again.
Maybe, just maybe, she might be able to be normal once again, before all is lost.
END
Author: minerva_fan
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Angst
SPOILERS: HBP, massively
Prompt: 4. There are people who pt their dreams in a little box and say, "Yes, I've got dreams, of course, I've got dreams." Then they put the box away and bring it out once in a while to look in it, and yep, they're still there. These are great dreams, but they never even get out of the box. It takes an uncommon amount of guts to put your dreams on the line, to hold them up and say, "How good or how bad am I?" That's where courage comes in.--Erma Bombeck
Word Count: 1749 words
Beta: elemental_fey
Summary: She wakes in the middle of night, screaming. With a single spell, Petunia Dursley's life is changed, and the dream-turned-nightmare she put out with his help seventeen years earlier returns with a vengeance.
She wakes in the middle of the night, screaming. It is an usual occurance, and it startles Vernon no end. Oh, she thinks to herself, you've had another nightmare. He will be horrified, try to calm you, try to quiet you.
He will tell you that it's only in your head, she reminds herself as her thin frame shakes with the power of the dream. He will tell you, hush, Sweets, and roll over in bed.
But she does not roll over and go to sleep when he tells her these things. She cannot, for something is wrong, something so profound she can feel it in her veins.
She sits up in bed, stepping towards the window, as if somewhere in the middle of the Surrey night she can find a hint as to what has changed. As if somewhere in the Surrey night, she will find answers.
What has changed? she asks herself as she draws on her robe. The curlers in her hair feel heavy, and she absently pulls them out as she leaves Vernon snoring in the bed. She doesn't notice them dropping at her feet as she pads down the hallway, down the stairs to the living room, towards what, she does not know.
It's no surprise when the knock comes. She opens the door, oblivious to her hair falling in messy ringlets around her shoulders, to the sheerness of her dressing gown and robes. She opens the door, and in walks Arabella Figg.
She's known Mrs. Figg was a witch for years. No sense telling Vernon, especially since the woman has no more magic than the toaster. But it's better, she thinks, to have one of Them watching The Boy, rather than a neighbor who might be shocked to see her telly suddenly sprout wings and fly to the attic.
"What's happened?" she asks without a word of hello. Mrs. Figg is an odd one, and has never been keen on niceties, so Petunia doesn't bother with them. She's feeling odd, a weakness in her limbs, a burning sensation in her veins. She knows something terrible has happened. "What's wrong?" she adds as she leads the older woman, fretting and terribly upset, to the couch.
"It's terrible. It's all over the Wizarding world," the old lady mutters.
Petunia wants to slap her, but thinks perhaps a cup of tea might calm her down. She stands, motioning the old woman to join her in the kitchen, where she sets the kettle to boil. Vernon sleeps heavily, she thinks absently. He's never heard me before when I've scrambled about in the middle of the night for tea or a good read on the lounge. "Arabella, you must calm down," she says, her voice modulated but still firm. "Please tell me what happened."
"He's gone! He's gone, and they killed him! Oh, it's horrible, I say. It's unbelievable."
"Who's gone?" she asks firmly. Her skin feels on fire, now, and her head is beginning to sway. "Who has killed whom?"
"Snape." Arabella Figg wrings her hands slightly, then grabbs Petunia's free hand as she moves toward the kettle, which is beginning to steam. "Severus Snape has killed Albus Dumbledore!"
She doesn't hear the kettle whistle as she falls onto her perfectly tidy kitchen floor.
***
Vernon is there when she rouses, and his face is red and concerned. Mrs. Figg has said nothing to him, she gathers, though her face is pinched and worried as she helps Vernon guide her to the kitchen chair. It takes much effort to reassure her husband and to get him, please, to go back to sleep.
After all, she reminds him, he has work in the morning.
With a final glance at the two women, Vernon Dursley gallumphs back up the stairs to his nice warm bed.
Petunia does not feel well at all, and she accepts the tea Mrs. Figg offers her with shaking hands.
"How is this possible?" she asks, her voice hoarse, and quietly should Vernon return unexpectedly. "How is it possible that Dumbledore is dead?" She feels it stirring already, and knows that Mrs. Figg is not lying. She is not mistaken, and it is already too late.
She knows in her blood that Dumbledore is dead, because that is what woke her from her dreams.
The jolt of a spell dying with the wizard who cast it.
The jolt of a binding being snapped, and the rush of magic through her untried veins, overwhelming her in its unexpected strength.
As long as I live, Petunia, you will not be burdened with magic. This in exchange for giving her sister's orphaned child a home. This after the shock of developing magic so late in life, after marriage, after childbirth, when her once-forgotten dreams had resurfaced.
They were so proud. She remembers the bitter words to Harry. We have a witch in the family!
One witch. One child to be proud of, to dote over, to parent with love and generosity. One witch in the family.
Then two. For exactly one night, there were two Evans witches.
Then he struck, and there was one Evans witch.
She'd felt it, too, that night. Had bolted upright in bed, waking Dudley in his crib with her cries, as if she'd been shot in the chest with a lightening bolt. Felt her sister dying, and felt the new magic surging in her blood, uncontrollable, raging, terrified.
He came to her, left the child on her doorstep. He sent those horrid owls to her, telling her of his plan, of how he would help her deal with this new "talent" of hers.
The deal was hard-bargained. He'd wanted a witch to protect Harry, and it took a lot for her to get what she wanted.
As long as I live, Petunia, you will not be burdened with magic. This was the only way she would take him in.
She would never be a freak like her sister.
No. No, she would never be a target, like her sister.
As long as I live, Petunia, you will not be burdened with magic.
Petunia feels the tears burning on her cheek, and to her surprise, Arabella takes her cheek in her old, wrinkled hands. "It's a terrible thing, love," she whispers, and holds the younger woman as she cries.
Does she know, Petunia thinks. Can she already feel it growing stronger inside me, now that The Old Man is no longer here to stop it?
How long will it be, she wonders, before I can't control it? Before things start exploding, and Harry isn't here to blame? Before glasses disappear at the zoo, and car radios begin to whiz about the dials randomly? Before it all begins to happen again, just like it did the night that Lily dies?
"Mrs. Figg," she whispers, because she can't bear to say what she must say in her own voice. "I need your help."
It seems such a ridiculous thing to say. She needs help? The greatest threat to You-Know-Who has been killed in an act of unblushing betrayal, and Petunia Dursley presumes to need help? She almost laughs, but Mrs. Figg does not seem to find any humor at all in the situation. Her face is solemn, and she nods as she asks what she can do to help.
But Petunia can only laugh. Hysteria, she tells herself. It is hysteria. The Old Man is dead, and I'm a witch, and I'm asking a…a, what do they call them? A Squib for help.
The tea in her cup is cold. She drinks it anyway. "I need help with magic."
Arabella looks confused. "Petunia, you know I can't do-"
"I can," she says, her voice still light and dizzy with shock. "I can do magic, but I don't know how. I need help."
Mrs. Figg's reaction is not what she might expect. There is just a nod, as if she'd suspected it all along. "He's been binding your powers, then?"
Petunia just nods.
"That would explain the fainting," she mutters as she stands, heading toward the spice cabinet. "Doubt you have anything even remotely herbal in here, do you, Pet?" And Petunia can hear the hint of disgust in her words; she understands it.
At one point in her life, she would never have believed it possible-to be given the gift of magic, only to willingly have it bound. When she was a child, when she was eleven, and no owl ever came to invite her into Lily's magical world, she would have sold anything-from her soul to her body-to have even a bit of magic in her.
But seventeen years ago, she felt magic in her veins and it terrified her. She felt magic in her veins, and it only served as a reminder of what magic had stolen from her.
Seventeen years ago, she silenced that foolish child's dream for a more practical life, a safer life. These wizards live centuries, she knew. She would be protected as long as Dumbledore lived.
"I have some chamomile tea," she says dully. "Dudders was having trouble sleeping after the…after what happened last summer, so I bought it for him." She chokes on the word. Magic. Magic!
How could she ever have wished for it? How could she have been jealous of her sister's talents? Her curse?
And now, Mrs. Figg is in her kitchen, scowling through her spice rack and her refrigerater and muttering about fools and spells and the end of the world.
Now, she is a witch, and has more power than the woman she has turned to for help.
Now, like her sister, like her nephew, Petunia is a target.
She takes the tea Mrs. Figg has steeping in the cup. It is oddly spicy, something she'd never serve in her home, but actually quite good. She feels it burning down her throat, and the slight discomfort calms her.
"They will be sending the children home right after the funeral," Mrs. Figg says, her hands forming crooked knots with her fingers. "I'll inform the Order of what has happened, and Harry will be here soon enough."
Petunia nods.
Her dreams, her nightmares, have come back to her. And now, all she can do is wait, in the hopes that maybe, somebody might be able to help her stuff them back into that box again.
Maybe, just maybe, she might be able to be normal once again, before all is lost.
END