Adventures of Harriet Potter

Aunt Marge's Big Mistake

Harriet went down to breakfast the next morning to find the three Dursleys already sitting around the kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the television in the living room. Dudley had spent most of the summer in the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on the screen and his five chins wobbling as he ate continually. Harriet sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a large, beefy man with very little neck and a lot of mustache. Far from wishing Harriet a happy birthday, none of the Dursleys made any sign that they had noticed Harriet enter the room, but Harriet was far too used to this to care. She helped herself to a piece of toast and then looked up at the reporter on the television, who was halfway through a report on an escaped convict:
". . . The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately." he said barely glancing at his notes. "No need to tell us he's no good," snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. "Look at the state of him, the filthy layabout! Look at his hair!" He shot a nasty look sideways at Harriet, whose untidy hair had always been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harriet felt very well groomed indeed. Though he seemed familiar to her, like she'd met him before. The reporter had reappeared. "In other news, the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today —"
'Hang on!" barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the reporter. "You didn't tell us where that maniac's escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!" Harriet trembled, well aware that Uncle Vernon could take his anger out on her privets. Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, whipped around and peered intently out of the kitchen window. Harriet knew Aunt Petunia would simply love to be the one to call the hot line number. She was the nosiest woman in the world and spent most of her life spying on the boring, law-abiding neighbors. "When will they learn," said Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his large purple fist, "that hanging's the only way to deal with these people?"
"Very true," said Aunt Petunia, who was still squinting into next door's runner beans. Sounding very compliant to Uncle Vernon's view, as usual. Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his watch, and added, "I'd better be off in a minute, Petunia. Marge's train gets in at ten." Harriet, whose thoughts had been upstairs with the Broomstick Servicing Kit, was brought back to earth with an unpleasant bump. "Aunt Marge?" she blurted out. "Sh — she's not coming here, is she?" Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon's sister. Even though she was not a blood relative of Harriet's (whose mother had been Aunt Petunia's sister), she had been forced to call her "Aunt" all her life. Aunt Marge lived in the country, in a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs. She didn't often stay at Privet Drive, because she couldn't bear to leave her precious dogs, but each of her visits stood out horribly vividly in Harriet's mind.
At Dudley's fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge had whacked Harriet around the shins with her walking stick to stop her from beating Dudley at musical statues. A few years later, she had turned up at Christmas with a computerized robot for Dudley and a box of dog biscuits for Harriet. On her last visit, the year before Harriet started at Hogwarts, Harriet had accidentally trodden on the tail of her favorite dog. Ripper had chased Harriet out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to call him off until past midnight. The memory of this incident still brought tears of laughter to Dudley's eyes. "Marge'll be here for a week," Uncle Vernon snarled, "and while we're on the subject" — he pointed a fat finger threateningly at Harriet — "we need to get a few things straight before I go and collect her."
Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the television. Watching Harriet being bullied by Uncle Vernon was Dudley's favorite form of entertainment. "Firstly," growled Uncle Vernon, "you'll keep a civil tongue in your head when you're talking to Marge." She kept her face emotionless, though her voice betrayed her. "All right," said Harriet bitterly, "if she does when she's talking to me." she muttered cheekily. "Secondly," said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he had not heard Harry's reply, "as Marge doesn't know anything about your abnormality, I don't want any — any funny stuff while she's here. You behave yourself, got me?" Harriet crossed her arms. "I will if she does," said Harriet through gritted teeth. "And thirdly," said Uncle Vernon, his mean little eyes now slits in his great purple face, "we've told Marge you attend St. Marie's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Girls."
"What?" Harriet yelled. "And you'll be sticking to that story, girl, or there'll be trouble," spat Uncle Vernon. Harriet sat there, white-faced and furious, staring at Uncle Vernon, hardly able to believe it. Aunt Marge coming for a week-long visit — it was the worst birthday present the Dursleys had ever given her, including that pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks. Which had smelled as though he wore them somewhere besides his feet, though she hadn't recalled feeling fabric between her privets and his.
"Well, Petunia," said Uncle Vernon, getting heavily to his feet, "I'll be off to the station, then. Want to come along for the ride, Dudders?" Harriet could've bet on the answer, Dudley was so predictable. "No," said Dudley, whose attention had returned to the television now that Uncle Vernon had finished threatening Harriet. "Duddy's got to make himself smart for his auntie," said Aunt Petunia, smoothing Dudley's thick blond hair. "Mummy's bought him a lovely new bow tie." Harriet didn't comment on how nothing short of a miracle — much less a bow tie — was going to make Dudley smart.
Uncle Vernon clapped Dudley on his porky shoulder. "See you in a bit, then," he said, and he left the kitchen. Harriet, who had been sitting in a kind of horrified trance, had a sudden idea. Abandoning her toast, she got quickly to her feet and followed Uncle Vernon to the front door. Uncle Vernon was pulling on his car coat. "I'm not taking you," he snarled as he turned to see Harriet watching him. "Like I wanted to come," said Harriet coldly. "I want to ask you something." Uncle Vernon eyed her suspiciously. "Third years and up at Hog — at my school are allowed to visit the village sometimes," said Harriet. "So?" snapped Uncle Vernon, taking his car keys from a hook next to the door.
"I need you to sign the permission form," said Harriet in a rush. "And why should I do that?" sneered Uncle Vernon. "Well," said Harriet, choosing her words carefully, "it'll be hard work, pretending to Aunt Marge I go to that St. Whatsits —" she braced for his bellow. "St. Marie's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal girls!" bellowed Uncle Vernon, and Harriet was pleased to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle Vernon's voice. "Exactly," said Harriet, looking calmly up into Uncle Vernon's large, purple face. "It's a lot to remember. I'll have to make it sound convincing, won't I? What if I accidentally let something slip?"
"You'll get the stuffing knocked out of you and shown your place as a girl, won't you?" roared Uncle Vernon, advancing on Harriet with his fist raised. But Harriet stood her ground. "Knocking the stuffing out of and doing that to me won't make Aunt Marge forget what I could tell her," she said grimly. She was bluffing but she didn't want Uncle Vernon to call her bluff, she wasn't sure what was left of her Contraceptive Potion supply would hold up if he did. Uncle Vernon stopped, his fist still raised, his face an ugly puce. "But if you sign my permission form," Harriet went on quickly, "I swear I'll remember where I'm supposed to go to school, and I'll act like a Mug — like I'm normal and everything."
Harriet could tell that Uncle Vernon was thinking it over, even if his teeth were bared and a vein was throbbing in his temple. "Right," he snapped finally. "I shall monitor your behavior carefully during Marge's visit. If, at the end of it, you've toed the line and kept to the story, I'll sign your ruddy form."
He wheeled around, pulled open the front door, and slammed it so hard that one of the little panes of glass at the top fell out. Harriet quickly caught it and fit it back in carefully. Harriet didn't return to the kitchen. She went back upstairs to her bedroom. If she was going to act like a real Muggle, she'd better start now. Slowly and sadly she gathered up all her presents and her birthday cards and hid them under the loose floorboard with her homework. Then she went to Hedwig's cage. Errol seemed to have recovered; he and Hedwig were both asleep, heads under their wings. Harriet sighed, then poked them both awake. "Hedwig," she said gloomily, "you're going to have to clear off for a week. Go with Errol. Ron'll look after you. I'll write him a note, explaining. And don't look at me like that" — Hedwig's large amber eyes were reproachful — "it's not my fault. It's the only way I'll be allowed to visit Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione."
Ten minutes later, Errol and Hedwig (who had a note to Ron bound to her leg) soared out of the window and out of sight. Harriet, now feeling thoroughly miserable, put the empty cage away inside the wardrobe. But Harriet didn't have long to brood. In next to no time, Aunt Petunia was shrieking up the stairs for Harriet to come down and get ready to welcome their guest. "Do something about your hair!" Aunt Petunia snapped as she reached the hall.
Harriet couldn't see the point of trying to make her hair lie flat. Aunt Marge loved criticizing her, so the untidier she looked, the happier she would be. All too soon, there was a crunch of gravel outside as Uncle Vernon's car pulled back into the driveway, then the clunk of the car doors and footsteps on the garden path. "Get the door!" Aunt Petunia hissed at Harriet. A feeling of great gloom in her stomach, Harriet pulled the door open. On the threshold stood Aunt Marge. She was very like Uncle Vernon: Large, beefy, and purple-faced, she even had a mustache, though not as bushy as his. In one hand she held an enormous suitcase, and tucked under the other was an old and evil-tempered bulldog. "Where's my Dudders?" roared Aunt Marge. "Where's my neffy-poo?"
Dudley came waddling down the hall, his blond hair plastered flat to his fat head, a bow tie just visible under his many chins. Aunt Marge thrust the suitcase into Harriet's stomach, knocking the wind out of her, seized Dudley in a tight one-armed hug, and planted a large kiss on his cheek. Harriet knew perfectly well that Dudley only put up with Aunt Marge's hugs because he was well paid for it, and sure enough, when they broke apart, Dudley had a crisp twenty-pound note clutched in his fat fist. "Petunia!" shouted Aunt Marge, striding past Harriet as though she was a hat stand. Aunt Marge and Aunt Petunia kissed, or rather, Aunt Marge bumped her large jaw against Aunt Petunia's bony cheekbone.
Uncle Vernon now came in, smiling jovially as he shut the door. "Tea, Marge?" he said. "And what will Ripper take?" Harriet then noticed the familiar coloration of the bulldog, and shivered. "Ripper can have some tea out of my saucer," said Aunt Marge as they all trooped into the kitchen, leaving Harriet alone in the hall with the suitcase. But Harriet wasn't complaining; any excuse not to be with Aunt Marge was fine by her, so she began to heave the case upstairs into the spare bedroom, taking as long as she could. By the time she got back to the kitchen, Aunt Marge had been supplied with tea and fruitcake, and Ripper was lapping noisily in the corner. Harriet saw Aunt Petunia wince slightly as specks of tea and drool flecked her clean floor. Aunt Petunia hated animals.
"Who's looking after the other dogs, Marge?" Uncle Vernon asked. "Oh, I've got Colonel Fubster managing them," boomed Aunt Marge. "He's retired now, good for him to have something to do. But I couldn't leave poor old Ripper. He pines if he's away from me." Ripper began to growl again as Harriet sat down. This directed Aunt Marge's attention to Harriet for the first time. "So!" she barked. "Still here, are you?" Harriet struggled not to snort, or comment rudely. "Yes," said Harriet.
"Don't you say 'yes' in that ungrateful tone," Aunt Marge growled. "It's damn good of Vernon and Petunia to keep you. Wouldn't have done it myself. You'd have gone straight to an orphanage if you'd been dumped on my doorstep." Harriet was bursting to say that she'd rather live in an orphanage than with the Dursleys, but the thought of the Hogsmeade form stopped her. She forced her face into a painful smile. "Don't you smirk at me!" boomed Aunt Marge. "I can see you haven't improved since I last saw you. I hoped school would knock some manners into you." She took a large gulp of tea, wiped her mustache, and said, "Where is it that you send her, again, Vernon?"
"St. Marie's," said Uncle Vernon promptly. "It's a first-rate institution for hopeless cases." His tone implying they probably wouldn't ask questions if Harriet actually went there and were to return from holidays with a baby in her belly. Then she caught on that the school Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had changed the school she was supposed to be going to — if they'd had any say in the matter — in the last two years. Originally she was supposed to go to Stonewall Secondary School, now she was supposed to be at St. Marie's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Girls. She wondered what the story was, then thought they probably said she caused enough trouble to be expelled from Stonewall and St. Marie's was the only place that would take her.
"I see," said Aunt Marge. "Do they use the cane at St. Marie's, girl?" she barked across the table. "Er —" Harriet hoped it looked like she was trying to remember instead of simply not knowing in the first place. Uncle Vernon nodded curtly behind Aunt Marge's back. "Yes," said Harriet. Then, feeling she might as well do the thing properly, she added, "All the time." Wood's Quidditch practices certainly felt like getting beaten with a cane, so it was technically not a lie. "Excellent," said Aunt Marge. "I won't have this namby-pamby, wishy-washy nonsense about not hitting people who deserve it. A good thrashing is what's needed in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. Have you been beaten often?"
"Oh, yeah," said Harry, "loads of times." Unintentionally lacing her voice with a tone of pleasure, as if she got off on that sort of thing for kicks. Aunt Marge narrowed her eyes. "I still don't like your tone, girl," she said. "If you can speak of your beatings in that casual way, they clearly aren't hitting you hard enough. Petunia, I'd write if I were you. Make it clear that you approve the use of extreme force in this girl's case." Perhaps Uncle Vernon was worried that Harriet might forget their bargain; in any case, he changed the subject abruptly. "Heard the news this morning, Marge? What about that escaped prisoner, eh?"