Hambares- you are too wonderful. Thank you for the review! I dedicate this chapter to you!
The Potter's Tale
Chapter One
Vernon's Worst Day
-for Hambares
The Widow Figg noticed Harry's disappearance and was the first on Vernon's doorstep enquiring about him. First he told her that Harry was ill. She offered to take care of Harry. Vernon sent her away. She was back the next day with the priest demanding to see Harry.
The priest was tall with white blonde hair and pale gray eyes as intelligent as they were cold. He was very angry with Vernon. At first Harry couldn't figure out why. How could the priest care about him? Harry had never even met the man.
"Why have you not brought this boy to church, Vernon?"
"Well, he's got his work-"
"Sunday is a day of rest. It is the Lord's day. Do not tell me that you have worked this boy on Sundays."
Of course, I work every day, Harry almost said.
"No no, of course not, but he's lazy."
"These things must be expected when you keep a boy away from God."
"Father, I can't get him out of bed on Sundays."
"Harry, you will get out of bed on Sunday and come to church."
"Yes, Father Malfoy, I will. Thank you for inviting me."
"There you see, Vernon? Good boy, Harry."
Harry's life improved considerably after that. Vernon never beat him where marks might show in church. He usually didn't beat him past Wednesday, though Sunday night and Wednesday were often quite bad. Vernon bought Harry a new set of clothes, but he could only wear them to church. Best of all, Harry got to have a proper bath on Saturday night with soap. The first time Harry almost cried. The loss of the clay against his body made him feel raw and lonely. But he soon realized getting clay all over him again on Monday was just like coming home to a friend. After that first time, Harry learned to enjoy the strange new feeling of being clean though it never lasted long.
The widow had figured out Harry's new schedule too and joined him down by the river some mornings before dawn where Harry talked to the clay. Some days he and the widow would talk. Sometimes she would read to him as he worked. Usually she brought him something to eat, bread and a bit of cheese or butter, sometimes a proper bowl of pea soup with bits of carrot and turnip. Harry thinks he well may have died by now if the old woman had not gone so far out of her way all these years to feed him. Sometimes he managed to sneak her gifts in return, silver fish caught with his bare hands. He was good at that, though they were very quick. Taking them home for Vernon to eat would have been a waste. Sometimes he picked edible berries or mushrooms by moonlight saved her half and ate the rest. Often late at night, he'd add bits of fire wood he'd collected to her woodpile. Twice he gave her pieces he made especially for her and managed to hide from his uncle. She never asked him for any of it. Then again, he had never asked her for anything except to teach him how to bake bread.
By the time Harry turned seventeen, Uncle Vernon was a new man. He gave up drinking to extremes, though he still drank occasionally and always ate enough for four. He was well off, envied by his neighbors, and commanded a certain degree of respect not so much as the priest, of course, but more than the blacksmith and most of the other tradesmen.
Vernon did not care for pots, not really. Being a potter was simply the skill his father had taught him, as his father taught him. Pottery was the family business. He never foresaw how profitable the trade could be. If he had he might have taken more of an interest when he was younger. Not that it mattered now. The brat, as much as Vernon hated to admit it even to himself, was a Godsend. Vernon liked the man that Vernon had become. He liked the deference he saw in the eyes of the other villagers. He liked the fact that he sat near the front every Sunday in fine clothes bought with Harry's labors, even though Harry now sat next to him.
The day of the incident was a Sunday, and started just like any other Sunday. Vernon ate a hearty breakfast alone. He decided that Harry looked presentable. Harry sat in the wagon while Vernon drove the horses. It wasn't far to church but why should Vernon walk like the poorest beggar? They sat in their usual pew. Father Malfoy gave his sermon, something about good works. Vernon wasn't really paying attention. He was trying to keep track out of the corners of his eyes, how many admiring looks he got from those important enough to sit as near the front as he sat. Suddenly the stupid, ugly boy beside him leapt up, started babbling madly about drowning and ran from the church.
Vernon had never been so humiliated in his entire life. He could feel eyes on him, all those squinty jealous eyes now so smug and satisfied that he was humiliated! He'd beat the boy dead for this. No, he couldn't do that. Well, he'd beat the boy until the boy wished he were dead. If he thought to use the beating as excuse get out of work, well the boy would have another thing coming!
Unbelievably to Vernon, Father Malfoy stopped midsentence and followed the boy out of the church! When Father Malfoy left, the whole congregation followed! Vernon sat fuming for a few minutes before at last he too left the church. He certainly didn't want to be caught doing something that no one else was doing.
As it turned out, someone had been drowning. A tiny little girl had wandered out of church unnoticed and had fallen into the river. The terrible boy saved her, damn him! Now everyone knew that the stupid, ugly boy, the one Vernon selflessly took in as a baby, sheltered, clothed, fed, taught an honorable trade, and treated as his very own, was a witch which of course would reflect very poorly upon Vernon. Good God! What if they burned Harry at the stake? There would be no more pottery.
This was the worst day of Vernon's life.
