Fic commentary: An Unequal Magic, part 1
Commentary for An Unequal Magic, as requested by such_heights.
This was written for tryfanstone as part of reversathon, which is one of my favourites of the exchanges I've participated in. tryfanstone's request was right up my street: Petunia. And family - I am seriously interested in a post-war analysis of what happens next. That'd be fantastic. Please feel free to mention Snape/Harry as background information, although it is Petunia I'm interested to see what you could do with!
I tried to work in a few Snape/Harry hints, but they're, ahem, a bit too well-hidden. Petunia, on the other hand, was an absolute gift to write, and I had loads of fun with Vernon and Dudley.
You can read the fic without commentary here.
I am always interested in exploring minor characters, especially those who seem ambiguous in canon, and Petunia definitely falls into that category after OotP. Until then, she was very much a cartoon villain, albeit slightly less unpleasant than Vernon. But the hints of something more in OotP made me want to know what motivated her - what had made her into this bitter woman with an empty existence. My interest in Petunia was also sparked by two excellent stories: A Shattered Green Teacup, in which Petunia goes to Hogwarts (by pixystick) and The Letter (by lazy_neutrino), in which she, well, doesn't. The idea of Petunia having magic, but somehow suppressing it, has always been very enticing to me, because it would explain a lot about her behaviour towards Harry.
...so that was my thinking when I came to write this story. And now I'll stop rambling and get on with the commentary. My remarks are in italics.
Title: An Unequal Magic
Author: lyras, writing as Crispin Coote
Characters: Petunia, Snape, Harry
Rating: PG
Word count: 11,100
Summary: When Petunia grudgingly offers Snape sanctuary, the pair discover that they have certain things in common.
Notes: Thanks to snowandsunshine for the read-through.
Sunlight didn't stand a chance against the heavy maroon curtains that closed off Petunia and Vernon's bedroom from the outside world, and it was still dark when Petunia eased herself upright and felt for her slippers on the carpet. Several of the floorboards creaked, but she threaded her way across them with an effortlessness born of long experience and unhooked her dressing gown from the door, pulling it on once she was safely on the landing and the door was closed once more.
There were more creaks to avoid on the staircase, and then the Daily Mail to rescue from the doormat. Thus armed, Petunia stepped into the kitchen.
Having made a pot of tea, she settled herself at the table and prepared to go through the paper. She barely glanced at the front page. Another MP sleeping with his secretary: why were these stories news any more? Not that she approved, of course. Affairs were not looked upon kindly in Little Whinging, where they had a nasty habit of blowing the status quo a mile wide.
Perhaps I should have cut the beginning short - it is rather a long, languorous introduction. But it serves (as was its main purpose) to illustrate how empty Petunia's life is, both in terms of her day to day existence and her marriage.
Still, the front page was unlikely to contain the kind of news that she was looking for. She folded it back, glanced cursorily through pages two and three, and then moved on to the minor news items.
It was generally something innocuous, or something so ludicrous that it wouldn't be believed by the most gullible of readers. An elderly lady complaining that her teapot had begun biting her on the nose, for example, or a student who had heard the sounds of battle where no fighting - or people - could be seen.
She tells herself she's not interested in the wizarding world, that she hates and fears it, and yet she keeps looking for it, just as she peeps through the curtains at her neighbours.
Petunia closed the paper with a sigh of relief and poured herself a second mug of tea. Nothing today. No hint that beyond her family's sedate existence was another world where British people might be killing one another - or perhaps merely putting frogspawn in one another's soup, or even just getting on with their lives. It was hard to tell.
Petunia's experiences of the wizarding world really haven't been very positive, from her sister "coming home with frogspawn in her pockets" to her sister being murdered, Dudley being given a pig's tail, Marge being inflated...
She had not heard from Harry for over two years now. Not since that last awkward scene when he had bidden her farewell and walked away down the path. She'd watched him until he had turned onto the main road, and then she had retreated upstairs to clean the room that she had never quite got around to thinking of as his.
"That's that, then," she had thought as she dusted - there being nothing to actually tidy, since Harry had taken his scant possessions with him. Sweeping under the bed, however, she had discovered something rattling inside what she had vaguely recognised as an old sock of Vernon's.
Having first flung it down with an exclamation of horror, Petunia had watched, waiting for the explosion and praying that it wouldn't bring the house down.
When nothing had happened after ten minutes, she had approached the sock cautiously, plucked it from the carpet with her thumb and forefinger, and deposited it on top of the chest of drawers. When the thing still hadn't exploded, she had finally succumbed to curiosity and pulled the sock off, revealing a small object that resembled a tiny spinning top.
She had left it in the top drawer, she remembered guiltily. It was still there; she took it out during her periodic spring-cleaning sessions, but somehow it always went back into that drawer, however many times she told herself that she should throw it out.
She can't quite bring herself to let go of her last link with Harry and the wizarding world.
She glanced at the clock. Seven twenty: time to make a fresh pot of tea and take a mug up to Vernon. She put the kettle on to boil again and then deposited the folded newspaper beside Vernon's place, which she had laid out the previous night after dinner.
**
Although no Harry remained to make Vernon's life miserable, he was still grumpy in the mornings. Petunia handed him his poached eggs on toast (a concession to the principles of healthy eating after the doctor had spoken seriously to Vernon about his blood pressure) and then hovered by the oven. Her own breakfast, two slices of Nimble bread spread with low-fat margarine, had been consumed while waiting for Vernon to get dressed.
"What do you have planned for today, dear?" she asked.
Vernon took several seconds to raise his eyes from the newspaper and several more to register the question. Washing down his toast with a mouthful of tea, he sat back and patted his stomach.
"Lovely, dear, although you can't beat a good Full English, I always say. Still - er, did you ask me something?"
"I just wondered what you had planned for today," Petunia repeated. Vernon had grown rather vague and absent-minded lately, she realised, and then suppressed the thought with a flutter of guilt. He was far too young for that sort of thing. She plastered a bright smile over her features and waited for Vernon to answer her.
"Well, we've a board meeting this morning." Vernon frowned. "That interfering whizzkid, Jonathan's son, has had one of his great ideas for boosting profits. And Jonathan wants to give him his chance, of course."
"Oh dear," said Petunia, since a response seemed indicated.
"Ruddy marketing graduates," continued Vernon, warming to his subject. "Pay 'em to drink watered-down beer and smoke god knows what for three years and when they get out they think they can run your company for you. Well, I'll show him!" He slapped his hand down on the paper.
I loved writing Vernon. There's no ambiguity about him - he's a total cartoon villain, and he's fun!
"I'm sure you will, dear," agreed Petunia soothingly. She made a mental note to ensure that she had a cup of coffee and a nice snack waiting for Vernon when he arrived home from work. It was amazing what you could do to modulate a man's moods if you understood him as she did Vernon.
In lieu of anything better in her life, Petunia prides herself on being a good housewife. But note that she also prides herself on being able to manage Vernon, whatever he might believe about the dynamics of their relationship.
**
Vernon had left for work and Petunia was making a mental shopping list as she whisked the duster around the lounge when the doorbell rang.
Petunia thought a rude word...
I have a soft spot for this wording - it's perfect for Petunia, the way I see her.
...as she laid down her duster and patted her hair. These sales people were getting worse, calling day and night. If it wasn't electricity it was a charity, or some religious fanatics.
She opened the door with lips pursed, ready to offer a freezing reception to whoever was on the other side of it. Before she could react, however, a tall, bespectacled young man leapt inside, leaving his two companions on the doorstep. In the time that it took Petunia to draw breath for a scream, she recognised him.
"You!" she exclaimed.
"Aunt Petunia," said the young man rather breathlessly.
"You!" said Petunia again, and this time felt that she'd achieved the appropriate mix of revulsion and anger. "How dare you come barging through my front door as if you own the place after two years? How dare you come back here?"
"I'm sorry," said Harry; his voice was hushed and he was shooting anxious glances towards the street. "I really am, Aunt Petunia, I know I'm being incredibly rude, but I had to make sure you didn't just shut the door on me. On us."
"What could you possibly have to say that would be of interest to me?" demanded Petunia. She rather enjoyed the way that sentence rolled off her tongue, and wondered if Vernon found shouting at his staff as liberating as this.
I bet he does!
Harry looked wretched. "I need to ask you a favour," he muttered. "I wouldn't have come if we weren't desperate - I know you want to be left alone, and believe me, I understand that feeling perfectly - but we're desperate. A man's life is in danger." His eyes drifted to the doorway again. "Please can we at least talk to you? Er, not in the doorway?"
Petunia looked at him, and then at the couple who accompanied him. The young woman, who looked vaguely familiar, had brown hair clasped in an exuberant ponytail at the nape of her neck; her lips were currently curved in an earnest smile, rather like one of the Jehovah's Witnesses Petunia had been anticipating when she opened the door.
The man was older, surely around Petunia's own age, and he was making no attempt to modulate his surly expression. His black hair fell lankly onto pale cheekbones, and he looked singularly uncomfortable in green corduroy trousers and a long, dark brown raincoat.
Petunia most emphatically did not like the look of him, but she was aware that they had been standing around like this for a couple of minutes already. It wouldn't do for the neighbours to take notice. She thought of a magical contraption lying dormant in a bedroom, yet to do anything terrible, and stepped back.
"Come in," she said curtly, and watched Harry's shoulders sag with relief.
"The kitchen?" he asked, and in answer to her nod, he led them down the hall. Petunia watched the older man stumble infinitesimally as he stepped over the threshold and then glare at the girl when she reached an arm out to help him.
Once the intruders were seated, Petunia put the kettle on out of habit. She couldn't bring herself to actually offer them a drink, but neither could she deny the laws of hospitality, and so she prepared a pot of tea in silence, placing one of her mother's china cups and saucers in front of each person while the kettle boiled, before settling herself at the head of the table.
Petunia's of the generation that always has tea and biscuits ready in case of callers. Harry and co. don't get cake, but she can't stop herself from providing tea.
Then she looked at Harry mutely, willing him to begin.
"Aunt Petunia," began Harry, nodding as if in response to an order, "you might remember my friend Hermione; she came here with me three years ago."
The girl treated Petunia to another earnest smile before saying, "I know we didn't part on the best of terms, Mrs Dursley, so thank you so much for letting me back into your home."
Petunia was tempted to say something caustic about not having been given a chance to refuse, but the words evaporated on her tongue and she nodded instead.
"And this is - er, John Deakin, a fr-" Harry faltered. "An acquaintance of ours," he finished carefully, indicating the older man, who curled his lower lip in what Petunia suspected might be an attempted smile. A memory chimed, and she frowned.
"I believe I recognise you, as well. Have we - have I seen you before?"
Petunia watched the others exchange glances, before Deakin said, "Forgive me - perhaps you may indeed have seen me before. I was once acquainted with your sister." His voice sounded rusty, as if it was falling into disuse. She shook her head.
"No, I don't think so. I've seen you recently-" She meant, but didn't say, with pouchy eyes and unkempt hair, with set jaw and that slight tremor in the right wrist. Her eyes fell on the newspaper, folded up where she'd left it by the teapot, and she paled. "Oh."
The silence was louder this time, and Petunia distinctly heard three indrawn breaths. Blindly she reached for the teapot and began pouring, taking a fierce pride in the steadiness of her arm. Pushing a cup towards each of them, she said shakily, "Are you all wanted criminals? Have you all escaped from prison?"
Sadly, I feel this is a very Petunia-like assumption.
"No!" exclaimed Harry indignantly, but Petunia's fear wasn't allayed that easily.
"If you've come for me - to do something to me - then all I ask is that you leave no evidence. I don't want people gossiping…" She gripped her cup handle hard, and the china clattered in the silence.
Just as on the doorstep, she cares most about what other people might think.
"Still ashamed of me, I see," muttered Harry derisively, while Hermione broke in over the top of him. "Oh, Mrs Dursley, I'm so sorry, but you really needn't be frightened. Harry may be an idiot," she rolled her eyes at him, "but he'd never hurt you. How could you think that?"
An image of a six-year-old in patched pyjamas and cast-off socks, face sooty and tear-stained, flitted across Petunia's subconscious; she blushed and looked down.
She's got to feel guilty. She's a mother and a sister: she must do.
"Aunt Petunia, you're right that John is a wanted man," said Harry. "But they're wrong about him, our government, I mean. They've sentenced him to death because they need a scapegoat, just as they have done in the past." He hesitated. "Do you remember my godfather, Sirius Black?"
Petunia was unlikely to forget that part of Harry's history. She nodded.
"Sirius was an innocent man," began Harry solemnly.
"He was an arrogant idiot, and it was merely a lucky chance that he wasn't a murderer," put in John Deakin surlily.
"Shut up, Snape," snarled Harry, and Petunia jumped. Deakin - or whoever he really was - sat back with an unpleasant smile.
I love this little exchange. I wanted to fit in a lot more of Harry and Snape, but it just didn't work out that way in the end.
"Sirius was innocent," continued Harry, "and the wizarding government acknowledged this, but not until after his death, when it was too late."
"Yes," put in Hermione, "and we want to make sure that the same doesn't happen to John. He is under a sentence of execution for a crime that he was powerless to prevent." Her eyes sparkled with the zeal of a missionary. "We can't possibly allow it to happen, do you see?"
"I-" Petunia said, and then tried again. "What does this have to do with me?" She glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven am. She would have to invent an errand soon, to get rid of them.
"Well," said Harry slowly, "Aunt Petunia, we'd like to hide Deakin here, if we can. It would only be for a few days," he continued hurriedly as Petunia opened her mouth. "Just until we can gather all the evidence."
"No," said Petunia, "no." She was shaking; she couldn't believe Harry and his magical world were about to shatter her peace again, just like that. "How dare you suggest such a thing? My family and I want nothing to do with you - you freaks any more. We did our duty by you for sixteen years, and that's over. NO MORE!"
"Oh, please, Mrs Dursley," pleaded Hermione. "It's the perfect hiding place, you see - nobody would suspect he was here; they all know how you treated Harry and were glad to see the back of him."
Hermione's pretty tactful generally, but I felt on this occasion she could be forgiven for getting carried away. And of course, "they all know" is the one thing that would get to Petunia.
Petunia started and blushed at this, but Hermione pressed on, apparently unaware of the effect she was having. "And it would only be for a short while. I and several other people have the research in hand, and we should have a cast-iron case within a few days. Certainly enough to get the Ministry to drop their charges, anyway."
"It's out of the question," said Petunia firmly. "We can't possibly have one of your sort here - why, Vernon simply wouldn't allow it! He's not to be upset, you know - the doctor told him so." She took a sip of tea in an attempt to steady her rushing heartbeat.
"Oh, come on, Aunt Petunia, you've kept plenty of secrets from Vernon in the past, haven't you?" demanded Harry impatiently.
Petunia blanched. "What do you mean? How dare you suggest such a thing!"
Harry shrugged. "Why did you take me in? You didn't have to - you could have handed me over to the police, or even dumped me directly with an orphanage. But you kept me. Why?"
Petunia remained silent, two red spots staining her pale cheeks.
"Professor Dumbledore had something on you, didn't he?" continued Harry. "He knew something, and he promised to keep quiet if you did what he asked. Well, now I'm promising the same. If you do this for us, your secret will be safe."
Harry's totally winging it here; he's not sure what Petunia has to hide - but he knows she won't take the risk of it being revealed.
"You're bluffing." Petunia took refuge in her teacup once more, almost choking in the process. Deakin and Hermione observed the scene curiously.
"Maybe I am," admitted Harry. "Although actually, I've got a pretty good idea what it is you're so defensive about. And since, if I'm right, it's nothing shameful at all, I'll have no qualms about shouting it to the rooftops." He leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
"How dare you!" exclaimed Petunia, but it was a cry of frustration rather than denial. "For sixteen years we had to endure your presence, lying to all the neighbours who wondered where you'd come from and where you disappeared off to for most of the year. Your friends ruined our home, they traumatised our son; you drove Vernon to distraction and nearly killed your Aunt Marge! I'd have thought the least you could do would be to respect our wishes and stay away, now that apparently you have no need of our protection." She fell silent, blinking back tears.
"I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia," Harry said, and he sounded sincere. "I know you want to be left alone. I promise that if you do this for us, I'll do everything I can to make sure that you're not bothered again. I mean that."
She sniffed. "Dudley's coming this weekend. He mustn't find out, either. Neither he nor Vernon."
"That will not be an issue." It was Deakin-or-whatever-his-name-was who spoke. "We can manage it so that even you will be unaware of my presence in the house for most of the time."
"Don't even consider working your disgusting spells on me or my family!" flashed Petunia.
"There won't be any enchantments worked on people," said Hermione with a frown. "Honourable wizards don't do that sort of thing."
This is such a Hermione way of thinking.
"I find that difficult to believe," said Petunia, thinking of Dudley. He mustn't find out. He'd be terrified, poor darling. And it was a delicate time for him, what with exams starting in a couple of weeks. Only his first year, of course, but still, it was important to put on a good showing. "Dudley and Vernon mustn't find out," she repeated.
"Is my old room still free?" asked Harry. Petunia nodded.
"Then - Deakin can stay in there, and we'll enchant it so that it's soundproofed. We'll make sure nobody suspects he's there."
"I've been a spy for twenty years, Potter," put in Deakin. "Do you really think I'd give myself away to a pair of obtuse Muggles?"
"No," admitted Harry, and Petunia caught a hint of grudging respect in his expression. "I just want to make my aunt feel better about this. I promise I wouldn't have bothered you if we'd had any other option," he added, turning to Petunia.
"There's always my old house," retorted Deakin sulkily.
"Oh, don't be an i-" began Harry, but Hermione cut in smoothly.
Again, I had such fun writing the Harry/Snape bits.
"You know there are people watching all your known hideouts - including the house on Spinner's End. Neville spotted Aurors all over the place when he checked it out yesterday."
"Longbottom," said Deakin derisively.
"One of our most trusted operatives," said Harry through gritted teeth.
I had to get in a bit of Neville love.
"Well!" said Hermione with false brightness. "Shall we get you settled in, John?" She glanced at Petunia. "Would you mind leading the way, Mrs Dursley?"
**
After Harry and Hermione had left, Petunia dusted meticulously while she worked up her courage, and then made her way up the stairs to Harry's old room, pausing only to select some bed linen from the airing cupboard on the landing. When she knocked on the door, there was no response, and she suddenly realised that even if Deakin had answered, she probably wouldn't be able to hear due to the soundproofing measures that Harry had mentioned.
She reached a tremulous hand towards the handle, but forced herself to turn it firmly. It wouldn't do to display weakness.
She's frightened, but brave.
She peeked around the door and failed to suppress a gasp when she met Deakin's dark eyes.
"Mrs Dursley." His voice was noncommittal, the words precise and sibilant. "What can I do for you?"
He was seated in a deep black chair that she'd never seen before, and he was carefully inspecting the chest of drawers, running his wand - fear and fascination jolted her as she recognised it - around its contours almost as if he were measuring it.
She held out her bundle. "For the bed."
"Thank you." He twitched his wand; the bedclothes flew from her hands and began arranging themselves on the bed, the duvet cover even wrapping itself around the duvet.
"Don't do that!" she protested, stung.
"Ah," said Deakin. "The force of habit is strong, I'm afraid. I apologise."
She was fairly certain that no wizard had ever apologised to her before. Emboldened, she stepped further into the room.
"I know your name's not Deakin."
The man's lips twisted. "Yes, Potter is not exactly a master of subtlety, is he? Nevertheless, I should prefer you to think of me as John Deakin, if you please. It may go easier with all of us if you do so."
"I could just go through the newspapers for the last few days," she suggested. "I know I've seen you in there recently."
"You could," he agreed. "However, I advise you not to. Should my presence here be disclosed, it will look much better for you if you know as little as possible about the situation."
She froze. "But - but you're on the run from your government; surely they wouldn't do anything to harm an innocent outsider? Would they?"
Anger pulsed below fear. Harry had promised, but she should have known that his word was no more reliable than - than a hyena's. Hadn't he promised to leave her alone two years ago, and then turned up again like a bad penny?
"Forgive me," Deakin repeated. His face was unreadable. "They would not harm you - of that I am almost certain. They may be rather hasty, that's all. But I am assured by your nephew and his earnest friend that there is no likelihood of my presence here being detected. You have nothing to worry about."
For the sake of her sanity, Petunia decided to ignore that telltale 'almost'. "My nephew and Hermione," she began hesitantly, "are they…?" Deakin seemed unwilling to help her out, and so she fumbled towards a conclusion. "…together?"
"Potter and Granger have been close friends ever since they were obnoxious twelve-year-olds." Deakin looked as if he had bitten on something bitter, and Petunia wondered how he knew that, and in what capacity he had known Harry and his friends for so long. "However, I do not believe that there is or has ever been a romantic attachment between them. Miss Granger is currently involved with Ronald Weasley, whom you may also have met." He raised his eyebrows. "Tall, thin, red hair? An unfortunate propensity for putting his foot in it? No social graces?" Petunia nodded, suppressing a shudder as she recalled a visit from a certain family whose genes clearly ran to red hair only.
I feel terrible for referring to Ron like that!
Deakin sat back. "Mr Potter, on the other hand, has not shown romantic interest in anyone, either male or female, since his girlfriend - Mr Weasley's sister - was killed in the aftermath of Lord Voldemort's defeat. That is, if the newspapers are to be believed. Potter would not be likely to confide in me about these things, but the media are fond of gossiping about him."
I wanted Harry to be romantically available. I apologise to Ginny fans!
"Oh!" Petunia recoiled, shocked. She half-expected to hear tales of barbarism and violence where wizards were concerned - look at the way Harry had almost killed her sister-in-law - but she hadn't quite been ready to hear that about Harry. She wondered what the girl had been like.
Deakin rummaged in the top drawer for a moment and brought out the object that Petunia had hidden there two years earlier. "A relic of Potter's, I presume?"
She flinched. "Yes. I didn't know what to do with it, or how to contact him, so I just left it in the drawer. In case he came back."
"And now he has," mused Deakin. "I can tell you what it is," he added. "It is a sneakoscope - ridiculous name, but descriptive. It alerts the owner when anyone in the vicinity is not to be trusted. Unreliable, subjective at best, but useful nevertheless on occasion." He dropped the object back into the drawer and it tinkled tinnily.
I don't write Snape very often, but I think I did him justice here - at least, the way I see him.
Petunia backed towards the door, made uneasy by this explanation of the magic artefact in her possession. "I - I have to go out," she said hurriedly. "Do you need anything before I leave?"
"No, thank you," said Deakin, already turning his attention back to the furniture. "I have everything I need."
"Even food?" she ventured, although her spirit quailed at the prospect of feeding a houseguest while keeping his presence a secret from Vernon. He hadn't mentioned the bathroom, and she decided she was going to assume that he had that matter under control until he brought it up.
I am going to assume the same, since I have no idea how Snape managed the bathroom :).
"Even food," he confirmed with a wry glance towards a large bag that lay beside the bed. She stared at it. She was almost certain that he'd been carrying a much smaller version of the same bag earlier that morning.
"Oh. Well, I shan't be long," she said, just in case he was planning on trying anything.
"Quite. Goodbye, Mrs Dursley." He looked up from his work. "Thank you for your kindness."
She nodded and then pulled the door shut behind her.
**
Later that afternoon, Petunia settled down with her afternoon cup of tea to read her Woman's Weekly.
It had to be Woman's Weekly, the magazine favoured by my mum and my friends' mums. It's (or it was) aimed at a certain social demographic (lower middle-class housewives?), one that I feel Petunia fits into perfectly.
She still had a couple of hours free before she need worry about Vernon's dinner, and she turned to the fiction page with a sigh of relaxation.
For once, the story (of a young, rather bookish young woman who was developing a tentative relationship with the handsome eccentric living over the road) failed to grip her, and she found her mind wandering frequently to the dark-haired fugitive who now inhabited her spare room. Goodness only knew what he was doing in there; she only had his word, and Hermione's, that he wouldn't harm her or create havoc. That wand…
The page blurred; instead of the heavy typeface, she saw lined paper filled with handwriting, childish and rounded but perfect nonetheless: every 'i' dotted, every 't' crossed uniformly. A woman's voice, angry. Petunia, admit that you never wrote this; now tell me who did it for you! The same later on, after a maths test in which she'd achieved a hundred percent, thirty-five percent (she might have only been eight, but she still remembered the figure that Mrs Dickson had thrown in her face) higher than anyone else.
I found this bit difficult: to demonstrate that Petunia might have had magical abilities, and that because of her personality they'd manifested themselves in ways that made her hate magic.
And several more times, too, until she'd learned. She'd never cheated, though, and the accusations still rankled. It had only ever happened when she'd been desperate to do well, to please her teacher, make her parents proud, but she'd never cheated. She'd just wished really hard, and things had happened - but they hadn't believed that, of course.
She'd learned to conceal these events, and anything else odd that occurred. Petunia wanted to be liked, admired; she wanted to be normal, and if she wished hard enough, she knew it would happen.
This, to me, is the crux of Petunia's personality.
She gave herself a mental shake. She'd had thirty years to come to terms with her secret, and almost that long to embrace her bitterness when first her sister and then her nephew had exhibited the same talent and been fêted for it.
Oh, the bitterness!
Now yet another of these creatures threatened the tranquil security of her life. Would it never be over?
Angling the magazine so that it caught the sunlight, Petunia attempted to read once more, but her thoughts kept drifting to Deakin. What was he up to? He could bring the house down if he felt like it, she was certain.
With a sigh, she laid down her magazine and put the kettle on to boil again. It was time she checked up on him.
**
"-tell me you did all that because my mum wouldn't go out with you," Harry snarled. "I always thought you were pathetic, Snape, but that's a hundred times more infantile than I ever-" He broke off as he met Petunia's eyes. "Aunt Petunia," he said stiffly.
The pair stood by the window, facing one another like two exhausted gladiators.
This scene was difficult to write, and the "two exhausted gladiators" was added just before I posted the story. I'm glad I put it in there, because for me it sums them up perfectly. They've been going at it now for nearly ten years - it must be exhausting.
Petunia caught a shocking glimpse of the older man's shattered expression before he smoothed out his features.
For once, Harry's really got to Snape, even though we don't find out too much about their conversation.
"I thought you might want tea," she faltered. "I didn't realise you would be here," she added to her nephew.
"We'll be popping in fairly frequently to corroborate information," he told her civilly, despite the fact that he was shaking with what she suspected was rage. "I have to get going now. I'm sure your guest will be grateful for the tea. Excuse me."
When he vanished, it was all Petunia could do to maintain her grasp on the tea tray.
Because she's so frightened by the fact that he can just vanish. I wasn't sure how to make this clear, or whether I succeeded.
"Your name is Snape?" she asked 'Deakin', rebuking herself mentally. She mustn't show them that she was afraid.
"Since you heard it again, yes," he answered. Apparently he wasn't in the mood for making disparaging remarks this time, for he merely stared at the spot that Harry had just vacated, the shadows under his eyes deeper than ever. Petunia pitied him briefly, despite herself. How long was it since he'd seen sunlight for longer than it had taken to escape from prison to hide-out?
After a moment's hesitation, she placed the tray on top of the chest of drawers and poured out a cup.
"You mentioned earlier that you knew my sister," she ventured.
Snape looked up wearily. "We were at school together."
A band clenched around Petunia's heart. "Is there - could you tell me anything about her?"
"We were never close," Snape said. "I doubt that you would be interested in what I had to say about her."
Petunia handed him the cup and then stood back. "I don't know," she said timidly. "I - we were never close either, after she went away to school, and we eventually grew apart completely. I just wondered what she was like in that environment."
There must have been such a chasm between Petunia and Lily once Lily went to Hogwarts.
Snape sipped his tea and then replaced the cup carefully on the tray.
"Lily was the sort of person to whom rules didn't apply," he said. "She was from a non-wizarding family, which was a serious drawback in those days, but in her case hardly anybody cared. She was one of the most popular people in our year; she was good at nearly every subject, but she worked hard for it, and so nobody resented her good marks. She was kind to everyone," his voice hardened slightly, "to the point of stupidity, and she was - pretty. The sort of girl who attracts older boys; the sort whom half of her classmates secretly adore." Face still impassive, he turned away and sipped his tea.
I really wanted this speech to be a kind of paean, or perhaps an elegy, to Lily. I'm not sure I succeeded.
Petunia knew better than to inquire as to whether Snape had been one of Lily's adorers. But she recognised his portrait of her sister, all right. That was Lily: beautiful, popular, special. Even her schoolwork had probably been fun.
The year Lily should have gone to senior school, Petunia had fielded questions from teachers and bereft classmates alike. What's happened to Lily? Why isn't she here? And when they heard Petunia's fudged explanation, Oh, a private school? Well, I suppose she has shown great potential, hasn't she? But you must miss her, dear. Or Can I write to her? I can't believe she's not here with us! Gary Thompson'll be heartbroken.
Petunia had accepted a dozen letters written by Lily's old friends from junior school. She'd taken them out into the back garden and burned them in the September sun, until the ashes floated away on the breeze. Let Lily think everyone had forgotten her; they soon would, anyway. Meanwhile, Petunia had striven to do likewise.
She glanced up from the floor and realised that Snape was watching her. "I - see you knew Lily well," she almost whispered.
His mouth twisted. "For a time," he answered. She nodded, topped up his tea in silence, and left the room.
**
After a judiciously brewed coffee and an extended dinner, Vernon had nearly talked himself out about the day's galling events. Petunia gathered that most of the other directors had been willing to give the upstart's initiatives a chance, and Vernon had been forced to withdraw his objection to the plan. Unspoken was the fear that some directors might have been pleased to see Vernon humiliated like that.
He had calmed down by the time they retired to the living room for Watchdog followed by the news and then the second instalment of Murder on the Orient Express.
Reliving some of my childhood television moments :).
Nevertheless, the television occasionally set him off on rants about people who didn't know how good they had things, and about how the government was strangling free enterprise with all its regulations and worries about safety.
Petunia nodded along and made sympathetic noises. It was terrible the way people felt entitled to things these days, after all.
I may sympathise with Petunia, but she's still an unpleasant person in many ways.
After the news had been superseded by David Suchet's quizzical investigations, Petunia watched Vernon relax and allowed herself to do the same. Poor Vernon, he really wasn't having a nice time of things. She must make absolutely certain that he didn't find out about their unwelcome guest. It would upset him terribly, and she'd never be able to calm him down.
Ever since Vernon had walked through the door, she'd been on edge, alert to any sound from upstairs, although she'd not heard a thing all day. Petunia didn't trust magic not to betray her at the worst possible moment. Now she wondered what Snape was up to. Writing down evidence, perhaps, or simply relaxing. He didn't look like the type of man who could do that easily, though.
She wanted to believe in his innocence, she realised, although she didn't even know what crime he was accused of committing. It was the moment of kinship that she'd shared with him that afternoon. They had both been singed by Lily's star, of that she was certain.
**
Next morning, Petunia awoke feeling jittery, although it wasn't until she'd sat down with her cup of tea that she realised why. Dudley was coming home that afternoon - darling boy - and her - that man was still upstairs. How could she possibly have allowed a wizard into the house again at such a time? If Dudley found out - well, he'd probably run straight back to Brighton, and goodness only knew what nefarious influences he might fall prey to in his panicked and vulnerable state. Dudley's experiences with wizards thus far had been even less auspicious than Petunia's.
'A couple of days,' Harry had said. She wondered if they would have time to get Snape out of the house before Vernon went to collect Dudley from the station at six o'clock.
She could barely wait to get Vernon off to work, and had to do two lots of eggs for breakfast because she'd lost track of time and ended up overdoing the first pair. As soon as he had left the house, she counted to thirty and then crept up the stairs.
She knocked - after the scene yesterday afternoon she felt it was important to announce her approach, even if Snape couldn't refuse her entry. Putting her head round the door, she watched the tension flow from his shoulders as he looked at her. Of course: he must wonder every time the door opened whether he was about to be apprehended and carried off for execution.
"Good morning," he said. "How can I help you?"
Give the man his due, he might not look prepossessing, but he could certainly be a lot more charming than other wizards she had encountered.
"other wizards" being James and Sirius :).
"I just wondered if you needed anything," she answered. "A cup of tea, perhaps?"
Snape shook his head. "Thank you, no. I have all I need here."
Petunia noticed the thick pile of papers on the chest of drawers, and - was that a quill he was writing with? How very archaic!
"You're working on the evidence to clear your name?" she asked.
Snape nodded. "Miss Granger was here earlier. She appears to have made several breakthroughs. There are moments," he added thoughtfully, "when she demonstrates genuine intelligence."
I think Snape has always seen Hermione as a person who learns things "by th'book" and doesn't really think them through. He's wrong, of course.
"I - I see." Petunia wondered again at the relationship between Snape, Harry and Hermione. Snape didn't appear particularly fond of the younger pair, and certainly he and Harry appeared to share an enmity of long standing.
"Um." She cleared her throat. "My son is coming home for the weekend today. Dudley."
"So you said."
"He - he really has had some rather bad experiences, you know. With wizards. And there was a - one of those Dementor things a few years ago that frightened him terribly."
"Yes, I heard about that at the time." Snape laid down his quill and turned sideways in his chair. "I'm sorry he should have come across that. The Dementors are never pleasant, and to encounter one without any understanding or hope of driving it off must be terrible."
"He was with Harry at the time." Petunia didn't try to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
A flash of derision crossed Snape's face. "Yes. Potter always did have a knack for getting his friends into danger."
"When Dudley was eleven, a beastly man turned him into a pig!" said Petunia tearfully. "He had to have his tail removed by plastic surgery. That was because of Harry, too. And then when he was thirteen, some of Harry's friends invaded our house and made Dudley's tongue swell up. It was horrible!"
When looked at from Petunia's POV, her family has really been pretty hard done by. Of course, they are evil, child-abusing bullies :-/.
"I'm sorry to hear he has been so badly treated by our kind," said Snape solemnly. "I assure you, these incidents are not common."
"And that's not even counting the threats Harry made against Dudley!" Petunia was getting into her stride now. "He was just like my sister - threatened to use magic on us all until we discovered he wasn't allowed to. He did use magic sometimes, too, and he never seemed to get punished for it."
Snape regarded her quizzically. "Yes, it's true that rules have never seemed to apply to Potter the way they do to other people. His father was just the same."
It surprised me how much Snape and Petunia had in common once they got talking, but in some ways their attitudes are very alike :).
"James." Petunia had only met her brother-in-law twice, the second time being at James and Lily's wedding, where she had lasted precisely an hour and a half.
"Yes." An odd note came into Snape's tone, and he looked out at the cloudless sky through the window. "I have only recently realised," he said quietly, "that while Harry is his father's son, he is very different in several respects."
And it would have taken an awful lot for Snape to admit this - but then, in my imagination, he's been through an awful lot since the end of HBP.
Petunia's curiosity suddenly overcame her petulance. "How is Harry these days?" she asked.
Snape shrugged. "He is tired. He works too hard, and his work gains him few rewards, since it involves visiting and fighting on behalf of dubious characters such as myself. He has dedicated himself to justice and, in a world rife with corruption, that will never get him very far. Which isn't to say that it is not a noble goal," he added.
"Is it very hard, in your world?" asked Petunia? "It sounds terribly violent."
"The violence is caused by a few rogue elements," said Snape. "Unfortunately, it does not take much effort to create a climate of fear, which is precisely what these people have achieved. They have also exploited common concerns in the past, but public opinion is now firmly against them."
Petunia suddenly recalled her purpose in venturing up to this room in the first place. "If Hermione has made a breakthrough with the evidence, is there... is there any chance that you might be able to leave before this evening?"
Snape regarded her with the faintest suspicion of sympathy blended with sarcasm. "I am afraid it's unlikely. Unless Miss Granger has an even better mind than I suspect she does."
"Oh." She felt flat.
"I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to remain hidden," Snape said. "Discovery would do me no good at all, and might well lead the Ministry straight to me."
"Yes, I see that." She would simply have to hope for the best, Petunia thought. At least Snape seemed a capable sort; he wouldn't do anything rash. Not like Harry.
Poor Harry - Petunia's never going to stop resenting him.
"Well, I must get on, otherwise Miss Granger will have cause to berate me when she returns this afternoon," remarked Snape.
"Oh yes, of course." Petunia retreated towards the doorway. "Perhaps I'll bring you up a cup of tea when I make one shortly," she ventured.
"Thank you; I would appreciate that," said Snape, already fumbling with his papers.
She closed the door, feeling shut out once more from a world she'd only ever glimpsed.
Petunia is fascinated by Snape and his world - but he has more important things on his mind.
**
This was written for tryfanstone as part of reversathon, which is one of my favourites of the exchanges I've participated in. tryfanstone's request was right up my street: Petunia. And family - I am seriously interested in a post-war analysis of what happens next. That'd be fantastic. Please feel free to mention Snape/Harry as background information, although it is Petunia I'm interested to see what you could do with!
I tried to work in a few Snape/Harry hints, but they're, ahem, a bit too well-hidden. Petunia, on the other hand, was an absolute gift to write, and I had loads of fun with Vernon and Dudley.
You can read the fic without commentary here.
I am always interested in exploring minor characters, especially those who seem ambiguous in canon, and Petunia definitely falls into that category after OotP. Until then, she was very much a cartoon villain, albeit slightly less unpleasant than Vernon. But the hints of something more in OotP made me want to know what motivated her - what had made her into this bitter woman with an empty existence. My interest in Petunia was also sparked by two excellent stories: A Shattered Green Teacup, in which Petunia goes to Hogwarts (by pixystick) and The Letter (by lazy_neutrino), in which she, well, doesn't. The idea of Petunia having magic, but somehow suppressing it, has always been very enticing to me, because it would explain a lot about her behaviour towards Harry.
...so that was my thinking when I came to write this story. And now I'll stop rambling and get on with the commentary. My remarks are in italics.
Title: An Unequal Magic
Author: lyras, writing as Crispin Coote
Characters: Petunia, Snape, Harry
Rating: PG
Word count: 11,100
Summary: When Petunia grudgingly offers Snape sanctuary, the pair discover that they have certain things in common.
Notes: Thanks to snowandsunshine for the read-through.
Sunlight didn't stand a chance against the heavy maroon curtains that closed off Petunia and Vernon's bedroom from the outside world, and it was still dark when Petunia eased herself upright and felt for her slippers on the carpet. Several of the floorboards creaked, but she threaded her way across them with an effortlessness born of long experience and unhooked her dressing gown from the door, pulling it on once she was safely on the landing and the door was closed once more.
There were more creaks to avoid on the staircase, and then the Daily Mail to rescue from the doormat. Thus armed, Petunia stepped into the kitchen.
Having made a pot of tea, she settled herself at the table and prepared to go through the paper. She barely glanced at the front page. Another MP sleeping with his secretary: why were these stories news any more? Not that she approved, of course. Affairs were not looked upon kindly in Little Whinging, where they had a nasty habit of blowing the status quo a mile wide.
Perhaps I should have cut the beginning short - it is rather a long, languorous introduction. But it serves (as was its main purpose) to illustrate how empty Petunia's life is, both in terms of her day to day existence and her marriage.
Still, the front page was unlikely to contain the kind of news that she was looking for. She folded it back, glanced cursorily through pages two and three, and then moved on to the minor news items.
It was generally something innocuous, or something so ludicrous that it wouldn't be believed by the most gullible of readers. An elderly lady complaining that her teapot had begun biting her on the nose, for example, or a student who had heard the sounds of battle where no fighting - or people - could be seen.
She tells herself she's not interested in the wizarding world, that she hates and fears it, and yet she keeps looking for it, just as she peeps through the curtains at her neighbours.
Petunia closed the paper with a sigh of relief and poured herself a second mug of tea. Nothing today. No hint that beyond her family's sedate existence was another world where British people might be killing one another - or perhaps merely putting frogspawn in one another's soup, or even just getting on with their lives. It was hard to tell.
Petunia's experiences of the wizarding world really haven't been very positive, from her sister "coming home with frogspawn in her pockets" to her sister being murdered, Dudley being given a pig's tail, Marge being inflated...
She had not heard from Harry for over two years now. Not since that last awkward scene when he had bidden her farewell and walked away down the path. She'd watched him until he had turned onto the main road, and then she had retreated upstairs to clean the room that she had never quite got around to thinking of as his.
"That's that, then," she had thought as she dusted - there being nothing to actually tidy, since Harry had taken his scant possessions with him. Sweeping under the bed, however, she had discovered something rattling inside what she had vaguely recognised as an old sock of Vernon's.
Having first flung it down with an exclamation of horror, Petunia had watched, waiting for the explosion and praying that it wouldn't bring the house down.
When nothing had happened after ten minutes, she had approached the sock cautiously, plucked it from the carpet with her thumb and forefinger, and deposited it on top of the chest of drawers. When the thing still hadn't exploded, she had finally succumbed to curiosity and pulled the sock off, revealing a small object that resembled a tiny spinning top.
She had left it in the top drawer, she remembered guiltily. It was still there; she took it out during her periodic spring-cleaning sessions, but somehow it always went back into that drawer, however many times she told herself that she should throw it out.
She can't quite bring herself to let go of her last link with Harry and the wizarding world.
She glanced at the clock. Seven twenty: time to make a fresh pot of tea and take a mug up to Vernon. She put the kettle on to boil again and then deposited the folded newspaper beside Vernon's place, which she had laid out the previous night after dinner.
**
Although no Harry remained to make Vernon's life miserable, he was still grumpy in the mornings. Petunia handed him his poached eggs on toast (a concession to the principles of healthy eating after the doctor had spoken seriously to Vernon about his blood pressure) and then hovered by the oven. Her own breakfast, two slices of Nimble bread spread with low-fat margarine, had been consumed while waiting for Vernon to get dressed.
"What do you have planned for today, dear?" she asked.
Vernon took several seconds to raise his eyes from the newspaper and several more to register the question. Washing down his toast with a mouthful of tea, he sat back and patted his stomach.
"Lovely, dear, although you can't beat a good Full English, I always say. Still - er, did you ask me something?"
"I just wondered what you had planned for today," Petunia repeated. Vernon had grown rather vague and absent-minded lately, she realised, and then suppressed the thought with a flutter of guilt. He was far too young for that sort of thing. She plastered a bright smile over her features and waited for Vernon to answer her.
"Well, we've a board meeting this morning." Vernon frowned. "That interfering whizzkid, Jonathan's son, has had one of his great ideas for boosting profits. And Jonathan wants to give him his chance, of course."
"Oh dear," said Petunia, since a response seemed indicated.
"Ruddy marketing graduates," continued Vernon, warming to his subject. "Pay 'em to drink watered-down beer and smoke god knows what for three years and when they get out they think they can run your company for you. Well, I'll show him!" He slapped his hand down on the paper.
I loved writing Vernon. There's no ambiguity about him - he's a total cartoon villain, and he's fun!
"I'm sure you will, dear," agreed Petunia soothingly. She made a mental note to ensure that she had a cup of coffee and a nice snack waiting for Vernon when he arrived home from work. It was amazing what you could do to modulate a man's moods if you understood him as she did Vernon.
In lieu of anything better in her life, Petunia prides herself on being a good housewife. But note that she also prides herself on being able to manage Vernon, whatever he might believe about the dynamics of their relationship.
**
Vernon had left for work and Petunia was making a mental shopping list as she whisked the duster around the lounge when the doorbell rang.
Petunia thought a rude word...
I have a soft spot for this wording - it's perfect for Petunia, the way I see her.
...as she laid down her duster and patted her hair. These sales people were getting worse, calling day and night. If it wasn't electricity it was a charity, or some religious fanatics.
She opened the door with lips pursed, ready to offer a freezing reception to whoever was on the other side of it. Before she could react, however, a tall, bespectacled young man leapt inside, leaving his two companions on the doorstep. In the time that it took Petunia to draw breath for a scream, she recognised him.
"You!" she exclaimed.
"Aunt Petunia," said the young man rather breathlessly.
"You!" said Petunia again, and this time felt that she'd achieved the appropriate mix of revulsion and anger. "How dare you come barging through my front door as if you own the place after two years? How dare you come back here?"
"I'm sorry," said Harry; his voice was hushed and he was shooting anxious glances towards the street. "I really am, Aunt Petunia, I know I'm being incredibly rude, but I had to make sure you didn't just shut the door on me. On us."
"What could you possibly have to say that would be of interest to me?" demanded Petunia. She rather enjoyed the way that sentence rolled off her tongue, and wondered if Vernon found shouting at his staff as liberating as this.
I bet he does!
Harry looked wretched. "I need to ask you a favour," he muttered. "I wouldn't have come if we weren't desperate - I know you want to be left alone, and believe me, I understand that feeling perfectly - but we're desperate. A man's life is in danger." His eyes drifted to the doorway again. "Please can we at least talk to you? Er, not in the doorway?"
Petunia looked at him, and then at the couple who accompanied him. The young woman, who looked vaguely familiar, had brown hair clasped in an exuberant ponytail at the nape of her neck; her lips were currently curved in an earnest smile, rather like one of the Jehovah's Witnesses Petunia had been anticipating when she opened the door.
The man was older, surely around Petunia's own age, and he was making no attempt to modulate his surly expression. His black hair fell lankly onto pale cheekbones, and he looked singularly uncomfortable in green corduroy trousers and a long, dark brown raincoat.
Petunia most emphatically did not like the look of him, but she was aware that they had been standing around like this for a couple of minutes already. It wouldn't do for the neighbours to take notice. She thought of a magical contraption lying dormant in a bedroom, yet to do anything terrible, and stepped back.
"Come in," she said curtly, and watched Harry's shoulders sag with relief.
"The kitchen?" he asked, and in answer to her nod, he led them down the hall. Petunia watched the older man stumble infinitesimally as he stepped over the threshold and then glare at the girl when she reached an arm out to help him.
Once the intruders were seated, Petunia put the kettle on out of habit. She couldn't bring herself to actually offer them a drink, but neither could she deny the laws of hospitality, and so she prepared a pot of tea in silence, placing one of her mother's china cups and saucers in front of each person while the kettle boiled, before settling herself at the head of the table.
Petunia's of the generation that always has tea and biscuits ready in case of callers. Harry and co. don't get cake, but she can't stop herself from providing tea.
Then she looked at Harry mutely, willing him to begin.
"Aunt Petunia," began Harry, nodding as if in response to an order, "you might remember my friend Hermione; she came here with me three years ago."
The girl treated Petunia to another earnest smile before saying, "I know we didn't part on the best of terms, Mrs Dursley, so thank you so much for letting me back into your home."
Petunia was tempted to say something caustic about not having been given a chance to refuse, but the words evaporated on her tongue and she nodded instead.
"And this is - er, John Deakin, a fr-" Harry faltered. "An acquaintance of ours," he finished carefully, indicating the older man, who curled his lower lip in what Petunia suspected might be an attempted smile. A memory chimed, and she frowned.
"I believe I recognise you, as well. Have we - have I seen you before?"
Petunia watched the others exchange glances, before Deakin said, "Forgive me - perhaps you may indeed have seen me before. I was once acquainted with your sister." His voice sounded rusty, as if it was falling into disuse. She shook her head.
"No, I don't think so. I've seen you recently-" She meant, but didn't say, with pouchy eyes and unkempt hair, with set jaw and that slight tremor in the right wrist. Her eyes fell on the newspaper, folded up where she'd left it by the teapot, and she paled. "Oh."
The silence was louder this time, and Petunia distinctly heard three indrawn breaths. Blindly she reached for the teapot and began pouring, taking a fierce pride in the steadiness of her arm. Pushing a cup towards each of them, she said shakily, "Are you all wanted criminals? Have you all escaped from prison?"
Sadly, I feel this is a very Petunia-like assumption.
"No!" exclaimed Harry indignantly, but Petunia's fear wasn't allayed that easily.
"If you've come for me - to do something to me - then all I ask is that you leave no evidence. I don't want people gossiping…" She gripped her cup handle hard, and the china clattered in the silence.
Just as on the doorstep, she cares most about what other people might think.
"Still ashamed of me, I see," muttered Harry derisively, while Hermione broke in over the top of him. "Oh, Mrs Dursley, I'm so sorry, but you really needn't be frightened. Harry may be an idiot," she rolled her eyes at him, "but he'd never hurt you. How could you think that?"
An image of a six-year-old in patched pyjamas and cast-off socks, face sooty and tear-stained, flitted across Petunia's subconscious; she blushed and looked down.
She's got to feel guilty. She's a mother and a sister: she must do.
"Aunt Petunia, you're right that John is a wanted man," said Harry. "But they're wrong about him, our government, I mean. They've sentenced him to death because they need a scapegoat, just as they have done in the past." He hesitated. "Do you remember my godfather, Sirius Black?"
Petunia was unlikely to forget that part of Harry's history. She nodded.
"Sirius was an innocent man," began Harry solemnly.
"He was an arrogant idiot, and it was merely a lucky chance that he wasn't a murderer," put in John Deakin surlily.
"Shut up, Snape," snarled Harry, and Petunia jumped. Deakin - or whoever he really was - sat back with an unpleasant smile.
I love this little exchange. I wanted to fit in a lot more of Harry and Snape, but it just didn't work out that way in the end.
"Sirius was innocent," continued Harry, "and the wizarding government acknowledged this, but not until after his death, when it was too late."
"Yes," put in Hermione, "and we want to make sure that the same doesn't happen to John. He is under a sentence of execution for a crime that he was powerless to prevent." Her eyes sparkled with the zeal of a missionary. "We can't possibly allow it to happen, do you see?"
"I-" Petunia said, and then tried again. "What does this have to do with me?" She glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven am. She would have to invent an errand soon, to get rid of them.
"Well," said Harry slowly, "Aunt Petunia, we'd like to hide Deakin here, if we can. It would only be for a few days," he continued hurriedly as Petunia opened her mouth. "Just until we can gather all the evidence."
"No," said Petunia, "no." She was shaking; she couldn't believe Harry and his magical world were about to shatter her peace again, just like that. "How dare you suggest such a thing? My family and I want nothing to do with you - you freaks any more. We did our duty by you for sixteen years, and that's over. NO MORE!"
"Oh, please, Mrs Dursley," pleaded Hermione. "It's the perfect hiding place, you see - nobody would suspect he was here; they all know how you treated Harry and were glad to see the back of him."
Hermione's pretty tactful generally, but I felt on this occasion she could be forgiven for getting carried away. And of course, "they all know" is the one thing that would get to Petunia.
Petunia started and blushed at this, but Hermione pressed on, apparently unaware of the effect she was having. "And it would only be for a short while. I and several other people have the research in hand, and we should have a cast-iron case within a few days. Certainly enough to get the Ministry to drop their charges, anyway."
"It's out of the question," said Petunia firmly. "We can't possibly have one of your sort here - why, Vernon simply wouldn't allow it! He's not to be upset, you know - the doctor told him so." She took a sip of tea in an attempt to steady her rushing heartbeat.
"Oh, come on, Aunt Petunia, you've kept plenty of secrets from Vernon in the past, haven't you?" demanded Harry impatiently.
Petunia blanched. "What do you mean? How dare you suggest such a thing!"
Harry shrugged. "Why did you take me in? You didn't have to - you could have handed me over to the police, or even dumped me directly with an orphanage. But you kept me. Why?"
Petunia remained silent, two red spots staining her pale cheeks.
"Professor Dumbledore had something on you, didn't he?" continued Harry. "He knew something, and he promised to keep quiet if you did what he asked. Well, now I'm promising the same. If you do this for us, your secret will be safe."
Harry's totally winging it here; he's not sure what Petunia has to hide - but he knows she won't take the risk of it being revealed.
"You're bluffing." Petunia took refuge in her teacup once more, almost choking in the process. Deakin and Hermione observed the scene curiously.
"Maybe I am," admitted Harry. "Although actually, I've got a pretty good idea what it is you're so defensive about. And since, if I'm right, it's nothing shameful at all, I'll have no qualms about shouting it to the rooftops." He leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
"How dare you!" exclaimed Petunia, but it was a cry of frustration rather than denial. "For sixteen years we had to endure your presence, lying to all the neighbours who wondered where you'd come from and where you disappeared off to for most of the year. Your friends ruined our home, they traumatised our son; you drove Vernon to distraction and nearly killed your Aunt Marge! I'd have thought the least you could do would be to respect our wishes and stay away, now that apparently you have no need of our protection." She fell silent, blinking back tears.
"I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia," Harry said, and he sounded sincere. "I know you want to be left alone. I promise that if you do this for us, I'll do everything I can to make sure that you're not bothered again. I mean that."
She sniffed. "Dudley's coming this weekend. He mustn't find out, either. Neither he nor Vernon."
"That will not be an issue." It was Deakin-or-whatever-his-name-was who spoke. "We can manage it so that even you will be unaware of my presence in the house for most of the time."
"Don't even consider working your disgusting spells on me or my family!" flashed Petunia.
"There won't be any enchantments worked on people," said Hermione with a frown. "Honourable wizards don't do that sort of thing."
This is such a Hermione way of thinking.
"I find that difficult to believe," said Petunia, thinking of Dudley. He mustn't find out. He'd be terrified, poor darling. And it was a delicate time for him, what with exams starting in a couple of weeks. Only his first year, of course, but still, it was important to put on a good showing. "Dudley and Vernon mustn't find out," she repeated.
"Is my old room still free?" asked Harry. Petunia nodded.
"Then - Deakin can stay in there, and we'll enchant it so that it's soundproofed. We'll make sure nobody suspects he's there."
"I've been a spy for twenty years, Potter," put in Deakin. "Do you really think I'd give myself away to a pair of obtuse Muggles?"
"No," admitted Harry, and Petunia caught a hint of grudging respect in his expression. "I just want to make my aunt feel better about this. I promise I wouldn't have bothered you if we'd had any other option," he added, turning to Petunia.
"There's always my old house," retorted Deakin sulkily.
"Oh, don't be an i-" began Harry, but Hermione cut in smoothly.
Again, I had such fun writing the Harry/Snape bits.
"You know there are people watching all your known hideouts - including the house on Spinner's End. Neville spotted Aurors all over the place when he checked it out yesterday."
"Longbottom," said Deakin derisively.
"One of our most trusted operatives," said Harry through gritted teeth.
I had to get in a bit of Neville love.
"Well!" said Hermione with false brightness. "Shall we get you settled in, John?" She glanced at Petunia. "Would you mind leading the way, Mrs Dursley?"
**
After Harry and Hermione had left, Petunia dusted meticulously while she worked up her courage, and then made her way up the stairs to Harry's old room, pausing only to select some bed linen from the airing cupboard on the landing. When she knocked on the door, there was no response, and she suddenly realised that even if Deakin had answered, she probably wouldn't be able to hear due to the soundproofing measures that Harry had mentioned.
She reached a tremulous hand towards the handle, but forced herself to turn it firmly. It wouldn't do to display weakness.
She's frightened, but brave.
She peeked around the door and failed to suppress a gasp when she met Deakin's dark eyes.
"Mrs Dursley." His voice was noncommittal, the words precise and sibilant. "What can I do for you?"
He was seated in a deep black chair that she'd never seen before, and he was carefully inspecting the chest of drawers, running his wand - fear and fascination jolted her as she recognised it - around its contours almost as if he were measuring it.
She held out her bundle. "For the bed."
"Thank you." He twitched his wand; the bedclothes flew from her hands and began arranging themselves on the bed, the duvet cover even wrapping itself around the duvet.
"Don't do that!" she protested, stung.
"Ah," said Deakin. "The force of habit is strong, I'm afraid. I apologise."
She was fairly certain that no wizard had ever apologised to her before. Emboldened, she stepped further into the room.
"I know your name's not Deakin."
The man's lips twisted. "Yes, Potter is not exactly a master of subtlety, is he? Nevertheless, I should prefer you to think of me as John Deakin, if you please. It may go easier with all of us if you do so."
"I could just go through the newspapers for the last few days," she suggested. "I know I've seen you in there recently."
"You could," he agreed. "However, I advise you not to. Should my presence here be disclosed, it will look much better for you if you know as little as possible about the situation."
She froze. "But - but you're on the run from your government; surely they wouldn't do anything to harm an innocent outsider? Would they?"
Anger pulsed below fear. Harry had promised, but she should have known that his word was no more reliable than - than a hyena's. Hadn't he promised to leave her alone two years ago, and then turned up again like a bad penny?
"Forgive me," Deakin repeated. His face was unreadable. "They would not harm you - of that I am almost certain. They may be rather hasty, that's all. But I am assured by your nephew and his earnest friend that there is no likelihood of my presence here being detected. You have nothing to worry about."
For the sake of her sanity, Petunia decided to ignore that telltale 'almost'. "My nephew and Hermione," she began hesitantly, "are they…?" Deakin seemed unwilling to help her out, and so she fumbled towards a conclusion. "…together?"
"Potter and Granger have been close friends ever since they were obnoxious twelve-year-olds." Deakin looked as if he had bitten on something bitter, and Petunia wondered how he knew that, and in what capacity he had known Harry and his friends for so long. "However, I do not believe that there is or has ever been a romantic attachment between them. Miss Granger is currently involved with Ronald Weasley, whom you may also have met." He raised his eyebrows. "Tall, thin, red hair? An unfortunate propensity for putting his foot in it? No social graces?" Petunia nodded, suppressing a shudder as she recalled a visit from a certain family whose genes clearly ran to red hair only.
I feel terrible for referring to Ron like that!
Deakin sat back. "Mr Potter, on the other hand, has not shown romantic interest in anyone, either male or female, since his girlfriend - Mr Weasley's sister - was killed in the aftermath of Lord Voldemort's defeat. That is, if the newspapers are to be believed. Potter would not be likely to confide in me about these things, but the media are fond of gossiping about him."
I wanted Harry to be romantically available. I apologise to Ginny fans!
"Oh!" Petunia recoiled, shocked. She half-expected to hear tales of barbarism and violence where wizards were concerned - look at the way Harry had almost killed her sister-in-law - but she hadn't quite been ready to hear that about Harry. She wondered what the girl had been like.
Deakin rummaged in the top drawer for a moment and brought out the object that Petunia had hidden there two years earlier. "A relic of Potter's, I presume?"
She flinched. "Yes. I didn't know what to do with it, or how to contact him, so I just left it in the drawer. In case he came back."
"And now he has," mused Deakin. "I can tell you what it is," he added. "It is a sneakoscope - ridiculous name, but descriptive. It alerts the owner when anyone in the vicinity is not to be trusted. Unreliable, subjective at best, but useful nevertheless on occasion." He dropped the object back into the drawer and it tinkled tinnily.
I don't write Snape very often, but I think I did him justice here - at least, the way I see him.
Petunia backed towards the door, made uneasy by this explanation of the magic artefact in her possession. "I - I have to go out," she said hurriedly. "Do you need anything before I leave?"
"No, thank you," said Deakin, already turning his attention back to the furniture. "I have everything I need."
"Even food?" she ventured, although her spirit quailed at the prospect of feeding a houseguest while keeping his presence a secret from Vernon. He hadn't mentioned the bathroom, and she decided she was going to assume that he had that matter under control until he brought it up.
I am going to assume the same, since I have no idea how Snape managed the bathroom :).
"Even food," he confirmed with a wry glance towards a large bag that lay beside the bed. She stared at it. She was almost certain that he'd been carrying a much smaller version of the same bag earlier that morning.
"Oh. Well, I shan't be long," she said, just in case he was planning on trying anything.
"Quite. Goodbye, Mrs Dursley." He looked up from his work. "Thank you for your kindness."
She nodded and then pulled the door shut behind her.
**
Later that afternoon, Petunia settled down with her afternoon cup of tea to read her Woman's Weekly.
It had to be Woman's Weekly, the magazine favoured by my mum and my friends' mums. It's (or it was) aimed at a certain social demographic (lower middle-class housewives?), one that I feel Petunia fits into perfectly.
She still had a couple of hours free before she need worry about Vernon's dinner, and she turned to the fiction page with a sigh of relaxation.
For once, the story (of a young, rather bookish young woman who was developing a tentative relationship with the handsome eccentric living over the road) failed to grip her, and she found her mind wandering frequently to the dark-haired fugitive who now inhabited her spare room. Goodness only knew what he was doing in there; she only had his word, and Hermione's, that he wouldn't harm her or create havoc. That wand…
The page blurred; instead of the heavy typeface, she saw lined paper filled with handwriting, childish and rounded but perfect nonetheless: every 'i' dotted, every 't' crossed uniformly. A woman's voice, angry. Petunia, admit that you never wrote this; now tell me who did it for you! The same later on, after a maths test in which she'd achieved a hundred percent, thirty-five percent (she might have only been eight, but she still remembered the figure that Mrs Dickson had thrown in her face) higher than anyone else.
I found this bit difficult: to demonstrate that Petunia might have had magical abilities, and that because of her personality they'd manifested themselves in ways that made her hate magic.
And several more times, too, until she'd learned. She'd never cheated, though, and the accusations still rankled. It had only ever happened when she'd been desperate to do well, to please her teacher, make her parents proud, but she'd never cheated. She'd just wished really hard, and things had happened - but they hadn't believed that, of course.
She'd learned to conceal these events, and anything else odd that occurred. Petunia wanted to be liked, admired; she wanted to be normal, and if she wished hard enough, she knew it would happen.
This, to me, is the crux of Petunia's personality.
She gave herself a mental shake. She'd had thirty years to come to terms with her secret, and almost that long to embrace her bitterness when first her sister and then her nephew had exhibited the same talent and been fêted for it.
Oh, the bitterness!
Now yet another of these creatures threatened the tranquil security of her life. Would it never be over?
Angling the magazine so that it caught the sunlight, Petunia attempted to read once more, but her thoughts kept drifting to Deakin. What was he up to? He could bring the house down if he felt like it, she was certain.
With a sigh, she laid down her magazine and put the kettle on to boil again. It was time she checked up on him.
**
"-tell me you did all that because my mum wouldn't go out with you," Harry snarled. "I always thought you were pathetic, Snape, but that's a hundred times more infantile than I ever-" He broke off as he met Petunia's eyes. "Aunt Petunia," he said stiffly.
The pair stood by the window, facing one another like two exhausted gladiators.
This scene was difficult to write, and the "two exhausted gladiators" was added just before I posted the story. I'm glad I put it in there, because for me it sums them up perfectly. They've been going at it now for nearly ten years - it must be exhausting.
Petunia caught a shocking glimpse of the older man's shattered expression before he smoothed out his features.
For once, Harry's really got to Snape, even though we don't find out too much about their conversation.
"I thought you might want tea," she faltered. "I didn't realise you would be here," she added to her nephew.
"We'll be popping in fairly frequently to corroborate information," he told her civilly, despite the fact that he was shaking with what she suspected was rage. "I have to get going now. I'm sure your guest will be grateful for the tea. Excuse me."
When he vanished, it was all Petunia could do to maintain her grasp on the tea tray.
Because she's so frightened by the fact that he can just vanish. I wasn't sure how to make this clear, or whether I succeeded.
"Your name is Snape?" she asked 'Deakin', rebuking herself mentally. She mustn't show them that she was afraid.
"Since you heard it again, yes," he answered. Apparently he wasn't in the mood for making disparaging remarks this time, for he merely stared at the spot that Harry had just vacated, the shadows under his eyes deeper than ever. Petunia pitied him briefly, despite herself. How long was it since he'd seen sunlight for longer than it had taken to escape from prison to hide-out?
After a moment's hesitation, she placed the tray on top of the chest of drawers and poured out a cup.
"You mentioned earlier that you knew my sister," she ventured.
Snape looked up wearily. "We were at school together."
A band clenched around Petunia's heart. "Is there - could you tell me anything about her?"
"We were never close," Snape said. "I doubt that you would be interested in what I had to say about her."
Petunia handed him the cup and then stood back. "I don't know," she said timidly. "I - we were never close either, after she went away to school, and we eventually grew apart completely. I just wondered what she was like in that environment."
There must have been such a chasm between Petunia and Lily once Lily went to Hogwarts.
Snape sipped his tea and then replaced the cup carefully on the tray.
"Lily was the sort of person to whom rules didn't apply," he said. "She was from a non-wizarding family, which was a serious drawback in those days, but in her case hardly anybody cared. She was one of the most popular people in our year; she was good at nearly every subject, but she worked hard for it, and so nobody resented her good marks. She was kind to everyone," his voice hardened slightly, "to the point of stupidity, and she was - pretty. The sort of girl who attracts older boys; the sort whom half of her classmates secretly adore." Face still impassive, he turned away and sipped his tea.
I really wanted this speech to be a kind of paean, or perhaps an elegy, to Lily. I'm not sure I succeeded.
Petunia knew better than to inquire as to whether Snape had been one of Lily's adorers. But she recognised his portrait of her sister, all right. That was Lily: beautiful, popular, special. Even her schoolwork had probably been fun.
The year Lily should have gone to senior school, Petunia had fielded questions from teachers and bereft classmates alike. What's happened to Lily? Why isn't she here? And when they heard Petunia's fudged explanation, Oh, a private school? Well, I suppose she has shown great potential, hasn't she? But you must miss her, dear. Or Can I write to her? I can't believe she's not here with us! Gary Thompson'll be heartbroken.
Petunia had accepted a dozen letters written by Lily's old friends from junior school. She'd taken them out into the back garden and burned them in the September sun, until the ashes floated away on the breeze. Let Lily think everyone had forgotten her; they soon would, anyway. Meanwhile, Petunia had striven to do likewise.
She glanced up from the floor and realised that Snape was watching her. "I - see you knew Lily well," she almost whispered.
His mouth twisted. "For a time," he answered. She nodded, topped up his tea in silence, and left the room.
**
After a judiciously brewed coffee and an extended dinner, Vernon had nearly talked himself out about the day's galling events. Petunia gathered that most of the other directors had been willing to give the upstart's initiatives a chance, and Vernon had been forced to withdraw his objection to the plan. Unspoken was the fear that some directors might have been pleased to see Vernon humiliated like that.
He had calmed down by the time they retired to the living room for Watchdog followed by the news and then the second instalment of Murder on the Orient Express.
Reliving some of my childhood television moments :).
Nevertheless, the television occasionally set him off on rants about people who didn't know how good they had things, and about how the government was strangling free enterprise with all its regulations and worries about safety.
Petunia nodded along and made sympathetic noises. It was terrible the way people felt entitled to things these days, after all.
I may sympathise with Petunia, but she's still an unpleasant person in many ways.
After the news had been superseded by David Suchet's quizzical investigations, Petunia watched Vernon relax and allowed herself to do the same. Poor Vernon, he really wasn't having a nice time of things. She must make absolutely certain that he didn't find out about their unwelcome guest. It would upset him terribly, and she'd never be able to calm him down.
Ever since Vernon had walked through the door, she'd been on edge, alert to any sound from upstairs, although she'd not heard a thing all day. Petunia didn't trust magic not to betray her at the worst possible moment. Now she wondered what Snape was up to. Writing down evidence, perhaps, or simply relaxing. He didn't look like the type of man who could do that easily, though.
She wanted to believe in his innocence, she realised, although she didn't even know what crime he was accused of committing. It was the moment of kinship that she'd shared with him that afternoon. They had both been singed by Lily's star, of that she was certain.
**
Next morning, Petunia awoke feeling jittery, although it wasn't until she'd sat down with her cup of tea that she realised why. Dudley was coming home that afternoon - darling boy - and her - that man was still upstairs. How could she possibly have allowed a wizard into the house again at such a time? If Dudley found out - well, he'd probably run straight back to Brighton, and goodness only knew what nefarious influences he might fall prey to in his panicked and vulnerable state. Dudley's experiences with wizards thus far had been even less auspicious than Petunia's.
'A couple of days,' Harry had said. She wondered if they would have time to get Snape out of the house before Vernon went to collect Dudley from the station at six o'clock.
She could barely wait to get Vernon off to work, and had to do two lots of eggs for breakfast because she'd lost track of time and ended up overdoing the first pair. As soon as he had left the house, she counted to thirty and then crept up the stairs.
She knocked - after the scene yesterday afternoon she felt it was important to announce her approach, even if Snape couldn't refuse her entry. Putting her head round the door, she watched the tension flow from his shoulders as he looked at her. Of course: he must wonder every time the door opened whether he was about to be apprehended and carried off for execution.
"Good morning," he said. "How can I help you?"
Give the man his due, he might not look prepossessing, but he could certainly be a lot more charming than other wizards she had encountered.
"other wizards" being James and Sirius :).
"I just wondered if you needed anything," she answered. "A cup of tea, perhaps?"
Snape shook his head. "Thank you, no. I have all I need here."
Petunia noticed the thick pile of papers on the chest of drawers, and - was that a quill he was writing with? How very archaic!
"You're working on the evidence to clear your name?" she asked.
Snape nodded. "Miss Granger was here earlier. She appears to have made several breakthroughs. There are moments," he added thoughtfully, "when she demonstrates genuine intelligence."
I think Snape has always seen Hermione as a person who learns things "by th'book" and doesn't really think them through. He's wrong, of course.
"I - I see." Petunia wondered again at the relationship between Snape, Harry and Hermione. Snape didn't appear particularly fond of the younger pair, and certainly he and Harry appeared to share an enmity of long standing.
"Um." She cleared her throat. "My son is coming home for the weekend today. Dudley."
"So you said."
"He - he really has had some rather bad experiences, you know. With wizards. And there was a - one of those Dementor things a few years ago that frightened him terribly."
"Yes, I heard about that at the time." Snape laid down his quill and turned sideways in his chair. "I'm sorry he should have come across that. The Dementors are never pleasant, and to encounter one without any understanding or hope of driving it off must be terrible."
"He was with Harry at the time." Petunia didn't try to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
A flash of derision crossed Snape's face. "Yes. Potter always did have a knack for getting his friends into danger."
"When Dudley was eleven, a beastly man turned him into a pig!" said Petunia tearfully. "He had to have his tail removed by plastic surgery. That was because of Harry, too. And then when he was thirteen, some of Harry's friends invaded our house and made Dudley's tongue swell up. It was horrible!"
When looked at from Petunia's POV, her family has really been pretty hard done by. Of course, they are evil, child-abusing bullies :-/.
"I'm sorry to hear he has been so badly treated by our kind," said Snape solemnly. "I assure you, these incidents are not common."
"And that's not even counting the threats Harry made against Dudley!" Petunia was getting into her stride now. "He was just like my sister - threatened to use magic on us all until we discovered he wasn't allowed to. He did use magic sometimes, too, and he never seemed to get punished for it."
Snape regarded her quizzically. "Yes, it's true that rules have never seemed to apply to Potter the way they do to other people. His father was just the same."
It surprised me how much Snape and Petunia had in common once they got talking, but in some ways their attitudes are very alike :).
"James." Petunia had only met her brother-in-law twice, the second time being at James and Lily's wedding, where she had lasted precisely an hour and a half.
"Yes." An odd note came into Snape's tone, and he looked out at the cloudless sky through the window. "I have only recently realised," he said quietly, "that while Harry is his father's son, he is very different in several respects."
And it would have taken an awful lot for Snape to admit this - but then, in my imagination, he's been through an awful lot since the end of HBP.
Petunia's curiosity suddenly overcame her petulance. "How is Harry these days?" she asked.
Snape shrugged. "He is tired. He works too hard, and his work gains him few rewards, since it involves visiting and fighting on behalf of dubious characters such as myself. He has dedicated himself to justice and, in a world rife with corruption, that will never get him very far. Which isn't to say that it is not a noble goal," he added.
"Is it very hard, in your world?" asked Petunia? "It sounds terribly violent."
"The violence is caused by a few rogue elements," said Snape. "Unfortunately, it does not take much effort to create a climate of fear, which is precisely what these people have achieved. They have also exploited common concerns in the past, but public opinion is now firmly against them."
Petunia suddenly recalled her purpose in venturing up to this room in the first place. "If Hermione has made a breakthrough with the evidence, is there... is there any chance that you might be able to leave before this evening?"
Snape regarded her with the faintest suspicion of sympathy blended with sarcasm. "I am afraid it's unlikely. Unless Miss Granger has an even better mind than I suspect she does."
"Oh." She felt flat.
"I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to remain hidden," Snape said. "Discovery would do me no good at all, and might well lead the Ministry straight to me."
"Yes, I see that." She would simply have to hope for the best, Petunia thought. At least Snape seemed a capable sort; he wouldn't do anything rash. Not like Harry.
Poor Harry - Petunia's never going to stop resenting him.
"Well, I must get on, otherwise Miss Granger will have cause to berate me when she returns this afternoon," remarked Snape.
"Oh yes, of course." Petunia retreated towards the doorway. "Perhaps I'll bring you up a cup of tea when I make one shortly," she ventured.
"Thank you; I would appreciate that," said Snape, already fumbling with his papers.
She closed the door, feeling shut out once more from a world she'd only ever glimpsed.
Petunia is fascinated by Snape and his world - but he has more important things on his mind.
**