For Disclaimer and other notes, please see the prologue.
June, 1993
Petunia groggily pulled herself out of bed and plodded into the toilet, not bothering with her too-small dressing gown. Two weeks, Petunia assured herself, just two weeks and she wouldn't have any more swollen feet, she could sleep on her stomach, her ribs could recover from repeated kicks, (Petunia couldn't remember Dudley as ever having been so active.) and she wouldn't need to go to the toilet a dozen times a day.
Dudley was leaving today, Petunia remembered regretfully. One of his friends from Smeltings had invited Dudley on a holiday to Majorca months ago, though Vernon and Petunia were insisting that their son come home early so he wouldn't miss the baby's birth. Her Diddy-kins was growing up so fast, Petunia thought, her eyes misting. It seemed like just the other day Dudley was brought home from the hospital, and already he was going on holidays with friends and getting nervous about what to wear in front of the girls at the beach.
For Dudley's last breakfast before he left, Petunia decided she'd fix a feast worthy of her growing boy. Petunia also planned to indulge herself, and not to bother with the dishes. Harry would be coming home late that afternoon; he could deal with them. A woman in Petunia's condition ought to be resting, not standing around in the kitchen all day long, she resolved.
That afternoon found Petunia lounging in the garden, waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Next-door to come outside and continue their argument about the new wind chimes that Mrs. Next-door had bought. Mr. Next-door thought they made an awful racket and wanted to have the wind chimes returned, but his wife absolutely loved them and refused to part with the noisy decoration. Petunia suspected that the argument over noise would become moot after the baby was born; a newborn needed its sleep, after all, and the wind chimes were quite loud.
As if it sensed her thoughts, the baby within Petunia gave a sharp kick to Petunia's ribs. She winced and rubbed her enlarged stomach, trying to calm the baby down. A sudden tightening in her abdomen and pull in her lower back made Petunia stiffen, then relax as the sensations dissipated. She'd been experiencing Braxton-Hicks contractions for the better part of a week. Baby was ready to come out, and Petunia was more than ready to have baby come out. Unfortunately, her due date was still weeks away.
Petunia had spent the past months preparing for her new child's arrival. The most pressing concern was where the baby was going to sleep; the only unoccupied bedroom was reserved for guests, read, Marge, who had plans to visit as soon as the baby was born, and also hinted that she'd be visiting the Dursleys much more often in the coming months. However, there simply wasn't anywhere else for the baby to go. Dudley couldn't very well share his room; he had so little space as it was, and the baby would be up at all hours for the first few months.
Petunia didn't even consider having the baby share a room with the other boy. Even though Harry was away at least ten months out of twelve, Petunia wasn't about to trust him with her baby during the remaining two. Harry couldn't be sent back to his cupboard either, or his deranged, freakish "associates" might come to Privet Drive and hurt the baby. And this child, Petunia vowed, would be able to grow up without being threatened by magic.
Therefore, the only conceivable bedroom for the newest Dursley was the guest room. After a brief argument with Vernon, it was decided that the baby would room with its parents for the first few months and then be transferred to the room formerly reserved for Marge. That way Marge could visit with the newborn for a little while but not long enough to overstay her welcome, which Petunia felt Marge tended to do. As soon as Harry could be legally kicked out, the Dursleys would have a guest room again.
It was just as well she hadn't decorated a new nursery room, Petunia mused. She and Vernon didn't know whether the baby was a boy or a girl yet, preferring to be surprised, and it wouldn't do to design a room meant for a boy and have the baby turn out to be a girl. Secretly, Petunia hoped the baby would be a girl.
When Petunia was pregnant with Dudley, she and Vernon made a decision: if the baby was a son, then Vernon would name him, and if it was a daughter, then Petunia would pick a name. Dudley had been named after Vernon's father, and in like manner, Petunia planned to christen a daughter Chrysanthemum Rose, Rose having been her mother's name and Chrysanthemum because those were Petunia's favorite flowers. Petunia only wished her own parents had been so original; in a fit of post-delivery hormones, Mr. and Mrs. Evans had named their daughters Petunia Lily Evans and Lily Petunia Evans. It made her shudder every time Petunia had to write her full name.
The sound of a car door slamming jolted Petunia out of her revere. Vernon had brought Harry back. Petunia's mouth twisted into a small smile as she listened to Vernon tell Harry to "take all that rubbish up to your room and don't even think about shutting yourself up there. There's dishes to be cleaned and your aunt needs you to weed the flower beds."
Petunia didn't bother to listen for Harry's reply. She adjusted one of the bench's cushions so that she might sit up a bit more comfortably, and waited for Vernon to come outside with her supper.
Vernon Dursley emerged from the house with more speed than most would attribute to a man of his size. He carried with him a small carton of orange sorbet, a treat with which Petunia had become rather enamored.
Petunia accepted the proffered sorbet and spoon, and pretended to listen intently to Vernon as he described in painstaking detail precisely why all vegetarians were a bunch of lunatics and how the lot of them ought to be dealt with. When he was done ranting and Petunia was done with her sorbet, Vernon said,
"Petunia, there's been some trouble at work recently, the Brinkleham account, I've mentioned it before. I'm afraid I have to go in tonight for a strategy meeting." Vernon twirled his mustache nervously with the fingers of his left hand, awaiting his wife's response.
Petunia frowned, and said, "Another one? It seems as though you've been in quite a few meetings lately."
"I know—it's been busy at Grunnings, they're thinking about expanding the business—going to start making wrenches to go with the drills. But I promise you, Petunia," Vernon said, looking very seriously into Petunia's eyes, "As soon as the baby's born, I'll take some time off. Maybe we can even go on holiday with Dudley and the baby, just the four of us."
"That sounds nice," Petunia said. "Yvonne was telling me the other day about a lovely new restaurant she'd discovered in Majorca, with excellent shell fish. And I suppose Mrs. Figg could watch the boy while we're gone."
"Yes, well," Vernon said, checking his watch, "I've got to be on my way." He collected Petunia's sorbet container, but paused before leaving the garden. "I don't like leaving you here alone with him, especially now, with the baby and all."
"Don't worry about a thing, Vernon," Petunia said. "He wouldn't dare try anything, not if he doesn't want to be expelled from that school of his."
Vernon did not appear convinced. "I could drop him off at Mrs. Figg's, if you'd like."
"Nonsense," said Petunia. "I'll be fine. Besides, I want him to get a start on weeding the rose bushes while there's still some light."
"All right then," Vernon acquiesced. "Call the office if anything happens."
"I will. Now go on, you don't want to be late," Petunia said.
Vernon grumbled a reply, and gave his wife a quick peck on the cheek before leaving. Petunia heard him yelling at the boy in the kitchen, "Aren't you done with those yet? Your aunt needs you in the garden—and don't you dare upset her, or you'll not get any meals for a week!"
Petunia sighed, and rubbed her belly absently. The baby was doing an awful lot of wiggling; she suspected the orange sorbet was no longer a favorite food of the child. Or perhaps it had grown tired of being outside and listening to wind chimes. Dudley, Petunia recalled, would always fidget when she left the house, and would only calm down once she was back inside and the television was on. Even at such a young age, his preferences were already clearly marked, Petunia thought wistfully.
Before Petunia could reminisce about her ickle Duddy-kins too much, Harry made his presence known by banging the back door against the side of the house as he entered the garden. He had his back to her, and seemed to be studying the state of the hedges, which, Petunia realized regretfully, were terribly overgrown and were practically being choked by vines creeping over from Mr. and Mrs. Next-door's garden. Petunia's delicate condition meant that her usually pristine garden had been left to the mercies of nature. It would take the boy days, if not weeks, to sort it out.
Petunia looked her nephew over critically; he'd grown a bit since last summer, but was still rather short and scrawny; he was, as usual, in desperate need of a haircut; his shoulders were slumped and his entire posture suggested that someone had just murdered his new puppy. All in all, Harry presented a fairly depressing picture. He probably wished he was back at that freak school he'd just left. Petunia had no desire to remain outside with a sulking soon-to-be teenager, and furthermore, the baby had become even more agitated. She probably ought to go inside and listen to music and walk around. Provided, that is, her wretch of a nephew stopped lazing about and helped her up.
Petunia cleared her throat and said, "Harry! If it isn't too much trouble, won't you give me a hand? It isn't as though that hedge won't be there for you to trim tomorrow."
Harry turned around and whatever sarcastic reply he may or may not have planned to say was lost in his inarticulate response of, "Puh-th-huh?" uttered as soon as he saw Petunia's bulging stomach. He recovered quickly enough, and then asked in a most erudite fashion, "Are you pregnant?"
Petunia rolled her eyes. "No, I've swallowed a bowling ball. Of course I'm pregnant! Didn't your uncle tell you?"
"No, I don't think he did." Harry shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "When's it going to be born?" he asked. If Harry had any inclination to state that he thought the baby was going to be born in the very near future based on how large Petunia was, he wisely ignored it.
"Two weeks," Petunia said. "Now, aren't you going to help me up?"
Harry hesitantly ventured over to his aunt and offered her his hand, which, Petunia was surprised to note, was almost as large as her own. Harry was also stronger than she had supposed, judging by how he pulled Petunia to her feet almost as easily as Vernon did.
"Do you need—that is, should I get you anything?" asked Harry uncertainly.
"No," Petunia sniffed. "I'm quite all right on my own."
Petunia dropped Harry's hand and ventured unsteadily into the house, realizing with annoyance that she'd need to visit the toilet before she could do anything else. Just two more weeks, Petunia repeated to herself, two weeks and she'd be able to hold her newborn son or daughter in her arms… and give him or her a very firm talking to about making her drink such obscene amounts of water.
It was that ungodly time between late night and early morning when the baby decided sleep wasn't nearly as much fun as dancing a cha-cha in Petunia's uterus. Unfortunately for Petunia, there wasn't much space in said uterus, and this, coupled with Vernon's increasingly loud snoring, prevented her from resting.
To busy herself in her current state of unwilling wakefulness, Petunia climbed out of bed and set about packing a suitcase to take to the hospital. It was something she needed to do, though she still had two weeks—no, thirteen days, Petunia amended after glancing at the clock—before the baby was due.
The particular bag Petunia was filling with clothes and supplies appeared to be about the size of a briefcase. It was shaped like a suitcase, but smaller, it was pale blue, in perfect condition, except for the inner lining, which was torn up and lumpy in places, and it looked more expensive than it actually was. It had been a gift from Marge when Petunia was pregnant with Dudley, and hadn't been officially used for anything since then.
Petunia hated it.
Petunia couldn't bear to even look at the small case, had stashed it in the back of her closet, and happily forgot it existed. A few weeks ago, Petunia went looking for a bag to take to the hospital and rediscovered the horrid thing. Vernon wouldn't hear of buying a new case, especially when there wasn't anything wrong with the one they already had, and as none of the others in the house were suited for Petunia's purposes, she was stuck with the blue suitcase.
Everything fit inside the suitcase. Perfectly too, Petunia was loath to acknowledge. She shut the offensive case and set it aside. Resisting the urge to yawn, Petunia pulled Vernon's rarely used dressing gown from the closet and put it on. It was too large, even in her pregnant state. The sleeves were two times too long, but Petunia hadn't the patience to roll them.
Petunia pushed the door to her bedroom open slowly; it had an irritating habit of squeaking. She walked carefully down the hall, pausing only to rap her knuckles against Harry's door—there was an unacceptable amount of muttering audible from within—and proceeded down the stairs to the kitchen, where Petunia poured herself a glass of orange juice.
As soon as she came home from the hospital, Petunia promised herself, that suitcase was going to be thrown away. Sent to the trash heap, she vowed, along with everything in it.
"Harry! Watch the bacon—you're burning it. And don't set the rest of the kitchen on fire with your sleeve," Petunia said, supervising her nephew's attempts at making breakfast. She didn't know what had got into the boy; Harry had spent years cooking breakfast for the Dursleys, but the past three days he'd acted completely incompetent. Luckily for Harry, Vernon had gone to work early and got his own breakfast.
How anyone, even Harry, could manage to ruin toast, was beyond Petunia's comprehension. But there it was: half blackened, half seemingly uncooked. It was lack of sleep, Petunia determined, which was to blame for her nearly inedible breakfast.
Petunia didn't usually pay Harry much attention when he wasn't upsetting Dudley, but she could hardly miss how red and puffed the boy's eyes were every morning. He'd been quiet too, rarely speaking unless Petunia or Vernon spoke first.
"What's the matter with you?" Petunia asked. She was careful not to make it sound as though she was too concerned. She didn't care to hear some sob story about how the boy's girlfriend had broken up with him or anything equally uninteresting.
Harry, surprised, looked up from his overly crunchy bacon. "Nothing."
"Don't take that tone with me," Petunia snapped. "You've been sulking ever since you got back, dragging your feet all over the house, staring off into space. It's absolutely intolerable. Explain yourself."
Harry blinked. "It's nothing, really. Besides," he said, tilting his head, "What do you care?"
Petunia flinched. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Stop doing that."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You are, and you know it," Petunia said. "You look just like your mother when you do that. It's unsettling."
"Really?" Harry's eyes brightened. "No one's ever said that before."
"Said what?" Petunia asked.
"That I look like my mum. It's always my dad people compare me to," Harry said.
"Well, I don't know what 'people' you associate with most of the year, but they obviously didn't know your mother if they can't see the resemblance," Petunia said, avoiding the boy's now curious gaze. "But I take it your kind isn't terribly bright, from what I've seen of them." She stabbed the overly runny eggs with her fork, intent on not mentioning Lily again.
Harry was quiet for a few moments before saying, "About 'my kind,' some of them are going to be coming here pretty soon."
Petunia frowned. "What for? Isn't it a bit early for you to leave?"
"No, they're not coming for me, exactly. It's because of the baby," he said. Before Petunia could protest, he continued, "They've got spe-, I mean, there's a lot of stuff that's been done to the house, to make it so, um, bad people, that is, can't find the house or hurt anyone in it. But the baby living here makes some of the stuff that's supposed to protect the house not work anymore, so they've got to come and fix it."
Petunia's hand automatically went to her stomach. "I don't want them here. Can't they do it from a distance?"
Harry shook his head. "It's got to be done directly, and everyone's got to be in the house, too." He bit his lip. "Also, they could do it sooner if they knew if the baby was going to be a boy or a girl. Otherwise, it could be two weeks after the baby's born before they can come."
"What difference does it make?" A sudden contraction stopped Petunia from saying anything else.
Harry didn't seem to notice. "It's got something to do with a potion, I think."
Petunia gritted her teeth as the contraction subsided. "We don't know the sex of the baby," she said stiffly.
"Why not?" Harry seemed genuinely curious. "Don't you need to know so you can pick out a name?"
"Vernon and I," Petunia said, "Prefer to be surprised. As for naming our child, I have decided that, should it be a daughter," Petunia paused for dramatics, "She will be named Chrysanthemum Rose Dursley."
Harry coughed, and began to turn an odd shade of purple. Petunia ignored him.
"I do hope the baby's a girl," Petunia continued. "Another son would be nice, but Dudley's so sensitive that he might feel hurt if the baby uses his old things. Chrysanthemum, of course, would need all new clothes and toys."
Harry didn't say anything, but he was still purple, though not as dark as Vernon could become, Petunia noted absently.
Petunia didn't mind Harry's silence; she was contemplating the set of baby clothes Marge had sent yesterday. They were exact replicas of the baby clothes Marge had given Petunia and Vernon when Dudley was born, which, Petunia discovered, had gone missing; did Marge somehow get hold of the clothes during one of her visits, and now plan on re-gifting them?
Petunia pulled herself to her feet and left the kitchen, intent on reexamining Marge's latest "gift." Harry didn't seem to notice her departure, though Petunia distinctly heard him have a coughing fit as soon as she had left the room. She hoped he wasn't ill. All that coughing would keep the baby up.
Six minutes and seven seconds. Seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Five minutes and forty-six seconds.
Things were not progressing at all as they should.
At first, Petunia assumed a bad breakfast or stress over Harry almost burning the house down had made her jumpy. An entirely unplanned trip to the loo was also suspicious, but not outside the realm of baby-induced squashed bladder syndrome. The latest, six minutes and nineteen seconds, was a bit more alarming, especially since drinking water and resting didn't appear to be doing a thing to stop the contractions.
To her credit, Petunia was calm and polite when she rang the doctor's office. She didn't yell at the meddlesome nurse when she explained her symptoms and confirmed that yes, the shortness of breath she'd complained about a week ago had disappeared, and she did think it prudent to go to the hospital as soon as possible.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Petunia's treatment of her husband's secretary.
"In a meeting? Interrupt the meeting! I'm going to the hospital, and I need my husband now!"
"Mrs. Dursley, I cannot simply walk into..."
"You can and you will 'walk into that meeting'. This is an emergency!"
"But Mrs. Dursley, your husband isn't even at the office…"
"Where is he? I'm having his child!"
"He's at a very important meeting, and isn't answering the phone…"
"Then you can tell him he can just meet me at the hospital!"
Petunia slammed the telephone receiver down with a surprisingly satisfying crunch. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the receiver and dialed Yvonne's number. No answer. Mrs. Figg; no answer. She was halfway through Marge's number when another contraction hit.
Marge, Petunia realized as she gulped oxygen and sank into a chair, was too far away to come to Privet Drive within any reasonable amount of time. With trembling fingers, Petunia dialed the hospital and requested that they send a car—no, nothing as flashy as an ambulance—and to hurry, please.
Petunia swallowed thickly. Things were definitely not progressing as they should. Where was Vernon? This was not at all what they had planned.
Two contractions and several unrepeatable mutterings as to Vernon's capabilities as a husband later, Petunia pushed herself out of her chair and wobbled to the door to the garden.
Harry was slouched over the rose bushes, poking at them lifelessly. Petunia refrained from commenting on his laziness, but said, "Harry! Go wash up and bring me my suitcase."
Harry rocked back onto his heels. "Why?" He asked, in his usual delinquent manner.
"Because," Petunia pointed to her stomach, "The baby is coming. Go wash up," Petunia blanched inwardly as she took in Harry's charred sleeve, "Change your shirt, and bring me my suitcase. Now!"
Petunia would have liked to say that her sharp tone and delicate situation spurred Harry to leap to his feet in a hurry to obey her. But alas, Harry seemed to be deliberately uninterested.
"Why? I'm not going to the hospital…"
"You most certainly are," snapped Petunia. "Vernon's in a 'meeting' and I can't ring anybody up… and I am not going alone."
Petunia turned and huffed back into the living room. She gingerly seated herself in Vernon's favorite chair and waited for Harry to bring her suitcase. If he wanted to show up at the hospital looking like a muddy wreck, he could. The boy was twelve years old—or was it thirteen? Petunia couldn't recall if his birthday had already passed or not—and was perfectly capable of dressing himself.
Nevertheless, Petunia still fleetingly wished she'd made Harry use some make-up on his eyes when the hospital's car finally came. He looked rather ghoulish, the great, dark circles contrasting sharply with the pallid skin of his face.
Petunia spent several more minutes on the way to the hospital fretting about Harry's appearance; why didn't he wear clothes that fit? Why did he never comb his hair? Petunia might've said something about the hair had she not noticed (as the driver made a particularly sharp turn at a greater speed than was necessary) that the driver, a man several years older than herself, had an earring. Stewing over this nonstandard ornamentation was enough to keep Petunia occupied until the car arrived at the hospital.
As she was being wheeled through the hospital's corridors, Petunia felt herself begin to relax. Vernon would be with her soon, and Dudley was coming home tomorrow morning, anyway. It was doubtful that Dudley would miss the birth. After all, Petunia had been in labor with Dudley for thirty-nine hours. She mentally brushed aside the nurses' jargon that first babies often take much longer than second ones. What did that lot of spinsters know about delivering babies?
Petunia was just getting settled in her room when she spotted Harry skulking in the corner. He watched the two nurses flit about the room, bringing pillows and cups of ice chips and telephones, and was being generally useless. She had the dumpy-looking nurse send him out to the waiting area, and instructed the dimwitted one to ring her husband's office. Once all the pillows were properly placed, Petunia leaned back, munched the ice chips, opened up a lengthy romance novel, took deep breaths when the contractions hit, and resigned herself to waiting patiently for her husband.
"Mrs. Dursley, I'm afraid that we're a bit farther along than we anticipated."
"What do you mean, 'a bit farther along'?"
"Well, it looks like now would be a good time to administer the anesthetics."
"Doctor, I think I'll know when it's time to 'administer the anesthetics', and it's not now. Tell the nurses to try my husband's office again. When Vernon gets here, we'll have the anesthetics."
"Mrs. Dursley, given the frequency and duration of your contractions, I am strongly advising you to take the anesthetics now. Furthermore, you are already—"
"I will take the anesthetics when my husband arrives—"
"—Centimeters dilated, and there's a limited amount of time that the drugs can be administered—"
"—And not one minute sooner!"
Where was Vernon?
Petunia always prided herself on keeping a level head in stressful situations, but this was really pushing it. And there was to be no pushing of any kind until after Vernon had arrived.
By her estimations, Petunia had been at the hospital for about two hours when she'd thought she should give into the doctor's recommendation to take the anesthetics. Since it had been approximately one half hour since the doctor had told her it was now too late to take the drugs, and perhaps another two hours of unrecognized labor at Privet Drive, Petunia had been in labor for no more than five hours when the doctor told her it was time. Petunia had never been more certain of anything in her life than she was in the knowledge that it was not time.
Because if it was time, then Vernon was going to miss it. Vernon had promised that he would not miss the baby's birth. Even when he was working late into the night and over the weekends at Grunnings, Vernon had promised he would be there. Vernon Dursley was dependable. Vernon Dursley did not renege on his promises. These aspects of Vernon Dursley were what had attracted Petunia to him in the first place.
"Mrs. Dursley, I want you to take a deep breath, and to give a small push when the next contraction comes. Do you understand?"
Petunia half nodded at Doctor Havensford and half cursed the idiot nurse who was telling her how to breathe. As if she'd never breathed before.
"Very good, Mrs. Dursley. Now, push!"
Petunia pushed. It was not an enjoyable experience. She noted, abstractly, that the analogy told to curious men that giving birth was a feeling akin to pulling one's lower lip up and over the head was not very accurate. She preferred the other comparison, which explained it as trying to push something the size of a watermelon out an opening the size of a lemon. Vernon had never asked those sorts of questions, Petunia realized.
"All right, now, relax and breathe."
Petunia grunted at the doctor. Instead of 'relaxing', she turned to the nearest nurse and said, "Where's my husband? Have you got in touch with him yet?"
"Mrs. Dursley, I've rung the office several times, they say he'll be here as soon as they reach him…"
"Time for another push," Doctor Havensford said. "Take a deep breath."
Petunia obliged, squealing a bit towards the end of the contraction. She couldn't help but think the nurses were having some fun at her expense, making up all these silly sounding 'breathing exercises'. She leaned back on the pillows, and opened her mouth to speak—
The dumpy-nurse beat her to it.
"Mrs. Dursley, I don't know where Mr. Dursley is and ringing the office again won't do any good because they know he's got to be here, and I'm sorry you're all by yourself but taking it out on me is hardly…"
"I am not 'all by myself'!" Petunia said shrilly. "I've got a nephew waiting outside, why don't you send him in? Or are you too stupid to find him? Perhaps you and your idiot companion should stop trying to make a fool of me with your ridiculous 'breathing patterns' and do something useful!"
The nurse was out of the room before Petunia finished her tirade. Another round of fruitless pushing later, and Harry was stumbling into the room, being pulled by an irate nurse. He looked rather confused as he stood awkwardly by Petunia's bed.
"Don't just stand there like an imbecile, Harry," Petunia gasped. "At least try to act supportive." She grabbed his hand. "And keep those, those people away from me," she whispered, gestured towards the nurses.
"Here we go again, breathe and push!"
This time, Petunia squealed throughout the contraction and pushing, and so did Harry. As soon as he was able, he jerked his hand away from Petunia's.
"Ouch! What'd you do that for? It really hurt!" Harry whined, cradling the abused appendage with his other hand.
"Hurt? You hurt? How do you think I feel!" Petunia shrieked.
"If you'd been breathing the way I told you…"
"Oh, shut up!" Petunia reclaimed Harry's hand, and again whispered to him conspiratorially, "Turn her into something! A bug, make her a bug, and give me something I can squash her with…"
"Aunt Petunia," Harry sounded scandalized, "I'm not allowed to do that. I don't know how to do that. And—and you want me to…? Are the drugs making you mad?" He peered at her closely.
"Drugs? They wouldn't let me have any drugs!"
"Push!" the doctor chirped.
"Breathe!"
"Let go of my hand!"
"Ah-ah-ouch!"
In a brief moment of clarity, Petunia decided that in order to ensure that she never had to go through this again, she'd have Vernon move permanently onto the sofa.
"It's crowning! One more—push!"
Petunia screamed; Harry whimpered; a moment later, her child cried.
"It's a boy!" Doctor Havensford proclaimed, bringing the wailing infant close enough for Petunia to see, but too far away for her to touch.
Petunia examined her son the best she could through blurry eyes before the nurse whisked him away to be cleaned off. "Go look," she said to Harry breathlessly, "Count his fingers, his toes, are there ten of each?"
"Of course there are," Harry said. "Why wouldn't there be?"
Petunia didn't answer him; Vernon chose that moment to come crashing into the room.
"I'm here, Petunia! Darling, tell me I'm here before…"
"You missed it," Petunia said. Her vision remained foggy. "You promised you wouldn't, and you missed it."
"I'm here now," Vernon comforted. "I'll make it up to you, Petunia, I swear I will…"
"Here he is!" The dumpy-nurse insinuated herself and the now-quiet baby between Petunia and her husband. "Now, if you two will tell me the baby's name for the birth certificate, I can get out of your way."
Petunia looked at her husband. He swallowed when he saw the baby, tiny and blinking in the unfamiliar light. Vernon said gruffly, "It's Vernon Elderich Dursley, the second." He carefully took the wrapped bundle from the nurse's arms, and gave his son to Petunia. "He's beautiful, Petunia," Vernon choked.
The nurse bustled away, searching for a pen. She had no way of knowing that as her steady hand recorded the name of the newest member of the Dursley family on the standard certificate, many miles to the north, in a dusty, seldom used room, an ancient quill mirrored her pen-strokes, marking down the name "Vernon Elderich Dursley" in much the same manner it had written "Lily Petunia Evans" over thirty years ago.
The sound of an annoyingly familiar, yet unidentifiable voice pulled Petunia from her sleep. Blinking blearing, Petunia at first resisted the urge to rub her eyes, but gave in as the scene before her was entirely impossible.
Vernon was stretched and snoring over two of the hospital's standard-issue plastic chairs, Harry was curled uncomfortably against the wall, twitching in his sleep, and Lily Potter, not appearing a day over the twenty-one she'd been when she died, was leaning over the baby's cot and making cooing sounds. Petunia gasped; the facsimile of her sister looked up from her ministrations.
"Well, it look's like Mummy's finally decided to wake up," the Lily doppelganger said.
Alarmed, Petunia pulled little Vernon from the bassinet and clutched him to her chest.
"You," Petunia croaked, "Are a hallucination. Probably brought on by hormones, or the hospital's cheap cleaning products."
"I am not a hallucination or a dream; I am perfectly real, and I'd like to get back to cuddling my new nephew," Lily said.
"I rather think that's what most hallucinations say," Petunia said. She shifted baby Vernon's blankets and eyed her sister warily.
"Oh, so you've had lots of experience with hallucinations, then?"
"I do not hallucinate!" Petunia sputtered.
"Did I say you hallucinated? I don't believe I did. Now let me hold the baby," Lily said, reaching for the baby.
Little Vernon didn't as much as gurgle when Lily lifted him from his mother's arms. "You see? I'm not hurting him," Lily said. "I think he's going to be my favorite nephew."
The baby caught Lily's thumb in his tiny fist, squeezing with as much strength as a newborn could muster.
Petunia said, "Give him back, he's probably hungry."
"In a minute, Petty," Lily said, running her fingers over the baby's thin, blond hair. "He's going to have my eyes, I can tell already."
"I doubt that," Petunia said, reclaiming her child. Once Vernon was again nestled in her arms, she said, "What're you doing here, anyway? I expected some slight postpartum depression, not visions of my dead sister trying to hog my baby."
Harry mumbled incoherently from the corner, but still slept.
"Why don't you go bother him?" Petunia asked. "And leave my children alone."
"If I could," Lily said, "I would. But it isn't within my power to so much as touch him." The redhead looked at her sister critically. "And don't think for a minute that I'm not angry about what you've done to him."
"What have I ever done to that boy?" Petunia tightened her hold on baby Vernon.
"You kept him locked in a cupboard, Petunia! You let your son walk all over him, never gave him any love or affection, let alone clothes that fit. And you lied every time he asked about me and James, every time!"
"I was trying," Petunia spat the word, 'trying', "To keep him alive. You think I never read the letter that crackpot tucked into his blankets? That I don't know how much of a target he is, and how his going off to that, that schooll makes it so much worse? If he had just stayed in his place, lived like a normal person, then neither your son nor my family would have ever known the danger they were in."
Adult Vernon snorted in his sleep.
"Besides," Petunia continued, her voice now closer to a whisper, "You gave him to me."
"I did," Lily admitted. "I made a decision, and if I could do it again, I wouldn't change my mind." She sighed. "But really, Petunia, was it truly too much to expect that you would give Harry a hug when he did something he couldn't explain, and didn't understand, rather than a shove into a closet?"
Petunia kept her eyes locked with her baby's. "I did only what I thought was best. He never wanted any of that from me, anyway. He needed you, not me. And he knew it."
"I'm dead, Petunia. I can't be with him. You're the one I asked to take my place," Lily said.
"Yet neither of us would change anything if we could." Petunia paused. "If you don't mind, why don't you go back to wherever you came from?" She maneuvered baby Vernon so that she could burp him before switching sides. "I'd like some time with my son," Petunia said.
"Wouldn't everyone?"
Petunia looked up to reply to her sister, but Lily Potter had vanished.
"But, I want to watch my shows, Mummy!"
"Dudley, the baby needs his sleep. The television is too loud."
"But, I want to!" Tears were rolling freely down Dudley's face. His cheeks were bright pink and Petunia thought her heart might break, but, difficult as it was, she could not allow Dudley to watch his shows.
"Diddy, you can watch them, later," Petunia said. "Your brother needs…"
"I don't care about my brother!" Dudley wailed. "Why does everything have to be about him? It isn't fair!"
"Dudley…"
"All he ever does is sleep! He's been here for weeks and that's all he does. I don't want a brother! I want to watch my…"
"Dudley Dursley!" Petunia thundered. "Do not ever talk about your brother that way! He's little; he needs his sleep. You do not need to watch the television. Go outside, and don't come back until I call you!"
Dudley shrank beneath his mother's unusually stern gaze, and waddled out of the kitchen and up to his room as quick as he could. Petunia couldn't believe what she'd said; she would make it up to Dudley, somehow.
For the moment, however, Petunia had to shift her attentions to her other crying son. Little Vernon, Vernie, as Petunia had taken to calling him, was supposed to go down for his morning nap, but Dudley's shows had woken him up from halfway across the house. Petunia shushed Vernie, and walked him slowly around the room.
The baby calmed down fairly quickly and Petunia laid him in his carrier. It was easier to keep an eye on Vernie when he was close by, not a staircase away, Petunia rationalized. Vernie would normally sleep in his cot upstairs, but today Petunia wanted him close to her.
Two wizards were coming to Privet Drive.
Harry had announced that they would be coming during last night's supper, although he'd been giving Petunia funny looks for about a week which led her to suspect he'd known they were coming for quite some time and was worried about how she'd react. Petunia certainly hated having to play hostess to a bunch of freaks, but she knew it was necessary for her family's safety.
Vernon was against the idea of wizards being at his home, naturally, but there wasn't anything the Dursleys could do about it. Petunia knew her husband was especially worried because he had to be at work and wouldn't be able to keep an eye on things. Apparently, Harry's previous assertion that "everyone had to be in the house" only applied to blood relatives. Dudley had thrown a tantrum about being considered one of Harry's "blood relatives," but he still had to be in the house when the wizards did whatever it was they were going to do.
Petunia sat at the kitchen table, returning her attention to writing thank-you notes for Vernie's christening presents, and tried to keep from thinking about what would happen when the wizards arrived. Would they hurt Dudley or Vernie? Would they make the Dursleys forget everything when they left? (Petunia had no memory of any wizards coming to do any sort of magic nonsense when the Dursleys took in Harry in the first place.) Why hadn't they come sooner?
Had the Dursleys been vulnerable during the four weeks since Vernie'd been brought home from the hospital?
An hour later, whilst Petunia was making it a point to actively not dwell on what the neighbors would think when two weirdly dressed strangers arrived at Privet Drive and made spectacles of themselves, a most peculiar thumping sound came from Harry's room. As Harry was currently engaged in wrestling long-rooted weeds from the garden, Petunia determined that the sound could not have been instigated by him, and it therefore signaled the arrival of the wizards.
Petunia crept nervously to the hallway, unwilling to leave Vernie alone in the kitchen and unwilling to allow a pair of freaks to go unsupervised in her house. Said freaks were clomping down the stairs, being completely inconsiderate of the sleeping baby. They came to a halt at the foot of the steps, seemingly at a loss as to what they were supposed to do next. Petunia, very discreetly, cleared her throat.
The wizard on the left jumped about three feet in the air, though the witch on the right didn't so much as blink. "Oh, there you are!" the wizard squeaked.
The wizard was, in Petunia's opinion, not the sort of person she wanted responsible for the protection of her family. He was shorter than Harry; his remaining gray hair was arranged on his head in a way that was supposed to hide his baldness but instead highlighted it; his right eye was at least an inch higher than the left; he carried a large, orange toolbox, which appeared to be welded shut; and he was wearing a blinding yellow tuxedo, with tails and a top-hat.
"We didn't realize the portkey'd take us straight to Harry Potter's room, sorry for the inconvenience. But Harry Potter's room! Oh, look at me, gushing like one of Gilderoy Lockheart's fan-girls. I just can't believe I'm really here!" The wizard accompanied his statements with lots of pointing upstairs in the general direction of Harry's room.
Petunia tried very hard not to look at him; she suspected all the yellow might give her an even bigger headache than the one she already had. Luckily, the witch intervened before her counterpart could do any more squealing.
"That'll be enough, Seymour," the witch said, catching the wizard's hand in mid-point. "We're not here for autographs." She turned to Petunia and said, "Our work shouldn't take long, an hour at the most. Is everyone inside?"
Petunia shook her head. "Harry's in the garden, I'll fetch him," Petunia paused, "You won't be going outside wearing that, will you?"
The witch bristled. She was dressed in the customary manner of her kind, but still looked abnormal, however nondescript the green robes might be. "We will not be seen by any muggles," the witch said in a clipped voice. "My partner's attempts at blending in are for your benefit, not our own."
Petunia muttered a reply and ducked out of the hallway. Back in the kitchen, she spared a glance at Vernie to make sure he was undisturbed before tapping on the window to call Harry inside. The sooner this nonsense was over, the better.
If the battery-powered clock in the kitchen was to be believed, then the wizards had only been at Privet Drive for thirty-eight minutes. Petunia felt certain that it had been far longer than thirty-eight minutes. At least, she reflected, Dudley had stopped complaining about his television shows.
Dudley had been somewhat pacified by being allowed to garnish his snack with chocolate sauce, though he was still pouting. He crunched the crisps sloppily, consuming far more chocolate than crisp, and every so often shot sulky glares at his baby brother.
Vernie was being quiet, content to marvel at the light glinting off a row of spoons for a few moments before closing his eyes again. Petunia held Vernie in her arms, occasionally adjusting the positions of the spoons so that he wouldn't get bored.
Harry, present in the kitchen only because he could see the wizards working most easily through the kitchen windows, continued to press his face against the glass despite Petunia's orders that he cease this action. Very well, Petunia decided, he could clean the face-prints off the glass himself as soon as the wizards left.
Harry reluctantly pulled himself away from the window, halfheartedly wiping at the glass with his sleeve to clean it. "They're coming back in," he announced.
Petunia resisted the urge to tighten her hold on Vernie and squelched a fleeting wish to grab Dudley, who was perfectly all right without her babying him, she assured herself.
Dudley scooted back from the table and prepared to dive beneath it in the event that he was threatened with a wand. He was pushing extraneous chairs away from his planned route to safety when the wizards entered the kitchen.
Seymour immediately began trying to bore holes through Harry with his lopsided eyes, as though he was trying to memorize every detail of Harry's person for reasons Petunia was certain she did not want to know. The witch, whose name Petunia hadn't been told, frowned at her partner's behavior.
"We are finished," the witch said. "I have messaged Professor Dumbledore, and we will be leaving shortly." As she spoke the witch fingered a broken computer joystick, one Petunia recognized as having once belonged to Dudley. If Dudley knew the witch was holding one of his old toys, however useless it now was to him, he didn't let on.
Harry all but flinched under the yellow wizard's scrutiny, making an effort to mash his unruly hair against his forehead and staring at the floor.
An awkward silence settled over the room. It was obvious, to Petunia, anyway, that the wizards were going to insist on standing in the kitchen until they left, whenever that was going to be.
"Well?" Petunia said, distracting Seymour from his unnerving study of Harry. "Why aren't you leaving now?"
"We've got to wait for the portkey," Seymour said.
Petunia nodded as though she understood. She hadn't the slightest inkling as to what the wizard was saying, but she didn't particularly care, either. Instead, she asked, "Why wasn't this done any sooner?" Petunia glared at Harry for a moment. "I was told it would happen two weeks ago, at the latest."
The witch answered before Seymour could. "The baby proved to be more of a complication than had been anticipated," she said, looking pointedly at Vernie.
"What do you mean, 'complication'?" Petunia narrowed her eyes at the witch.
"Harry Potter didn't tell you?" Seymour exclaimed. He puffed himself up importantly. "It's marvelous, really—"
"Don't!" Harry said, jerking his head up and looking more awake than he had for a month. "You can't—"
"—Can't imagine why he wouldn't tell," Seymour continued, his voice drowning out Harry's. "After all," he said.
"They don't want to know," Harry was saying, though Petunia could hardly hear him over Seymour, who said,
"It's pretty big news when your son isn't only Harry Potter's cousin, but a wizard in his own right."