Disclaimer: 'Tis not mine, except for my dear Elba Mafinki-Phurphenblossom
and the Carrot Cake of Doom. No, you won't meet either of them yet.
Remember, all deranged avatars-of-now-defunct-deities-turned-DADA-teachers
and lethal (but tasty!) pastries come to those who wait. Everything else
belongs to J.K. Rowling, so lawsuit-wielding maniacs STAY AWAY!
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Chapter 2: I Have To WHAT?
At the same time his Potions professor was collapsing into fits of hysterical laughter, Harry Potter was staring at his Aunt Petunia with a look of complete befuddlement on his face. "Sorry," Harry said, trying to coax some semblance of normalcy out of the statement she had just made, "but did you just say that I have to knit a scarf for Dudley?"
Aunt Petunia glowered at him. For such a prim-looking, skinny woman, it was remarkable how much she managed to look like one of Hagrid's infamous Blast-Ended Skrewts. "Yes," she snapped, "and don't be all day about it. I want it ready in time for my Duddykins' going-away party tomorrow."
"But – I don't even know how to knit."
For an instant, a strange, glazed look passed over Aunt Petunia's face and her mouth moved soundlessly, but an instant later she was looking as pinched and snappish as ever. "Don't lie to me, boy," she said, handing a pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn. "Of course you know how. What about the Sfardnik in the Sfinky-Bassum?"
Harry just stared at her. The what in the what?
The strange, glazed look passed over her face again. "Yes, well," she said briskly. "I need to take a nap in the bath. I mean – have a shower in bed. I mean – "
"Er – "
But Aunt Petunia had marched off in the direction of the kitchen, muttering something about purple envelopes dancing on the treetops. Harry stared after her for a moment, decided that he didn't really want to know, and sat down to begin knitting Dudley's scarf.
The only problem was, as he had told – well, tried to tell Aunt Petunia; he didn't think that she had been too clear on what he had said – was that he didn't, in fact, know how to knit. After a half-hour of trying to recreate what he had seen old ladies on buses do, all he had managed to make was a large knot of red yarn. Undoing the knot, he sighed to himself. The Dursleys, and not just Aunt Petunia, had been acting strangely all summer. It wasn't that they were being nastier than they usually were – actually, they didn't seem to notice him most of the time, which was just fine with him – it was that they were just generally acting strangely. One Monday morning, not only did conservative, strait-laced Uncle Vernon come downstairs wearing a tie-dyed tee-shirt that was on inside out and backwards, but Dudley, who hated exercise, spent a good portion of the morning doing somersaults in the living room while Aunt Petunia made crème brulée for breakfast. And then there was that time the whole family spent an entire Saturday afternoon throwing rotten fruit at the picket fence surrounding the Dursleys' yard. Or all those times when they would criticize Harry's appearance – that was certainly nothing new – but not blink an eye when he used the word "magic," which had always been certain to cause an uproar in the Dursley household.
Too tired to ponder the complexities of Dursley behavior any further, Harry turned his attention back to the knitting needles. He knew that it wasn't impossible; he'd seen other people do it, after all. There had to be some trick to it… had to… had to…
He was concentrating so hard on the knitting needles, he didn't notice his hand reaching to the yarn seemingly of its own accord, or his other hand picking up one needle and wrapping the yarn around it, until he realized that a row of neat stitches had fastened themselves onto one of the knitting needles as if by magic, and his right hand had started putting the other needle through the first loop.
Magic…
But he certainly hadn't been trying to cast a spell, and anyway, who had ever heard of a spell that could start a row of knitting stitches? He looked at the offending needle once again and started knitting the second row, surprised that he hadn't been able to do something so obvious, so easy, before.
Six hours later, with finished scarf in hand and nursing a combination of cramp and rope – or in this case, string – burn in his right hand, he didn't notice the pair of glittering golden eyes watching him through the window, nor did he notice the owner of those eyes nodding to herself in satisfaction. Yes, she thought, everything is working out just fine.
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Chapter 2: I Have To WHAT?
At the same time his Potions professor was collapsing into fits of hysterical laughter, Harry Potter was staring at his Aunt Petunia with a look of complete befuddlement on his face. "Sorry," Harry said, trying to coax some semblance of normalcy out of the statement she had just made, "but did you just say that I have to knit a scarf for Dudley?"
Aunt Petunia glowered at him. For such a prim-looking, skinny woman, it was remarkable how much she managed to look like one of Hagrid's infamous Blast-Ended Skrewts. "Yes," she snapped, "and don't be all day about it. I want it ready in time for my Duddykins' going-away party tomorrow."
"But – I don't even know how to knit."
For an instant, a strange, glazed look passed over Aunt Petunia's face and her mouth moved soundlessly, but an instant later she was looking as pinched and snappish as ever. "Don't lie to me, boy," she said, handing a pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn. "Of course you know how. What about the Sfardnik in the Sfinky-Bassum?"
Harry just stared at her. The what in the what?
The strange, glazed look passed over her face again. "Yes, well," she said briskly. "I need to take a nap in the bath. I mean – have a shower in bed. I mean – "
"Er – "
But Aunt Petunia had marched off in the direction of the kitchen, muttering something about purple envelopes dancing on the treetops. Harry stared after her for a moment, decided that he didn't really want to know, and sat down to begin knitting Dudley's scarf.
The only problem was, as he had told – well, tried to tell Aunt Petunia; he didn't think that she had been too clear on what he had said – was that he didn't, in fact, know how to knit. After a half-hour of trying to recreate what he had seen old ladies on buses do, all he had managed to make was a large knot of red yarn. Undoing the knot, he sighed to himself. The Dursleys, and not just Aunt Petunia, had been acting strangely all summer. It wasn't that they were being nastier than they usually were – actually, they didn't seem to notice him most of the time, which was just fine with him – it was that they were just generally acting strangely. One Monday morning, not only did conservative, strait-laced Uncle Vernon come downstairs wearing a tie-dyed tee-shirt that was on inside out and backwards, but Dudley, who hated exercise, spent a good portion of the morning doing somersaults in the living room while Aunt Petunia made crème brulée for breakfast. And then there was that time the whole family spent an entire Saturday afternoon throwing rotten fruit at the picket fence surrounding the Dursleys' yard. Or all those times when they would criticize Harry's appearance – that was certainly nothing new – but not blink an eye when he used the word "magic," which had always been certain to cause an uproar in the Dursley household.
Too tired to ponder the complexities of Dursley behavior any further, Harry turned his attention back to the knitting needles. He knew that it wasn't impossible; he'd seen other people do it, after all. There had to be some trick to it… had to… had to…
He was concentrating so hard on the knitting needles, he didn't notice his hand reaching to the yarn seemingly of its own accord, or his other hand picking up one needle and wrapping the yarn around it, until he realized that a row of neat stitches had fastened themselves onto one of the knitting needles as if by magic, and his right hand had started putting the other needle through the first loop.
Magic…
But he certainly hadn't been trying to cast a spell, and anyway, who had ever heard of a spell that could start a row of knitting stitches? He looked at the offending needle once again and started knitting the second row, surprised that he hadn't been able to do something so obvious, so easy, before.
Six hours later, with finished scarf in hand and nursing a combination of cramp and rope – or in this case, string – burn in his right hand, he didn't notice the pair of glittering golden eyes watching him through the window, nor did he notice the owner of those eyes nodding to herself in satisfaction. Yes, she thought, everything is working out just fine.