Fic commentary: An Unequal Magic, part 2
Once her usual chores were completed, Petunia vented some frustration on Dudley's bedroom. It took her a good hour to dust and hoover behind all the accoutrements that he'd chosen not to take away to university with him. She considered putting some of it aside for the next church jumble sale, but decided against it. You never knew when Dudley would suddenly decide that he needed something urgently.
The next task was to pop to Sainsbury's for all of Dudley's favourite foods. She even added a few cans of Carling to the trolley; Dudley had made it known at Christmas that he preferred a nice cold lager to wine, even with meals. Petunia had been horrified at first, but Vernon had grunted that he'd probably grow out of it, and she thought on reflection that he was probably right. It was important to allow one's child to spread his wings without interference.
Petunia's read a lot of magazine articles, you see.
Home again, Petunia spent the afternoon baking Dudley's favourite pudding: lemon meringue pie. True, he didn't eat desserts that frequently any longer, but that only made them more of a luxury, and he had always enjoyed her cooking. By four o'clock, she had moved on to the main course: home-made chicken and asparagus pie with roast potatoes and vegetables. She hummed as she worked. It was lovely to be baking proper food again, instead of always thinking about cholesterol levels and fat content.
One of the things I loved about writing this story was the chance to put in all sorts of details that would normally be considered extraneous (perhaps some readers would consider them superfluous here; if so, please tell me, because I'm always interested in other opinions).
At six o'clock, she nipped upstairs to freshen up. As she passed the spare room door, she realised that in her excitement she'd almost forgotten about her unwanted guest during the past few hours. She hesitated, then knocked on the door and pushed it open quickly. Dudley and Vernon would be home in twenty minutes if the train was on time.
Inside, Snape was still seated in his black chair, with the pile of papers in his lap and a quill poised in his right hand. He looked up at her but said nothing.
"I'm sorry, I just remembered about that tea," she said, "and it's too late now. Vernon and Dudley will be here in a few minutes."
"That is understandable," replied Snape. "In fact, I had also forgotten; I have been busy, as you can see." He gestured at the papers with his free hand.
"Yes. Yes, of course. I hope it's going well?"
"I am not a believer in fate, Mrs Dursley, but I believe that in this instance, only time and fortune will tell." He looked old, she thought, although he must be two or three years younger than her, the same as Lily.
"Well, I wish you good luck," she said, surprising herself. "I must get on. Good night."
Applying makeup under the harsh light in the ensuite bathroom, she inspected herself carefully. Years of ferociously low-fat dieting had ensured that there was no sign of a double chin, and she had always been naturally slim, although perhaps she was slightly skinnier than was strictly attractive these days.
She had never tanned well, and this had turned out to be a boon, what with all the hysteria about skin cancer and the revelations that the sun aged your skin. There were a few incipient wrinkles, but her skin wasn't pouchy or stretched the way Snape's was. And her hair certainly contained a lot less grey - although of course it was always more obvious with dark hair. She'd even noticed one or two stray offenders in Harry's hair, for goodness' sake, and he wasn't quite twenty.
I'm not too happy with this - the mirror is an awful cliché really. But it showed up the contrast between Petunia's life and what Harry and Snape have had to bear.
Pulling the brush firmly through her hair, she resolved to put Snape and Harry out of her mind. The former had assured her that he would be quiet; there had certainly been no problems during the previous evening, so she would simply have to trust in his instinct for self-preservation.
Oh, it was going to be a wonderful weekend! This was the first chance they'd had to catch up with Dudley since Christmas, since he'd gone skiing with some university friends at Easter, and she had so many questions to ask him. How was his course going; what were his friends like; did he have a girlfriend? She would try not to pry about how much revising he was doing, because she knew that those sorts of questions could get annoying.
As she made her way back down to the kitchen to put the vegetables on and check on the pie, she continued planning out the weekend in her mind. Tonight they'd settle down for a couple of drinks after dinner; they might even open that bottle of champers that Vernon had been saving, since Dudley was apparently amenable to champagne despite his aversion to wine.
Then tomorrow, perhaps they'd take a drive into the country for lunch, and then Piers and his parents were coming over for afternoon tea. No doubt Piers and Dudley would want to go out on their own for a little while, but that still left plenty of time to show off her boy to the Polkisses, who had never got over Piers failing his A-levels so badly that it was clear he had no hope of ever achieving the grades needed for even the lowliest of polytechnics.
A key turned in the lock, and Petunia hurried joyfully towards the front door.
**
Dinner went off splendidly: Dudley even thanked his mother for the lager, saying she'd picked out his favourite. There was one nasty moment when a loud creak sounded upstairs, but Petunia quickly realised that it was only the airing cupboard, which had been making quite a lot of noise recently. She allowed herself to be distracted by the compliments both father and son were paying her regarding the chicken and asparagus pie.
"Why don't we eat this sort of thing more often?" Vernon demanded for the fourth time, helping himself to seconds.
"The doctor's instructions, dear," Petunia reminded him. "But I don't think it'll do any harm once in a while. We want to relax while Dudley's here, don't we?" She favoured her son with a dazzling smile and was rewarded with a smirk.
Dudley hadn't changed much, at least not outwardly. He still had the blonde hair that he had inherited from his mother, although it had darkened over the years, and he would always be heavily built. He ate his food enthusiastically enough, and complimented Petunia on the dessert, but his thoughts were as impenetrable as ever.
After one or two gentle queries regarding his home life and studies were met with noncommittal responses, Petunia allowed Vernon to take over; his lecturing discourse seemed to go down better with Dudley, or at least require less of a response.
"Delicious food, dear," remarked Vernon at last, swiping a napkin over his lips and taking a last sip of wine. "Wish we could eat like this every night! Now! What say you and I pop down to the Gloucester Arms for a pint or two, Dudley?"
Dudley looked unenthusiastic, and Vernon poked him in the arm. "Eh? Come on, Duds, let your old dad buy you a drink! Haven't seen you properly since Christmas; it's about time we had one of our man to man chats, wouldn't you say?"
"Well, OK," agreed Dudley. "But I'm supposed to be meeting Piers and a few of the others later on. Just a couple of pints."
Five minutes later, the front door banged behind them, leaving Petunia with a kitchenful of unwashed dishes and one glass of Bordeaux. She cleared up quickly, leaving the crockery to drip dry and the pans and casserole dishes to steep. Then she made her way into the living room, where she settled down with her wine and the TV guide.
I feel so, so sorry for Petunia here. All she cares about in her life is making Vernon and Dudley happy, and they go off to the pub without her. Men!
Of course Vernon wanted to spend some time with Dudley. It was only natural, and she'd probably have her own opportunity for a private chat before the weekend was out. She took a sip of wine, determined to enjoy the opportunity for some time to herself, and switched on the television. BBC2 was showing a preview of the upcoming Proms season, and Petunia was just beginning to relax and enjoy the music when the doorbell sounded, followed immediately by several sharp knocks.
For a moment, Petunia considered ignoring the noise, but then the knocks were repeated even more insistently. Flustered, she patted her hair as she hurried towards the door; whoever was outside managed to fit in two more barrages of knocking before she reached it.
A man in a leather jacket and chinos held out a badge as she opened the door. "Mrs Dursley?" His long, dark hair was tied up in a ponytail.
This guy is vaguely based on one of the Aurors who came for Dumbledore in OotP and/or Stunned Minerva in the same book.
"Who is asking?" She strove to make her tone as calm as possible.
"My name is Williamson. I'm an Auror employed by the Ministry of-" The man broke off and looked around him. He coughed and added in a low voice, "We're the magical police force."
"My nephew doesn't live here any more. What do you want?" asked Petunia, her thoughts whirling desperately. She must stall him for as long as possible. A wizard simply must not be discovered in her house.
In reply, Williamson held out a photograph. "Have you seen this man?"
Snape glared up at her. Petunia stared at him for a long time. When Williamson gave the photograph an impatient shake, she looked up.
"No, I don't think so. Why are you looking for him?"
"He's an escaped murderer," Williamson told her curtly, and she did not have to fake a shudder.
"A murderer? You people, can't you keep these - these animals under control? They're always ruining the lives of decent innocent people like us." Petunia drew her cardigan tight around herself, as if to shut out intruders.
"We do our best, Mrs Dursley," said Williamson wearily. He hesitated and then added, "I don't want to alarm you, but there's been a report of unauthorised magical activity in or near your home. We wouldn't have spotted it - that's an old monitor from when your nephew lived here - but a colleague happened to go down to one of the old store-rooms this afternoon, and found it on red alert."
"But - but nobody was doing magic in here," protested Petunia. "It must have been somebody outside - perhaps one of your Aurors? It could have been anyone!"
"That's true," agreed Williamson looking at her shrewdly, "but if you don't mind, I'd just like to come in and take a quick look. Have to be seen to be doing our jobs, you know. Here's my badge, if you'd like to double-check it before you let me in."
Petunia accepted the badge and inspected it slowly, her mind working frantically to come up with an excuse. "What if I don't agree to let you in?" she asked.
"Then I'll have to force my way in, I'm afraid," said Williamson grimly. "I'm sorry, Mrs Dursley, just doing my job."
Nodding miserably, she pulled the door back so that he could step into the hall.
"Now," he said briskly, "I think we'll start with Potter's old room. Upstairs, is it?"
"Yes," said Petunia faintly. He started up the staircase, and she followed hastily, although part of her wanted to go and hide in the kitchen until it was all over. "I think I do recognise him after all," she called breathlessly. "He was in the paper a few days ago, wasn't he - he'd escaped…"
Williamson reached the spare room door and, with a quizzical glance at her for confirmation, opened it and marched inside. Petunia followed, and managed to turn a gasp into a deep breath.
The room was completely empty. Apart from the sheets on the bed, it was exactly as it had been yesterday morning, and there was no sign that anyone had inhabited it in months.
Williamson paced around the room, holding out his wand the way she'd seen Snape doing yesterday. Was he looking for traces of magic? She held her breath, but he didn't appear to be getting anywhere; in fact, he was looking more annoyed by the second. He pulled out a few drawers rapidly and looked inside, then straightened with a puzzled frown.
"Nothing here," he said. "I'm sorry for troubling you, Mrs Dursley. If you don't mind, I'll take a quick look at the rest of the house, just to be sure, and then I'll be on my way."
Wordlessly she led the way to the master bedroom and then Dudley's room. The bathroom was next, and then the downstairs rooms. Three minutes later, she showed Williamson out, accepting his apologies for disturbing her peace in distracted fashion, before collapsing back into her armchair and taking a deep sip of wine.
Where had he gone? And had he left because he was safe, because he was certain that he could prove his innocence - or had he fled mere seconds ahead of the Aurors? She felt a pang of guilt: should she have told Williamson the truth? But then they might have arrested her as an accessory to the fact. No, she had done the right thing. But she was very, very lucky, and so was Snape. There was no question about that.
With a sigh, she put down her wine again and plodded cautiously upstairs. He might have used some kind of, of spell to conceal himself - although she assumed that anyone from his world would know how to detect that kind of thing. At any rate, she needed to find out whether he really had gone.
Poor Petunia - what an evening!
**
The room was still empty. Feeling slightly idiotic, Petunia even checked under the bed, but there was no evidence of human habitation. Even the - what had he called it? - sneakoscope was gone from the top drawer. She supposed that he had returned it to Harry.
Petunia sank onto the bed for a moment. He had gone; it was over; nobody had discovered her secret. Dudley and Vernon would return home soon, and life could go on as normal.
Her eye was caught by the pink duvet cover, and absently she began pulling the bedclothes off the bed. Once she had washed them, the last trace would be gone.
It was only as she turned towards the door that she heard a tap on the window. She turned to find a snowy white bird pecking on the glass, only just visible in the darkness. An owl; one she was almost certain that she had seen before.
Under normal circumstances, Petunia would have walked out and left the owl to its fate. She had been known to do so on several occasions in the past; her refusal to deal with owls had become a bone of contention between herself and her parents, who had accepted Lily's missives joyfully as if it didn't matter where they had come from.
But her curiosity was piqued, and it seemed reasonable that the owl, whom she believed she recognised as Harry's, would be carrying information about Snape's fate. And so she only hesitated for about ten seconds before making her way over to the window and loosening the catch.
The owl flew into the room immediately with a restrained hoot that had Petunia glancing anxiously at the door. Galvanised by her fear of interruption, she wasted no time, reaching out gingerly to pluck a small package from the leg that the bird held out.
A lilac scarf fluttered to the floor when she unwrapped the tissue paper, followed by an old-fashioned piece of parchment. It wasn't from Snape, as she'd half-anticipated, but from Harry.
She's a bit disappointed about this, I suspect.
Dear Aunt Petunia, he had written, We have decided to move your guest, both for your safety and his. In addition, Hermione thinks that we have a good case to present to the Wizengamot, and so we'll be sounding out a couple of senior members tonight. It's looking very hopeful, though, and I think she may finally have impressed Snape. He tells me I gave away his name to you, so I may as well give up my pretence where that's concerned.
Thank you for your help with this, and I apologise again for disturbing you. I hope you feel that you can enjoy your peace now; I promise I won't come near you again.
With one exception. This scarf is a Portkey, designed to work for anyone, whether they have magical powers or not. If you're ever in danger, or if you ever need help, just say my name ('Harry' will do - no need for my surname) while holding it, and it'll bring you to me.
I hope for your sake that you won't ever need it, but I'll do my best to help you if you use it.
Goodbye,
Harry
Petunia read the letter through several times. She barely noticed when the owl flapped its wings and soared out through the open window. Instead, she retrieved the scarf from the carpet and inspected it carefully under the light. It was silk, beautifully soft, and utterly normal in appearance.
"I'll never use it," she said aloud. "I won't."
Doth the lady protest too much?
She folded it carefully and dropped it into the top drawer, where the sneakoscope had lain, then placed the letter on top of it. Giving the fabric one last caress, she closed the drawer and then the window, before picking up the bed linen and making for the door.
Once she'd got the washing machine going, Petunia sank gratefully into her armchair. She switched the television off; the noise (a documentary of some kind) felt almost intrusive after the tension of the past half hour or so. Instead, she browsed the TV listings magazine and sipped her wine rather aimlessly.
There had been letters from wizards before. She would never forget the first one, informing her that she had been accepted into that awful school. She'd stared at it, certain at first that it was a joke, probably played by Lily, who was at that age. But the writing was perfect; Lily was only nine and could never have pulled it off, so either she'd persuaded someone older to do her dirty work, or it was an adult playing a joke on her. Or else it was true.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
Her old teacher's voice came back to her: Admit that you never wrote this; now tell me who did it for you.
She'd never cheated, but it had happened anyway, and no one would have believed her.
I like this bit.
The first letter had been crumpled up and binned, but another had arrived, and another. She'd tried burning them, and then putting them in the postbox with 'Not at this address' scrawled over her name. But they kept coming.
After four days, she'd written to decline her place. Two days after that, a lady had turned up at the door, scrupulously polite and proffering another copy of the letter along with several books.
Petunia had screamed; her parents had come running, and the woman had vanished instantly. There had been another letter after that, a different one, but Petunia didn't know what it had said, because she had ripped it into tiny pieces without even opening it. That had been the last one until after Lily's death.
Two years later, Lily had received a letter and Petunia's life had changed. She would never forget the way her heart had clenched as she'd observed Lily's excitement, and their parents' bemused joy. There had been sadness and anxiety, too, because their little girl was going off into the unknown, but the overall feeling was that Lily was special.
She'd tried to do it then. For the first time in her life, she'd tried to make the magic happen instead of willing it away - but it wouldn't work. She'd spent hours willing writing to appear on paper, attempting to memorise facts for tests - anything that she'd thought might impress her parents.
I like this bit, too. *is big-headed*
All that had happened was that her mother had cuddled her and told her gently that they didn't love her any less because she couldn't do magic. And when Petunia had protested that she could, she could, she'd done it before, her mother had just smiled sadly and said something patronising. They'd never mentioned it again, and Petunia had never forgiven Lily.
She started at the sound of a key in the lock, and checked her watch. Ten o'clock - that would be Vernon and Dudley coming back from the pub; perhaps they could share that bottle of champagne now.
As the rattling continued, Petunia made her way into the hall, still holding her wineglass. "Vernon?" she called.
"Let me in, will you dear?" called her husband. She opened the door quickly, and he almost fell inside.
"Damn door," he remarked. "Something wrong with the lock; needs a bit of oil, I think. Nice evening, dear?"
"Oh - yes," said Petunia. "Very, um, relaxing."
"Good, good." He yawned.
"Where's Dudley?" she asked.
"Gone out, little tyke. Wants to enjoy himself with his friends, probably try and pick up a girl, I shouldn't wonder!" Vernon beamed. "We had a good chat, though. Proper man to man, you know."
"That's good, dear."
He yawned again and then noticed her glass. "Ah! Been living it up at home, have you? While the cat's away the mice will play, and all that?"
"I've only had half a glass of wine, Vernon," Petunia protested.
"That's what they all say, you know, that's what they all say!" He tapped his nose. "Shan't tell a soul, m'dear. Only don't make a habit of it, eh?"
She smiled wanly. "Of course not, dear."
"Good, good," said Vernon in a satisfied tone. "Very good." He burped. "Excuse me. Must be the lemon meringue pie - delicious, though, delicious - can't complain. Anyway, I think I shall retire to bed if you don't mind, dear. Been a long day."
Drunk Vernon was loads of fun to write.
"All right," said Petunia, receiving a rather beery kiss on the cheek. "I'll be up soon." She watched Vernon make heavy work of the stairs, and then turned towards the living room. After some thought, she reached for the shelf that housed the week's papers until they were thrown out on Sundays.
It took her ten minutes to find him.
Snape glowered up from the page; it was the same photograph that Williamson had waved under her nose an hour or so ago. The report read:
A dangerous criminal escaped from a high-security prison yesterday, police said. Severus Snape uses several aliases, including Tom Prince and Percival White.
Tom Prince - the allusions should be obvious. "Percival White" is a play on one of Dumbledore's middle names and Albus, which means white
A teacher by profession, Snape was in prison awaiting trial for murder. He is reported to have shown no remorse, and the public are advised not to approach him, but to call 999 if they see him.
A teacher - that would explain how he knew Harry, if he was at that school. Petunia stared at the picture again. Snape looked like a nasty piece of work, with his lank hair and sour expression. Something about the photograph bothered her, though, and it was a few minutes before she realised that it was the defeat in his eyes. The Snape she'd met had been determined to live; this man looked as if he knew he was facing death. She wondered what had made the difference. Escape, perhaps? Or the fact that Harry and his friends had put their trust in him?
She put the paper away again. Perhaps she shouldn't have permitted any of this. Perhaps she should have refused the man sanctuary, or told the Auror that he was here. What reason did she have to trust in him, after all? She'd never trusted anyone with magical ability, not even her sister.
Ah, yes, Lily. He'd known Lily, and that - she hadn't warmed to him, exactly, but that fact had certainly fascinated her. He'd known her sister, after she herself had cut all ties between them.
Petunia remembered his voice, the way he'd spoken more quietly than usual as he described Lily. He had sounded haunted. She wondered whether they had been romantically involved. Her instinct said no; she'd had the impression that he felt guilty, not bitter, towards her sister.
From a young age, Lily had tended to pick up unwanted strays, and Petunia suspected that Snape had been another of her protégés, at least for a time.
Well. He was gone, and with any luck, she'd never hear of him again. Petunia glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven! Time for her to be in bed; she needed to be up early in the morning to ensure that the house was spotless for the Polkisses. Part of her wanted to wait up for Dudley, but she put that idea firmly out of her mind. That sort of behaviour annoyed children terribly, according to Woman's Weekly.
Ten minutes later, she was curled alongside her husband, attempting to shut out his snores.
**
Next morning, Petunia crept downstairs in her dressing gown and collected the Mail from the doormat. Once she'd cleared up the mess that Dudley had left - she'd heard him crashing around in the middle of the night, and it looked as if he'd attempted a late-night snack involving most of the contents of the fridge - she made a pot of tea and began leafing through the paper. She skimmed the first couple of pages and then settled down to a closer perusal of the rest, finishing her tea just as she turned to the back page. Nothing this time.
She thought of Snape, who might not now be executed for a murder Hermione had said he'd been powerless to prevent. Of Harry, whose girlfriend had been killed. Of Lily, who had been murdered. There was no news of their world this time.
She'd keep looking. She would; she'd keep an eye out for all those things she knew about. Not that it mattered - she'd never do anything about it, and she certainly wouldn't use that scarf that Harry had given her. She belonged here, looking after Vernon and being a good mother to Dudley.
But she knew she'd keep the scarf, and she'd keep looking for hints of the magical world, with all its violence and awe and sordid little tricks. She wouldn't go looking for magic, but she knew it was there, and she'd be ready if it ever threatened her world again.
Even now, she can't admit that part of her wants the wizarding world.
Glancing at the clock, Petunia put the kettle on to boil. It would be time to wake Vernon in a few minutes.
And we're back to the banal for the ending.
**
The next task was to pop to Sainsbury's for all of Dudley's favourite foods. She even added a few cans of Carling to the trolley; Dudley had made it known at Christmas that he preferred a nice cold lager to wine, even with meals. Petunia had been horrified at first, but Vernon had grunted that he'd probably grow out of it, and she thought on reflection that he was probably right. It was important to allow one's child to spread his wings without interference.
Petunia's read a lot of magazine articles, you see.
Home again, Petunia spent the afternoon baking Dudley's favourite pudding: lemon meringue pie. True, he didn't eat desserts that frequently any longer, but that only made them more of a luxury, and he had always enjoyed her cooking. By four o'clock, she had moved on to the main course: home-made chicken and asparagus pie with roast potatoes and vegetables. She hummed as she worked. It was lovely to be baking proper food again, instead of always thinking about cholesterol levels and fat content.
One of the things I loved about writing this story was the chance to put in all sorts of details that would normally be considered extraneous (perhaps some readers would consider them superfluous here; if so, please tell me, because I'm always interested in other opinions).
At six o'clock, she nipped upstairs to freshen up. As she passed the spare room door, she realised that in her excitement she'd almost forgotten about her unwanted guest during the past few hours. She hesitated, then knocked on the door and pushed it open quickly. Dudley and Vernon would be home in twenty minutes if the train was on time.
Inside, Snape was still seated in his black chair, with the pile of papers in his lap and a quill poised in his right hand. He looked up at her but said nothing.
"I'm sorry, I just remembered about that tea," she said, "and it's too late now. Vernon and Dudley will be here in a few minutes."
"That is understandable," replied Snape. "In fact, I had also forgotten; I have been busy, as you can see." He gestured at the papers with his free hand.
"Yes. Yes, of course. I hope it's going well?"
"I am not a believer in fate, Mrs Dursley, but I believe that in this instance, only time and fortune will tell." He looked old, she thought, although he must be two or three years younger than her, the same as Lily.
"Well, I wish you good luck," she said, surprising herself. "I must get on. Good night."
Applying makeup under the harsh light in the ensuite bathroom, she inspected herself carefully. Years of ferociously low-fat dieting had ensured that there was no sign of a double chin, and she had always been naturally slim, although perhaps she was slightly skinnier than was strictly attractive these days.
She had never tanned well, and this had turned out to be a boon, what with all the hysteria about skin cancer and the revelations that the sun aged your skin. There were a few incipient wrinkles, but her skin wasn't pouchy or stretched the way Snape's was. And her hair certainly contained a lot less grey - although of course it was always more obvious with dark hair. She'd even noticed one or two stray offenders in Harry's hair, for goodness' sake, and he wasn't quite twenty.
I'm not too happy with this - the mirror is an awful cliché really. But it showed up the contrast between Petunia's life and what Harry and Snape have had to bear.
Pulling the brush firmly through her hair, she resolved to put Snape and Harry out of her mind. The former had assured her that he would be quiet; there had certainly been no problems during the previous evening, so she would simply have to trust in his instinct for self-preservation.
Oh, it was going to be a wonderful weekend! This was the first chance they'd had to catch up with Dudley since Christmas, since he'd gone skiing with some university friends at Easter, and she had so many questions to ask him. How was his course going; what were his friends like; did he have a girlfriend? She would try not to pry about how much revising he was doing, because she knew that those sorts of questions could get annoying.
As she made her way back down to the kitchen to put the vegetables on and check on the pie, she continued planning out the weekend in her mind. Tonight they'd settle down for a couple of drinks after dinner; they might even open that bottle of champers that Vernon had been saving, since Dudley was apparently amenable to champagne despite his aversion to wine.
Then tomorrow, perhaps they'd take a drive into the country for lunch, and then Piers and his parents were coming over for afternoon tea. No doubt Piers and Dudley would want to go out on their own for a little while, but that still left plenty of time to show off her boy to the Polkisses, who had never got over Piers failing his A-levels so badly that it was clear he had no hope of ever achieving the grades needed for even the lowliest of polytechnics.
A key turned in the lock, and Petunia hurried joyfully towards the front door.
**
Dinner went off splendidly: Dudley even thanked his mother for the lager, saying she'd picked out his favourite. There was one nasty moment when a loud creak sounded upstairs, but Petunia quickly realised that it was only the airing cupboard, which had been making quite a lot of noise recently. She allowed herself to be distracted by the compliments both father and son were paying her regarding the chicken and asparagus pie.
"Why don't we eat this sort of thing more often?" Vernon demanded for the fourth time, helping himself to seconds.
"The doctor's instructions, dear," Petunia reminded him. "But I don't think it'll do any harm once in a while. We want to relax while Dudley's here, don't we?" She favoured her son with a dazzling smile and was rewarded with a smirk.
Dudley hadn't changed much, at least not outwardly. He still had the blonde hair that he had inherited from his mother, although it had darkened over the years, and he would always be heavily built. He ate his food enthusiastically enough, and complimented Petunia on the dessert, but his thoughts were as impenetrable as ever.
After one or two gentle queries regarding his home life and studies were met with noncommittal responses, Petunia allowed Vernon to take over; his lecturing discourse seemed to go down better with Dudley, or at least require less of a response.
"Delicious food, dear," remarked Vernon at last, swiping a napkin over his lips and taking a last sip of wine. "Wish we could eat like this every night! Now! What say you and I pop down to the Gloucester Arms for a pint or two, Dudley?"
Dudley looked unenthusiastic, and Vernon poked him in the arm. "Eh? Come on, Duds, let your old dad buy you a drink! Haven't seen you properly since Christmas; it's about time we had one of our man to man chats, wouldn't you say?"
"Well, OK," agreed Dudley. "But I'm supposed to be meeting Piers and a few of the others later on. Just a couple of pints."
Five minutes later, the front door banged behind them, leaving Petunia with a kitchenful of unwashed dishes and one glass of Bordeaux. She cleared up quickly, leaving the crockery to drip dry and the pans and casserole dishes to steep. Then she made her way into the living room, where she settled down with her wine and the TV guide.
I feel so, so sorry for Petunia here. All she cares about in her life is making Vernon and Dudley happy, and they go off to the pub without her. Men!
Of course Vernon wanted to spend some time with Dudley. It was only natural, and she'd probably have her own opportunity for a private chat before the weekend was out. She took a sip of wine, determined to enjoy the opportunity for some time to herself, and switched on the television. BBC2 was showing a preview of the upcoming Proms season, and Petunia was just beginning to relax and enjoy the music when the doorbell sounded, followed immediately by several sharp knocks.
For a moment, Petunia considered ignoring the noise, but then the knocks were repeated even more insistently. Flustered, she patted her hair as she hurried towards the door; whoever was outside managed to fit in two more barrages of knocking before she reached it.
A man in a leather jacket and chinos held out a badge as she opened the door. "Mrs Dursley?" His long, dark hair was tied up in a ponytail.
This guy is vaguely based on one of the Aurors who came for Dumbledore in OotP and/or Stunned Minerva in the same book.
"Who is asking?" She strove to make her tone as calm as possible.
"My name is Williamson. I'm an Auror employed by the Ministry of-" The man broke off and looked around him. He coughed and added in a low voice, "We're the magical police force."
"My nephew doesn't live here any more. What do you want?" asked Petunia, her thoughts whirling desperately. She must stall him for as long as possible. A wizard simply must not be discovered in her house.
In reply, Williamson held out a photograph. "Have you seen this man?"
Snape glared up at her. Petunia stared at him for a long time. When Williamson gave the photograph an impatient shake, she looked up.
"No, I don't think so. Why are you looking for him?"
"He's an escaped murderer," Williamson told her curtly, and she did not have to fake a shudder.
"A murderer? You people, can't you keep these - these animals under control? They're always ruining the lives of decent innocent people like us." Petunia drew her cardigan tight around herself, as if to shut out intruders.
"We do our best, Mrs Dursley," said Williamson wearily. He hesitated and then added, "I don't want to alarm you, but there's been a report of unauthorised magical activity in or near your home. We wouldn't have spotted it - that's an old monitor from when your nephew lived here - but a colleague happened to go down to one of the old store-rooms this afternoon, and found it on red alert."
"But - but nobody was doing magic in here," protested Petunia. "It must have been somebody outside - perhaps one of your Aurors? It could have been anyone!"
"That's true," agreed Williamson looking at her shrewdly, "but if you don't mind, I'd just like to come in and take a quick look. Have to be seen to be doing our jobs, you know. Here's my badge, if you'd like to double-check it before you let me in."
Petunia accepted the badge and inspected it slowly, her mind working frantically to come up with an excuse. "What if I don't agree to let you in?" she asked.
"Then I'll have to force my way in, I'm afraid," said Williamson grimly. "I'm sorry, Mrs Dursley, just doing my job."
Nodding miserably, she pulled the door back so that he could step into the hall.
"Now," he said briskly, "I think we'll start with Potter's old room. Upstairs, is it?"
"Yes," said Petunia faintly. He started up the staircase, and she followed hastily, although part of her wanted to go and hide in the kitchen until it was all over. "I think I do recognise him after all," she called breathlessly. "He was in the paper a few days ago, wasn't he - he'd escaped…"
Williamson reached the spare room door and, with a quizzical glance at her for confirmation, opened it and marched inside. Petunia followed, and managed to turn a gasp into a deep breath.
The room was completely empty. Apart from the sheets on the bed, it was exactly as it had been yesterday morning, and there was no sign that anyone had inhabited it in months.
Williamson paced around the room, holding out his wand the way she'd seen Snape doing yesterday. Was he looking for traces of magic? She held her breath, but he didn't appear to be getting anywhere; in fact, he was looking more annoyed by the second. He pulled out a few drawers rapidly and looked inside, then straightened with a puzzled frown.
"Nothing here," he said. "I'm sorry for troubling you, Mrs Dursley. If you don't mind, I'll take a quick look at the rest of the house, just to be sure, and then I'll be on my way."
Wordlessly she led the way to the master bedroom and then Dudley's room. The bathroom was next, and then the downstairs rooms. Three minutes later, she showed Williamson out, accepting his apologies for disturbing her peace in distracted fashion, before collapsing back into her armchair and taking a deep sip of wine.
Where had he gone? And had he left because he was safe, because he was certain that he could prove his innocence - or had he fled mere seconds ahead of the Aurors? She felt a pang of guilt: should she have told Williamson the truth? But then they might have arrested her as an accessory to the fact. No, she had done the right thing. But she was very, very lucky, and so was Snape. There was no question about that.
With a sigh, she put down her wine again and plodded cautiously upstairs. He might have used some kind of, of spell to conceal himself - although she assumed that anyone from his world would know how to detect that kind of thing. At any rate, she needed to find out whether he really had gone.
Poor Petunia - what an evening!
**
The room was still empty. Feeling slightly idiotic, Petunia even checked under the bed, but there was no evidence of human habitation. Even the - what had he called it? - sneakoscope was gone from the top drawer. She supposed that he had returned it to Harry.
Petunia sank onto the bed for a moment. He had gone; it was over; nobody had discovered her secret. Dudley and Vernon would return home soon, and life could go on as normal.
Her eye was caught by the pink duvet cover, and absently she began pulling the bedclothes off the bed. Once she had washed them, the last trace would be gone.
It was only as she turned towards the door that she heard a tap on the window. She turned to find a snowy white bird pecking on the glass, only just visible in the darkness. An owl; one she was almost certain that she had seen before.
Under normal circumstances, Petunia would have walked out and left the owl to its fate. She had been known to do so on several occasions in the past; her refusal to deal with owls had become a bone of contention between herself and her parents, who had accepted Lily's missives joyfully as if it didn't matter where they had come from.
But her curiosity was piqued, and it seemed reasonable that the owl, whom she believed she recognised as Harry's, would be carrying information about Snape's fate. And so she only hesitated for about ten seconds before making her way over to the window and loosening the catch.
The owl flew into the room immediately with a restrained hoot that had Petunia glancing anxiously at the door. Galvanised by her fear of interruption, she wasted no time, reaching out gingerly to pluck a small package from the leg that the bird held out.
A lilac scarf fluttered to the floor when she unwrapped the tissue paper, followed by an old-fashioned piece of parchment. It wasn't from Snape, as she'd half-anticipated, but from Harry.
She's a bit disappointed about this, I suspect.
Dear Aunt Petunia, he had written, We have decided to move your guest, both for your safety and his. In addition, Hermione thinks that we have a good case to present to the Wizengamot, and so we'll be sounding out a couple of senior members tonight. It's looking very hopeful, though, and I think she may finally have impressed Snape. He tells me I gave away his name to you, so I may as well give up my pretence where that's concerned.
Thank you for your help with this, and I apologise again for disturbing you. I hope you feel that you can enjoy your peace now; I promise I won't come near you again.
With one exception. This scarf is a Portkey, designed to work for anyone, whether they have magical powers or not. If you're ever in danger, or if you ever need help, just say my name ('Harry' will do - no need for my surname) while holding it, and it'll bring you to me.
I hope for your sake that you won't ever need it, but I'll do my best to help you if you use it.
Goodbye,
Harry
Petunia read the letter through several times. She barely noticed when the owl flapped its wings and soared out through the open window. Instead, she retrieved the scarf from the carpet and inspected it carefully under the light. It was silk, beautifully soft, and utterly normal in appearance.
"I'll never use it," she said aloud. "I won't."
Doth the lady protest too much?
She folded it carefully and dropped it into the top drawer, where the sneakoscope had lain, then placed the letter on top of it. Giving the fabric one last caress, she closed the drawer and then the window, before picking up the bed linen and making for the door.
Once she'd got the washing machine going, Petunia sank gratefully into her armchair. She switched the television off; the noise (a documentary of some kind) felt almost intrusive after the tension of the past half hour or so. Instead, she browsed the TV listings magazine and sipped her wine rather aimlessly.
There had been letters from wizards before. She would never forget the first one, informing her that she had been accepted into that awful school. She'd stared at it, certain at first that it was a joke, probably played by Lily, who was at that age. But the writing was perfect; Lily was only nine and could never have pulled it off, so either she'd persuaded someone older to do her dirty work, or it was an adult playing a joke on her. Or else it was true.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
Her old teacher's voice came back to her: Admit that you never wrote this; now tell me who did it for you.
She'd never cheated, but it had happened anyway, and no one would have believed her.
I like this bit.
The first letter had been crumpled up and binned, but another had arrived, and another. She'd tried burning them, and then putting them in the postbox with 'Not at this address' scrawled over her name. But they kept coming.
After four days, she'd written to decline her place. Two days after that, a lady had turned up at the door, scrupulously polite and proffering another copy of the letter along with several books.
Petunia had screamed; her parents had come running, and the woman had vanished instantly. There had been another letter after that, a different one, but Petunia didn't know what it had said, because she had ripped it into tiny pieces without even opening it. That had been the last one until after Lily's death.
Two years later, Lily had received a letter and Petunia's life had changed. She would never forget the way her heart had clenched as she'd observed Lily's excitement, and their parents' bemused joy. There had been sadness and anxiety, too, because their little girl was going off into the unknown, but the overall feeling was that Lily was special.
She'd tried to do it then. For the first time in her life, she'd tried to make the magic happen instead of willing it away - but it wouldn't work. She'd spent hours willing writing to appear on paper, attempting to memorise facts for tests - anything that she'd thought might impress her parents.
I like this bit, too. *is big-headed*
All that had happened was that her mother had cuddled her and told her gently that they didn't love her any less because she couldn't do magic. And when Petunia had protested that she could, she could, she'd done it before, her mother had just smiled sadly and said something patronising. They'd never mentioned it again, and Petunia had never forgiven Lily.
She started at the sound of a key in the lock, and checked her watch. Ten o'clock - that would be Vernon and Dudley coming back from the pub; perhaps they could share that bottle of champagne now.
As the rattling continued, Petunia made her way into the hall, still holding her wineglass. "Vernon?" she called.
"Let me in, will you dear?" called her husband. She opened the door quickly, and he almost fell inside.
"Damn door," he remarked. "Something wrong with the lock; needs a bit of oil, I think. Nice evening, dear?"
"Oh - yes," said Petunia. "Very, um, relaxing."
"Good, good." He yawned.
"Where's Dudley?" she asked.
"Gone out, little tyke. Wants to enjoy himself with his friends, probably try and pick up a girl, I shouldn't wonder!" Vernon beamed. "We had a good chat, though. Proper man to man, you know."
"That's good, dear."
He yawned again and then noticed her glass. "Ah! Been living it up at home, have you? While the cat's away the mice will play, and all that?"
"I've only had half a glass of wine, Vernon," Petunia protested.
"That's what they all say, you know, that's what they all say!" He tapped his nose. "Shan't tell a soul, m'dear. Only don't make a habit of it, eh?"
She smiled wanly. "Of course not, dear."
"Good, good," said Vernon in a satisfied tone. "Very good." He burped. "Excuse me. Must be the lemon meringue pie - delicious, though, delicious - can't complain. Anyway, I think I shall retire to bed if you don't mind, dear. Been a long day."
Drunk Vernon was loads of fun to write.
"All right," said Petunia, receiving a rather beery kiss on the cheek. "I'll be up soon." She watched Vernon make heavy work of the stairs, and then turned towards the living room. After some thought, she reached for the shelf that housed the week's papers until they were thrown out on Sundays.
It took her ten minutes to find him.
Snape glowered up from the page; it was the same photograph that Williamson had waved under her nose an hour or so ago. The report read:
A dangerous criminal escaped from a high-security prison yesterday, police said. Severus Snape uses several aliases, including Tom Prince and Percival White.
Tom Prince - the allusions should be obvious. "Percival White" is a play on one of Dumbledore's middle names and Albus, which means white
A teacher by profession, Snape was in prison awaiting trial for murder. He is reported to have shown no remorse, and the public are advised not to approach him, but to call 999 if they see him.
A teacher - that would explain how he knew Harry, if he was at that school. Petunia stared at the picture again. Snape looked like a nasty piece of work, with his lank hair and sour expression. Something about the photograph bothered her, though, and it was a few minutes before she realised that it was the defeat in his eyes. The Snape she'd met had been determined to live; this man looked as if he knew he was facing death. She wondered what had made the difference. Escape, perhaps? Or the fact that Harry and his friends had put their trust in him?
She put the paper away again. Perhaps she shouldn't have permitted any of this. Perhaps she should have refused the man sanctuary, or told the Auror that he was here. What reason did she have to trust in him, after all? She'd never trusted anyone with magical ability, not even her sister.
Ah, yes, Lily. He'd known Lily, and that - she hadn't warmed to him, exactly, but that fact had certainly fascinated her. He'd known her sister, after she herself had cut all ties between them.
Petunia remembered his voice, the way he'd spoken more quietly than usual as he described Lily. He had sounded haunted. She wondered whether they had been romantically involved. Her instinct said no; she'd had the impression that he felt guilty, not bitter, towards her sister.
From a young age, Lily had tended to pick up unwanted strays, and Petunia suspected that Snape had been another of her protégés, at least for a time.
Well. He was gone, and with any luck, she'd never hear of him again. Petunia glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven! Time for her to be in bed; she needed to be up early in the morning to ensure that the house was spotless for the Polkisses. Part of her wanted to wait up for Dudley, but she put that idea firmly out of her mind. That sort of behaviour annoyed children terribly, according to Woman's Weekly.
Ten minutes later, she was curled alongside her husband, attempting to shut out his snores.
**
Next morning, Petunia crept downstairs in her dressing gown and collected the Mail from the doormat. Once she'd cleared up the mess that Dudley had left - she'd heard him crashing around in the middle of the night, and it looked as if he'd attempted a late-night snack involving most of the contents of the fridge - she made a pot of tea and began leafing through the paper. She skimmed the first couple of pages and then settled down to a closer perusal of the rest, finishing her tea just as she turned to the back page. Nothing this time.
She thought of Snape, who might not now be executed for a murder Hermione had said he'd been powerless to prevent. Of Harry, whose girlfriend had been killed. Of Lily, who had been murdered. There was no news of their world this time.
She'd keep looking. She would; she'd keep an eye out for all those things she knew about. Not that it mattered - she'd never do anything about it, and she certainly wouldn't use that scarf that Harry had given her. She belonged here, looking after Vernon and being a good mother to Dudley.
But she knew she'd keep the scarf, and she'd keep looking for hints of the magical world, with all its violence and awe and sordid little tricks. She wouldn't go looking for magic, but she knew it was there, and she'd be ready if it ever threatened her world again.
Even now, she can't admit that part of her wants the wizarding world.
Glancing at the clock, Petunia put the kettle on to boil. It would be time to wake Vernon in a few minutes.
And we're back to the banal for the ending.
**