Hello, all. This is my first Harry Potter fic and fourth attempt at writing one overall. I've changed the background of two characters (the first of which is Dudley who was born Camellia i this story) and ultimately I'll veer pretty far away from Rowling's vision of the wizarding world. In that sense you can consider this AU although you'll still recognize all the characters and abilities.
Updates will probably be monthly.
Two quick points. 1) I'm not a Brit so sorry if I get any of the local details wrong. 2) Characters will sometimes say things I'd try to punch them for so please don't take it as an endorsement of anything.
Disclaimer: Rowling owns the Harry Potter mythos and your soul (probably).
Mr and Mrs Dursley were proud to say they were perfectly normal in every way, thank you very much! They lived in a perfectly normal house flanked on each side by other perfectly normal houses. The grass on their exactly square lawn was cut in such a straight and precise manner, that a military barber would weep at the beauty of it. There was the single four door car which Mr Dursley took to work every morning and it was a very average shade of grey. Mrs Dursley was a comely woman of average height. She wore her hair just low enough to reach bellow her chin. Her chest and backside were almost entirely flat just like her stomach. She had long legs, skinny like the rest of her. They were her pride. Mr Dursley would tell her how beautiful they were and most nights Mrs Dursley believed him. In any way you could think to measure her, Mrs Dursley was an average suburban wife in her mid-twenties.
Yes, normalcy reigned supreme on Number 4 Privet Drive. It would not be perturbed by anything or anyone. Not even the child who now slept soundly on the Dursley's doorstep in a wicker basket. Although, in the interest of fairness, he was only an infant.
Petunia (Mrs Dursley) had a habit of being awake well before the clock struck anything resembling a reasonable hour and so she was the first to see the infant on her doorstep. She panicked, of course, letting out a small shriek. A long lanky man stepping into his vehicle (for a meeting or something or other) heard enough to glance over at the neighborhood gossip. As far as he could see she was standing alone in her pink bathrobe gazing in horror at nothing. "Spot a mouse, Mrs Dursley? It's all that construction they're doing. We had one as big as my foot the other day. I've a mind to…" His voice trailed off.
It took a very painful very long second for Petunia to put two and two together. "Oh! Yes! Dreadful, isn't it! To think of how one of them might spook my poor Camellia."
"Yes, yes. You'll have to keep that girl of yours indoors. Well, I have to go. Have a good morning, Mrs Dursley. Be a dear and let your husband know I said hello." The man lifted his hat slightly, always eager to show his manners. Petunia nodded her head and smiled in that way suburban wives do. (Broad, wide, and very much a formality.)
"Have a good morning, Mr Polkiss! I'll let Vernon know you wished him well." She waited until the Polkiss vehicle was down the street before she scooped the basket into her arms and ducked back into her home. There were a great many questions running through her mind. Questions that, unfortunately, kept mixing with a whirlwind of emotions and thus were impossible for her to articulate. So, Petunia stared at the baby boy. Harry, this baby had to be Harry. Vernon had asked about him last night. It was sometime before bed and she'd stiffened at the question. She had not needed him of all people asking about Lily. Especially with how adamantly Petunia had ignored the owls, the fireworks, and every other sign of magic throughout that miserable day. Foolishly, she'd allowed herself to think today might be different. It was another in a long line of disappointments.
The letter clutched between Harry's tiny hands finally made its presence known. A low hum filled the room rising every time she tried to look away. It was patient but insistent as if it realized neither had anything better to do and so it was sure to have its way. Petunia suspected only she could hear the humming. She sat down placing the sleeping boy (still in his basket. Petunia was taking her time with all this) beside her. Grudgingly she took the note from the infant's hands and opened it.
Oh but how she could have guessed what it would say! Lily was dead, naturally. (Why else would there be a mysterious baby in a basket?) So was her husband and to the surprise of no one it was in some grand heroic battle against an unspeakable evil. A Dark Lord! And now, NOW!, it was crucial that plain not magical Petunia look after her son. The boy would constantly be threatened by the forces of darkness and it was only through her connection to Lily that the boy could be kept safe. It was all marvelous really. All that was missing was the ancient prophecy and for the Dark Lord's minions to plot his resurrection.
Petunia felt sick. She stood up and paced about the room but found that did nothing for her stomach. There was a bleach smell suddenly assailing her nostrils. Something like the sterility of a hospital room. She didn't care for it. Not one bit. Closing her eyes, she counted to ten. In that time, her sister's face passed through her mind no less than four times. Always smiling, sometimes reaching out to her, and always beautiful.
Improper as it was Petunia would not go to her sister's funeral. She knew herself, for all the good it did. Something would be said and she would retort voice filled with vinegar as it always was when Lily was concerned. There was no stopping it. Remorse meant little, we all regret things we know we'll go on to repeat. An extra drink, an extra sweet, a seventeen-year-old boy looking to experience a woman before uni. The self-loathing of the morning after would only hold you for a month or two. However deep a wound was didn't matter, Petunia knew. Lessons depended on how quickly and how much the scar tissue bled and how long it took to hide the mess afterwards.
Contrary to what she might project, Petunia did not hate Lily. Who could? You can't hate the leading lady. She's gorgeous, smart, talented, kind, and filled with a love that flows out into everyone around her. Everyone adores the leading lady. But love can be bitter and petty. Resentful and jealous too, Petunia reminded herself as she gazed down at the letter. Jealous of the most idiotic things. Even a violent death.
We all covet the strangest things.
The wheel of time turned- wait sorry. That's a different series. In any case time passed. Eight years in all and now young Harry Potter and Camellia Dursley were nine-year-olds. Harry was a small boy, smaller than most, who needed thick glasses to see. His hair was always disheveled especially after it was combed. For a while Petunia felt a smug satisfaction at the sight of him. Most mornings she'd see him and think 'some hero' and it was a beautiful irony to hold over Lily's memory. But then she'd caught him trouncing the Polkiss boy (who was easily twice his size) and the feeling never came back. She'd sent him to his cupboard without any meals that day. When Camelia told her what that horrible Polkiss boy had said Petunia had told her daughter to go to her room and to not ask questions. It's what she usually said to Harry but it fit for some reason.
Oh, and yes. Harry Potter slept in a cupboard underneath the stairs but you knew that. He didn't mind it, really. Inside his cupboard he could hear the comings and goings of Number Four Privet Drive with ease, something impossible from any other place in the house. It was the floorboards, you see. The workmanship was just too good. Only Vernon Dursley's massive steps could be heard anywhere in the house and Harry liked to know his surroundings. And don't think too much of Petunia's threats to starve the boy. Camellia always made sure to sneak him something whenever her parents lost their minds.
This was something the two children had to do for each other unfortunately. Petunia's favorite punishment for Harry was to send him to bed with no meals and Camellia was, well… Camellia was, more to Petunia's horror than that of anyone else in the household, quite pudgy. Some might even say fat, as the Polkiss boy did while blowing raspberries and pointing. (He was growing into a bit of a pillock.) Camellia was a large girl, taller than most boys, who had a round belly that protruded outwards making itself visibly outlined against whatever clothes she wore. Her arms were thick and heavy, just like her legs. Each one looked like they could support the weight of someone much older.
Which fit considering all the running Camellia did. At her mother's behest (because natural blond hair and light blue eyes could only carry a woman so far) the young girl spent many afternoons jogging. Why she needed to do this as well as diet, Camellia had no idea but she was the child so she would defer to her mother.
Harry, being Harry, couldn't care less who the adult in the conversation was and so snuck Camellia sandwiches or whatever else he could make without Petunia noticing. That was one of their secrets. It was the most innocuous of them but then again there were only really two. Harry and Camellia snuck each other food and Harry could perform magic.
Or telekinesis. Camellia wasn't sure of the specifics. It was definitely some sort of super power. They'd discovered it the year prior when she'd talked Harry into stealing some sweets for her and the shopkeeper's three dogs chased them down the street. One moment they were running straight into a dead end and the next they were flying through the air. Fear had given way to exhilaration as she felt Harry pull her up with him. (Wind so loud she couldn't hear herself scream.) The landing had been painful and sudden but much preferred to being mauled by angry dogs. Besides it'd given them something to do when they got sick of jogging.
Since then they'd learned Harry could move objects without touching them, grow his hair out really fast, and pick locks. That last one was after many long hours of Harry staring at the lock on his cupboard imagining each bolt and mechanism sliding into its proper place. Camellia had scoured through her comic books for some explanation of how to do it right but beyond general advice she couldn't help much. More than anything it was the trip to the library and looking up various locks that the pair credited with Harry's success.
There'd been other experiments with things like telepathy and super strength but the former only gave Harry very painful headaches and the latter a near broken hand. For the sake of her cousin's health Camellia had decided it would be better to develop the powers already manifested than try to bring out more. Besides, powers were supposed to come to heroes as they needed them, right?
I suppose that's enough of that. On with the story.
It had been a long winter. Even now with April almost over there was a cold that worked itself into your bones and stayed with you long after you'd made it indoors. (Makes for a good setting, don't you think?) On this morning Petunia awakened to the smell of bacon and the hairs of her husband's mustache. He had nuzzled up against her in his sleep bringing the offending hairs into contact with her neck. They tickled too much, Petunia decided. Like his waistline that mustache grew with every year.
She got herself out of bed. Her feet touched some soft fabric and she recalled how lazy she'd been the night before, leaving her undergarments where they fell. No matter, she could pick them up now along with her stockings and the tumbler Vernon had left on their night stand. He had wanted to celebrate. A massive contract had fallen onto his lap and it was only right his wife follow suit. Petunia obliged, putting on her best pearls and that black dress that ended right above her knee. So happy was Vernon that he lasted much longer than usual and when he'd finished Petunia had been so warm she'd fallen asleep with him.
But now it was morning and she had to curse the lack of foresight of last night's Petunia. At least she'd managed to keep the dress clean. Her stockings hadn't faired nearly as well. Even without them stretched across bare skin Petunia could see tears. Vernon had gotten desperate almost gnawing through them at one point. The tickling hadn't bothered her then, she reflected.
The stockings would have to be thrown out. Everything else she dropped in with what was to be the week's laundry. Except the black dress, of course. That was good enough to hang back up. Gravity would smooth out the wrinkles and a lint brush could take of the rest. Petunia put it back into her closet on the side opposite her cocktail dresses. Then she dropped her evening gloves into a box underneath it. Petunia straightened herself and considered her next course of action. She'd shower, she decided. She'd have to use only the cold water if there was to be any left over for Vernon and Camellia but such was the price of cleanliness.
All in all, it wasn't as bad as she'd feared… at least until she'd made it downstairs. Harry took one look at her through those ridiculous glasses of his (malachite where his eyes should be) and said "You're wearing pearls" in a dry monotone. Petunia's face turned crimson.
"Observant, aren't you?" she all but spat. He said nothing. Petunia considered boxing his ear but realized how foolish it would be to strike a child perched atop a small stool and over an open flame. So she turned around and walked back upstairs. Vernon woke just as she'd finished putting away the piece of jewelry.
"Petunia, love, is that breakfast I smell?" He rolled over onto his side.
"No, it's lunch," she said, her face turned away from him.
"What?" The bed sighed as Vernon sat up. "Oh you're joking." Petunia nodded half hiding a laugh. It wasn't entirely at his expense. "Don't scare me like that. Such a cruel joke to play on your husband. I say you ought to come back to bed and make it up to me. We'll have the boy bring breakfast up to us."
"Another time, dear," Petunia said. She leaned over and stroked her husband's hand. "You'll need all your strength today and you know what they say about women and legs."
Vernon let out a deep chortle. "I don't know how much more you could possibly suck out of me, Petunia." She raised her eyebrows at him. "Oh don't look at me like that. You didn't mind last night, did you?" Petunia visibly rolled her eyes. "All right, all right. Heavens, woman. I don't suppose there's any warm water left?"
"Oh there's plenty," Petunia said brightly. "Now hurry up. I need my big strong caretaker to get out there and provide for his family." Vernon laughed. Tossing aside the bedcovers he rolled out of bed and into his slippers. Once he was out of sight Petunia went about her morning routine. She moved with practiced ease, gliding from one end of the room to the other. After making the bed she laid out Vernon's suit and his shoes. For his tie, she chose red. It was a bold color and she wanted Vernon to look assertive for this second round of negotiations.
"Vernon, dear," she called opening the bathroom door slightly. "I've laid out your suit. I'm off to make sure Camellia doesn't sleep in."
"Thank you, love," Vernon said in that gruff voice of his but she'd already left.
Camellia was a heavy sleeper, something she'd probably inherited from her father. The only way to wake her was to shake her, something Petunia loathed to do. This was her baby after all. "Camellia, sweetums," Petunia said. She shook the girl's shoulder until she heard a low 'hm.' "Camellia, my beautiful white and red and pink flower, it's time for breakfast." The girl opened her eyes. They were such a lovely blue, Petunia thought. Once she had that weight under control her daughter would be gorgeous. "Time to get up."
"I'm up, mum."
"That's my angel. Now go wash up. Mummy will have your clothes ready for when you're done." She looked down on her daughter. Camellia yawned, looked up to Petunia, and shook her head. "Sweetums, you need to wash up," Petunia began before Camellia cut her off.
"I'll wash up, mum. I just meant I can get my own clothes. I'm getting big enough," Camellia said with all the confidence of a nine-year-old.
"Of course you are, dear. But humor your mother for today." Petunia patted her daughter's forearm. "How's this, today you may do your hair yourself, hm? How does that sound?" The girl frowned but got up and did as her mother bid. Cleaning Camellia's room went by much quicker than cleaning her own. There were no signs of sex to hide and Camellia was diligent in returning everything to its proper place. Well, in truth Camellia's toys were never touched at all. The girl had little interest in her dolls or tea sets. Not when there were super powers to figure out or comics to steal (Petunia wouldn't hear of them not for her daughter and certainly not for the boy).
Once she was downstairs Petunia took a moment to glare at Harry, daring him to find some new fault on her part. When he didn't she joined him by the stove and went about helping prepare breakfast. It was a good English breakfast, heavy on the meats and fats. The Dursley household would stand for nothing less.
Of the two it was Camellia who made it downstairs first with Vernon a not too distant second. Camellia had only just taken her seat when Vernon barked "Comb your hair!" at her cousin. She giggled knowing all the good that would do. "Honestly, boy, do you think you'll ever find good work looking like that? Look at your cousin here or that Polkiss boy next door. One a proper lady and the other a proper gentleman. You could learn from them." Vernon could rattle off stock prices and the going rate of heavy machinery as easily as if it were a child's multiplication tables. He saw himself as an authority on what it took to get up in the world. "Mark my words. You'll be living off government dole if you don't shape up. Why-" He shoveled three sausages into his mouth and was so overtaken by the flavor he lost his chain of thought. "Marvelous, Petunia. You've outdone yourself!"
Petunia smiled. "Thank you, Vernon." She sat with hands clasped over her legs, letting her eyes roam over the table. Her husband was happily feeding himself having moved on to mixing his hash browns with his egg yolks. The second chin he'd grown bulged out as he chewed and swallowed. The skin was freshly shaven. He was the picture of pure suburban bliss. Harry not so much. His messy hair was only the start. The drab grey of his shirt stood out against the immaculately dressed Dursleys in the same way a plum suit would at a board meeting. Worse still was how cartoonishly small the thing was. Harry might not be as tall as boys his age but he was still growing and clothes two years too old would look stupid on him eventually. It was only because he was so skinny that Petunia had been able to delay taking him to a shop for so long.
With a grimace Petunia turned to her daughter Camellia who was in the middle of interrogating a grapefruit. For some reason the girl couldn't ferret out how something that was supposedly a mix of grapes and oranges (both perfectly edible foods) could taste so terribly. Camellia noticed her mother looking and forced a spoon into the fruit's reddish insides. Reluctantly she then brought the contents to her mouth. Holding the spoon just outside her open maw, Camellia looked to Petunia for some sign she wouldn't have to go through with it. Petunia only looked back with that grimace she'd first fixed on Harry. Resigned to her fate Camellia moved the spoon those last few inches into her mouth. The girl made a face, something between having sucked on a lemon and being poked with a dull needle, then swallowed.
Lord of all she surveyed, Petunia turned to her own plate. She cut the tip off one of the sausages Harry had prepared and placed it between her molars. Having already resolved to skip lunch, Petunia would try enjoying breakfast. Which was for the best. This was to be her last meal before the "madness" started in earnest.
Once Vernon was seen to his car and the children had gone off to school, Petunia's thoughts finally had room to move about.
She made her way to the sink and ran cold water over her hands. The first plate she picked up was caked with syrup and ketchup. When held sideways a few beans that hidden away to escape the feeding frenzy tumbled into the sink. Vernon's, Petunia thought. His always took the longest to clean. The next plate was entirely bare. There weren't even yellow streaks of egg yolk for her to clean. Harry's. Petunia tried to remember what the boy had had. An egg and a slice of toast. She considered the symbolism behind each plate. She remembered how she enjoyed doing that sort of thing back in secondary. How she would sit and pontificate on the meaning behind her and Lily's names.
True to her name, Petunia had taken Lily's friend. He was a pale boy with slick hair and a long ugly nose. She'd found him alone one summer, down by where he and Lily used to play. Even with his head bowed she could tell he'd been crying. Such a pathetic boy, forever dressed in black playing at being some terrifying creature of darkness or night or whatever. There was something so weak and vulnerable about him always but especially then. He'd been sixteen, if memory served her right. Petunia had called out to him, he'd ignored her, and then she'd guessed what had happened. (On her first try too.) His tune changed instantly. He begged her to tell him some way he could apologize to Lily. To make her understand how- whatever it was wasn't that big a deal. Petunia didn't know of any. Then she laughed. He'd stared at her with wide fearful eyes.
At the time Petunia had wanted to cut them out of his head and put them in a glass jar to keep over her bed.
Reaching between his legs she'd grabbed hold of his cock. It was a weak flaccid thing and she made sure to let him know. Even Lily would laugh, she'd said. Was that why he was here crying? Something in the boy snapped then and he'd thrown Petunia to the ground. Looking up at him Petunia clutched the hem of her skirt and lifted it until her fist was immediately over her cunt. She asked him if yelling and throwing were the only ways he knew how to be man and if it meant his daddy liked to throw him around too? The question pierced the pretension he'd enveloped himself in. To her disgust tears came down his face and his body shook with a sob. "None of that. We were having fun. Now just close those eyes and pretend I'm your Lily. I'll even scream if you like."
The doorbell brought Petunia out of her reverie. Mrs Figgs was outside bundled in enough coats to fill a department store. "Hallo, Petunia! Mind if I come in?" She looked at the younger woman, a large grin plastered across her face. Petunia, remembering her plans to take Camellia to a salon and how Vernon couldn't stomach the boy for more than a few moments at a time, smiled and nodded. "Damned cold. Excuse my language."
"Oh, you're just saying what we're all thinking, Mrs Figgs." Petunia took the woman's coat. It was the neighborly thing to do.
"Colder than a witch's- well you know the rest."
"Can I interest you in something to drink?"
The old woman shook her head. "No, no. I just wanted to drop by and-" The two women sat opposite each other a small table separating them. "You know, you've the most sense of any of the women in Surrey, myself included."
"That's certainly very kind of you to say, Mrs Figgs, but I don't know if that's fair to the women of Privet Drive. Or yourself," Petunia added, that same smile from before still in its place.
"All the same, I'd like your thoughts on something." She leaned forward and darted her head sideways and back as if she and Petunia weren't alone. "I've seen some nasty looking troublemakers loafing about lately."
"Goodness!" Petunia brought her hand up to her mouth.
Mrs Figgs nodded. "Exactly right." She leaned back in her seat.
"What have you seen them doing, Mrs Figgs?"
"Oh causing a ruckus and all that. Screaming about South Africa and apartheid and-and to give Old Maggie the guillotine. The typical rubbish. Why if only your husband could have seen them he'd have set those layabouts straight!" Mrs Figgs was an excitable woman but not given to flights of fancy. She was seldom even seen outside her home and away from her many strange cats. Petunia cocked her head to the side and listened. "I tell you, Petunia. There's some serious mischief tonight and I just don't know what to do!"
Petunia leaned forward placing a hand on the table between them. "What is this world coming to, Mrs Figgs? It's that full moon tonight. It's got all these freaks bolder than usual." A look passed over Mrs Figgs' face. It was gone as quickly as it came giving Petunia no time to wonder what it might mean. "I'll let Mr Dursley know the minute he gets home. In fact! I'll phone him during his launch break."
This pleased Mrs Figgs. The old woman nodded again before giving the room an appreciative once over. "You've such a lovely home here, Petunia. You'd barely know there were two kids living under this roof."
"You are too kind, Mrs Figgs, really."
"They both sleep upstairs then?"
Petunia's back went rigid at the question. She checked to make sure there was still a smile on her face before answering. "Of course. They didn't build these houses with any spare rooms on the ground floor, did they?" Mrs Figg's grin shrunk into a smile Petunia did not like. It reminded her of the smile that old bearded warlock liked to wear.
"I'm so sorry to pry, Petunia. You know how I am."
"It's not prying at all, Mrs Figgs. But now that I have you here- Oh heavens, I'm so embarrassed to ask this!" Petunia looked away. She lifted a hand up to her cheek as if to hide a blush. "I was hoping to take my little girl- you remember her. Camellia. Well, I wanted to take her to a hair dresser's, you know, introduce her to the world of womanhood before that means fighting off boys." Mrs Figgs laughed, that grin now back on her face. "And it's just that it's supposed to be a girls' thing and Vernon, heaven bless him, is always so busy. Would it be too much to ask that-"
Mrs Figgs shot up out of her seat. Petunia rose with her. "You don't need to say anymore, Petunia. I know how important time with your daughter is. I'd be happy to look after Harry." The two women made their way to the door Mrs Figgs taking the lead. "I'm so glad I came over."
"I am too, Mrs Figgs." Petunia helped the older woman into her coat. "I just wish it didn't need to be because of something so unpleasant."
Finally standing in the liminality that existed between the Dursley's front door and the rest of Privet Drive, Mrs Figgs turned to look at Petunia with that queer smile again. "Petunia, I just won't have any rest unless you promise me to keep those lovely angels indoors tonight."
"With this weather?" Petunia's hand gripped the door hard enough for her knuckles to turn white. "Mrs Figgs, I wouldn't let them out for the world." As soon as Mrs Figgs turned her back Petunia's smile vanished. She envisioned the woman's head exploding (tufts of blood stained hair across the pavement. Shrieks and shouts of confusion drowning out her cackles) but lacking any supernatural power all Petunia managed was to further incense herself. There had been something in the conversation, she mused as she closed the door. Either some clue or oddity she should have caught.
Mrs Figgs without her cats… Why did that seem so important? Their almost gaunt figures jumped to the forefront of Petunia's mind. Skinny little gross things that wouldn't even rub up against your leg and pointedly ignored you unless you reached to pet them and then they scratched and hissed in rage. There was also Mrs Figgs' reason for visiting. Some story about student protesters? Here near Privet Drive? This was Tory country. Half the soon to be born girls were to be named Margaret and the older men still talked about the Second World War as if it would somehow make British steel competitive. So where would these protesters have even come from? Did they commute?
The house felt crowded suddenly. Petunia tried to turn her memory back to that day with Lily's friend but it no longer did anything for her. She considered sipping a bit of the Laphroaig Vernon liked to keep stashed away but then she remembered he'd drank all save what he'd poured over her breasts. Petunia frowned. In her mind she ran through errands to distract herself with. Each chore seemed more asinine than the last. Petunia looked from the front door to the stair case and then to cupboard underneath the stairs. Now here was a thing. Try as she might she could not remember when she last inspected it. Vernon had been in there once to put the boy's bed in but beyond that…
She'd been avoiding it. Whether intentionally she didn't know. In four long steps Petunia closed the distance between the cupboard and herself. Her eyes narrowed and her hand closed around the lock. As if trying to catch whatever was inside off-guard Petunia threw the door open. No toads jumped out nor could she see any rat-tailed teacups chittering. There was only Harry's bed, a small stack of books, and an even smaller stack of clothes. She took a long deep breath. No dust. The boy was a diligent cleaner.
Because it was there, Petunia sat down on Harry's bed. She looked about the room in the same way she imagined Harry might. The stack of clothes lay by the foot of the bed. If Petunia leaned left she could easily snatch up a t-shirt or pair of pants. Likewise, if she leaned to her right Harry's schoolbooks were well within reach. There was nothing mystical or strange about the room. Well, if one ignored it was a cupboard and not an actual room and that a nine-year-old boy slept in it. But those were other issues and not ones Petunia was currently interested in.
The letter had said, very confidently, that Harry would be magical. By the age of nine Lily had already caused a tv to explode and a tree to catch fire. So Petunia decided to work under the assumption Harry could perform magic. Why then were there no signs of it? Because he was hiding it from her, of course. She picked up the boy's notebook (it was on the top of the pile) and flipped through the pages. Each one was filled with detailed notes. Both the boy and Camellia were exemplary students. Their teachers sent home notes every other week congratulating the Durlseys on a job well done. It wasn't everyday they had to reach for secondary school material to keep their students occupied.
Somewhere along the margins Petunia read 'has to be better way to teach identities. no way cam'll memorize all this.' Beside the scribbles was a circle with pi symbols besides numbers every 30 degrees or so. There were other notes. 'tell cam to review this. she'll forget' and 'it's like weird algebra.' Petunia resolved not to tell Vernon their daughter's scholastic success was due in part to the apparent tutoring her cousin gave. The man so loved to imagine her at the head of a boardroom and it would be a cruelty Petunia could not approve of to mar Vernon's fantasies with thoughts of his nephew.
The two cousins were close, Petunia noted.
Like reminds one of like, if mystery novels held any truth in them at least. And so it followed that magic would remind Petunia of magic. After Mrs Figgs had left, Petunia's had only pondered the riddle of the older woman a short while before her mind wandered to Harry. This cupboard had been the only thing to jump out at her in the whole house. Did that mean Mrs Figgs was a witch? She was always eager to take the boy… and the time Camellia had let slip a man bowed to Harry while at the grocer's Mrs Figgs had laughed. But then why was Mrs Figgs here? Was she somehow meant to spy on them? Try as she might Petunia could not remember how it was Mrs Figgs supported herself. A life insurance policy? There were no pictures of handsome men anywhere in her home. There were no pictures at all…
Then there were the notes in this maths notebook. Camellia was related to this strangeness too. She was too close to Harry not be. Besides, if the boy was keeping his freakishness a secret an accomplice would make it easier. These were the thoughts that led Petunia out of Harry's cupboard, up the stairs, and into her daughter's room. In truth, her daughter had two rooms but the second was entirely bare except for a book shelf. Originally it was meant to store all of Camellia's extra things but the girl had never filled it. Year after year it remained empty.
Petunia walked to her daughter's bed and sat down. Like with Harry's cupboard she tried to see the space around her as her daughter might. Harry was a straight forward boy. He needed little and asked for less. Camellia was a different animal. The girl's mind never stopped jumping from idea to idea. There was almost no sensibility to the girl however much it pained Petunia to admit it. If there were secrets in this room they wouldn't be under the mattress or somewhere within reach. They would be somewhere where Camellia could show off her cleverness. Petunia scanned the room again and then like a bolt it hit her. She sat up and pulled open the top drawer of Camellia's dresser.
It was filled with all the clothes the girl hated. Petunia ran her hand through the drawer's insides. She found its width and length to be exactly right but the height did not match the drawer's depth. Her hand bottomed out a full inch before it should. Petunia ran her hand along the edge again. Finally it found a small hole just large enough for two fingers to fit through. She hooked her ring and middle fingers through it and pulled. The false bottom lifted easily even with the weight of Camellia's clothes. Petunia had enough self-control to place the wooden board on Camellia's bed without disturbing any of the clothes too much. But had she seen what the makeshift lid was covering…
Inside the hidden compartment were various half eaten sweets all carefully rewrapped with paper and plastic. Petunia saw too a comic book. On its cover was the face of a man void of defining details. His hair seemed to rise up in a billowing blackish blur. Along the margins were various objects, all in their own neat little boxes. One held an hourglass and the one below it a strange totem. Petunia picked it up. She didn't even need to open it. No sooner had she lifted the comic book that three pieces of paper fell out. These were what she had been looking for. They detailed Camellia's exploration of Harry's abilities going into the children's successes and failures. For a year now this had been going on.
Petunia sat herself at the foot of the bed, Camellia's notes still clutched in her hand. She touched nothing else. The children would be home by six thirty. With the mystery solved there was no need for Petunia to take any other action and so she chose to wait. But Petunia was an imaginative woman. With no one to remind her that Harry was a nine-year-old boy her mind generated more and more outlandish ideas. Soon Harry was cast as a manipulative monster, a miniature Anti-Christ yet to come into his full power. There was no companion to steer Petunia in any other direction. Yvonne was a talkative and friendly woman but she knew nothing of magic. Petunia was not even sure what would happen to her if she began to tell others about the secret society of reality warpers who lived just outside the of sight of mundanes like her. Lily had once said there were specialist wizards who modified memories.
But Petunia knew enough of herself to know that those fears didn't matter. Not to her. These were immaterial things. To forget would be a blessing and the lives of those outside her home were too distant to hurt her. Her motives went far beyond the now. They were in the heavy smokestacks of the mill in Cokeworth and in pools of mud so deep a little girl might drown in.
When the children arrived Petunia still did not move. She could hear Camellia shouting for her, laughing as she always did. "Mum!" the girl said. Her footsteps, so like her father's, pounded on each step as she climbed the stairs. "Mum, you won't believe it. This berk tried to tell Harry and me we were in the wrong place. Said we wouldn't be able to follow the lesson. The nerve! So Harry-" Camellia stopped speaking suddenly. She had arrived at the door to her room and she could now see her mother sitting rigid as marble on her bed. The drawer where Camellia hid her candies was opened. "Mum-" Camellia began but never finished. Her mother had stood.
"Camellia," Petunia said through thin lips. "Fetch your cousin and bring him here." As with the grapefruit Camellia looked to her mother hoping she'd change her mind but Petunia would not. With her head hung low Camellia turned away from her room and back towards the stairs. Petunia scarcely heard either child's footsteps now. They returned to her too slowly for Petunia's liking and so when Harry appeared she closed the distance between them and struck the boy across the face. Camellia sobbed.
"Mummy, no!" the girl cried. "It's my fault see. I put Harry up to getting me the chocolates. He tried to talk me out of it, Mummy, honest."
Petunia wasn't listening. Harry was looking at up her. His eyes were malachite, vibrant but toxic to those who breathed them in. "You've been involving my daughter in your freakishness." Petunia held up Camellia's notes. Harry blinked, his cheek was turning red but it didn't seem to bother him. "Anything to say?"
"You knew then?" Petunia flinched. "About what I can do?"
"Your mother was a freak. Your father was a freak. It follows that you'd be a freak."
Something like a smile came over Harry's face. "That's alright then," he whispered to no one in the room.
It was too much for Petunia. She struck the boy again. "Alright, is it? Alright?" Camellia was saying something but Petunia couldn't hear anything over her own heartbeat. Again and again she hit the boy. "Of course it's alright for you! Feeding my girl sweets. Keeping her fat so you and the other lads can have a laugh. Why wouldn't it be alright? Oh you played my little girl, didn't you? Did you promise to keep showing her magic? To someday teach her some?!" Harry had lifted his hands to protect himself. It hurt to strike his bony forearms so Petunia took hold of them and pulled them away from his face. Now she could see how easily the tears feel and how his mouth twisted itself into ugly knots as it worked out how to express Harry's pain. He really was just a little boy after all.
Camellia's sobbing finally reached Petunia and she turned to see the girl recoiling in horror. Then she was lifted off the floor and thrown across Camellia's room. Petunia hit the far wall beside the room's only window but she didn't fall. Instead she felt herself held in place by some unseen force. It was so great she was certain she could feel her ribs about to crack. "Harry, stop. Mum- Mum, didn't mean it. Did you mom, Mum?" Petunia couldn't answer. The pressure wouldn't let air into her lungs. "She was just mad on account of the chocolates. It's my fault, really. Don't-don't take it out on her."
The force disappeared and without it Petunia slumped to the floor. She looked up in time to see Harry coming towards her at a full sprint. At first she thought he was coming in to kill her and breathed a sigh of relief but then she heard the window fly open. Harry leapt through it. When Petunia finally managed to right herself well enough to look outside there was no sign of the boy to be found.
"Shit!" Petunia slammed the window shut. "Shit. Shit. Shit!" She ran to her room. Her stride slowed only when Petunia snatched up her panicking daughter and held her like she had when the girl was much younger. "Don't you cry, Camellia. Your cousin will be right back and your mother will buy you both lots of candies and sweets for you to eat." Petunia let the girl down on her bed and reached for the telephone. She all but smashed the phone as she dialed the number for Mrs Figgs. "And she'll take you both to the zoo for your birthday and you'll get to see the snakes and lions and you'll get icecreams from the shop and- and- Will you bloody pick up!"
Petunia hit the switchhook and dialed a new number. "Yes, hello? My name is Petunia Dursley. I'm calling from Number Four Privet Drive. Yes. My nephew has run off and I can't find him. We had a fight you see and he ran out without so much as a coat. Yes. Oh, he's a small thing, only nine-years-old. His name is Harry Potter. He wears thick round glasses. Trousers and shirt are both grey. Yes. Oh, not even an hour but I'm so worried. Yes. Yes, thank you so much." Petunia hit the hook again. "Camellia, my perfect flower, I need you to do something for me."
"W-what is it?"
"Do you remember Mrs Figgs' number?" Camellia nodded. "What a good, clever girl. I need you to keep ringing her. When she answers let her know what happened and tell her I ran off to find Harry. If she knows anyone who's… special like Harry, I would very much appreciate their help. Can you do all that for me, my preciousness?" The girl nodded again. "Very good. Your father will be home soon. Don't let him order takeaway until you've gotten through to Mrs Figgs." Petunia traded places with her daughter.
"Don't forget your coat, mum." It was all the girl could think to say.
Not fifteen minutes had elapsed since Petunia had first raised her hand against Harry. The door to her house looked alien. All of her home did. But she could not let it bother her now. Clad in her thickest winter coat and clutching Harry's, Petunia gazed out onto Privet Drive. The sun's last rays had coated everything in red. Wind rustled the top of the trees. Nothing else moved and petunia's breath rose up like mist before dissipating into the air. It was a foreboding image, one that in all her novels heralded danger. She stepped out into it anyway.
Thank you for reading. Let me know what you think in friendly or unfriendly terms. Either way feedback is appreciated.