A/N: Reviews make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. (Hint, hint.)
Chapter 3
Petunia left Harry with Figg when she heard the kettle whistling and returned a moment later to find the two holding an animated conversation, little of which was English as she knew it.
Figg smiled at her, accepting the cup she poured with a nod of thanks, expertly keeping it well away from Harry. "He's bright, this one. Remembers me, he does," she said with pride. "Only saw him the once or twice when…" she stopped, her face falling and made herself continue. "…when 'is parents 'ad no minder." Petunia studied the light playing over the cup she held, the regret she'd been holding at bay since the news last night filling her heart and weighing it down. Despite this and a myriad of other emotions, she was loath to let her guard down in the presence of a stranger, even this one who had been chatting so amicably with her nephew a moment ago. She schooled her face into a polite mask and broke the awkward silence that had fallen.
"Dumbledore said you wanted to discuss funeral arrangements," she said, feeling a bit of inward pride at the level tone she'd maintained. Her skill in diplomacy was much prized by her husband, who relied on her to maintain their reputation in the community. If she was perfectly honest with herself, which she wasn't, it was the real reason he had married her. She wasn't always diplomatic, of course, but she could be when she wanted to.
Arabella proved to be well-versed in Wizarding funeral traditions, but seemed only vaguely acquainted with the Muggle ones. Despite this, Petunia got the distinct impression that her guest had lost many from both backgrounds in the very recent years.
In the process of explaining the Wizarding ceremony, Arabella was scribbling with one of Dudley's crayons on a serviette. "Here," she said, pointing with the blue wax, "is where the immediate family, that's you, stands, and here…" but Petunia cut her off.
"Me? Hold on a tick. Who said I was going?" Arabella looked up at her in surprise and not a little shock.
"You're not going?" she asked. "Whyever not?" Petunia looked down in silence where the crayon lay forgotten on its diagram. There were many reasons she couldn't go, none of which she wanted to tell this woman. She fumbled for an answer that would satisfy her guest without revealing her inner turmoil.
"Dudley… Vernon will be working that day, and I can't ask him to watch the boys." It was false and she knew it; she'd taken Dudley to a funeral just last year. Moreover, her guest seemed to know it, as she was looking at her in faint reproach. Averting her eyes, she reached for the kettle and refilled their cups, hoping to distract them both. Figg wasn't even bothering to respond to her weak excuse, and instead sat waiting patiently for the real reason. She reminded her so much of her grandmother that it was unsettling. Suddenly she was eleven again, and her father's mother was waiting for an answer, patient as ever. Grandma Evans had always known when she wasn't telling the truth. By the time she started grammar school, she'd given up even trying to fool her confidante.
That old matriarch was dead, just months before Lily had gotten her letter, but today another seemed to have taken her place. Now it was Harry between them, not a kitchen table in her grandmother's sunlit home with a parchment envelope on its worn surface. She still feared the magical world; little had changed in that regard – though she knew more about it now.
Patient as she was, it seemed Figg wasn't going to wait for an answer that wouldn't come. She set Harry on the sofa beside her and leaned forward, her voice earnest. "Petunia, love, I know its got to be hard to be mixin' with Wizarding folk, given your history, but the Wizarding world, not the Muggle, is the one Lily made her own."
"So I've got to also?" Petunia demanded, blinking stinging eyes. She would not tear up in front of this woman.
"No, dear." Arabella sighed and removed Petunia's teacup from her shaking hands. Setting it on the table, she took one in her own. "But Lily loved her family more than life itself, and I believe she would want you to be there." Petunia's earlier resolve not to cry cracked and she pulled away from Figg, hiding her face in her hands, but feeling tears leak through her fingers to run down her arms. Dudley had not been as oblivious as they'd thought and had been distracted since hearing his name a few minutes ago. Seeing his mother upset, he abandoned the telly with uncustomary haste, trotting over to her and tugging on her skirt.
"Mama?" he asked, pulling more insistently. "Mama!" he said louder when she didn't respond, becoming alarmed. Aware that she could no longer hide her tears, Petunia leaned over and grunting, heaved him into her lap. Wrapping her arms around him and rocking him, she buried her cheek in the back of his shoulder, as much for her comfort as his.
In he privacy of his office, Bartemius Crouch Sr. leaned back in an executive style chair and examined his writing. Very recently, a wealthy member of the community had been on trial as a Death Eater, but it seemed even the D.M.L.E. was no match for the best solicitor money could buy. The man had gotten off scott-free, much to the displeasure of his superiors. They had blamed him for letting such a man slip through his fingers. His reputation had suffered for it, and he wasn't about to let another so obviously guilty get away. He scowled, tipping forward to sign the letter with decisive strokes. Sirius Black would not be given a chance to make a fool of him, he'd see to that.
The two days to the funeral passed more quickly than Petunia would have liked. Vernon hadn't approved of her going, and she hadn't even told him everything, certainly not how she was getting there. She'd just said someone was picking her up at nine, and let him assume she meant in a car. She was nervous enough about the portkey without his coin added. Why she had agreed to all this she didn't know. She'd known at the time she was sure, but she'd made up her mind, and she wasn't going back.
This time she was ready when Arabella knocked. She'd happened to glance out the window in time to see a turquoise Ford Angelina roll up and a large group pile out. Arabella had said Molly Weasley had small children, but she hadn't said how many. A very pregnant Molly was first out, followed by no less than six boys crowned with varying shaded of red hair. Two looked to be about Dudley's age and the youngest couldn't have been older than Harry.
Slightly dismayed, she scooped up her nephew and went to answer their knock, greeting everyone and ushering them inside with as much haste as was seemly, glancing up and down the street for curious neighbors before she shut the door.
"We've a few minutes yet," Arabella said, and began introductions. Charles or "Charlie" as he insisted on being called, would be starting at Hogwarts next fall, William also insisted on "Bill," but Percival positively beamed when introduced so formally. The twins were too young to care, but she relented and introduced them as Fred and George and the youngest as Ron. Petunia caught her watching the oldest to while she did this, and realized the elderly woman had been ribbing them. They soon forgot about the teasing though, when they caught sight of the telly. It was set to a toddler's programme, but even the older boys stared at it, fascinated, and had to be peeled away when it was time to leave.
Eyeing the unpretentious-looking cloth diaper bag Molly held, Petunia felt the butterflies in her stomach burst into flight. Arabella must have seen the look on her face, because she gave her shoulder a squeeze and turned to make sure everyone was gathered and in contact with the bag. It took all of her willpower not to scream when she felt a jerk behind her navel and her home disappeared.