Petunia and the Little Monster

August 1974

Glitter spread across the slowly darkening evening sky above her, sizzling and spitting sparks with loud whistles that were soon drowned out when a booming voice echoed all around them: "Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my honour to welcome you all to the four-hundred-and-seventeenth Quidditch World Cup!"

The sparkles in the sky suddenly zoomed towards a giant scoreboard, that looked as if it would be more at home at a jousting tournament in the middle ages, and burned themselves into the wood, leaving large, smoking letters behind that read GREECE: 0, SCOTLAND: 0.

Petunia wondered how they would update the score, now that the wood was already burned before dismissing the thought because trying to find logic among magic was just as futile as trying to find cats in a bathtub.

"And now without further ado, allow me to welcome the Greek Team Mascots!"

Eugene leaned forward while Petunia was taking in the - Creatures? Beings? Animals? - that were skipping into the arena, frozen with astonishment.

Even from so far above the ground she could easily make out the men with curly hair and patchy goatees, an uncommon amount of hair covering their (indecently) naked chests and arms, loaded with an assortment of instruments and flasks.

But the dense chest-hair had nothing on the literal fur that covered their hoved goat-legs.

"Satyrs," Eugene said, and when Petunia looked over she recognized his expression as the one he would wear while telling her about some of the more fantastical creatures hidden in Newt Scamander's basement. He didn't look angry anymore, the appearance of the Satyrs enough to shift his focus and Petunia was strangely relieved to see him in his usual good cheer.

She didn't like it when Eugene looked unhappy, and that reality was somehow frightening enough that Petunia quickly pushed it down, returning her focus to the goat-men down on the field.

They had started strumming their harps while others lifted wooden flutes and panpipes to their lips. A hush fell over the crowd, a second of anticipation where the wizards and witches all around Petunia held their breath - and then a song sprang free from the field, washing over everyone present and gripping them tight.

The satyrs hopped and danced and played, their hands and hooves clapping, their stubby goat-tails wagging while they always seemed to find a second to sip from their wine-flasks without the music stuttering once. The melody was fast and lively and like nothing she had ever heard before, almost fierce in its tempo but invigorating more than intimidating.

It flooded through Petunia as if it had been poured into her ears in a warm stream, winding around her limbs and before she could stop it her feet were tapping along, her fingers drumming the quick rhythm onto her knees. She felt almost tipsy with it, light-headed and bolstered all at once.

When the satyrs twirled for the last time it was as if a spell was broken, something ancient and primal, more than any other magic Petunia had ever encountered. Only now did she notice the little vines that had sprung free beneath the Satyrs' hooves, snaking over the formerly plain grass as a testament to their presence.

Applause exploded around her and Petunia almost helplessly clapped along, her blood still thrumming with the high of the song.

Before Petunia could order her thoughts and calm herself down, the loud announcer-voice once more echoed around them. "And now, kindly welcome the Scottish National Team Mascots!"

The applause trickled down as soon as the spectators got a good look at the creatures skulking onto the field on the opposite side of the now-gone Satyrs. Where the Satyrs had looked almost jolly, with pudgy bellies, red noses and small, stubby horns, these human-like creatures were short and spindly, their gaunt features only highlighting their protruding, blood-shot eyes. Petunia could hear the metallic clinks of their heavy iron boots while her eyes were inexplicably drawn to the bright red hat sitting on their stringy hair.

Eugene's smile dimmed and Petunia saw his hand fall to the pocket where he usually kept his wand, only to come up empty.

These new creatures didn't have instruments or wine, instead carrying rusty pikestaffs which they stabbed into the air.

And then they started singing and Petunia dearly wished she had glued her ears shut instead. Their voices were scratchy and strangely deep, invading and slithering through the crowd, the words accented but no less gruesome for it.

"Blood of our enemies,

Blood of your enemies,

Dunk my hat in,

Blood of your kin,

Blood of our kin,

Dunk my hat in,

And when there is no more blood,

Of our enemies,

Of your kin,

Then thumb my head in."

Finished with their short verse, they chittered in delight and lifted their bright red hats to wave them at the silent crowd.

"Redcaps," Eugene said and it sounded like a warning.

"Err - yes, indeed, what a fierce representation from our Scottish Mascots! And here are the teams, the moment you have all been waiting for, Ladies and Gentlemen! To the right, led of course by Captain Cunningham, followed by McGregor ..."

Petunia barely paid attention to the wizards swooping in from the sky, riding their brooms in long curves to round the stadium and give the startled audience a chance to shake off their lingering unease and start cheering instead.

Only Petunia didn't find it as easy to forget. Her eyes followed the creatures - Redcaps - as they slunk back into the shadows, grins stretching their pale lips and exposing long teeth.

But it wasn't their gruesome appearance or blood-thirsty words that held her bound - it was the fact that they had words at all.

They had spoken, sung, with clear sentience and understanding. Not like the Jarvey in the Weasley's garden who had chattered nonsense and insults - these creatures knew what they were saying. They were obviously intelligent, not animals that had performed a trick, but beings who knew what they were doing.

And the wizards were using them as mascots.

Maybe it was nonsensical, to look for similarities with something so decidedly other, but Petunia somehow felt a strange kinship for the creatures now lurking in the shadows, forgotten in the wake of the flying wizards.

Why was there such a stark difference in their treatment? And why did it mirror the way Petunia herself sometimes felt treated by the wizarding community?

Her mind snapped back to the strange barrier that had invaded her thoughts, made her want to run away, disregarding Petunia simply for being non-magical. It had infested her without warning, without leaving her any chance to fight it off, like a virus that had singled her out - if it weren't for Eugene ... Petunia shuddered.

She wasn't welcome here. And looking at these beings that were magic, where Petunia had none, and who were still corralled to the corners, banished to the edges and shadows, she wondered why.

Her eyes tried to seek out the budding vines the dancing Satyrs had left behind, but the forms of swishing capes cutting through the air hid them from sight. They had created beauty with their song, and now they were used as entertainment for wizards who took their magic for granted, who viewed it as a neat trick.

Petunia's concentration wasn't on the game taking place, even though Eugene was trying to explain the rules to her (again). But she didn't hold any attention for the grown men clenching brooms between their thighs, chasing way too many balls through the air and - were those baseball bats?

Instead she repeatedly tried to catch a glimpse of the hidden mascots, but they only entered the sunlight whenever one of the teams scored a goal, performing short dances (the Satyrs) or stabbing the air with their weapons and howling (the Redcaps). Every time it happened, Petunia felt her fingers clench in her pretty skirt, feeling dirty for being among that same cheering audience.

It was probably owed to this preoccupation that Petunia took long minutes to notice when the tension around her flipped from enthusiasm to terror.

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