PART TWO

Petunia was woken up by Vernon's alarm clock, as she was every morning. The blaring screech of the little device went through her, blasting her into consciousness. Vernon was already awake, his naked figure limping over to the cupboard for him to put on his dressing gown. He left the room without acknowledging her existence, leaving her again to her thoughts in the dreaded silence.

After a few moments of becoming aware of her surroundings Petunia got out of the bed and put on a dressing gown and pair of slippers. Vernon would get angry if he went for too long without his breakfast; Petunia had to do everything in her power to appease him, each outburst had been worse than the last, each time she had ended up worse than the last…

She hurried down the stairs, trying to be as quiet but speedy as possible. As soon as she got into the kitchen the cooker was on and the smell of bacon frying began to seep through the air. Vernon had retrieved the morning's newspaper from the door and was reading it with a look of disinterest on his face.

He looked up from the paper as the kettle began boiling and Petunia hurredly began making a cup of coffee for him. Three carefully measured sugars and a drop of milk. He seemed pleased with it.

A few minutes later the breakfast was ready and Petunia placed it on the table in front of Vernon, as well as two slices of toast and a tub of butter. Immediately Vernon began layering the butter onto the bread, spreading it almost violently, as though he was angry at the bread. He probably was.

Vernon had applied almost half of the tub onto the two slices of bread and Petunia had watched him through all of it. Go on fattie, she had thought, spread that butter, go on. Kill yourself with it, yeah, that's it shove that butter into your fat mouth you ugly piece of shit. Had she really just thought that about her husband? She sensed a slight feeling of guilt inside her, but she didn't know why. Why would she have to feel bad for thinking that about the fat bastard in front of her?

No. She had to stop thinking like that. She wouldn't become cold like him.

The rest of the morning passed her by in a daze. She was so well trained in the usual routine that she didn't even need to think about what she was doing; it all just came to her. Vernon dressed himself and cleaned himself, then left for work, leaving Petunia alone in the silent house. He didn't kiss her on the way out, he didn't say goodbye, he just stormed off, all of the care he had once showed her completely gone.

With Vernon out of the house Petunia quickly set about cleaning it: she wanted it spotless for when her husband got back. She cleaned it every day, keeping it immaculate as possible. Everything had to be perfect.

Once that was done, Petunia had nothing else to do so she collapsed onto the couch in exhaustion before quickly realising her error and frantically tidying up the dishevelled cushions and sheet. Vernon wouldn't be back for hours (most likely longer than usual, he often went drinking on Friday nights), but there may still be creases, and Petunia felt uncomfortable in such a relaxed position anyway. To her it felt wrong. She felt like she was living in someone else's house, and so it had to be treated as such.

After 2 hours of watching the dull reality TV of ITV 2, Petunia was startled by the front door opening. Dudley was back. She hadn't seen him in two days, nor he her, but neither went to greet the other. Dudley was upstairs as soon as he got in.

Vernon had gone to the pub, leaving Petunia and Dudley to eat her dinner of chicken and potatoes alone. The meal was silent, as all meals were in the hellish household. Petunia and Dudley exchanged a few awkward glances once or twice but neither made any other attempt at contact. It was only later that night, when all of the dishes were washed and it was approaching midnight when they actually spoke.

Dudley had come downstairs for a drink when he entered the small living room where Petunia sat hunched up on the couch in the corner.

"Are you okay?" Dudley asked in a surprisingly sympathetic voice. He usually just mumbled emotionlessly.

Petunia nodded. "Fine," she said in an unconvincing and shaky voice. It felt like the first time she had spoken in years.

"Has he… you know. Has he… done anything recently?"

"Not recently. Not since that night."

Dudley loitered in the doorway for a moment. "Why haven't you phoned the police yet?" he asked.

"I can't Dudley, I just can't," there was an odd tone in her voice, a desperate tone. She was obviously close to tears.

"Why?" Dudley demanded, his frustration evident, "Why are you letting him get away with doing this?"

"Dudley, he's your father, he's very stressed right now…"

"And? That doesn't make what he does okay."

Petunia looked at her son. He wore an angry expression on his face. "Even so, we're in hiding. We have to lay low. We can't draw attention to ourselves."

Dudley seemed to (begrudgingly) accept her response, before asking: "Do you ever think of him? Harry, I mean."

Petunia thought back to last night and how she had been reflecting on her treatment of him. "Sometimes. Do you?"

"Sometimes."

Dudley's response was short, because he knew that his mother didn't want to talk about Harry. He didn't want to talk about Harry. Instead he just walked away up the stairs, leaving Petunia alone again with just the glow from the TV screen and some terrible film to keep her company.