Jonas 3: Oh, boy. You're right about the spelling of the name; it was always underlined in the text, but I thought it was because it was a proper name. No, it's because you can't spell, dummy! Damn. Anyway, thank you for bringing that one to my attention.

Cherry: You will get your way.

Bookivore: In response to the 1st part of your review: Petunia doesn't want to marry Sirius, because: (1) He's crazy; (2) Her first marriage was a disaster, and she's afraid of making another mistake; (3) She's enjoying her independence; and (4) and most important: she doesn't think Sirius wants to marry her for reasons that make any sense for her. This suggests that she is developing self-esteem, rather than not. However, it's not a straight line of development. She was in Sirius's position once herself, and empathises with his isolation, his loneliness, and his emotional problems, and thus she finds it difficult to cut him off - she says. She also knows that pure-blood wizards regard marriage rather differently, ie as a business proposition, and no offence was meant.

Veronica: Very glad you are enjoying it.

Many thanks for the reviews, everyone who did review, it's always much appreciated, and if anyone else notices any more spelling errors, please let me know.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES

In which Harry is blamed for something his wand did; the existential masculine dilemma in ye nutshell.

Petunia pulled away from Hector and Titus and cried: "Pompey!"

And Pompey appeared with a pop, eyes wide, nostrils distended. He looked up at her. Petunia knelt down so that they could hear each other. "Do you know a spell for locating people?" she shouted at him. He shook his head, grabbing her wrist, pulled her around the outskirts of the crowd so rapidly that they lost Hector and Titus in the process. Petunia didn't care; she needed to find the boys, and sooner rather than later, and the men seemed more concerned with her safety; they would thus only slow her down.

The edge of the mob was quieter. Pompey said, "There is a spell, Mistress, but it's illegal; the wizards say there is too much potential for misuse." His pursed lips gave his opinion of that. Petunia shook her head, trying to convey that she wanted to use it anyway.

"No need," he shouted. "We can use the old magic."

"Old magic?" Petunia asked, perplexed.

"Make a fire," Pompey said curtly. Petunia used her wand, and did as he asked. He muttered something, and the fire burned blue; he then told her to cut her palm to produce some blood, and to put it into the fire. She didn't have a knife, but Pompey did, and she bloodied her palm with it. He gave her a disapproving 'you-clumsy-Muggle' look, and grasping her by the wrist, shook her bleeding hand over the fire. Droplets of her blood fell into the flames. The flames shot into the sky and then resolved themselves into a ball of light. It set off to the north, as Petunia was able to determine because Pompey showed her the 'point-me' spell. They stumbled after the trail of smoke it left for them.

It was wooded territory and not easy to navigate, especially in the dark. Petunia struggled along after Pompey, who made good time over the uneven ground, using the light from the wand Petunia was holding above her head. They burst into a clearing, and the sudden mise-en-scene imprinted itself on Petunia's brain like a snapshot. A group of adult wizards surrounded Harry, Dudley, Hermione and what looked like a house elf, who was lying on the ground. Their wands were drawn.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Petunia cried. They looked around at her, frowning. She was surprised to recognize Arthur Weasley of all people, as well as Amos Diggory, and several other wizards she did not know. Arthur rather shame-facedly introduced her to Ludovic Bagman and Bartemius Crouch, among others. She recognized the names from his conversation earlier in the day with his son Percy, and wished now that she had listened to it with more than half an ear.

Crouch had the look of a life-long bureaucrat to Petunia, and in her book, that was not a compliment. She had met plenty of people of his stamp in her life in the form of lawyers, judges and social workers. When angry, the power they wielded made them capable of profound injustices, as she could attest. Crouch was angry.

The focus of his anger seemed to be a small elf – a female, she thought – that apparently belonged to him. Petunia gathered that the elf had been found in the woods with Harry's wand in her hands; and Harry's wand had been found to have produced the skull and snake symbol, still shimmering evilly and triumphantly in the sky above them. At first the group of men had been inclined to blame the child, to Petunia's utter indignation; then they shifted to blaming the elf, which didn't make her any happier. Especially when Crouch himself began bullying the same small elf; when he shouted "This means clothes!" at her, Petunia could no longer contain herself.

"And what does that mean?" she asked sharply. "Were you planning to throttle her with your old school tie?"

"Petunia, please," muttered Arthur.

"No, Arthur, I will not be silent!" Petunia cried. Her nerves were in shreds, she could see that all three of the children were upset, the unfortunate elf was hysterical, and she herself didn't feel much calmer. "What on earth are you on about? You know it wasn't her fault!"

"Be quiet," Crouch snapped. Petunia had stopped being used to rudeness some time ago, and she gasped.

"Now, Barty, no need for that, eh?" Bagman said genially. "You'll be giving Mrs. Dursely the wrong idea about us!" No, he won't.

"She is dismissed," Crouch said coldly. It took a minute before Petunia realized that he meant the elf, who wailed in despair. He stormed from the clearing, the other men straggling after him, except for Arthur Weasley.

"A charming display, I must say," Petunia said angrily to him; and then to her own elf she said: "Pompey, can you do anything with her?" The female elf's despairing shrieks were growing louder, despite Hermione's attempts to soothe her.

Pompey didn't hesitate. He trotted over to her and slapped her face twice sharply, and she gasped and swallowed. The shrieks stopped, but her sobbing did not. Petunia cursed under her breath, and said to Pompey, "Bring her along, and try to keep her quiet. We don't want to attract any more attention than we need to in a place like this." This sentiment seemed to penetrate even the elf's misery, and her noise level dropped, to Petunia's relief.

They stumbled along to the tents, Pompey leading the way. Petunia could not see Hector or Titus anywhere, and fervently hoped they had made it home safely. The rest of the party was already at the tents, in various states of wear and tear. To Petunia's astonishment, Arthur proposed to spend the night, or at least part of it, right there, due to the crowds at all the exits and paths. "Are you mad?" she asked. "Don't you know Molly's going to be out of her mind with worry when she hears what's been going on? Maybe you want to stay, but I don't, and I'm damned well not going to! Is there a floo nearby?"

There wasn't, or if there was, Arthur did not know where it might be, and eventually, they decided to use side-along apparition instead. It was extremely unpleasant for the passenger, and Petunia and the older Weasley boys had to be instructed in the technique, but they were desperate to leave.

Petunia knew her instincts had been correct when Molly greeted them with tears, having heard the news on the radio while checking for the score of the match. Given her level of hysteria, Petunia decided to tell Hermione to get her things and come back to the Manor with them. The abandoned elf came along, too, clinging haplessly to Pompey.

Petunia discovered several owls from St. Mungo's awaiting them there; she was relieved to note that they were from Hector and Titus, who had searched for her unsuccessfully before leaving themselves.

So they had guests for the last week of holiday, Hermione Granger, and Mr. Crouch's elf, who rejoiced in what Petunia felt was the truly dreadful name of Winky. Roman generals were absolutely preferable, in her opinion, to coy diminutives of this type. Pompey must have agreed, she supposed, because he absolutely refused to call the elf by that name. He instructed her, in a lofty manner that brooked no argument, that in this household she would be called Calpurnia. She had developed a considerable awe of Pompey, and obediently answered to Calpurnia if he called her by it. Everyone else called her Winky; or at least they did out of Pompey's earshot.

Petunia felt sorry for the elf, and wished she liked her better. Alas, Winky, er, Calpurnia, possessed a talent for extremely wearing sotto voce monologues, which seemed to persist day and night, the burden of which was her come-down in the world because she now was part of Muggle-born-led household. Petunia had heard enough of that from Pompey; she was damned if she would equip him with an echo.

She told him: "If Calpurnia finds us too unrefined, I'll find another place for her. The school, perhaps, or I can ask Andromeda Tonks to take her in." Well, Andromeda is certainly a pure-blood, but I doubt Winky would like Ted or Dora. Ditto Molly and her tribe of red-headed hellions.

Pompey got the message, and the monologue stopped. Or at least, to be more accurate, it stopped being audible. But Petunia could see the little elf mouthing the words under her breath. First Sirius, and now this elvish Greek Chorus. This is what altruistic impulses get you, you idiot.

Petunia wondered what had set Crouch off, but Winky, though she seemed to know, would not say – at least to her. To Pompey and Scipio, and to the other three elves at the Manor, she was apparently somewhat more forthcoming. "She hints a lot," Pompey said dourly. "Disobedience, I would imagine."

"She doesn't strike me as the type to be disobedient," Petunia noted.

"She might be so from fear," Pompey said, and Petunia had to admit to him that this was entirely possible. In any case, they were landed with her until Crouch relented or she found more suitably aristocratic surroundings, whichever came first. There were times that Petunia was tempted to help her along to the second future with the toe of her shoe, especially after being told something was only what a Muggle would do, but she suppressed this notion as unworthy, as well as unkind.

The debacle of the World Cup depressed Petunia to the point that she looked forward to the new school year without any enthusiasm. It would undoubtedly bring another problematical DADA teacher; when hadn't it? She had a sudden fear that Dumbledore might hire Sirius; he was quite capable of it. It was thus a relief to hear that the new professor's name was Moody, even if it was accompanied by an alarming cognomen like 'Mad-Eye'.

Petunia gathered that Mad-Eye Moody was a very famous and retired Auror, or wizarding police officer. That sounded promising, but from experience, she didn't invest too much hope in him, remembering Lockhart's undeserved reputation, and how Lupin's pleasant demeanor had masked his lycanthropy.

There was something else going on; Minerva McGongall was in a state of suppressed excitement during their transformation tutorials. Petunia was reaching a point where she had to concentrate very hard to make any progress at all, and so she kept her mind on her work, and didn't ask questions. Minerva had stopped saying it was a good exercise for Petunia's magic, and started speculating about Petunia's eventual animagus form. Petunia supposed she should be flattered, but she found the amount of work it took was so daunting, so continuous, and so very difficult, that she seriously considered abandoning it. Only Sirius's regular letters kept her going; she hated, or maybe she feared to disappoint him as he was heavily invested in her progress, and monitored it minutely.

Once school started, Petunia's pessimism proved entirely justified. The boys' reports on their first lesson with Mad-Eye Moody shocked Petunia - she certainly didn't expect the man to teach impressionable 14-year-olds the Unforgivables, and demonstrate them on insects for his class, no less. Was the man mad? Redundant question, of course. All wizards are mad. Petunia knew that if she complained to Dumbledore, he would ignore her as he always did, so this time she went straight to Moody himself to object.

Moody was an extremely odd-looking man, even for a wizard. He had one genuine eye, hard and black, and a fake one, rolling and blue, long greying hair, and an extraordinary collection of scars on display. He also had a manner that Petunia resented, because he didn't even bother to hide his contempt for her complaints.

"You are?" he asked brusquely, peering at her. "Dursley? Don't remember the name. Your son is in my fourth-year class, you say? Which House?"

"Hufflepuff," Petunia said.

"Oh, Hufflepuff," Moody responded. Petunia could see him write her off in his mind.

"Do you think it's a good idea to teach children that young Unforgivables?" Petunia asked. Moody's blue eye did a loop-de-loop, and he gave a wheezing laugh.

"Most of 'em couldn't muster up enough magic to kill a house fly," he said derisively. "And if your boy's a Hufflepuff, I don't think you need worry."

"Which means?" Petunia asked, offended by his tone.

"Which means he's not likely to use 'em," Moody said. "Hufflepuffs being what they are."

"It's a very honourable House," she retorted, nettled.

"Of course it is," Moody said placatingly, "Don't misunderstand me, ma'am. I don't mean to denigrate the 'Puffs, but aggression is not their most salient characteristic. Traditionally."

"Well, what if one of the boys in one of the other Houses uses it on him?" Petunia asked.

"There is that, of course," Moody said, nodding. "Then he'll know what it feels like, I'd guess."

"That's the stupidest bloody remark I've ever heard!" Petunia cried, losing patience. "It's downright irresponsible to do what you did!"

Moody's real eye narrowed and he stared at her. "Used 'em yourself, have you?"

"No, I haven't!"

"Well, then – that explains it. Were you ever taught them?"

Petunia bristled. "I didn't attend Hogwarts."

Moody considered her. "Durmstang?"

"No, I didn't attend any wizarding school at all."

"Well, if you were home schooled, I can't say I'm surprised that your parents didn't teach you them, then. Where are you from? Given the speed of the complaint, you must live in Hogsmeade."

"Just outside Hogsmeade. Mayhew Manor." I'm not going to bother telling him I'm a Muggle-born Squib. He hasn't mentioned *his* status, after all. I don't see why I should always be obliged to do so.

"Mayhew Manor? Are you related to old Cressida?"

"Great-grandniece," Petunia muttered.

"Old family, the Mayhews. Some really famous wizards, there, too. There's something odd about your magic, though. It feels like old magic, but it doesn't seem to quite flow properly. And there's a real potential for darkness..." Moody trailed off.

He's trying to get me to lose my temper. Not on your tintype, Mandrake.

"I'm sure there is," she responded calmly. "But we're not talking about me, but about my son. I think you're compromising his safety, and those of his classmates, with lessons like this."

"I have Dumbledore's permission for it," Moody said, "and the decision wasn't taken lightly. You heard about the riot at the World Cup, I'm sure. Trouble's coming, and all elements of the wizarding community have to be better prepared than they were the last time."

"If they start using those curses on each other, all that preparation will go for naught," Petunia said. As she saw that she was getting nowhere with Moody, and decided to talk to Minerva McGonagall rather than Dumbledore, whom she knew by experience would pelt her with comforting inanities, and do nothing.

After talking to Minerva, she suspected that the older witch agreed with her, but had lost the same argument some time ago. And Minerva was no longer even interested, because evidently more important things were brewing: that day Dumbledore had announced to the school that Hogwarts was hosting a Triwizard Tournament.

"What's that?" Petunia asked, resigned. Don't answer that question; another stupid, frightening, lunatic thing to worry about, that's what it is.