~ chapter two: aunt marge's big mistake ~
Y/N and I 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.
As we sat down, far from wishing us a happy birthday, none of the Dursleys made any sign that they had noticed us enter the room, but we were far too used to this to care. We helped ourselves to pieces 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."
"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 me, which I guess I shouldn't be too surprised about. My untidy hair had always been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon, but there was nothing I could do. Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, I felt very well groomed.
The reporter had reappeared.
"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!"
'He does know that Black would actually be sighted if he did that, right?' I thought annoyedly as Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, whipped around and peered intently out of the kitchen window. I 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.
'She knows Black isn't going to be hiding in plain sight, right?'
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."
My thoughts had been upstairs with the Broomstick Servicing Kit when I was brought back to earth with an unpleasant bump.
"Aunt Marge?" I 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 mine (my mother had been Aunt Petunia's sister) I had been forced to call her 'Aunt' for as long as I can remember. She 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 my mind.
At Dudley's fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge had whacked me around the shins with her walking stick to stop me 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 me. On her last visit, the year before I met Y/N and started at Hogwarts, I had accidentally trodden on the tail of her favorite dog. Ripper had chased me out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to call him off until past midnight. The memory of the incident still brought tears of laughter to Dudley's eyes. I made eye contact with Y/N, trying to tell her mentally that Aunt Marge was exactly like the Dursleys without telling her out loud. Thankfully, she understood.
"Marge'll be here for a week," Uncle Vernon snarled, "and while we're on the subject"—he pointed fat fingers threateningly at us—"we need to get a few things straight before I go and collect her."
Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the television. Watching us being bullied by Uncle Vernon was Dudley's favorite form of entertainment, which was weird, considering he'd flirted with Y/N a year ago.
The memory of this made my hands curl into fists involuntarily. It was a habit by now. More than once, I'd crept into Dudley's room with a knife in hand after everyone else had gone to bed, standing in the corner of his room, glowering at him from that corner. Maybe the lack of communication before last night had drove me temporarily insane or something—made me plan on doing something I 'normally wouldn't dream of doing'. I would have done what you're probably thinking about what I planned to do with that knife if I hadn't hesitated, gone back down to the kitchen, crept into our room, and lay awake for, like, fifteen minutes before passing out.
You know what's funny? Before I met her, I'd normally never dream of doing anything like that before. No girl or boy could make me feel that way before. Nobody had been able to get that kind of reaction out of me. I'd never felt anything this strong for anybody before.
But the moment I saw her, I felt as if she were the only girl in the world. I don't know what it was, but the moment I laid eyes on her, I felt as if I could do anything for her. As if I could kill for her if need be.
I know, I know what you're thinking. 'Harry, you're fucking insane, you need to get some help.' But just put yourselves in my shoes for a second; you've basically lived with your abusive relatives your whole life, you've had absolutely zero friends and/or people to talk to, and then a gorgeous girl comes up to you and actually shows interest in making small talk with you? And being your friend? And then after knowing each other for, like, two years, you're best friends all of a sudden? Come on, people.
Anyway.
"Firstly," growled Uncle Vernon, "you'll both keep a civil tongue in your head when you're talking to Marge."
"All right," I said bitterly, "if she does when she's talking to me."
"Secondly," said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he had not heard my reply, :as Marge doesn't know anything about your abnormality, I don't want any—any funny stuff while she's here. You both behave yourselves, got me?"
"We will if she does," said Y/N through gritted teeth.
"And thirdly," said Uncle Vernon, his mean little eyes now slits in his great purple face, "we've told Marge that you"—he pointed at me—"attend St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys and you"—he pointed at Y/N next—"attend Clear Lake Conservatory."
"Clear Lake what?" muttered Y/N out of the corner of her mouth so that I could only hear.
"Pretty sure it's an all-girls school," I muttered back.
"Greeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaat." She stretched out the world, rolling her eyes subtly.
"And you'll be sticking to those stories, got it?" Uncle Vernon grunted.
"Mm."
"Yes or no?"
"All right, all right, sure, yeah, mm-hm!"
"Good," grunted Uncle Vernon, but I sat there, white-faced and furious, despite how cool I had played it. Aunt Marge coming for a week-long visit—it was the worst birthday present the Dursleys had ever given me, including that pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks.
"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?"
"No," said Dudley, whose attention had returned to the television now that Uncle Vernon had stopped bullying us.
"Duddy's got to make himself smart for his auntie," said Aunt Petunia, smoothing Dudley's thick dark hair. "Mummy'd bought him a lovely new bow tie."
Uncle Vernon clapped Dudley on his porky shoulder.
"See you in a bit, then," he said, and he left the kitchen.
"Come on," Y/N muttered, nudging me.
"Wha—?"
"Come on," she repeated, "I have an idea."
"Wha—?" I said again.
Y/N rolled her eyes and grabbed my arm, tugging us out of the kitchen, abandoning our toast and following Uncle Vernon to the front door.
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, yes, what is it?" Uncle Vernon said impatiently. "Make it quick."
"We just wanted to ask you something," I replied, figuring I should say something.
Uncle Vernon eyed us suspiciously.
"Third years at Hog—our school," I hurriedly corrected, "are allowed to visit the village sometimes."
"So?" snapped Uncle Vernon, taking his car keys fro, a hook next to the door.
"We need you to sign the permission forms," said Y/N.
"And why should I do that?" sneered Uncle Vernon.
"Well..." I paused. "It'll be hard work, pretending to Aunt Marge I go to that St. Whatsits and Y/N goes to that Clear Lake Whatsits—"
"Clear Lake Conservatory and St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys!"
'There we go.' Uncle Vernon was panicked. That was what we needed.
"Exactly," said Y/N, looking calmly up into Uncle Vernon's large, purple face. "It's a lot to remember. We'll have to make it sound convincing, won't we? What if we accidentally let something slip? And before you say anything," she went on as Uncle Vernon opened his mouth to speak, "you can't exactly 'knock the stuffing out of us' since, c'mon, would you really hit a girl? Especially if that girl would do anything to protect her best friend? And you can't put bars on our window, either, not if you don't want the neighbors asking questions."
Uncle Vernon paused.
"But if you sign our permission forms," I went on quickly, "we swear we'll remember where we're supposed to go to school, and we'll act like Mug—like we're normal and everything."
I could tell Uncle Vernon was thinking it over hard.
"Right," he snapped finally. "I shall monitor your behavior carefully during Marge's visit. If, at the end of it, you two have toed the line and kept to the story, I'll sign your ruddy forms."
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.
We didn't return to the kitchen. We went back upstairs to our room. If we were going to act like real Muggles, we'd better start now. Slowly and sadly, we gathered up all our presents and our birthday cards and hid them under the loose floorboards with our homework. Then we went to Hedwig and Hades's cages. Errol seemed to have recovered; he, Hades, and Hedwig were both asleep, heads under their wings. I sighed as we poked them both awake.
"Hedwig, Hades, you're going to have to clear off for a week," Y/N informed them gloomily. "Go with Errol. Ron'll look after you. One of us'll write him a note, explaining. And don't look at me like that"—Hades's big, green eyes and Hedwig's large amber ones were reproachful—"it's not our faults. It's the only way we'll be allowed to visit Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione."
Ten minutes later, Errol, Hedwig and Hades (who had a note to Ron bound to his leg) stated out of the window and out of sight. Y/N and I, now feeling thoroughly miserable, put the empty cages away inside the wardrobe.
But we didn't have long to brood. In next to no time, Aunt Petunia was shrieking up the stairs for us to come down and get ready to welcome our guest.
"Do something about your hair!" Aunt Petunia snapped at me as we reached the hall.
I couldn't see the point of trying to make my hair lie flat. Aunt Marge loved criticizing me, so the untidier I looked, the happier she would be.
All too soon, there was a crunch of gravel outside as Uncle's Vernon 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 me.
A feeling of great gloom in my stomach, I 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 dark hair plastered flat to his head, a bow tie just visible under his many chins. Aunt Marge thrust the suitcase into my stomach, knocking the wind out of me, seized Dudley in a tight one-armed hug, and planted a large kiss on his cheek.
I 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.
"And who are you?" Aunt Marge asked, looking Y/N up and down.
Y/N paused. Coughed into her hand. "Um. Well."
"I'm sorry, Marge, she's just like the boy."
"Petunia!" shouted Aunt Marge, striding past Y/N and I as though we were hat stands. 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?"
"Ripper can have some tea out of my saucer," said Aunt Marge as they all trooped into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Y/N and the suitcase. I wasn't complaining, though; any excuse to be with Y/N and not with Aunt Marge was fine by me, so we began to have the case upstairs into the spare bedroom, taking as long as we humanly could.
By the time we'd got back to the kitchen, Aunt Marge had been supplied with tea and fruitcake, and Ripper was lapping noisily in the corner. I 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 Fustier 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."
'That makes one of us.'
Ripper began to growl as we sat down. This got Aunt Marge to pay attention to me for the first time.
"So!" she barked. "Still here, are you?"
"Yes."
"Don't you say 'yes' in that ungrateful tone," Aunt Marge growled. "It's damn good of Vernon and Petunia to keep you and the girl. You said she was like the boy, Petunia. Two troublemakers, I see. Wouldn't have kept you myself. You'd have gone straight to an orphanage if you'd been dumped on my doorstep."
I was bursting to say that I'd rather live in an orphanage than with the Dursleys but the thought of the Hogsmeade forms stopped me. Y/N opened her mouth (probably to state that she had lived in an orphanage before) but closed it, probably thinking better of it.
Aunt Marge took a large gulp of tea, wiped her mustache, and said, "Where is it that you send them, again, Vernon?"
"The boy goes to St. Brutus's," said Uncle Vernon promptly. "It's a first-rate institution for hopeless cases. And the girl goes to... what was its name again?"
I had a sneaking suspicion that Uncle Vernon had not forgotten the name of Y/N's 'school' at all, and that it was just some sort of ruse just to see if she would slip up. But she didn't, instead clearing her throat and saying, "Clear Lake Conservatory."
"I see," said Aunt Marge. "And do they use the cane at St. Brutus's and Clear Lake?"
Uncle Vernon nodded curtly behind Aunt Marge's back.
"Yes," I said.
"All the time," Y/N added.
"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," I said sarcastically, nodding.
"Yeah, we've been beaten loads of times," Y/N added, subtly rolling her eyes.
Aunt Marg narrowed her eyes.
"I still don't like both of your tones. If you can both 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 both of their cases."
Perhaps Uncle Vernon was worried that we might forget their bargain; in any case, he changed the subject abruptly.
"Heard the news this morning, Marge? What about that escaped prisoner, eh?"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
As Aunt Marge started to make herself at home, Harry caught himself thinking almost longingly of life at number four without her. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia usually encouraged Harry and Y/N to stay out of their way, which both of them were only too happy to do. Aunt Marge, on the other hand, wanted them both under her eye at all times, so that she could boom out suggestions for their improvement. She also kept throwing out dark hints about what made them both such unsatisfactory people, despite only knowing Y/N for a few days, but apparently, that was all she needed to despise her as much as she despised Harry.
"You mustn't blame yourself for the way they've turned out, Vernon," she said over lunch the third day. "If there's something rotten on the inside, there's nothing anyone can do about it."
Harry tried to concentrate on his food, hoping Y/N was doing the same, but his hands shook and his face was starting to burn with anger. 'Remember the form,' he told himself. 'Think about Y/N. Think about Hogsmeade. Don't say anything. Don't rise—'
Aunt Marge reached for her glass of wine.
"It's one of the basic rules of breeding," she said. "You see it all the time with dogs. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with the pup—"
At that moment, the wineglass Aunt Marge was holding exploded in her hand. Shards of glass flew in every direction and Aunt Marge sputtered and blinked, her great ruddy face dripping.
"Marge!" squealed Aunt Petunia. "Marge, are you all right?"
"Not to worry," grunted Aunt Marge, mopping her face with her napkin. "Must have squeezed it too hard. Did the same thing at Colonel Fubster's the other day. No need to fuss, Petunia. I have a very firm grip."
But Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were both looking at Harry and Y/N suspiciously, so Harry decided they'd better skip dessert and escape from the table as soon as they could.
Outside in the hall, Y/N and Harry leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. It had been a long time since he'd lost control and made something explode. He couldn't afford to let it happen again. The Hogsmeade forms weren't the only things at stake—if either one of them carried on like that, they'd be in trouble with the Ministry of Magic.
Harry and Y/n were still underage wizards, and they were forbidden by wizard law to do magic outside school. Their records weren't exactly clean, either. Only last summer they'd both gotten an official warning that had stated quite clearly that if the Ministry got wind of any more magic in Privet Drive, Harry and Y/N would both face expulsion from Hogwarts.
Harry heard the Dursleys leaving the table and he nodded to Y/N, the two of them hurrying upstairs out of the way.
And he bitterly wished he could somehow have been able to slip poison into their meals.
Ah, well.
There was always next time.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It had been a long time since Y/N had made something explode. She couldn't let it happen again. She swore to herself that for the remainder of Marge's visits, she wouldn't slip up once.
She got through the next three days by forcing herself to think about her Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcorn whenever Marge started on her and Harry. This seemed to work quite well, though it seemed to give him a glazed look, because Marge started voicing the opinion that they were both mentally subnormal.
At last, at long last, the final evening of Marge's stay arrived. Petunia cooked a fancy dinner rand Vernon uncorked several bottles of wine. They got all the way through the soup and the salmon without a single mention of either Y/N or Harry's faults; during the lemon meringue pie, Vernon bored them all with a long talk about Grunnings, his drill-making company; then Aunt Petunia made coffee and Uncle Vernon brought out a bottle of brandy.
"Can I tempt you, Marge?"
Marge had already had quite a lot of wine. Her huge face was very red.
"Just a small one, then," she chuckled. "A bit more than that... and a bit more... that's the ticket."
Dudley was eating his fourth slice of pie. Petunia was sipping coffee with her little finger sticking out. Y/N really wanted to disappear into her and Harry's shared bedroom, but she met Vernon's angry little eyes and knew she and Harry would have to sit it out.
"Aah," said Marge, smacking her lips and putting the empty brandy glass back down. "Excellent nosh, Petunia. It's normally just a fry-up for me or an evening, with twelve dogs to look after...." She burped richly and patted her great tweed stomach. "Pardon me. But I do love to see a healthy-sized boy," she went on, winking at Dudley. "You'll be a proper-sized man, Dudders, like your father. Yes, I'll have a spot more brandy, Vernon....
"Now, these ones here—"
She jerked her head at Harry and Y/N. Y/N felt her stomach drop. 'The Handbook,' she thought quickly.
"These ones have got a mean, runty look about them. You get that with dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown one last year. Ratty little thing it was. Weak. Underbred."
Y/N was trying hard to remember page twelve of her book: A Charm to Cure Reluctant Reverses.
"It all comes down to blood, as I was saying the other day. Bad blood will out." Another sip. "What is it their fathers did, Petunia?"
Petunia was agitated. Taken aback, maybe. Y/N could see she hadn't been expecting this question. "Nothing. That is—they didn't work. They were—unemployed."
"Of course. And drunks, I expect—"
"That's a lie," Y/N cut in.
"What did you say?" Aunt Marge inquired, eyeing Y/N suspiciously.
"Our dads weren't drunks," Harry repeated. He knew nothing about Y/N's father of course, but Y/N felt like he still felt the urge to defend him.
"You both go to bed," Vernon said furiously. "Now."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Quiet, Vernon. It doesn't matter about the fathers. In the end it comes down to the mothers. Like I said the other night—you see it all the time with dogs. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with the pup—"
"Shut up! SHUT UP!" Y/N shouted furiously, jumping up from her seat and glaring at the Dursleys.
'Okay, that was kinda hot, I'm not going to lie—no, not right now, later. Focus, Harry.'
Aunt Marge started to reply, when—zing!—a button on her dress sailed into the air. A thread snapped, and Aunt Marge's eyes widened. Her cheeks billowed as her whole body did as well. And then she began to inflate like a monstrous balloon.
"Marge!" Uncle Vernon yelled, leaping for her as she rose. Ripper growled and fixed her teeth to his trousers.
"Oh, god, what have I done?" Y/N muttered as we backed up, watching Aunt Marge bounce gently across the ceiling into the conservatory.
"Come on," I said to her, tugging her out of the kitchen as we ran upstairs.
We kicked open loose floorboards, removed our wands from their hiding places, and then I turned the photograph of my parents over.
"I'm sorry, Harry."
"It's fine. I'm over it."
I wasn't. But now wasn't the time to dwell on that.
When we'd finished packing, we towed our trunks down the stairs, only to see Uncle Vernon standing in front of us.
"You bring her back!" he yelled at us. "You bring her back and put her right!"
"No!" Y/N replied, whipping out her wand and pointing it at Uncle Vernon as I did the same. "She deserved what she got! And you... you keep away from us."
Uncle Vernon eyed our wands nervously before grinning with knowing cruelty. "You're not allowed to do magic out of school. They won't have you now. You have nowhere to go. And you wouldn't..."
"Oh, yeah? Try us," I quipped.
"And anywhere's better than here," Y/N retorted, before nodding to me as we stalked out in the dark, quiet street, heaving our trunks behind us, cages under our arms.
haha here y'all go hopefully this is enough of an apology for me not uploading for a week