Amanda Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

2. Birthdays and Broken Legs

   "It's my little Dinky Duddydums' birthday again," she smiled, "Vernon is taking our Ickle Dudders to that fancy hamburger restaurant around the corner; it's my Duddy's favorite. He even invited that charming little boy Piers Polkiss to come with us. We thought we'd go out for the movies afterward, and then go home and unwrap every single parcel!"

   Mrs. Figg tried her hardest to smile, "Yes, he's such a sweet boy that Dudley, all grown up now, isn't it a shame? Well, he'll be welcomed here for tea anytime. That goes for you and Vernon as well, Petunia."

   "Well," said the woman named Petunia, who now seemed to find it very difficult to smile back, "You can watch Harvey then---"

    "Harry," the boy corrected, through grinding teeth, "It's Harry."

    "Don't be afraid to hit him," Petunia muttered, narrowing her beady eyes at the boy, "Heaven knows, somedays he just asks for it."

    Amanda gripped the stair railing tightly, to keep herself from pouncing on the woman near the front door. She had taken an immediate disliking to anything that had to do with her, including the boy she had talked about before, with a sweet, loving, babyish voice. She carefully peered at Mrs. Figg, who was shaking with controlled anger.

    "That won't be necessary," her grandmother mumbled, "Tell Dudley I wished him a great birthday. C'mon Harry, Tibbles, Oscar and Ashy have been waiting for you."

     Petunia slammed the front door shut, and Gran left with the boy Harry, all of them out of Amanda's sight range. She groaned. If she wanted to see this strange new boy, he'd have to see her too. She couldn't imagine what her grandmother would say if she disobeyed one of her more severe orders. She scooped a purring Pandora off the floor, and ran down the flight of stairs.

    ". . . See that one there is Miss Whiskers. I've had her for a long time . . . She's my oldest living cat! That's her daughter there, Lola . . . and I've had him since he was a kitten . . . Snowy is shy, don't mind---"

   Amanda stormed into the kitchen, looking quite intimidating with her tawny, pug-faced cat hissing on her shoulders, standing firmly by her owner's side. Her grandmother was gaping, and the boy looked mildly surprised as a wispy, gray cat, missing a few whiskers, hopped off his lap, and he got the chance to look up.

    Both Harry and Amanda stared at each other for a moment in silence. Amanda had never pictured him to look like that in her mind. He had knobbly knees, overgrown, jet black hair that stuck up in all directions, and flimsy, circular glasses that were only held together by lots of Scotch tape and a bit of gum. For a fleeting moment, both thought they were looking in a mirror, but then realized that they both had slightly different faces; Harry's had a much longer nose, and Amanda's was rounder, paler and dotted with almost invisible freckles. Amanda was well cared for, though her messy, tangled black hair did not show it, while Harry was not. She saw the years of neglect he had suffered from his guardians, in his eyes, those sharp, piercing green eyes, that looked just like her own. Amanda Goodwin's eyes finally rested on a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt, between the boy's bangs. The tingling sensation that had started on her neck, moments before, had turned into a sharp, unbearable, shooting pain.

   "Harry," her grandmother had began coldly, waking them both from their trance, "This is Miss Goodwin, my granddaughter. She's just visiting for the weekend, and she'll be going back to her room now. Would you care to see a picture of Tibbles and Oscar?" It wasn't the lie about her not living there, that bothered Amanda the most, but the fact that her grandmother could easily say it, and then just talk about her cats in her usual batty manor, as if the lying hadn't affected her at all.