The letter was not in the post box but in the front basket of Petunia's bicycle, and instead of a stamp the envelope bore a splot of owl poo. Petunia's knees went weak with shock. For one horrifying second she thought they were about to have a repeat performance of the influx of thousands of letters delivered by hundreds of owls that had preceded Harry's start at Hogwarts, but as soon as she snatched up the offending missive and read the name on the envelope, she realised this was a completely different sort of calamity. With a panicky glance along the street to ensure no one could see she stuffed the letter deep into the pocket of her cardigan before retrieving the morning paper from the post box.
A little to her surprise, Dudley had come downstairs without being told twice and now sat at the breakfast table with Vernon, despondently eyeing his orange and single slice of toast. Vernon had already eaten his one sole egg but his celery sat untouched. Petunia sniffed and handed him the Guardian, which he read every morning (taking no more than ten minutes to do so – Petunia suspected he didn't really understand what he read, certainly he retained none of it) because that was what People Like Him did in the mornings.
"Can I have some chocolate pudding, mum?" Dudley asked plaintively.
"No, Dudders," Petunia said, stabbed by fresh guilt. How could she have let things slide to the point where her poor adolescent son had to be put on a diet? He shouldn't have had to worry about weight issues for years yet… not until he reached Vernon's age, anyway, and Vernon really should know better by now. But if it was her fault, Petunia thought, she would jolly well fix her own errors, even if it meant cooking less. "That chocolate pudding in the fridge is for Sunday dessert. Eat your breakfast now, the bus to your running camp is leaving in an hour."
Behind his paper, Vernon snorted disdainfully. Petunia gave the headlines a sharp look but Vernon said nothing more. His dismissive remarks and counter-productive attitude certainly weren't making it easy for Petunia to overhaul Duddy-wuddy's life.
"I'm still going to camp?" Dudley gasped, eyes wide as his plate.
"Of course you're going!" Petunia stared at him. "Whyever not?"
"But mum! My tongue!"
"There's nothing wrong with your tongue."
"It was five feet long yesterday!"
"And now it's fine, and you're going." Petunia rolled her eyes. "Besides, what would we tell the camp counsellors? Dudley can't come to the camp as he had his tongue engorged to the length of five feet and feels delicate?"
"Petunia!" Vernon snapped his paper aside with a sharp rustle. "I'll have none of that in this house!"
Petunia sniffed. Sometimes Vernon was simply unreasonable in not allowing magic to even be alluded to in the household. While Petunia fully supported the underlying principle, it did make conversations difficult at times. She put the dishes in the washer and wondered how she could have spoken in a more acceptable way. By the time she started taking the laundry out of the machine, Dudley had finished his toast and orange.
"Well done, Duddy dear," Petunia said and smiled at her son. He tried, he really did. He was not to blame for having the parents that he did. Anyway, the nurse had grossly exaggerated the problem—Dudley was big-boned for his age. Surely the diet would have done the trick by Christmas. "I've packed your bags, they're on the sofa. Be sure to wear the new trainers we bought yesterday. Daddy will drive you to Victoria Station."
"But mum…"
Vernon put down his paper and drew a long breath. An icy certainty settled on Petunia: Vernon would say Come now, Petunia, he can run just as well in Little Whinging! What do you say we let him stay home? and Dudley would say I'm not feeling well, I want to stay with you! and Vernon would say We can't send him to camp when he's sick, and that would be that and Dudley would miss the exercise he desperately needed.
"I think I heard yesterday that the Perkins' youngest son, Homer, is going to the same camp," Petunia said brightly, intercepting the incoming exchange. The Perkins family owned the large house at the top of Privet Drive, the one that Vernon always said he would buy when Grunnings finally recognised his value and promoted him to Head of Bit Production. Petunia knew that Vernon had long tried to foster some sort of friendship between Dudley and Homer, who were of an age, thus far with scant results.
Her news had exactly the anticipated effect. Vernon's objections melted away into an enthusiastic pep talk about the wonders of running camp and the benefits of exercise, and in ten minutes the male folk were out of the house and in the car, bound for Victoria Station.
Petunia stood at the living-room window and watched them go, and felt her muscles relax as the dark grey Volvo turned the corner past the Perkins' house onto Magnolia Street. Having Dudley, and Harry of course, off at school most of the year was a blessed relief. Much as she loved Dudley, he did tend to disrupt the tidiness of the household, and Harry was constantly pestering his cousin, not to mention wearing her nerves raw just waiting for the next outburst of uncontrollable magic. Towards the end of the summer holidays she always found herself tensing into a ball of anxiety.
But now, two weeks of summer relaxation were ahead of her. True, she still had Vernon around the house, but alone he was easier to manage, and besides, he left for work every morning and never returned earlier than seven. Now she would be free to give the house a proper clean, take down the early-summer curtains and hang up the late-summer ones, perhaps thoroughly empty the kitchen cabinets and give them a good wash. She reached into her pocket for her daily planner, but her fingers met the heavy, rough paper of the letter instead.
Trembling, she withdrew it. The owl poo had rubbed off inside her pocket. Oh well, the cardigan needed a wash anyway, she thought absently and sank onto the sofa, staring at the handwriting on the envelope. It was addressed to Petunia Ev Dursley, which made her smile a little through the hammering of her heartbeat.
Dear Petunia, the letter began.
I hope your son is well now.
For my part, I'm very, very sorry for the behaviour of my own sons. Fred and George had no right to abuse your hospitality in that dreadful manner, and I and Molly offer our most heartfelt apologies. So do the boys; they have been appropriately punished. Please tell Dudley so. I hope you weren't very frightened when his twhen the boys when it happened, although I expect you were, as would any parent be.
On a related note, I wasit was veryI had I was very pleased to see you looking so well. Fourteen years it's been, or is it fifteen? And you haven't changed at all! Amazing! I had hoped to come to know your husband better and to have a much longer chat with you, but under the circumstances I thought it would be prudent to just leave as quickly as I could. Don't take this as a sign that I ran away from you! Quite the contrary! I know you've stayed away from the wizarding world, but could you make an exception for me and meet me for a meal? I have frequently wondered if your life has turned out as well as mine has and would dearly love to catch up.
You can reply to me with Mugg box mail using the following postal address: Leaky Cauldron, 54 Charing Cross Road, London WC2H 0BB.
Yours,
Arthur
Petunia hardly knew whether to laugh or weep. Dear Arthur. It had been eighteen years, not fifteen, and he was plainly lying about the state of her face and figure, bless him. And damn him. She had only just managed to hold herself together on seeing him again, largely because the prank played by his sons had distracted her; in fact, put like that, it had actually been a lucky accident. She had summoned all her strength just to survive that one meeting, telling herself it need never happen again.
But now she would have this letter hanging over her head. Her holiday would be ruined with wondering if she should reply, how she should reply, even how she should react. She had forgiven him years ago, but apparently her head had failed to completely subdue her heart, judging by the stab of anger she felt.
In 1975 Petunia had been 19 years old, and welcoming Lily home from school for the holidays was, as ever, a battle between being glad to have Lily home and resenting her sister for enchanting their parents with her magic. She had brought James for a visit that year, too, for the very first time, much to the delight of their mother and father who had fawned over the pair of them in a quite silly way. And then two days later, Lily and James had introduced them to the cutest young wizard ever, who dreamed of teaching Muggle Studies at Hogwarts and who enthusiastically examined every electrical outlet and marvelled at the Evans' new colour television and oven. Arthur Weasley had interviewed them all for a project to study the impact of electricity on family life, and it had been nice to talk to someone who actually seemed to be interested in Petunia's own life, even if Arthur himself was quite strange. That was why Petunia had not minded at all when her parents had invited him for a longer stay as a lodger so he could write his paper in authentic Muggle surroundings.
Her whole body beating time to her heart Petunia sprang up from the sofa and headed into the kitchen. It was completely unfair of Arthur to do this to her. She took up a rag and scrubbed at a stubborn spot on the countertop so vigorously that her carefully arranged hair bounced up and down as if on springs.
Arthur would have to be told that this was just not acceptable. He could not waltz back into her life like this, upset her routines and derail her perfectly ordinary, perfectly acceptable family. She would not have it.
She would write to him and tell him… tell him to stay away from her. Yes. She put away the rag and found a pen and a notepad, and sat down at the kitchen table to compose her letter.
Dear Arthur, she started, stared at the words for a few seconds and tore off the paper. She wrote Arthur Weasley, then tore that off, too. None of the greetings she went through in her head seemed to set quite the right tone.
Maybe she should say it to his face. Yes, telling him to keep away would have more impact in person in any case. She would do exactly that.
The brief note of acceptance was much easier to write, too.
Petunia drew the huge scarf around her head and face in spite of the early August heat. Charing Cross Road was a jostling, bustling hubbub of chattering tourists with heavy bags, and Petunia had the hateful feeling she stood out like a sore thumb. She could not stop glancing around, trying to catch disapproving looks.
Vernon had whined and roared when she had announced her intention to spend a weekend in London, but had mellowed when she told him she would leave him ready meals in the fridge and pointed out that he could now invite over some friends and make a lads' night of it. Petunia knew full well that these lads' nights usually ended with, or perhaps consisted entirely of, Vernon sitting in front of the telly alone in his underwear with endless bottles of beer until he passed out, but he seemed content with them.
Here was number 54, changed far less than she had in the twenty years since her last visit. Petunia glanced around fearfully, then dashed to the worn wooden door, yanked hard on the brass doorknob and slipped inside, fairly certain that no one in the real world had seen her, let alone recognised her.
The front hall was small and rather dingy, like the lobby of a small, very shabby hotel, and Petunia had not remembered it being so ordinary. A strange nostalgia washed through her. She had not been here since Lily's third school year, and had definitely not expected to be here ever again.
"Mrs Dursley?" A young woman in a dowdy print dress at odds with her spiky black hair appeared behind the aged oak veneer counter.
"Yes?"
"Mr Weasley's waiting for you in the Brown Room. Please follow me."
"Oh. Uh, very well then," Petunia floundered, fiddling with her handbag.
The young lady rounded the end of the desk and led her up a narrow flight of stairs that ended in a very large, quite grand hallway that could not possibly have been contained in the outer dimensions of 54 Charing Cross Road. Halfway down the girl stopped, pointed at a door and curtsied herself away.
Petunia unwrapped the scarf from her head, briefly fumbled with her hair and straightened her blue flowery summer dress. Her heart raced. This was really it. She took a deep breath and steeled herself. Arthur, she would say. It was all a long time ago, and I forgive you, but the past is past and we must go on with our separate lives. A few more deep breaths, and she was ready to knock on the door.
Her knuckles were still touching the wood when Arthur flung open the door, as if he had been waiting just on the other side.
"Petunia!" he exclaimed, his face lit up in a smile. Petunia's knees went weak and she swallowed a gasp.
One night in Cokeworth, when her parents had gone to the cinema, the young people had all had a bit too much wine, even Lily and James, who had not been supposed to have any but somehow had managed to snag a bottle for themselves. The two had lost their way upstairs amidst much giggling, and Petunia and Arthur had sat all night talking at the kitchen table. Petunia had talked about how much of an outsider she felt in her own family. Arthur had talked about how after years of marriage he and his wife were coming to the conclusion that perhaps they were not meant for each other after all, and how Molly had taken their two sons and moved back to her parents' house six months ago. He missed them all desperately, especially the boys, and Petunia listened to his stories about them and took his hand to comfort him. As the sun rose, she finally plucked up her courage and kissed him.
And he had kissed her back, his warm mouth tasting of wine and delight.
She landed back in the present day with a painful shock when Arthur took a step back from the door and made a grand inviting gesture. "Come in!"
She did so, trembling slightly and forgetting to really return his smile.
The Brown Room was, as per its name, brown; a brown wooden dinner table, brown-upholstered dining chairs, carpets in various shades of brown, wallpapered in beige flowers on a background of, yes, brown, and a humongous, overstuffed brown leather settee in one corner with brown cushions to soften it. A meal for two was set on the table—thankfully the food was not brown.
"I thought we should meet in a place where we can talk," Arthur said happily. "The pub downstairs is always noisy, so I borrowed this. It's a ministry room, really, but no one was using it…" He looked around and hesitated. "I suppose it could be cozier."
"It's quite lovely." Still shaken, Petunia smiled at his contagious enthusiasm, completely forgetting that she had intended to remain stern.
"You're lovely," Arthur countered, then cleared his throat. "Ahem. I ordered us lunch, if you'd like some…?"
She knew she should just say what she had come to say, not eat his food and let him read too much into her agreeing to meet him. She really should speak up, right now.
But then she somehow found herself smiling and sitting down to a plate of chicken, potatoes and mushy peas, facing Arthur who examined his portion critically, giving her time to examine him in turn. He had aged, of course, as much as she had. His hair was slightly less red, the corners of his eyes sported a few more line, but he was still that heartbreakingly adorable wizard whose eager blue eyes had captivated her, once upon a time. He wore robes, actual robes, which she had never seen him in before—staying with Muggles he had naturally dressed as one, and for his visit to Privet Drive he had likewise worn more or less ordinary trousers and a pullover. The robes might have looked absurd, had he not worn them with the unconscious flair of everyday use.
"Has Harry written to you at all this week, since the World Cup?" he asked, and started to cut into the chicken breast.
"Harry? Write to me? Hardly," Petunia sniffed. "Why?" She took a bite of chicken, which was acceptable if not exceptional. A little more basil might have done the trick, or perhaps garlic.
"Oh." Arthur paused, then rallied. "Well, there was rather a dreadful mess at the Cup, lots of people were hurt… I can't really talk about it—much, but Harry's fine, we're all fine. I didn't want you to worry, in case you heard rumours."
"Thank you, Arthur. It's very thoughtful of you." She debated with herself over whether to ask more questions, but since it had turned out all right, what would be the point?
"How is Dudley? Pet…-unia, I really must apologise again for Fred and George. I'd love to be able to say they've never done this sort of thing before, but that wouldn't be true. They're a hazard wherever they go. It was nothing personal."
"Apology accepted. Dudley's fine now, he's off at a running camp we've heard many good things about. He'll be back in two weeks, just in time for school."
Arthur gave her a puzzled look. "What's a running camp? Do you mean he'll have to chase after it, or…"
"It's for exercise," Petunia explained and tried very hard not to laugh. She described the point of the camp to Arthur, who listened with achingly familiar attentiveness and asked pertinent questions about this Muggle peculiarity.
"Was Harry supposed to go, too?" he finally asked, contrite. "I hope we didn't ruin your plans with the Quidditch Cup."
"No, no, Harry doesn't need any more exercise, he's so restless and always moving around. And he never eats enough."
"Really? With you cooking for him, he doesn't eat?" Arthur's brows rose. "That's strange, he shovels away huge portions at the Burrow."
"I expect he finds the company more palatable." Petunia was ashamed at the bitterness in her voice. She really should not let it get to her like this, the way Harry disdained his own relatives because they were not magical, but it was always galling. Of course he would prefer the Weasleys—as far as Harry was concerned, as a family of magic users they were evidently vastly superior to the down-to-earth Dursleys.
Arthur forked up a potato and chewed in silence for a while, clearly having some sort of internal debate. When he spoke, his tone was careful. "I've gathered from Harry that you two don't get along too well."
"That's putting it very mildly," Petunia sniffed. "He's always been fractious and disrespectful. He's got nothing of Lily in him, he's the spitting image of that arrogant, thoughtless bully James, and I'm so tired of having him in the house."
"Oh, James wasn't that bad," Arthur said. "Especially once he grew up."
"He got my sister killed," Petunia said, the grief and anger of fourteen years desperately wanting to bubble up to the surface where she had never, ever let it rise. "Don't even try to defend him!"
"I, uh, well…" Arthur looked taken aback. "I can see how you might think that, but…"
"Can we not talk about this?" Petunia asked, fighting to contain the sudden rush of emotion by shoving a forkful of peas and chicken into her mouth. When she had last seen Arthur, everything had still been in the future. She had had Lily, and Lily had had James… her heart ached. She should have been relieved to have someone to talk about it all with, after so many years, but if she started now, she might never stop crying. She looked out the window to distract herself with a view of the rooftops and chimneys of Diagon Alley, eclectic and careworn in the sunlight.
"I'm sorry." Arthur toyed with his fork, and Petunia was once again transported to the past by the way he twirled it over his middle finger and back again. One would think they had known each other for years, judging by how familiar everything about him was to her. "But I want you to know that I think you did a very good thing, taking in Harry. You saved him from being brought up in some dreary orphanage."
"I wasn't given any choice," Petunia said, very quietly as if not really confessing that she would have liked to have had some.
"You had a choice every day of your life." Arthur put his hand over hers, and every nerve ending in it seemed to simultaneously explode. She managed not to gasp but he sensed her sudden stillness and quickly withdrew, leaving behind a howling emptiness.
"So, uh, Arthur," she stammered, casting about for a different topic and finding one by association. "I'm glad you and Molly really did patch things up. And you had more children, didn't you?"
"Yes," Arthur replied after a small pause, perhaps to gauge whether she was being sarcastic. "Five more, in fact."
"Five more?" Petunia gaped. "You mean… seven in all?"
"Well, Molly wanted a girl." He sounded awkward.
"And so you kept at it, until you got one? Even though she was the seventh?" Petunia shook her head. "Honestly, Arthur Weasley, what were you thinking?"
"That I'd then have seven children?" he countered mildly, with a small smile. "You know, I did think Harry might have mentioned us to you… told you about our family, how we are…"
"I hadn't any idea before that letter arrived." Petunia had finished her chicken and set her utensils tidily on the plate. She patted at the corners of her mouth with the napkin. "It came as something of a surprise."
Surprise, indeed. She had almost fainted on reading Molly's signature when Vernon shoved the thing at her, and then, hoping against hope that there were two Molly Weasleys among the witches of the world, had to sit down really quite urgently on finding the words my husband, Arthur in the middle of it. When she had understood that he would actually be in her very home the following day she had gone into an utter frenzy of cleaning, and had prepared an especially nice dinner of roast beef and creamy mashed potatoes on the off-chance that something happened and they would stay to eat. That last half an hour of waiting had been the longest thirty minutes in her entire life.
"Anyway, I'm very happy that you're happy." She smiled at him, and it was hardly even forced.
"And you?" Arthur asked. "Happily married to—oh dear, was it Vernon? I'm so bad with names…"
"Vernon, yes." She hid a grimace in her glass.
"Well?" he prompted when she said nothing more.
"Good enough."
Arthur produced a dessert from a chilled bowl on the sideboard, and they went on to talk about their children and then the rest of their lives. Petunia was saddened to hear that Arthur had indeed given up on his dream job as a Muggle Studies teacher, as he had predicted he might need to, but he assured her that he actually liked his current post very well.
"Did you ever try to soften up Dumbledore again?" Arthur asked curiously. "Like I told you to, after that first letter he sent?"
Petunia vented a humourless grunt. "No. It wouldn't have done any good."
"And you met Vernon."
"And I met Vernon." She waved a vanilla-puddinged spoon dismissively. "Dumbledore already said I had no gift, so it would have been no use anyway."
"Well, like I said back then, there's usually more than one witch or wizard even in a Muggleborn family," Arthur said. "You could still ask to be tested. It's still not too late."
"I don't want to be tested!" Petunia said sharply. She pushed her chair back and fled to the window, staring unseeing at Diagon Alley beyond. She could not take another failure. Her whole life was a serial drama of not being good enough. She had no reason to go looking for more disappointments and humiliation.
"All right," Arthur said soothingly. He got up and followed her to the window. "I only thought, now that Harry's at school, too, and—never mind, forget I said anything," he backpedalled when she glared at him.
"I'm sorry, Arthur." Petunia deflated. "I know you mean well."
"I just want you to be happy, Pet. …unia. Sorry." Arthur looked down at his hands, then at the view, and stayed silent for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was strained. "I… I need to say something. I want to apologise. Not just for Fred and George, as much as they need it, and not just for wrecking your beautiful living-room which was entirely my fault—I just never thought that one would brick up a fireplace! An electric fire, now there's a thing, never heard of those. I've got to think of someplace where I can have a proper look…"
"Arthur, you're babbling." His hand was so close to hers on the windowsill that she could feel its warmth, and she could smell the scent of him, a mixture of incense, mechanical grease and candlewax. She breathed in deep; every single hair on her heating body stood on end.
"I am, yes. Sorry."
He paused to collect his thoughts, and as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other his robes brushed against Petunia's bare leg. She was afraid to look at him, because surely he had to sense sudden the delicious frisson that ran through her.
"I… I just wanted to tell you that I know I treated you dreadfully. I should have…" He turned towards her, and his other hand met her fingers on the worn stone of the windowsill and made of the two of them a circle of warm safety in the sunshine. He swallowed. So did Petunia, through a dry throat.
"You should have what?" Her voice was hardly a whisper. His fingers curled around hers with hesitant gentleness. She had forgotten how it felt to be safe, to be seen and wanted as she really was. She lifted her chin to see his face, so close to hers, looking back so tenderly that her whole body seemed to burst into flames. She drew a long breath, and then she stepped forward into his arms and pressed her mouth on his. Some fleeting nervousness knocked at the edges of her consciousness but it disappeared as Arthur's arms wrapped around her and he kissed her back, warm and caring.
"I've missed you," he whispered. "More than you can guess."
"Me too," she murmured.
He hugged her to his chest and Petunia melted against him, his robes soft and warm against her cheek. She held him tight, revelling in the feel of his solid body.
"Does this mean I'm forgiven for ruining your living-room?" he asked at long last.
She laughed, a happier sound than she had heard herself make in years, and drew back to look at him. She felt thoroughly delighted and relaxed, for the first time in eighteen years. Were her eyes as alight with it as his? He smiled, too, albeit with the question still in his eyes.
"You didn't ruin it. We had the cleaners in, and then I tidied up after." In truth, the condition of the room had hardly registered on her emotional gauge at the time.
"And am I at least halfway forgiven for…" his eyes flicked away for a split second as he hesitated, abashed—"…for my behaviour, back then?"
"Arthur Weasley," she said and waited until he was really looking at her. She held his eyes steadily. "I forgave you fourteen years ago, when Dudley was born and I finally understood."
"Really? Well, but… it's not just that, I shouldn't ha—"
"No." Petunia cut him off. "Don't say you should have chosen differently. Because then I wouldn't have Dudley, and you wouldn't have your children."
Arthur took her hand and contemplated it. Then he kissed her knuckles.
"I'm not entirely sure I deserve that forgiveness," he said sadly. "Or rather, you deserved better of me."
"Regardless." With aching regret she stepped back, unwinding her arms from his waist. "You couldn't leave your children, just like I'd never leave mine."
Arthur looked like he was about to say something, but then he just sighed. Petunia contemplated his tall, lanky frame, thickened now slightly towards middle-age, and thought about how she could get used to looking at him quite a lot more.
"I'm sorry I…" she began just as he finally said: "I really didn't intend…" They both broke off and looked at each other, mouths twisting in mirroring smiles. He gestured for her to speak first.
"I shouldn't have done… that, just now," she said and fidgeted. "I… I can't really say I'm sorry, because I'm not, but…" She ran out of words, blushing.
Arthur cleared his throat. "I know exactly what you mean." His voice was rueful. "I know it looks like I planned this, meeting you alone and all, but I really just wanted to talk. And, er…" He chuckled. "Well, I did have a secret agenda, though it wasn't this."
"Secret agenda? You?" How easy it was to smile here, with him.
"Not very secret. You see, at the Quidditch World Cup, everybody noticed that the Ministry's supply of Muggle clothes is dreadful. Even I know that only Muggle women wear dresses and that you can't wear a tie with nothing but a pullover, but some of the lads just have no idea. So I talked Barty into giving me a bit of a budget for a new supply of clothes for the whole Department. You see, I figured, since I'd be meeting you, and you know everything there is to know about how to dress like a Muggle…" He smiled at her, hesitantly.
Was he joking? He did seem to be quite serious. Laughter bubbled up inside her. "You want me to take you shopping?" she giggled.
"That's the general idea."
She laughed harder. Such an absurd notion, and so very like Arthur. "All right," she chortled. "Of course, if you want."
"It's not that funny," Arthur mock-grumbled but could not help chuckling. "You'd agree if you'd seen what they were all wearing. That was funny. All the Muggleborns were having laughing fits."
"I can imagine."
"No, you really can't. It was dreadful."
"So, how much is your budget? And how much do you have to buy?" Her brain automatically began to work out whether she should take him to Regent Street or King's Road, or if it would have to be Oxford Street or even, heaven forbid, some shopping centre outside London proper.
"I… don't know. I just don't understand Muggle money." Arthur grimaced. "I counted it but I—oops!" He was interrupted by a tingling ring coming from somewhere upon his person. Eventually he withdrew a little round watch from his sleeve and pressed a button on its side. The lid flipped open and the object said, quite clearly: "Time to go home."
"Is it that late?" he muttered. "I have to go. When do you think you could take me to the Muggle shops?"
"I'm staying in London until Monday," she said, picking up her purse and scarf.
"Are you?" Arthur's expression brightened considerably. "Then we can go shopping tomorrow! Lovely. I'll pick you up at ten. Where are you staying?"
She gave him the name and address of her hotel, which was quite a nice one near Marble Arch, and he wrote it down with a quill on a thick piece of paper that, she realised, was actually parchment. Then he escorted her back into the Leaky Cauldron's lobby. Petunia glanced around it, wondering whether she would ever come back here, and reckoned that the building was probably best re-relegated into the "never again" category.
They took longer than strictly necessary to say their goodbyes, neither really wanting to go; yet go they both must, Petunia out into the real world of Charing Cross Road, Arthur by some magical means that Petunia could only guess at back to the witch who was his wife. Petunia took advantage of the nice evening to walk all the way back to her hotel, and found herself practically skipping on clouds all the way. Her entire body felt alive, and a weight she had not known she carried seemed lifted from her shoulders. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur beat her pulse and her mouth tucked itself into a smile. The afternoon sun was shining, there were ample shopping opportunities for herself as well as for tomorrow's excursion with Arthur, and soon she could have a nice dinner at the restaurant she had spotted that morning. She would enjoy to the full her sudden holiday from a life where Vernon sometimes took her entirely for granted and sometimes watched her for any signs of abnormality; where Dudley, bless him, seemed to go out of his way these days to vex her; and where Harry constantly reminded her of Lily's fate by his presence and, ever since his Hogwarts letter, had treated her with scorn and contempt.
It was Vernon who had first pointed out to her that, after Harry's eleventh birthday, the boy did not seem to care very much what happened at home. Harry had always had a habit of thinking he was so special, but that was nothing compared to how he began to ignore them all after receiving his letter and meeting that horrible Hagrid. He had not stopped obeying direct orders, not exactly; he simply did his chores and did not let any of it touch him, as though so preoccupied with magical thoughts that everyday life could now be taken care of by those who could not do anything more.
Petunia sniffed and her good mood slowly began to evaporate. Damn the boy, did he have to intrude on her happiness, too? Anyway, he had no business looking down on her. So he was a wizard, so what? Magic did not make anyone better, did it? Yes, it had made Lily special in the eyes of their parents, and everyone else… but did it make her better? No!
But what if… There's usually more than one witch or wizard even in a Muggleborn family, Arthur had said. What if she, Petunia, actually was one? That would show them. For a few minutes she amused herself by imagining how she would announce to Harry that the time for his condescension was past, and pictured the astonished look on his face… and then she pictured Vernon finding out, so vividly that she flinched.
Anyway, that was all beside the point, she told herself sternly. She had no intention of getting tested, absolutely none, because it was useless. So there. Arthur could just talk until he was blue in the face, this was her final decision.
… or not. She had a restless night of heated discussions with herself and with an imaginary Arthur about testing her magical ability. From those she strayed into heated dreams about where such discussions with Arthur might lead, and they did not stop at kissing. On waking, Petunia was profoundly grateful for the hotel's quite nice breakfast of eggs, bacon, beans, toast and jam, spiced with the luxury of not having to lift a finger to prepare it, even if she would have done a better job with the eggs and even the toast herself. By the time she was halfway through her third cup of tea she felt more like herself and ready to face Arthur again. With forty-five minutes still to spare, though, she lingered over her cuppa, and, what with last night's dreams, found herself thinking about that summer eighteen years ago once again.
After that first kiss in the kitchen had come many more in secluded spots and out-of-the-way moments. They had spent most of their time together, taking long walks and talking. Petunia's parents may have noticed something but did not object—Petunia was of age, and although Arthur was clearly somewhat older it was not by much. Of course they had no idea that he had a family. Petunia felt a bit guilty about that at times, but it was Arthur's choice and, after all, he had said his marriage had already ended. She had talked to Lily, of course, like they had talked about everything, like Lily had talked to her about James… endlessly.
Then one day, her father gone to work and her mother gone to the hairdresser (a concept that had fascinated Arthur no end), and Lily had decided to take James "sightseeing" to a nearby circle of standing stones which was apparently some sort of magical monument. Petunia had had her suspicions about how much sightseeing would happen, but had said nothing out loud; the girls had just grinned at each other conspiratorially as the younger couple set off towards the bus stop. Arthur was actually working on his paper, and Petunia hesitated to interrupt him, so she took out the old typewriter that her dreadful great-aunt Elizabeth had given her to practice on. It had belonged to Petunia's uncle, and she hoped to become fluent enough to be able to find work as a typist in London.
But then the crackling rattle of the keys had attracted Arthur (which she had not at all intended, she told herself and him), and he had sat on the flower-patterned sofa watching her type endless rows of asdfjkl. Then he had wanted to know how the typewriter worked, and Petunia had shifted over so he could sit by her to peer inside and press the keys himself.
"Fascinating," he had said, shaking his head and smiling with delight. "And can you write as fast on this as with quill and ink?"
"Faster than pen and paper, at least. Well, I can't, yet," she had said, "but I've seen people type a full page in just one minute."
"Surely the keys don't even move that fast," Arthur objected.
"They do, I'll show you. I can't write words so fast, but I can manage gibberish. Look." And she had proceeded to type random letters at great speed, trying to imitate a man she had seen at a post office taking down a telegraph. Then Arthur's leg brushed against hers and the keys became stuck in a pile of textured iron hammers. She stopped and began to gently pull the mess apart to let the hammers fall back into their place, when she felt Arthur's hand on her back. Petunia still shivered to recall the sensation. His hand travelled up to her shoulder, generating a tremor as it moved. When she turned to him, he had looked at her long and steadily, a different look somehow from what they had shared before. He lifted his hand, a slow, determined movement, and caressed her cheek, her jawline, her neck. Petunia kissed him deeply on the mouth, and it was as though the kiss never ended even when they ran upstairs to her room. She was like molten lava inside, and he was like a summer rain that gently touched every part of her and washed away envy, longing and loneliness in a luxurious shower of tenderness.
Over the dregs of her tea, the adult Petunia drew a deep breath and released it slowly, stealthily peering around over the lip of the cup to see if anyone noticed her suddenly brilliantly red cheeks, but the other customers seemed intent on their breakfast plates. She drained her glass of orange juice; it probably didn't actually boil on its way down, but it certainly felt that way.
He was waiting across the street by the fence, and Petunia was almost disappointed to find him dressed in an ordinary greenish-grey suit, although his horribly clashing orange and red tie more or less met her expectations. She hurried to him with a smile, almost getting hit by an unexpected taxi in the process.
"Good morning," he said, returning a warm smile that stirred her in places only lately stirred again after a long season of stillness. Petunia wondered if her cheeks still burned.
The "budget", in actual real bills instead of an abstract sum to be reimbursed later, ruled out any really nice shops, but of course the point was to find inconspicuous clothing, not to parade in the streets in high fashion. After some thought she steered him to Oxford Street and its big outlets selling everyday clothes.
"You'll want clothes in many sizes," Petunia suggested as they browsed the racks at C&A. "Similar, but not the same. How many people are we talking about? Ten? A hundred?"
"Oh, no more than twenty. How does this look on me?" Arthur held up a bottle-green cardigan against his threadbare suit.
"This is the women's section," Petunia said, blushing and glancing around for disdainful looks. Rapidly she picked out four or five skirts and matching tops in shades of beige, white and grey. "I saw nicer jackets and blouses at Sainsbury's," she said. "Let's look at the menswear…"
Petunia sternly vetoed most garments that Arthur, bless him, presented as possible purchases. She could not begin to fathom what use he imagined anyone would get out of a striped purple dressing-gown, let alone a pair of acid-yellow jeans (in fact Arthur ended up buying the jeans for himself, claiming they reminded him of his youth). After C&A they went through Sainsbury's, and then Debenham's.
"What do we do about shoes?" Petunia asked as they passed Debenham's footwear department. "We'd need so many pairs, and they probably won't fit anyone anyway."
"There's a spell for that," Arthur said blithely.
"Really." Petunia gave him a flat look. "And does it work on clothes as well?"
"Yes, actually." Arthur cleared his throat. "Maybe I should have mentioned it earlier."
"Maybe you should." Petunia couldn't help grinning as she piled ten pairs of shoes into her basket and Arthur's. What a lovely way this was to pass the time. No pressure, no awkwardness, just camaraderie, and Petunia found she had been very short of camaraderie for far too long. "Never mind. Everything we bought is different anyway, it only means everyone has more choice."
"Speaking of spells, you didn't happen to think any further about having yourself tested for magical skills…?" Arthur asked, ruining the moment.
"Arthur, please don't."
"It's only that, just in case, I made an appointment with this healer I know, he's willing to see you on a Saturday…"
"What?!"
"… and I told him you probably wouldn't want to. But I wanted to ask one more time."
Jaw tightening, Petunia drew him into a corner between enormous clothes racks so they could speak unheard.
"Arthur Weasley, you just won't stop, will you?" She glowered at him. Arguments she had run through last night galloped in her head. "Why is it so important to you? Why do you want me to be something I'm not?"
"I don't!" Arthur exclaimed. "You're perfect! But… I just feel like you don't know everything about yourself yet, and, well, I'm curious, yes, I admit. But shouldn't you be all that you can be?"
"I don't want to know about yet another thing that I can't be," she hissed. "I'm normal. If that's not enough, then too bad. It's enough for Vernon."
"Enough for Vernon." Arthur briefly rubbed his face. "I see. But what about you? Is it really enough for you? Don't you wonder at all?"
"I don't… I couldn't. It would be completely ridiculous at my age to find that… that I…" She felt tears rise and ignored them angrily. She had been done with this in her teens, how dare Arthur rip open the wounds and make her bleed again? The fragile vessel of her life seemed in danger of capsizing in this uncalled-for tide. "It's over, it's done, this is me and it's all there is! Don't do this to me!" Her voice rose into a little scream, and she gave the shop a frightened glance but no one seemed to have heard.
"I'm sorry." Arthur looked… angry? More disappointed. Or only soothing. Please let it be soothing, Petunia thought, his disappointment would be too hard to bear. "You don't have to. I just think you shouldn't not do it only because you're scared."
Petunia closed her eyes briefly and sighed.
"Maybe you should go pay for those shoes now." She shoved the basketful of footwear at him, turned away and tried to compose herself.
"Yes… yes. But can I at least buy you lunch?" Arthur said carefully, as if not to startle her. "The Leaky Cauldron does the best cottage pie I've ever tasted."
"All right," Petunia said. She smiled wanly. She might be busy trying to keep her life from falling apart, but she had no intention of letting go of Arthur a single second before she had to.
Arthur had been right, the cottage pie at the wizard pub was excellent, and Petunia ate heartily—strange, what an appetite she seemed to enjoy in London, when at home she hardly touched food. Little by little they recovered their normal conversation, keeping to mundane topics, although with Arthur, mundane included things like questions about how sliding doors worked and whether electric wires were different in shops than in ordinary houses. Dessert was ice-cream sprinkled with strange decorations that shot sparks, with an extremely realistic chocolate frog on top; Arthur hastily removed the latter when he caught sight of Petunia's expression. She could have sworn it moved in his grip.
"Do you mind if I pop over to the Ministry and deliver the clothes?" Arthur asked when his ice-cream was reduced to a smear of brownish goop around the sides of the bowl. "I'll only be a minute or two."
"Go ahead," Petunia said, slightly apprehensive at the thought of being left alone here even for a minute or two. Who knew what could happen in such a place? Going straight upstairs had been a completely different thing. Arthur gave her a reassuring smile and simply vanished, together with the small mountain of bags and packages they had lugged into the pub. Petunia only started a little this time. She was clearly becoming used to the strangest things.
The pub was filling up for lunch and the voices of the customers made for a pleasant, familiar murmur in the background. Petunia savoured her dessert—the spark-shooting sprinkles were not dangerous, Arthur had assured her, and in fact they were pleasantly spicy—and tried to keep herself inconspicuous.
"Mrs Dursley?" inquired an authoritative female voice. Petunia jumped and whirled around to face an elderly witch in an extremely pointy hat and black robes.
"… Yes?" Petunia stammered.
"I thought I recognised you. You won't remember me—Minerva McGonagall. I'm Harry's teacher at Hogwarts."
"Oh. Of course. Yes. Pleased to meet you," said Petunia weakly.
"May I?" said Professor McGonagall gestured at a chair and sat down without waiting for an answer. "I must say, I'm surprised but very gratified to find you here."
"You are?"
"You've come to take your nephew to do his shopping for the upcoming term, I presume." Petunia started as a pot of tea and two cups appeared of their own accord on the table. Unfazed, the Professor poured them both tea. "Where is Harry?"
"Harry's not with me," said Petunia. "He's staying with friends. The Weasleys."
"Oh, yes, I see," said the Professor and sipped at the tea. Then she frowned. "Or rather, I don't see. What does bring you to the Leaky Cauldron, then?"
"It's a long story." Petunia tried to wave away the questions with a teaspoon and an airy, if nervous, smile.
"Good, I dislike quick little anecdotes," McGonagall said implacably and leaned comfortably back in her chair.
"It's my fault, I'm afraid." Arthur stepped out from behind a nearby pillar like a knight in a grey-green suit of armour and sat down at the head of the table. "Hello, Minerva, nice to see you again. Is that tea?"
Wordlessly the Professor made a little gesture with her wand and a third cup appeared, which Arthur filled. He downed almost half of it at a single gulp.
"Busy times at the Ministry, Arthur?" McGonagall's eyebrows lifted archly.
"You have no idea. The Dark Mark at the World Cup, who would have thought… we're swamped. I've hardly seen the inside of my house for two weeks."
"I'm sorry, Ar-, er, Mr Weasley," Petunia said, rising. "I didn't realise…"
"Nonononono," he protested, rising to put a hand on her arm. "Sit down—please— I assure you, you're a welcome distraction from dark wizards and intrusive reporters."
McGonagall gave them both a piercing look. Arthur's open and honest eyes carefully avoided the Professor's. Petunia had no idea what she saw in hers, but as she tore her gaze away from Arthur, she had an inkling that Professor McGonagall would not need many such glances to see too much. She really should leave.
Instead, she slowly sank back to her seat.
"I'm trying to talk Mrs Dursley into being tested, you see," Arthur said to the Professor.
"Tested? For magical ability? Her?"
Petunia flinched, then proceeded to fume on the inside. It was hardly as far-fetched as all that! Why should the thought of her, Petunia, of all people, perhaps being able to do magic astound this dry, wrinkled witch so much?
"Well, consider Lily," Arthur protested. "She had great ability for someone Muggle-born, and I've always wondered…"
"Lily was probably an isolated case," McGonagall said, shook her head and leaned forward. "My dear Mrs Dursley, I'm sorry, but you are possibly the most normal, the most Muggle person I have ever met in my life, and your possessing any magical ability is approximately as likely as this teapot bursting into song."
"Insufferable woman!" Petunia bristled at McGonagall's back as the Professor disappeared in the direction of the lobby. "She has no right say that!"
"No, she doesn't." Arthur frowned, looked as if he would say more but deciding against it.
Arthur poured himself a second cup of tea. Petunia grasped her own cup to take a sip, remembered who had provided it and put it down again angrily, and then sniffed to cover her confusion. That woman was no better than her, witch or not, and had simply no excuse for calling her a… well, a Muggle, which was not a bad thing to be, but the way in which McGonagall had said it was like the sudden pain when grating cheese and accidentally getting one's knuckles in the way.
"I want to do it. I want to be tested," she blurted out.
Arthur's face brightened. "Perfect!" he grinned, not taken aback in the least by this change of topic and of opinion. "Parsiflage is waiting for us in half an hour's time, we'll just make it without having to hurry."
Petunia rose before she could change her mind, or lose her nerve. That McGonagall woman might be surprised, after all, she thought. Lily had been really good, so they had all said. Maybe some of it really did lie deep within herself, waiting to be released.
Arthur led her back to the lobby (fortunately McGonagall-free) and then out through the back of the building and straight up to a high brick wall. There he took out his wand and tapped gently on a single nondescript brick. Petunia drew a long breath as the wall began to change: first a small hole appeared in the middle, then the bricks all rearranged themselves as though falling upwards and sideways until they formed an archway decorated with monstrous shapes, like misshapen humans, all around the edges.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley," said Arthur, gave his wand a flourish and tucked it away in his sleeve, like a magician… which of course he was, in a way. Petunia stifled a hysterical giggle. She was really doing this, going into the wizarding world for the first time since she was a girl. She felt vaguely guilty—what would Vernon think if he knew? And what would Harry think if he knew? Her nephew would never believe it…
The view through the archway was daunting: a strangely proportioned street lined with old-fashioned buildings, many sporting wooden shop signs like a dream version of a historical movie set. Everyone wore robes, some in eclectic colours, some in rich sombre tones, while some, she noted ruefully, resembled Arthur's in their advanced degree of everyday shabbiness. As Petunia watched, one of the walkers waved her wand and simply disappeared. Then another person in turn appeared on the street and kept walking as if he had not just materialised from thin air.
"Ye comin' or goin'?" Petunia gave a little scream as the grotesque head ornamenting the capstone spoke up impatiently. "I can't be here all day, get along wi'you!"
Arthur took her arm and led her through, with an apologetic nod at the head who could be heard muttering behind them until the archway melted back into a solid wall of bricks.
Every third passerby seemed to be a friend of Arthur's, it turned out, or a colleague or an old schoolmate or the parent of a child's friend. Petunia wondered what those people were making of her at his side like this, as the oblivious Arthur had his hand up and was smiling hellos at people from the Alley entrance all the way to their destination, which proved to be a little narrow house along a side street three or four blocks or so away from Diagon Alley itself. The sign above the door proclaimed this to be "Seri Alley Clinic for Witches and Wizards—Cures for All Manner of Magical Ailments".
Inside, a small man in a white pointy hat sat at a reception desk in the middle of a tiny front hall. Off to the side some robed patients sat not in plastic chairs but comfortable recliners to wait their turn.
"Petunia Dursley?" he asked when Arthur gently propelled Petunia in the direction of the desk. "This way, please, Healer Parsiflage is expecting you. Hello, Arthur. What's this I hear about the World Cup?"
Arthur gave a short explanation full of unfamiliar words that Petunia failed to follow, as she had failed when Arthur had explained the same thing to McGonagall, and she vaguely wondered what the fuss was about. Still, she had more pressing matters on her mind right now than some sports event.
They were led upstairs and shown into the office of Healer Parsiflage. He was approximately Arthur's age, with some grey in his dark hair, an old-fashioned pair of horn-rimmed spectacles balanced on his nose, and an amiable expression on his narrow face. He welcomed her with a business-like handshake before starting to interrogate Arthur about the same matter Arthur had already explained so many times. Little by little Petunia began to feel less apprehensive. She allowed her glance to travel along a long line of books on a shelf, over a desk, and the odd assortment of glassware and metal implements neatly arranged on it. There was even a little kettle… or cauldron, really. Did the man do his own cooking in this very office?
The men's discussion concluded, Parsiflage unceremoniously banished Arthur from the room and turned to regard Petunia. She licked her lips nervously as the healer examined her with his gaze from head to well-shod toes.
"So, Mrs Dursley, you want to be tested," Parsiflage said at length. "Why is that?"
Petunia lifted her chin. "Why shouldn't I?"
"I only meant that at our age, you probably can't learn to actually perform magic, even if you have the innate ability," Healer Parsiflage explained gently. "Like a limb that is not used for a long time, magic withers away with lack of use."
Petunia's heart sank into her socks. Arthur had not mentioned that the general ability to do magic was not enough. So she would never learn magic, after all. Weren't you very much against having your life change, just now? some part of her brain taunted her. She ignored it.
"I just want to know," she finally said, and found that it was true. She wanted to know what she was, even if nothing would change afterwards, and even if she could not, after all, shut McGonagall up. "What do I do?"
"Sit down, to begin with, please," said Parsiflage. "Tea?" Petunia shook her head, which was beginning to ache from the stress. "Very well then, let's get to it."
He drew a long, slender, quite straight wand from his belt. Petunia swallowed empty air and sat frozen as he touched the wand to her temples, her forehead, the top of her head, then to her heart and stomach. At each touch, her headache crescendoed and she had to fight down panic.
Parsiflage grunted and frowned. He rose from his chair and circled her, waving his wand some more while muttering under his breath. From the corners of her eyes, Petunia was absurdly frightened to see fog and flashes of light. Once her right arm went completely numb; next her left foot felt warm. Her anxiety deepened into full-blown horror.
When Parsiflage lifted the wand to the level of her eyes she flinched back violently. "Stop!" she screamed. Instantly the wand was snatched away, and as the sensations stopped, her dread abated.
Parsiflage stared at her intently for a moment. Then he turned to sit down in his desk chair and immediately swivelled to face her again.
"Mrs Dursley," he finally said, adjusting his spectacles. "I'm afraid this has become something more than a simple test of magical ability. I believe you've been cursed."
"I'm cursed? What do you mean, cursed? That's not possible!" Petunia gasped. Parsiflage had said the fairytale word like it described a medical condition, which was completely laughable. She stared at the doctor, or healer or whatever he was, half fearing he would turn into some mythical beast—that would be hardly more startling.
"Do you think so? I could be wrong, it might just be a hex gone bad, but it can't be a charm…" He lifted his eyebrows at Petunia, who simply blinked in confusion. "You're not aware of anyone placing a spell on you at any point without removing it?"
That did it.
"Arthur?" she yelled, terror welling inside. When nothing whatsoever happened and no Arthur appeared, she screamed louder: "ARTHUR!"
The door crashed open. "What? What is it"? An alarmed Arthur burst in, still carrying a magazine he had picked up in the hallway.
"He says I've been cursed!" Petunia could not entirely keep her voice steady and the words ended in a squeak.
"What? How? Who? Parsiflage, are you sure?"
"Sure enough," Parsiflage sniffed. "If it is a curse, and not just a fresh hex, it's very crude, laid more than twenty years ago, I'd say. Whatever it is, or was, it completely disables her magical abilities by invoking fear whenever Mrs Dursley senses magic being performed or, presumably, tries to perform any herself."
Petunia whimpered. Someone had wanted to hurt her so bad they had cursed her, and had managed to actually do it without her even noticing.
"But—but—but… who did this to me?" she wailed. Arthur put a calming hand on her shoulder.
"That I can't tell you," Parsiflage said. "The curse has worked its way in quite thoroughly, and I can't trace it."
"What does that mean?" She couldn't understand any of this.
"When a curse is not lifted soon, it starts to eat into the soul of the person bearing it," Parsiflage explained. "In a way it moulds the person to itself, until it becomes difficult to tell where the curse leaves off and the personality begins."
"You mean nothing will change even after you take off the, the, the curse?" she moaned.
"I'm afraid not," said Parsiflage, his eyes sympathetic. "But that's not all. I can't lift the curse."
"What?!" Petunia gaped. Parsiflage leaned towards her, and she started back a little against Arthur's hand.
"Because it's so crude, I can't even tell what type it is. If I can't tell the type, I don't know what lifts it. The only way to remove your curse is to find out who cast it and get them to remove it… or kill the person, whichever."
"Well, I have no intention of killing anyone," Petunia said, voice still shaking. They were back in the Brown Room, upstairs from the pub; Petunia had found that she could not really face the world just yet without sitting down for a while, and Arthur had commandeered the use of the ministry's special room once again. He had even procured for them a pair of drinks, strong brown stuff he called firewhiskey, which she now sipped, much to the dismay of her tonsils.
"I don't even know who it…" she began hoarsely, when an icy certainty suddenly washed through her. "It has to be Harry!"
"Harry? Why do you say that? Of course it's not Harry!" Arthur spluttered.
"He's always hated me… I just know he's behind this," she said miserably, astonished at the pain that the boy's betrayal made her feel. "He must have done something, maybe years ago when he was small, he was always doing magic when he oughtn't."
"But he wouldn't! Besides, he's only fourteen," Arthur pointed out. "Parsiflage said twenty years."
"Oh. Of course." She did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
Arthur tapped his finger against his lips thoughtfully. "Twenty years… it couldn't be fourteen, but what if it was eighteen? Did something… happen, then, when we last met, that you didn't tell me about?"
She sniffed and took another sip of firewhiskey. "Certainly no one cursed me. I'm quite sure I'd remember," she managed to croak.
"Or maybe it was You-Know-Who's ploy… one of his minions, sent to rid the world of Muggle-born wizards…"
"Whose?"
Arthur stared at her. "You-Know-Who's," he whispered, enunciating clearly.
"But I don't know!" Petunia could only stare wide-eyed. For a second Arthur stared at her, similarly confused, but then understanding dawned.
"Yes, of course, sorry. It means…" Arthur hesitated, then settled for: "…the person who killed Lily and James."
"Voldemort. I see," she nodded, only to have Arthur jump almost out of his skin.
"Don't… just don't say that name. Please." He shook his head, amused. "I always seem to be telling Harry the same thing, and he never minds me. Yes, I mean He Who Must Not Be Named. But why would even he…?" Arthur shook his head and took a gulp from his own drink. "I'm so sorry, Pet. I just don't know how to help."
They sat quiet again, until another thought took root in Petunia's head.
"Whoever it was who cursed me… Do you think he's done with me?" she asked timidly. "Am I in danger?"
Arthur put his hand top of hers and squeezed. His hands were pleasantly cool and the skin of his fingertips was slightly scratchy. Her spine tingled unexpectedly, inappropriately. Suddenly his presence next to her seemed to weigh more than the world.
"I'm sure you're not. It was a long time ago." Arthur shifted his chair closer and put an arm around her, awkwardly because of the corner of the table between them. The touch of his hand on her bare arm was tender, intimate, and she leaned a little closer to him.
"Petunia…" Arthur hesitated. "Are you going back to Little Whinging?"
"Of course I am!" Shocked, Petunia pulled back a little. "Dudley's coming home in four days. I promised Vernon I'd be back on Sunday."
"Oh." Did he sound satisfied or disappointed? "It's only… You never answered me, you know, when I asked about how things were with Vernon. Not really."
Petunia took a deep breath and stood up.
"I don't want to discuss it. No, I really don't," she interrupted Arthur with an upraised palm when he tried to protest, "and in any case, no one is less likely to have cursed me than Vernon."
Arthur seemed on the verge of protesting that that was not what he meant, but then he paused, frowned slightly and sprang up to face her. "You know, Pet, I think we're missing the big picture here. What was it that Parsiflage said—about your abilities?"
"That the curse disables them," she answered, perplexed.
"And if it disables them, it means—"
The long overdue realisation left her gasping. Her heart missed several beats, and she had to grasp Arthur's hand to steady the spinning world. "It means I have some."
Gasping for breath she paced to the window and back, and then to the door and back. Arthur was grinning at her. "What are you laughing at?" she laughed.
"Nothing." His grin dimmed a little. "But the curse… I only wish it could have been better news. And I hope I haven't disrupted your life altogether."
"I'll worry about that tomorrow," she said, and meant it. Tomorrow she might feel very differently, but tonight—tonight, she decided, she would be jubilant… and do her best to avoid telling everyone in the entire world, starting with Harry Potter. Actually, there was no one she could tell at all, no one but Arthur could ever know. Her legs trembled a little again and she sat down on an overstuffed leather sofa, overcome by all her conflicting emotions.
Arthur came to sit next to her and put his arm around her again. As if of their own accord, her fingers sought out his other hand and grasped it.
"It'll be all right," he said, and the conviction in his voice was almost enough to persuade her, too.
Arthur's fingers were warm against the skin of her arm. She leaned into the safe curve of his body, but instead of slowing down her heart began to beat so hard that it was a wonder it didn't crack her ribs. He tightened his grip, hugging her to him. She swallowed and drew back a little to look at his face and then, just like that, he kissed her lips with the tender welcome and wonder that brought a flood of past memories. Perhaps he felt it too, or felt the hungry response of her body, because the kiss grew more eager. Petunia, luxuriating in the feel of him, caressed his back with one hand and ran the other along his arm up to his curling red hair—when skin met skin he shivered, or perhaps it was her, feeling the touch in her spine. His blindly grasping hand found her stockinged knee and the caress of it lit up her loins.
The kiss went on for a long time, and the pulse in her chest, her head, her legs and between them, demanded more all the time. When she could finally stand it no more she broke off and unceremoniously swivelled around to straddle his lap. He gasped when they clutched at each other.
A stray thought drifted through her head for long enough that she paused and looked into Arthur's earnest blue eyes. Something along the lines of where the past was and where it belonged. "Pet…" he breathed, perhaps struck by the same kind of thought.
"I know," she murmured and bent to kiss him again. Sod the past, and especially sod the present day, all of it except Arthur.
Their lips began to wander, until his found just the right spot under her ear, then the other one just above her collarbone, and made her breath catch. She curled her fingers into his hair and lost herself for what felt like minutes, hours in the exquisite bliss of his tongue along her skin. She pressed herself against him as though willing their flesh to merge, while his hand dove under the hem of her dress, then up again to unzip her dress and stroke the bare skin of her back. He undid her bra with a deft flick of his fingers, and then those hands were on her breasts and they fit perfectly, just the right size for him to enfold their softness. She moaned out loud, and that brought her out of the clouds as she choked off the sound, alarmed at the thought of being heard.
"'S all right," Arthur murmured against her cheek. "Room's soundproofed."
He rose and lifted her to her feet, only to lay her down on the black carpet on the robes he hastily shrugged off. All rational thought vanished into the thrill of his touch, including any worries about the quality of soundproofing in the ancient building.
Quite a while later, Arthur lifted his head and smiled at her. Petunia did not quite know what she expected him to do, perhaps get up and begin to dress, but instead he lay down beside her on the rug and on the messy pile of their clothes, propping himself up on one elbow. They lay in a pool of slanting evening sunlight and his hair made a fiery halo around his head. An odd spark in his eyes made Petunia grow serious.
"You do know, Pet, that I never stopped…" he began, but Petunia quickly reached up and put her hand over his mouth.
"Don't," she whispered. Some words were too dangerous to hear just now.
He understood, of course he did. His face fell just a little, and Petunia ached to kiss it all better. Instead she sat up and absently rubbed the skin on the backs of her bare thighs. The floor was starting to feel uncomfortable and she became aware of a sweeping draught. She should go, it was getting late enough for the sun to almost reach the back wall of the Brown Room, but Arthur's skin shone such a delicious creamy white in the sunlight, his eyes sparked as he watched her standing there, and she was not quite ready yet to relinquish this—well, magical—afternoon.
"Do you see any blankets anywhere?" She peered around at the room.
"Hang on…" Arthur hunted briefly in the robes scattered around and under him until he found a sleeve, put his hand in it the wrong way and retrieved a slender round piece of wood about the length of his forearm. He gave it a wave and said something like "Vestimentio!", and two blankets flapped through the air from the end of it, accompanied by Petunia's startled yelp.
"I meant real ones," she grimaced and poked one of them, brown with an unlikely pattern of orange roses, with a toe.
"They are real," Arthur laughed. He got up and wrapped her in one of them, and certainly it felt real enough, warm and fluffy. They ended up making a nest of them on the sofa, one blanket underneath, one covering both of them, with a bowl of red grapes from the sideboard balanced in a valley of their combined topography, and talked about less awkward things like their homes and Quidditch and knitting.
Arthur's watch chimed eventually, but he gave it a sharp crack against the corner of a table and it fell silent.
"Don't you have to go?" Petunia asked, not sorry at all.
"Well. Everyone thinks I'm working late, and at home…" He grimaced. "No one'll miss me."
She studied his somewhat melancholy profile. "You keep asking about me and Vernon," she said, "but should I be asking about you and Molly? I mean…" She hesitated and ate a grape to cover it. "I mean, we're… here."
"Well. Obviously there're things…" He broke off sharply, considered for a moment and sighed. "I simply don't really feel like I have any use at home. Molly has this whole other life, hunting dark wizards with a completely unofficial group, a circle of friends, and I go to work every day and come home every day and it makes no difference whether I do or not. But Pet, I don't want to spoil today by pouring all this on you."
They were both quiet for a moment.
"We should probably get out of this room, though," he finally said, humour back in his voice, "before the Minister for Magic gets it into his head to entertain his Alley connections in here or whatnot. Be a bit of a surprise to find us in here."
"You could walk me to my hotel," she suggested. "If you don't mind. I'm so distracted I'll just walk into a tree or fall into the river if I try walking back on my own."
"Of course I will. Couldn't have your beautiful nose be squashed against a tree trunk," Arthur chuckled and rose.
It would have been nice to hold Arthur's hand and really pretend the clock had turned back twenty years, but even in the evening Diagon Alley was mobbed with people who knew Arthur so they had to be satisfied with occasionally brushing shoulders or hips with each other.
"Is it always this busy here?" Petunia asked, dodging out of the way of a rather large witch carrying two broomsticks. A figure dressed in blue robes trod on her foot, turned to apologise, nodded greetings to Arthur and went on his way.
"Not always. Mostly it's last minute shopping—it's the last weekend before the term starts at Hogwarts and everyone's buying supplies. Oh, that reminds me!" Arthur stopped dead in the middle of the street, ignoring the people casting annoyed looks their way. "There's a book I really need to get tonight for Fred and George. We always get ours at Sultany's Secondhand Shop, let's… I mean…" Arthur trailed to an awkward halt and cleared his throat. "It might be best if I went alone. Tatty Sultany's a dreadful gossip."
"I'll just do a bit of window shopping in the meanwhile," Petunia offered smoothly. If word got back to Molly, she would at the very least wonder why Arthur was escorting Harry's aunt around Diagon Alley—and at worst, if Arthur had confessed to their relationship all those years ago, realise who she was.
To a quick, careless glance, wizard shops seemed quite the same as ordinary ones, but revealed their true nature on closer inspection. One sold robes in various colours, draped over mannequins that startled Petunia by shifting into new poses every few seconds. There was also a bookshop that would have seemed quite ordinary if it hadn't been for the moving, waving author photos in the displays and the titles of the books themselves. Another shop's display windows were empty, defeating somewhat the point of having display windows in the first place, Petunia thought, but the store's name plaque bore the golden words Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. Perhaps this was where Harry had bought the wand that Vernon had sworn he would grind into tiny pieces if he ever saw it around the house… In fact, was this also the place where Lily had got hers? Petunia turned her head this way and that, trying to remember, but it had been so long ago.
It was so very odd to be here alone, even if only for a few minutes, even if Arthur was no more than a hundred feet away. Petunia felt out of place and exposed, an intolerable feeling for which she blamed the strange unnatural laws—or rather supernatural laws, she corrected herself out of courtesy towards Arthur—of Diagon Alley. It was probably for the best, she thought, that she would never be a part of this. She was too old to start learning how to live her life all over again. The teenage years had been bad enough. She gazed at her reflection in the bookshop window, at the image of a pinched-looking woman in her early forties wearing a desperately ordinary flowered dress and a nervously perfect hairdo, alien among the be-robed populace reflected behind her back.
"All set, we can go now," Arthur said, coming up beside her with a book-shaped package under his arm. Then he took a second look at her. "What is it?"
She shrugged off the melancholy with an almost physical effort and smiled a little.
"Nothing," she lied. "Let's go."
"There's a message for you, Mrs Dursley," said the hotel receptionist and proffered a folded note, her face carefully bland. "Your husband called while you were away."
Petunia eyed the note with distaste and had to force herself to take it from the girl's hand. Meeting customer contact on Sunday, come home tonight to iron shirt. The writing was a woman's but the words were all Vernon, and she could practically see even the words that the receptionist had not written down.
She was surprised by the strength of the anger that electrified her. How dare he even think he could summon her home like that, cut short her holiday to iron his shirt? And it galled even worse to think that, without Arthur, she might actually have entertained the idea; and if Vernon had caught her on the telephone, alone, she might actually have caved in and gone back home just so she could feel needed and not have to think about what Parsiflage had told her. But now… thank heavens for Arthur. She crumpled up the note and flung it angrily into the nearest dustbin.
"Is something wrong?" Arthur's concern was instant and genuine.
"No, nothing." She swiped a stray curl of hair back behind her ear where it belonged and looked across at Arthur. "Do you want to come upstairs for some tea?"
He only hesitated a beat. "Yes. Sounds wonderful."
"The lift's over here," she said, then in a flash realized that the receptionist girl was witnessing all this. She could hardly pretend now that Arthur was her husband who had unexpectedly joined her in London. Blushing, she turned on her heel, took Arthur's hand and drew him into the lift, determined not to care and equally determined never to return to this hotel again. But as the lift doors slid shut she caught a glimpse of the reception desk and the grinning girl giving her a discreet double thumbs-up sign.
"We'll see each other again." In spite of his words, Arthur sounded a little subdued.
Petunia craned her neck to peer at the displays of Paddington Station, avoiding his eyes by pretending to search for the four o'clock train which she could see perfectly well. Platform five. She reached for her suitcase but Arthur picked it up.
"Or will we?" he continued even more quietly as they started walking past the bookshops and chip shops and information desks. They were well on time in spite of Arthur's endearing habit of getting excited about escalators and sliding doors, of which they had encountered quite a few on their way here.
"Maybe," Petunia sighed after an eternal pause, "but things get in the way. Life. Families. You have yours, I have mine. It's best not to make any big promises we can't keep. Right, there's my train." Petunia drew a shuddering breath to start the dreaded business of goodbyes, but Arthur spoke first.
"Pet, I know this isn't much, but…" He proffered a small box. "Here. For you. To remember me by."
Touched to the bottom of her heart, she opened the box. Inside was a little item, about the size of the tip of her thumb, made of rubber, attached to a chain. They made an odd pair. The chain was silver but the pendant was really a child's toy, probably once part of a keychain or some collectible set. It depicted a teapot with a woman's kind face, the spout serving as the nose, mouth open in laughter or song.
"When I saw it, I remembered what McGonagall said to you about singing teapots," Arthur explained and then chuckled. "It's a charmed Muggle artefact, and Tatty Sultany was quite happy to have it off her hands before I, an official of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, reported her to the Ministry for its possession. She gave me a bargain on the chain, too."
"Arthur, honestly!" Petunia snorted, slightly outraged but still amused and quite, quite glad, which suddenly turned into apprehensiveness. "Did you say charmed?"
"A weak healing charm had been put on it," he said dismissively. "Nothing dangerous."
He helped her with the chain. She half expected to feel the terror of the curse when the charm touched her skin, but instead the feel of Arthur's fingers on the nape of her neck gave her a vivid flashback to the pleasures of the night before, and she found it hard not take half a step back and lean into his warm embrace. She inhaled the smell of engine oil and the hint of owl that clung even to his Muggle clothes, and wondered when—or if—she would smell it again.
They parted with no more than a squeeze of hands and a long look, and Petunia started her long journey back to Little Whinging, and back to Vernon whose tantrums she now felt much better prepared to withstand.
Despondent, Arthur watched the train pull out of the station and disappear into the afternoon glare outside, and wondered whether he should have told her about having strengthened the healing charm on the little teapot. But she was not really in a condition to be told. If the charm did its work, she would eventually not mind; if it didn't, well, why say anything if it had no effect?
Only when the train was quite gone did he sigh and turn away to head towards Kensington Gardens and the nearest entrance to the Ministry. He would spend a few hours at work, where really he should have been spending his time all weekend and where his desk was now bound to be completely hidden under piles of Notices of Charmed Muggle Objects and Requests for Obliviation.
Seeing Petunia again was more than worth it. He smiled to himself as he remembered Petunia's smile, so often a little wry, and her smooth, lovely skin under his fingertips.
He could scarcely believe what had happened. Ever since he had sat down to his breakfast three years ago only to realise that he was sharing the table with Lily and James's actual son, Petunia's nephew, he had ached to make up some excuse to meet her—while at the same time dreading any such meeting, because even after all the years that had passed since their parting, he had known he still loved her. He loved Molly, too, of course, but… But. Still. Was it possible to love two people at once? Apparently yes.
And then the World Cup had opened that door. He'd had to go—the alternative, having Molly visit Petunia and her Muggle husband, was unthinkable, not only because Molly hardly knew the first thing about Muggles but also because, in truth, the thought of Molly and Petunia meeting without him being there made him cringe. So he had gone to fetch Harry, building up his façade of amiable curiosity for days beforehand, and just managing to maintain it through their meeting by the skin of his teeth. And that should have been that… except that, in his fevered state afterwards, he had then written to her.
How could he now ever hope to un-fall in love with her?