CHAPTER TEN: BEDKNOBS AND BROOMSTICKS
Petunia wondered later if getting a wand at that juncture was an entirely good idea; while it didn't work for her, the boys were utterly fascinated with it. She thought that Dudley might, on his own, have left the wand alone; it was also remotely possible that Harry would have on his own. But together, they were as curious as Mrs. Figg's cats, and twice as inventive. After coming upon Dudley about to cast a spell with it (under the tutelage of Pompey), with Harry warming up behind him, Petunia was driven to carrying the wand with her at all times.
But as the boys' departure for Hogwarts loomed on the horizon, Petunia fretted that the boys would know no one there, and asked Mrs. Figg if perhaps she should put them in a wizarding preparatory school. It would make it easier for them to adjust if they had wizarding friends before they went to Hogwarts, wouldn't it? Would it be expensive? Mrs. Figg looked dubious. "I'd be careful about that," she said. "Might be children from Death Eater families attending, which would make it dangerous. Perhaps I could arrange something else."
The 'something else' was a visit, for tea, from a wizarding boy the same age as Dudley and Harry, and his grandmother; pure-bloods, as Mrs. Figg put it, but with no allegiance to the Death Eaters. Pompey was thrilled with this development, and cleaned the house from top to bottom. He also chivvied the boys into pressed and spotless clothes—Petunia wondered how he managed it—and suggested—well, let's be honest, he demanded-that she wear a skirt, or better yet, a dress. Petunia's wardrobe had suffered from her shortage of money, and her best outfit was ten years old and hung listlessly on her thin frame. Pompey sniffed and snapped his fingers; the dress miraculously shrank to fit her. But he could do nothing about its datedness; Petunia hoped that their visitors wouldn't notice.
Once she caught sight of Augusta Longbottom, though, she relaxed. She was an elderly woman dressed in a coat trimmed with a rather moth-eaten fur collar and a hat with—no joke-a vulture on it. Petunia's oversized shoulder pads could scarcely compete with that. The ensemble proved to be misleading, however. Augusta seemed to be a proud, straight-laced woman who looked down her nose at Petunia and at the undoubted Muggleness of Petunia's house and of Petunia herself. And, alas, Petunia's children. Petunia belatedly remembered Lily's comments on pure-bloods, and wondered if this had been a good idea. She sighed inwardly.
By contrast, Augusta's small grandson was rather an attractive child, Petunia thought. He was round-faced and shy, and seemed rather alarmed by the outspokenness of Dudley and Harry, especially the latter, who was demonstrating—damn him to Hell—the conversational tendencies that he had inherited from his maternal grandmother, Marigold Evans.
"What's that on your hat?" he asked Mrs. Longbottom, as they sat around the dining room table. The tea itself was impeccable, thanks to Pompey, if rather sparse. "Is it a buzzard?"
She grimaced. "No," she said shortly. "A vulture." The words 'you ill-bred little boy' weren't uttered, but they hung in the air.
"So is it for Hallowe'en, then?" Harry persisted. Mrs. Longbottom's eyes flashed.
"Harry!" cried Petunia. "Be quiet!"
"I'm not being rude, Tante! I'm just asking."
"You are being rude, and do please stop asking," Petunia said repressively, wishing Mrs. Longbottom had a sense of humour. Vain wish, obviously. Her guest was looking increasingly thunderous.
Augusta's small grandson, on the other hand, seemed thoroughly entertained, though quite startled at the manner in which Petunia joked with her boys, and how they responded to it. Alas, his grandmother felt it necessary to detail to the whole table how far short he fell of his father's magical standards. In front of the child himself! Petunia was horrified by this, and tried to choke the older woman off: "Lots of time for that, isn't there?"
"We fear he might be a squib," Augusta said dourly.
"I'm a squib," Petunia said flatly, "And it's not so bad a fate." Did she just say that? And contradict her entire life story as told by her to her? Oh, irony.
The tea over, Petunia suggested that the boys take Neville—that was the grandson's name-into the garden to play. Augusta was very obviously alarmed by this notion, and the bad effects of her descendant associating with these two Muggle ruffians; she invented another appointment for which they definitely could not be late. Petunia's eyes narrowed, especially when she noticed Neville's very evident disappointment.
"Just fifteen minutes," she insisted—insisted? What was she doing, anyway? Harry and Dudley pulled Neville thought the door with yelps of triumph, and they played in the garden for an hour, while Augusta and Petunia made stilted small talk in the dining room. There was blood in Augusta's eye, however, and Petunia was not at all surprised to receive no reciprocal invitation from the Longbottoms.
"Neville's grandmother is a right tartar, innit she?" Harry said, after they left.
Petunia winced. Perhaps Augusta's opinion of Harry's manners had some justice. She'd have to work on that.
"Why does she say Neville's a squib?" Dudley asked.
"Apparently he doesn't have magical outbursts, like you and Harry do," Petunia explained.
Dudley and Harry looked puzzled. "Yes he does," Dudley says. "They're like mine."
A pureblood witch and she didn't know the difference? Petunia was amazed. And also rather depressed at the outcome of her first foray into wizarding social life.
Mrs. Figg, however, was not yet discouraged. Next she arranged a visit from a different wizarding family. The Weasleys boasted four children and they were escorted by their mother. This time, Petunia had primed the boys to behave themselves, and had Number 4 as clean as she and Pompey could make it.
Molly Weasley looked as eccentric as Augusta Longbottom, but a lot less prosperous. She had tough-looking twelve year old twin boys, a skinny younger boy the same age as Dudley and Harry, and a girl a year younger than that. And she told Petunia that she had three older boys as well! Petunia marvelled at her stamina. Molly's boys made loud comments about how nice and spacious Number 4 was. Petunia had not been able to spend any money on Number 4 for some time, so that it looked distinctly shabby; but then, she didn't have a family of nine, either. She wondered what The Burrow (that was the name of the Weasley's house, according to Molly) must be like. Molly's boys were boisterous, but her little girl was very shy, hiding her face in her napkin to conceal brilliant blushes. She had bright red plaits, and reminded Petunia painfully of Lily. Petunia did not envy Molly her boys, she had some of those herself, but the little girl—oh yes, she did envy her that.
This time, after the children went out to play in the garden, Petunia did not hear any whoops, yells, or whistles, which she knew by experience meant trouble. When she looked out, she discovered that the twins had brought their brooms along with them and that Dudley and Harry were riding them. Well, sort of, if you could call holding on by your hands while you dangled from a speeding broom riding. Molly pushed Petunia aside and charged into the garden. She had the brooms on the ground in seconds and her denunciation of the twins was incredibly loud and very lengthy. Dudley and Harry were astonished by this display-later Petunia noted gratefully that this meant they must be forgetting some of the nasty details of life with Vernon—and then Harry said, sotto voce, "Tante, are all witches crazy?" To Petunia's dismay, Molly's cat-like ears caught this, and she gathered up her children and marched them to the door. The Weasley boys were grinning and giving Harry the thumbs up as they went by. Their little sister, by contrast, looked like she was about to expire with embarrassment. I have a feeling that this encounter won't elicit a reciprocal invitation either. Said Molly to Harry as she went past: "And the moral of this story is: never ride any strange brooms."
Her boys felt that this was good advice, and as a result started begging for a broomstick of their own. "Just one," Harry said, "so that we can get some practice in before Hogwarts and not look like total fools when we get there." Petunia could see that Dudley was equally anxious about it, though he said little. But the purchase of the wand had exhausted the cache of spare cash she had, never very great. The boys suggested that she buy it on credit, against the day that she could claim the Mayhew estate, but Petunia was utterly opposed to more debt; she was up against an overly large mortgage as it was. And I'm not sure I'll ever be able to claim the estate, though your faith that I will is touching.
Pompey listened to the debate with air of rising exasperation and then disappeared one day. The children were very upset. They feared he had left for good, as he often threatened to do. Petunia was less upset, but she understood that the children's circle was so small that they mourned any subtraction from it. So even she was relieved to see Pompey when he returned, even if he was dragging a dusty broomstick behind him.
The broom had belonged, no surprise, to Cressida Mayhew, retrieved by Pompey from the Manor. Was that stealing, if the estate didn't actually belong to her? Given that Pompey was capable of sulking for days altogether over the issue, and that the boys had already seen the broom, and were in a state of wild excitement as a result, Petunia decided that it wasn't. The broom was, after all, in sad shape. It looked very old, and very dated, according to Mrs. Figg. Still, Petunia was very reluctant to let the boys, especially Harry, who never could be trusted to be cautious, anywhere near it. Pompey was adamant, however: "They have to learn. And better they learn at home."
Well, Petunia thought that he might be right about that; and when she learned that it was common to teach wizarding children to ride brooms at an early age, she reluctantly agreed to it. Pompey was able to place a training spell on the broom, which meant that it couldn't rise more than two feet off the ground. Petunia refused to consent to more. The boys were delighted with it, and competed with each other to ride it. And to Petunia's surprise, Mrs. Figg also suggested that she learn as well.
"You're joking," Petunia said to her.
"No, I'm not, Petunia. You really should. In emergencies, it might be vital."
"Do you know how?" Petunia asked pointedly.
"I do know how; I just can't do it by myself. Not enough magic."
"What makes you think I have enough, then?"
"Well, why not try and find out?"
Why not, indeed. Because I don't want to go splat on the pavement, that's why. So messy.
The boys, however, picked up the thread—how could she be a proper witch, they cried, if she didn't ride a broomstick? They wanted to be able to tell all the other prats at Hogwarts that their mother could fly with the best of them! Won't you try, Mum? Please? You need to show us the right way, Tante! We need a proper example! No, I don't have to show you how to go splat, Harry. You can achieve that state without my demonstration. It's not in my parenting manual, I do assure you.
Pompey folded his arms and glared at her. Petunia knew was he was thinking; and what's more, she knew what he was about to say. So Petunia found herself astride a broomstick, wavering between feeling like an utter fool, and being scared to death. Pompey had cast what he described as 'notice-me-not' spells to make sure that the neighbours saw nothing, and then snapped his fingers. The broom seemed to zoom into the sky, the terrified Petunia clinging to it for dear life. The boys cheered; from what seemed like a very long way up, Petunia saw her children waving to her frantically, and Mrs. FIgg berating a smirking Pompey. That miserable, nasty little-
Then Petunia started to fly.
Flying was marvelous. It was freedom, and every stupendous moment you ever had, rolled into one. Petunia loved flying. It wasn't until she had been in the sky for some time that she realized something else. If she had enough magic to fly, the she really must be a witch. A witch in a bad haircut, a tatty old turtleneck jumper, ancient faded jeans, and worn trainers, but a witch nonetheless.