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donnaimmaculataTitle: All Things Right and Proper
Author: Donna Immaculata
Rating: R for darkish themes, language, some sexual contents and allusions to drug abuse
Pairings: Petunia Dursley/Vernon Dursley, Augusta Longbottom/Frank Longbottom Sr., Minerva McGonagall/Aberforth Dumbledore
Word Count: 24,700
Warnings: Vernon Dursley as a lust object. Yeah, I know.
Summary: Glimpses into the lives of Petunia, Minerva and Augusta during the events of The Deathly Hallows
Author's Notes: This was written for the hp_beholder fest on IJ for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyras. She asked for character studies, women kicking ass, plot, characters who aren't black or white, 'fade to black' rather than PWP, UST, working around canon, angst with hope, and I tried to squeeze in as many of her requests as possible.
I did squeeze in appearances of Remus, Sirius, Snape, Kingsley and Great Uncle Algie, some Weasleys, cats, goats, obscure crossovers, and divers alarums.
Part I
All Things Right and Proper
wrtten forlyras for the HP Beholder exchange
Part II
Ever since You-Know-Who had begun rising to power again, the witches and wizards have become more and more afraid of leaving the safety of their homes. Hidden behind their protective charms and spells, most people were spending their days at home, dreading the unknown. Augusta Longbottom didn't approve of that attitude. That was exactly what made it so easy for the Death Eaters to take power: they were the only ones who moved around freely, controlling what was going on within the wizarding community and intimidating the fools who let themselves be intimidated.
That was why she had not given up any of her old habits. Her life had not exactly been a very busy one since Neville had left for Hogwarts, but just as she made sure to get up every day and visit Frank and Alice at St. Mungo's, she also made sure to set up the tea table every Friday afternoon as to be prepared for callers.
Algernon and Enid would most often make the effort. Augusta was quite confident that they would come today, and she had even prepared the custard-filled cup cakes she knew Algernon liked so much. Enid had for some time been having trouble with her teeth and did no longer eat anything with plenty of sugar in it; she had even given up on her beloved apple tart and gave Augusta the recipe with the words that now that she no longer had a use for it, at least she wanted to pass it down to her younger sister to make sure the secret recipe stayed in the family.
There was a knock at the door. Augusta straightened her vulture-topped hat in front of the mirror and walked slowly to the door. A muttered spell revealed Algernon standing on the doorstep. His tall wizard's hat was sitting slightly askew and he was holding a bunch of flowers in one hand. Some of them were already wilting. Augusta pursed her lips in disapproval. That was Algernon for you. Nothing of his brother Frank's effortless grace and elegance. Algernon always managed to look slightly scruffy, like a mangy street tom.
She opened the door. "Good afternoon, Algernon," she greeted as he grinned at her, displaying his crooked teeth, and held out the flowers. "Wipe your feet before you come in."
She took the flowers and carried them through to the living room. She could hear Algernon shuffling across the carpet behind her.
"Thank you for the flowers. They're very nice," she said, waving her wand to fill a vase with water and move it to the mantelpiece.
"There's Singing Daffodils among them," Algernon said, seating himself in her armchair and stretching out his legs across half the length of her living room. "They're very rare these days - at least the ones with a good singing voice are. It takes a skilful Herbologist to teach them to hold a note and carry a tune."
"I see," said Augusta. "But you know I've never been one much for music."
His eyes flickered to a small, worn book that was lying on the mantelpiece beside the large portrait of Frank Senior and a photograph of Frank Junior and Alice. He knew as well as she did what "The Language of Flowers" had to say about daffodils.
"Ah, you know me, Gustie," Algernon said lightly, "always bringing something to give to your Neville."
"Neville is at school." Augusta poured Algernon a cup of tea and put two spoonfuls of sugar in. "He won't be back home for some time."
"Heard from him lately?"
"I have had a letter recently," said Augusta, carrying the cup to her lips and putting it back down. The tea was still too hot. "He seems to be doing fine. He's turned out well," she added proudly. "Just like his father before him. And his father before him."
They drank in silence, the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner and the chattering of the birds outside the window the only sounds. Algernon was humming under his breath. After a few minutes, the melody was picked up by a second, rather higher and more melodious voice. Algernon's face lit up.
"Listen to that!" he shouted, jumping to his feet. "They're singing!"
And indeed, the bright yellow flowers had raised their heads and were swaying gently as dulcet tones were emitting from between their petals. Algernon was gazing at them lovingly and he stretched out a finger to caress one of the green leaves.
"You can trust me, Gustie, you know," he said abruptly.
"Of course I know, Algernon. Don't be silly." Augusta pursed her lips, looking at him over the rim of her cup. "You're Frank's brother."
"Everyone knows that the regime at Hogwarts-" he broke off, sighing deeply. "Just what news do you have from Neville, Gustie? You must know something."
"I do know that Neville does his family credit." Her heart swelled with pride at the thought of her grandson, right there in the thicket of things, fighting against You-Know-Who and his Dark wizards. "We knew that time would come when he would have to, and I am very proud that he doesn't shrink back from his duty."
"It could cost him his life," Algernon said quietly.
"So be it. That didn't stop his father, nor his father-"
"Gustie!" Algernon strode over to her and dropped to his knees by her chair. "Augusta! Just listen to what you say! You're sending your grandson into a battle that is as good as lost! Neville could die there! You might never see him again! And all that in the name of his-"
"Family," she interrupted sharply. "Yes, Algernon, in the name of the family he is part of and the name he carries. Neville is fighting just as his ancestors have been fighting."
"And have died," said Algernon, his eyes flashing. "Your husband and my brother - dead. Your son - as good as-"
"Don't you dare speak of Frank like that!"
"But it's true! You know it's true! Frank and Alice have fought valiantly - nobody denies that. But what for? For a better world? A better life for their son? - The world is what it's always been, and their son has to fight the same futile fight as they did. You tell me, Gustie: where is the sense to it?"
"So what do you suggest, Algernon? Should we all just sit back and do nothing? Let You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters take over and rule over us like over a bunch of house-elves? Is that what you want?"
"No!" Algernon seized her hand with a violence that stunned her and pressed it to his chest. "No, Augusta, what I am saying is: go away with me! You, me and Neville - we could still go away, there's still time. Don't let him go back to Hogwarts after the break. We could head for Europe or maybe even further - I've got enough gold at Gringotts, it's yours, if you want it."
"Get up, Algernon, this instant!" Augusta drew back her hand sharply. "And stop being ridiculous. I'm not going anywhere. My place is here, and so is Neville's. And so is yours, if you only chose to see it. I'm not going to disgrace my husband's name by running away! And I'll have you know, Algernon, that your name will never be spoken in this house again should you abandon your family and your country in such disgraceful manner."
Algernon rose slowly to his feet. "You've never had a high opinion of me, I know that," he said. "I'm just the silly little man tinkering around with weeds in his greenhouse. Not the great big hero like my brother. But I love you, Augusta, I always have. And I will be there if you need me."
After the door had fallen shut behind him, Augusta shifted in her armchair and replaced Algernon's used cup with a fresh one for Enid. She would be here any moment, Augusta was sure of that.
She looked up at the painting of her husband. His gaze was full of tenderness. "My darling Augusta," he said, "oh, how I miss you. You're worth ten of him."
"I miss you, too, Frank," she said softly.
The Singing Dandelions had begun singing another, slower tune, telling in the language of the flowers of deep regard and unrequited love.
~*~
"Get back 'ere, you little cunts! I'll 'ave your balls for this!"
The shouts and curses, rancorous laughter and sound of running feet erupted on the other side of the fence. Petunia had long got used to it. She hardly ever flinched when she heard the foul language and had stopped sending Dudders inside when the delinquent children from next door (she had not yet found out how many there were - they seemed to multiply over night) poured out into the garden chasing their drunkard of a father or, alternately, being chased by him.
"This is stupid," said Dudders suddenly. He was sitting in a deckchair and browsing through a magazine that Hestia had brought recently for Petunia. It had a picture of a beaming woman in a tall, pink hat on the cover and was titled Witch Weekly. Petunia had loudly refused to touch it, and she then read it secretly, in the hope to find some decent advice on how to manage a magical household, but she had given up in frustration as all the tips required the use of a wand.
Petunia straightened up from weeding and wiped her sweaty forehead with her forearm. "What is, popkin?"
"You can't tear balls off cunts."
"Dudley!" Petunia froze in shock.
"I know he was speaking metaphorically," said Dudley, still leafing through the magazine and not even bothering to look up. "But still, it sounds stupid."
"Dudley," Petunia unfroze and sagged down helplessly. "Dudders, I'll have no such language in my house."
"This isn't your house," Dudley said. "And it's not my fault that they're swearing all day. It's either listening to them or," he lowered his voice and nodded at the house, "to that little moron trying to cheer up Dad. No-one else talks around here. Well - Hestia does. Sometimes."
Petunia took a deep, shuddering breath and clambered to her feet. For a few moments, she stood in the middle of the garden, holding a weeder in one hand and garden shears in the other. Her thoughts were running in frantic circles, and then she thought of something that she had read in a women's magazine, and she tried it out on her son.
"Your mummy and daddy have some little problems, popkin," she said gently, "but that doesn't mean that we don't love you."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever," said Dudley, standing up and throwing the magazine on the deckchair. "I'm seventeen, Mum, not seven."
She watched her big, grown-up son lumber towards the house and disappear through the door, and the tears that she had been suppressing for months were running down her face.
Dudley was nowhere to be seen when she went back inside. He must have locked himself in his room again. She had wiped her face so that no-one would see she'd been crying and walked through the house aimlessly. Vernon was in the living room, staring into the fire again, while Dedalus Diggle tried to entertain him with tales of goblins and dragons. The wireless was playing in the background, and Hestia Jones was just bringing a pot of tea and several cups through from the kitchen, levitating them in the air with her wand.
Something inside Petunia broke.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice rising to a high pitch. "What are you doing?!"
They all startled. The tea pot dropped to the floor, and even Vernon looked up from his stupor.
"Which one of us?" asked Hestia uncertainly.
"All of you! Any of you! Why are you here, invading our privacy, while outside- the people outside- is there a war going on or not?!" she shrieked. "Why are you here, pretending to be civil to us… drinking tea in this hole, instead of fighting so that we can go back home? This place isn't good for us - look what it did to my husband! What it's doing to me!" she broke down, sobbing hysterically into her hands.
She felt a warm hand on her back and the presence of someone standing beside her. But it wasn't Vernon, and that realisation made her cry harder than ever.
"Please, Mrs Dursley," said Hestia Jones, "please don't cry. I know that it must be difficult for you, but I didn't… we didn't…" Hestia Jones was stroking up and down her back soothingly. "You never seemed to care much of what was going on outside, in our world, so we didn't really talk to you about it."
"What do you mean?" sobbed Petunia. "Of course we want to know. We want to know what's going on-"
"-with Harry."
The room fell silent at once. Petunia turned around and saw that Dudley had come down the stairs and was standing in the doorway, filling it out with his bulk.
'"I've been listening to the wireless," he said, his face going very red. But he ploughed on bravely. "There is no news about Harry fighting the war. They only say that he has killed that man, Dumbledore, and that he's on the run from the Ministry. I dunno what that means. And nobody explains."
"Well, it's bloody effing obvious, isn't it!" roared Vernon and everybody jumped. Vernon had risen from his seat and was pointing an accusatory finger in their direction, his moustache trembling. "That abnormal freak and his abnormal comrades have lured us out of our house and have trapped us in this effing hellhole and are now laughing behind our backs! Potter is not fighting that Lordy... Voldy... Thing! There probably is no effing Lord Whatshisname! And - how could we have ever doubted it - Potter is a criminal! He's already sold our house and is now on the run with the gains!"
Vernon fell silent, breathing heavily. The room was completely quiet, except the buzzing of a fat fly that was criss-crossing the air over their heads. Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle were staring at Vernon, who was towering over everybody majestically, his chest puffed up in righteous anger and his jaw firmly set.
"I thank you for leaving me and my husband alone," Petunia said in a shaky voice. Nobody moved. "Now!"
Dedalus Diggle jumped to his feet and scuttled from the room, squeezing past Dudley. Hestia Jones followed suit, pulling Dudley away with her. The door slammed shut.
"I don't think that the boy is on the run with the money from our house." Her voice was still shaky, but was getting firmer with every word he spoke. "And neither do you, Vernon." She stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his quivering cheek. "But it was magnificent the way you told them, Vernon. They will never bother you again, my poor darling husband."
That night, Vernon blew out the candle before he came to bed. Under the cover of darkness, his hand wandered over to her side of the bed, along her flank and came to rest on her stomach. Petunia's breath hitched. Vernon's fingers moved slowly, pulling the fabric up until it was bunched around her waist, and then, he rolled over and onto her, grunting slightly at the effort. Petunia spread her legs for him and waited, waited until he had braced himself and then, huffing and panting, pushed himself into her and, moving in the forceful pace she loved so much, made love to her for the first time in months.
~*~
It had been a while since she had last visited the house. Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle were the principal contact witch and wizard for the Muggles, and Minerva's impression had always been that they were handling the Dursleys rather well. Mr and Mrs Dursley were mostly quiet and subdued whenever she saw them and seemed to have adapted to their surroundings. They no longer flinched when the portrait on the wall spoke to them or when the candles floated over their heads while they walked from one room to another.
However, there atmosphere in the house was very different now from what it used to be on her previous visits. As soon as she entered the kitchen, she heard stomping and shouting, and in the next moment, a very red-faced Vernon Dursley appeared in the door leading to the living room.
"A-ha!" he bellowed. "An intruder! Do you people think that you can come and go as you please in our house?!"
Minerva drew herself up to her full height and looked the enraged Muggle straight in the eye. "This is not your house, Mr Dursley!" she said. "This is not your house and I will not be spoken to like that!"
"When will we be going back to our house, then?" he demanded, his bushy moustache quivering with every word. "I don't see you make an effort to get us back. My wife, on the other hand, has been making an effort to make this place fit for human habitation, so it is only right and proper to consider it our house. I don't know what the places you people call home look like, but by the look of this pigsty-"
"That's enough!" Minerva's mouth had gone so thin that it was almost painful to speak. "It is for your own safety that you are here, Mr Dursley, and if you don't understand it-"
"My own safety, my arse!" roared that appalling man. "I would have been safer in my own home, with my sister's shotgun in my hands, than in this effing hole-"
"Mr Dursley!" she took a deep breath through her nose, her nostrils quivering. "You and your family are Harry Potter's relatives and as such are in a great deal of danger-"
"Potter, eh?" he shouted. "And where is he, that Potter? Fighting that Lord-thing, is he? Problem is, my dear woman-"
"I am not your dear woman," Minerva shouted, "don't you dare!"
They were standing almost nose to nose now, and Minerva could smell a mixture of sweat, firewhisky, Mrs Scower's All-Purpose Magical Laundry Cleaner and some stinging Muggle cologne. Everything about that man disgusted her, but she valiantly suppressed a shudder and forced herself to be reasonable.
"Mr Dursley," she said through clenched teeth. "I assure you that your nephew is, in fact, fighting You-Know-Who, and we are all doing what we can to support him."
"How?"
She blinked. Vernon Dursley startled. They both looked around and saw Dudley Dursley leaning over the banister with a frown on his big face.
"Go back to your room, young man!" said Vernon Dursley. "This is none of your business."
"But I want to know." Dudley began climbing down the stairs, slowly, but determined nevertheless. "I want to know what you are doing. What Harry is doing."
Minerva raised her eyebrows. "You do? From what I hear you have never expressed any interest in what Harry was doing."
"Are you one of his teachers?" Dudley had reached the bottom of the stairs and was hovering on lowest step uncertainly. "In that freak pl- that school?"
"What makes you think that?"
"Dunno." The boy mumbled in that annoying manner of all adolescents, wizard or Muggle. "You seem like a teacher."
"Dudley, I told you once, I won't tell you twice," said Vernon Dursley, but without any real fire to it. "Just go upstairs and leave me to deal with that... that..." he caught Minerva's eye and finished weakly, "woman."
"If your son really wants to know what is going on, you can't just send him away," Minerva said haughtily.
"We'll see about that!" Vernon Dursley bristled up. "Dudley! Your room! Now!"
"You try and make me!" shouted Dudley. "I always have to obey your insane orders! I'll be eighteen soon, then I can do what I want! And then what will you do?"
"That's enough!" Vernon Dursley roared, his face almost purple with rage.
"Yes, that is enough!" shouted another voice. Petunia Dursley was standing in the living room door, with a scarf wrapped around her head to protect her hair from dust and wearing long yellow rubber gloves. "Vernon! Dudley! What is going on here? What's all the shouting?"
"That woman's just barged in!" bellowed Vernon, while Dudley yelled: "Mum, tell him to shut up! I want her to stay!"
Minerva and Petunia's gazes locked across the room. To Minerva's great surprise, Petunia inclined her head ever so slightly, and Minerva accepted the unspoken invitation and, stepping around father and son who were still shouting abuses at each other, followed the other woman into the living room.
There were fresh flowers on the table and the painting on the wall had been covered up with thick green cloth. Petunia pulled off her yellow gloves and made a fuss offering Minerva the comfortable armchair by the fireplace and arranging tea cups, saucers, spoons, plates, and doilies on the coffee table. Her thin cheeks were very flushed.
"Tea will be ready soon," she said in a high-pitched voice. "I'm afraid it all takes a little bit longer, boiling the water on the coal stove."
"I can help there-" said Minerva, pulling out her wand, but Petunia flinched at the sight.
"No. Please don't. We don't use mag-" she bit her lip and continued: "we rather do it our way in this house, if you don't mind. Vernon can give me a hand." A still-angry Vernon Dursley, who had just stepped over the threshold to the living room, found himself being grabbed by his wife and pulled back into the kitchen. Dudley, who had followed his father, looked at his parents in surprise, but merely shrugged as the door fell shut behind them and lumbered towards the tea table.
Minerva looked him up and down as he was standing before her, shuffling his feet uneasily and clearly at a loss as to what to do with his hands. She almost smiled at the sight.
"Your shirt is untucked," she said.
"Oh, right!" He began to frantically tuck it in, his face getting redder and redder. Finally, he smoothed down his shirt front and thrust his hands into his pockets.
"Take your hands out of your pockets. You may sit down now." And as he did, almost stumbling over his own feet in the process, she pushed the open biscuit tin towards him. "Have a biscuit."
"No, thank you, Mrs-" Dudley broke off, frowning.
"McGonagall. That's Professor McGonagall. And now have a biscuit and tell me what it is that you want to know about Harry Potter."
He reached out a thick-fingered hand, grabbed a scone and jammed it into his mouth.
"I 'ant 'o 'oo 'at's 'e 'oo-in'," he said, spitting crumbs down his shirtfront.
"What has your mother told you about speaking with your mouth full?"
He swallowed frantically, almost choking. "Not to do it."
"That's right. Well, what is it that you want to know?"
"Harry. Where is he? I have heard on the radio-"
Minerva frowned. "The what?"
"The radio." Dudley pointed to a sad heap of metal parts on the windowsill. "It's no longer working. Dad went mad one day when it was talking about how Harry killed that old man, and he smashed it to bits."
"He was right not to believe these rumours," Minerva said. "Harry Potter did most definitely not kill Albus Dumbledore!"
"No, dad does believe it," Dudley said. "That's what got him so mad. He thinks it's all been a ruse to lure us away and hold us prisoners. And that Harry really is a criminal. He isn't, is he?" he added.
"Of course he isn't!" Minerva snorted. "Harry Potter - a criminal! This is all part of the Ministry's - that means You-Know-Who's - plot to discredit him! As I'm sure Hestia and Dedalus have been telling you again and again, Harry Potter is on a mission to destroy You-Know-Who."
"They haven't really been telling us all that much," Dudley said. He shifted in his seat uneasily. "Well, Hestia has… a bit. But my dad thinks that it's all lies."
She regarded him intensely, until he squirmed under her gaze.
"And what do you think, Dudley?"
~*~
Augusta had always liked the sea. It was scary and majestic and she sometimes idly imagined selling her house in Theddlethorpe All Saints and moving to a cottage by the sea side, where she would always be waken by the roaring of the waves and the howling of the wind. That was out of the question, of course. No respectable witch like herself could abandon her family house. Especially not now - people might get ideas and suppose that she had fled from her responsibilities. That must not be.
But it felt good to stand in the middle of a sandy beach, and to watch the waves turn darker and darker as evening fell. There was an abundance of lights behind her and around her - that was how Muggles were trying to disperse darkness and despair. There were plenty of Muggles around, too, but none of them came too close. A little old lady wrapped in a long cloak and wearing a tall vulture-topped hat was an oddity even by the standards of this place. One particularly adventurous child had approached her, asking to be photographed with her, but she only gave him a look that sent him running back to his mother as quickly as his short legs would carry him. She saw him later having a photograph taken with a man dressed up as a North American warrior and then with another one who wore a tight white suit, a black wig and tinted glasses. She guessed that this attire must be peculiar, even for Muggles, but she couldn't be quite sure.
She turned away from the sea and started walking back, climbed the steps leading to the promenade, scowled at a group of clearly imbibed youths who staggered out of her way, walked past Muggle takeaways, seafood and beverage stands, and gathering points from whence waiting Muggles were picked up by their droll trains. She watched the Muggles stumble about, shouting and laughing, children carrying balloons that were larger than themselves, pulling their parents into gift shops and ice cream parlours across the road, and Muggle men and women scurrying in and out of buildings illuminated with flashing lights in many colours, with names like "Fun Palace" and "Lucky Star".
She reached the North Pier at last, where she lingered for a while, looking out at the sea and the tower in the distance. Algernon had once pushed Neville off the end of the pier to force him to do magic. It had not worked and they had to Summon the boy before he drowned, and to Obliviate the bewildered and angry Muggle mob forming around them.
Algernon, the poor stupid man, had assumed that their trip to Blackpool meant that he was now permitted to make his advances. He wasn't, of course. She was quite insulted that he dared sully the memory of his brother Frank and told him so in unmistakable words. It seemed that Algernon took them to heart, because he had never since said any more of that nonsense. Not until now.
Augusta sighed. Algernon was family, and he was her Frank's brother, and she owed him her gratitude as it was he who had made Neville perform magic when everyone else had almost given up hope. She owed him the fact that Neville was turning into a man of whom she could be proud. She mustn't slight him.
Augusta turned on the spot and Disapparated, heading for the place where she hoped to learn something about her grandson's latest actions.
It was as though she had just accidentally turned a particularly powerful Time-Turner. Aberforth's bar was as dark and dingy as she remembered it. It had been a long time since she had last come here, and she had the impression that the sawdust covering the floor had never been replaced and that the few people sitting solitarily at the dirty and battered tables and gazing silently into their drinks were the same ones as on her last visit. The familiar smell of goats hung in the air.
Aberforth was standing in the same old pose behind his bar, polishing a glass with the same old rag. He barely looked up when she entered. But as she approached the bar, a glass that looked almost clean appeared on the scratched wooden surface and Aberforth was filling it with a golden liquid.
"The usual?" he asked in his gravely voice as he placed the glass before her. Augusta's mouth twitched with vague irritation at his assumption.
"Good evening, Aberforth," she said primly. "I see you haven't changed."
"Neither have you, Augusta. You haven't aged one bit since I last saw you."
Despite herself, Augusta's hand crept up to straighten her vulture-topped hat. She pulled her hand back with an annoyed snort. "Don't be silly, Aberforth," she said, but without any real conviction to it. Aberforth's blue eyes were twinkling.
Augusta looked around. "I'll never understand how you can make a living running this place. I've never seen more than half a dozen people in here. Or do any Hogwarts students come in here on Hogsmeade weekends?"
"Not any more," said Aberforth calmly. "Far as I know, the school rules are rather stricter these days."
"I don't assume you keep in touch with the school now that your brother is dead."
"It's not like he and I were close in the first place." Aberforth let go of the filthy rag and leaned in conspiratorially. "So if you came here to question me about what's going on in the school, I've got to tell you, you got the wrong man. I'm not all that well informed."
Augusta nodded slowly and emptied her glass. She took a few silver coins from her handbag. "Keep the change, Aberforth. My apologies for taking up your time."
"But I know someone who is very well informed indeed," he continued in the same low tone. "Professor Minerva is likely to turn up at any moment now, for a nightcap."
Augusta pursed her lips. "Minerva McGonagall? She didn't let Neville continue with NEWT-level Transfiguration, you know."
"Was he any good at it?" Aberforth asked. "I can't imagine Minerva stopping any student from going to her classes if he's talented."
"He would have been if he put his mind to it. He just lacks the confidence his father had. She made him take Charms instead."
"Ah, Charms!" said Aberforth, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Many people underestimate how many possibilities a well executed Charm opens to you!"
"If I recall correctly," said Augusta coldly, "the skill didn't do you any good. Something of a calamity, wasn't there? A Charm gone wrong?"
"There was nothing inappropriate about charming my goat," said Aberforth, and Augusta winced. "Amazing creatures, goats. Humans underestimate them, too. They're very clever and make good companions. And give delicious milk - which is more that can be said of most human companions."
"That's enough," said Augusta, cringing. "Stop talking like an imbecile."
"You sound just like Minerva. You two will get on like a house on fire."
"Are you sure she's coming? I don't want to waste my time waiting here if she's not."
"Oh, she is coming," said Aberforth. "She most definitely is."
~*~
Petunia was running. She hadn't run in years. It wasn't proper and it wasn't dignified and it made her side stitch and her breath come in short, sharp gasps, and her hair had come undone and she was still wearing her slippers. A group of nasty, tattooed boys shouted something obscene at her, and for the first time in decades the long-forgotten - dead, buried - wish was sizzling inside her again: to be able to do what her sister did, to hold a thin piece of wood in her hand and use it to turn these horrible people into slimy creatures that she could crash under her feet. But she wasn't like Lily, not a freak, just a normal woman, a loving, devoted wife and mother, and she was looking for her husband, because if he had run off, she would lose herself.
The pain in her side had got too much. Petunia staggered to a halt and leaned against a wall, clutching her side. "Vernon!" she screamed desperately, before a coughing fit seized her and she doubled up in pain, wheezing and gasping for air, reduced to a hoarse whispering, "Vernon…"
She smelled the stink even before she saw the man. "What can I do for you, good woman?" The words came out very slurred, and as she looked up, she saw the horrible drunk who was living next door to the... the 'safe house' stand before her with a beer can in his hand, swaying on the spot.
"What do you want?" Petunia shrieked. "Go away!"
He had the insolence to look offended. "What d'you mean, what do I want? Been running around the estate and calling me name, haven't you, you mad bitch? And 'ere I am, all yours." He made a mock-bow which nearly sent him sprawling. He staggered around on wobbly legs until he regained his balance and added: "Vernon Francis Gallagher, at your service. Ma'm."
"Oh, God," said Petunia weakly, pressing her handbag to her chest in a protective gesture. "Help. Please. Someone help me."
She watched in horror as the unshaven, smelly, greasy-haired, filthy-clothed and filthy-mouthed creature lurched closer, rummaging in his coat pockets and muttering to himself. There was dried blood around his nose. He finally found what he was looking for and pulled out a small plastic bag, emptied it on his palm and frowned. "Cheatin' cunt! I paid for ten, I did. But nobody respects the working man's money, the greedy bastards!"
He reached out a dirty hand and Petunia almost fainted. "Please, just go away," she pleaded, pressing her back into the reassuringly solid wall behind her. "Don't hurt me."
"Hurt you?" He looked genuinely surprised. "What on earth for? 'ere. 'ave one of these. Makes you feel better a treat."
A couple of small round pills were lying in his palm. Petunia eyed them nervously.
"I'd rather not, thank you."
"Oh just take one, woman! It'll do you good. Wipe that sour look off your face."
Petunia shot an anxious glance left and right. The street was deserted, it was only her and that maniac. She'd better do what he wanted; you never knew what he'd do if she refused.
She forced herself to give him a reassuring smile, feeling as though her face was twisted by a cramp, took up one of the small pills and held it cautiously between her thumb and forefinger. He was watching her, and so there was nothing else she could do but to place the pill in her mouth (it felt harmless enough) and pray to heaven that he had not given her rat poison.
She swallowed, squeezing her eyes shut, and waited for stomach cramps to start and a painful death to follow.
Amazingly, nothing happened. When she opened her eyes again a few moments later, feeling very foolish, the man had gone. Petunia blinked. The street was perfectly empty, except for a scabby black cat that was sitting in the middle of the pavement, washing itself. Had that horrible man turned into the cat? No, surely that wasn't possible. People couldn't turn into animals, she mustn't allow herself think like that. Or had she just dreamed the entire encounter? Was that all a result of magic wreaking havoc with her mind and senses? Were that man and the feeling of horror that she had felt part of some... enchantment, designed to keep her trapped in the house? She definitely felt better now. Petunia took a deep breath and fell into a trot. She didn't know where she was going; the area was entirely unfamiliar to her, but she knew that she had to find her Vernon.
The longer she walked, the more fear and anxiety were subsiding, replaced by warmth and tranquillity. Petunia didn't know and didn't care where she was heading. It felt good to just be walking, moving around in the fresh air, seeing new faces, and she found herself smiling at the people she met and at the world at large. Vernon would come back to her, she was sure of that now, she or Dudders would find him, and they would bring him back to the house and then they all would go back to their proper home, pick up their life again and forget about that nightmare of a life.
Eventually, Petunia stopped. She had arrived at a small square. There was a corner shop there - albeit a very suspicious looking one - and she decided on a whim to go in, despite the group of boys of a delinquent appearance loitering by the entrance and pretending to kick around a football.
They shouted something at her as she went pass them, but it didn't matter. For some reason, she couldn't see them very well, anyway; her vision was somewhat blurry - surely an after effect of having been cooped up in that house for so long. Her eyes were no longer accustomed to open spaces and sunlight.
Her hand was almost touching the door handle when the sound of running feet reached her ears, but before she could so much as turn around or even utter a sound, she was brutally slammed into the wall. Her vision blackened at the impact and the air was knocked out from her lungs. Petunia tried to scream, but it was as though her mouth was filled with cotton wool. Rough hands were holding her easily in place, despite her struggling, and someone was prying her handbag from her grip. And then there was screaming, a woman's voice, and the hands let go of her.
Petunia whirled around, a sudden surge of anger propelling her, and saw a blonde woman in a Paki-style dress wield a solid wooden club at her attackers, shouting abuses at the top of her voice. "Not by my shop, you filthy cunts!"
Petunia stooped down and picked up her handbag that her attackers had dropped. She saw them scurry away, but didn't care much. She directed her attention at the woman instead, a common-looking working-class woman with a hard face.
"Thank you," Petunia said stiffly, patting her hair which she felt looked a mess. The woman shrugged.
"I didn't do it for you," she said. "Can't 'ave SCUM LIKE THAT," she shouted after the retreating boys, "hang around my shop, putting punters off."
But Petunia wasn't listening. She was looking at the baseball club in the woman's hands.
"Where can I get one of these?"
The woman shot her an annoyed glance and disappeared back inside the shop.
Petunia suddenly shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. She remained standing there quite still a few moments longer, then, her mouth thinning into a determined line, followed the woman inside. She had the right to shop there just as any other free citizen.
She was browsing the shelves, enjoying herself so much as if she were in the middle of an M&S sale, and picking up individual items here and there. She mustn't forget getting a newspaper for Vernon; he wasn't happy at all with the papers the wizard had brought him this morning.
And as if by magic, the moment she thought her husband's name, the door opened and Vernon himself stepped in, looking magnificent in all his sturdy manliness, followed by her just as attractive, strong son. It was no wonder the blonde woman at the counter looked up from the magazine she was reading and gazed at them in amazement.
"Vernon!" Petunia squealed, overjoyed. "Over here!"
He stomped over, looking around in disdain, and she reached out a hand and straightened his collar. "Really, Vernon, just because we are forced to live like that, there is no need to look scruffy," she said affectionately. "And you too, popkin," she added with a look at Dudders. "Tuck in your shirt and do up your shoe laces."
Her son's face was rather pink, but he obeyed her like the good boy that he was. Vernon glowered at her. "What are you doing here, Petunia? This is no place for you."
"Shopping," she said brightly.
"Why didn't you stay in the house?"
"I've been looking for you, Vernon." Petunia pressed her palm to her husband's cheek, feeling his moustache tickle her thumb. "I've been worried you've… gone. For good."
"For good!" He laughed. "You silly girl! As if I'd ever leave you!"
"I know that now, Vernon. But you were gone, and I was all alone and didn't know… I was scared."
"That little idiot was getting on my nerves. I had to get out there, get a decent pint. Went to a pub, just around the corner. And then Dudders appears, tells me you're worried, looking for me. So we went looking for you." His gaze fell on her shopping basket. "We don't need this!" he said. "Nor this. Don't forget, Petunia, we don't have quite so much money as we are used to. And I'm not going to write another cheque for the wizards. I don't like the idea of these freaks cashing my cheques. What will the bank manager think?"
"They don't go to our bank," said Petunia. "And anyway - we can obviously leave the house without anything horrible happening. We could always go to a cashpoint."
Vernon merely grunted.
"Excuse me!" Petunia called to the blonde woman. "Do you know whether there is a cashpoint around here?"
The woman snorted. "Around here? It would get vandalised right away. No, you'll have to go to town for that. And if you don't have any money, then fuck off from my shop!"
"How dare you!" bellowed Vernon. "Do we look like we had no money? You serve this scum, you'll serve us!"
The woman opened her mouth to argue, but thought better of it. Compared with the other shoppers, of whom there was only a handful, Vernon looked wealthy like the Prince of Wales himself: tall and imposing, strong and well-fed, and dressed in a crisp shirt, a freshly ironed pair of trousers and shiny shoes.
"You have all you want, Petunia?" he asked in a loud voice. "Is there anything else you need? Have whatever you like. You too, Dudley."
Dudley immediately began filling the shopping basket with sweets, cans of Cola and beer, energiser drinks, and sport magazines. Vernon's moustache twitched. "That's right, my son," he said. "Everything you want."
"Do you need anything, Vernon?" asked Petunia, handing her husband the full basket and picking up a second one. Dudley was already carrying one. "I got you some newspapers, but I wasn't sure whether I got them right."
"As long as it isn't that damn Guardian," said Vernon. "That ruddy… freak got me The Guardian and The Independent today. What does he think I am? Some effing pinko liberal?"
"Oh no, I know that!" said Petunia quickly. "I got you The Daily Mail, but I was wondering whether you might want The Telegraph, too?"
"Might as well," Vernon grumbled. "There's nothing else to do in that bloody house than read. Telegraph's got a decent sport section."
"We've got everything, then," said Petunia cheerfully, taking her husband's arm. "Let's go home, Vernon."
Part III
Author: Donna Immaculata
Rating: R for darkish themes, language, some sexual contents and allusions to drug abuse
Pairings: Petunia Dursley/Vernon Dursley, Augusta Longbottom/Frank Longbottom Sr., Minerva McGonagall/Aberforth Dumbledore
Word Count: 24,700
Warnings: Vernon Dursley as a lust object. Yeah, I know.
Summary: Glimpses into the lives of Petunia, Minerva and Augusta during the events of The Deathly Hallows
Author's Notes: This was written for the hp_beholder fest on IJ for
lyras. She asked for character studies, women kicking ass, plot, characters who aren't black or white, 'fade to black' rather than PWP, UST, working around canon, angst with hope, and I tried to squeeze in as many of her requests as possible.I did squeeze in appearances of Remus, Sirius, Snape, Kingsley and Great Uncle Algie, some Weasleys, cats, goats, obscure crossovers, and divers alarums.
Part I
All Things Right and Proper
wrtten for
lyras for the HP Beholder exchangePart II
Ever since You-Know-Who had begun rising to power again, the witches and wizards have become more and more afraid of leaving the safety of their homes. Hidden behind their protective charms and spells, most people were spending their days at home, dreading the unknown. Augusta Longbottom didn't approve of that attitude. That was exactly what made it so easy for the Death Eaters to take power: they were the only ones who moved around freely, controlling what was going on within the wizarding community and intimidating the fools who let themselves be intimidated.
That was why she had not given up any of her old habits. Her life had not exactly been a very busy one since Neville had left for Hogwarts, but just as she made sure to get up every day and visit Frank and Alice at St. Mungo's, she also made sure to set up the tea table every Friday afternoon as to be prepared for callers.
Algernon and Enid would most often make the effort. Augusta was quite confident that they would come today, and she had even prepared the custard-filled cup cakes she knew Algernon liked so much. Enid had for some time been having trouble with her teeth and did no longer eat anything with plenty of sugar in it; she had even given up on her beloved apple tart and gave Augusta the recipe with the words that now that she no longer had a use for it, at least she wanted to pass it down to her younger sister to make sure the secret recipe stayed in the family.
There was a knock at the door. Augusta straightened her vulture-topped hat in front of the mirror and walked slowly to the door. A muttered spell revealed Algernon standing on the doorstep. His tall wizard's hat was sitting slightly askew and he was holding a bunch of flowers in one hand. Some of them were already wilting. Augusta pursed her lips in disapproval. That was Algernon for you. Nothing of his brother Frank's effortless grace and elegance. Algernon always managed to look slightly scruffy, like a mangy street tom.
She opened the door. "Good afternoon, Algernon," she greeted as he grinned at her, displaying his crooked teeth, and held out the flowers. "Wipe your feet before you come in."
She took the flowers and carried them through to the living room. She could hear Algernon shuffling across the carpet behind her.
"Thank you for the flowers. They're very nice," she said, waving her wand to fill a vase with water and move it to the mantelpiece.
"There's Singing Daffodils among them," Algernon said, seating himself in her armchair and stretching out his legs across half the length of her living room. "They're very rare these days - at least the ones with a good singing voice are. It takes a skilful Herbologist to teach them to hold a note and carry a tune."
"I see," said Augusta. "But you know I've never been one much for music."
His eyes flickered to a small, worn book that was lying on the mantelpiece beside the large portrait of Frank Senior and a photograph of Frank Junior and Alice. He knew as well as she did what "The Language of Flowers" had to say about daffodils.
"Ah, you know me, Gustie," Algernon said lightly, "always bringing something to give to your Neville."
"Neville is at school." Augusta poured Algernon a cup of tea and put two spoonfuls of sugar in. "He won't be back home for some time."
"Heard from him lately?"
"I have had a letter recently," said Augusta, carrying the cup to her lips and putting it back down. The tea was still too hot. "He seems to be doing fine. He's turned out well," she added proudly. "Just like his father before him. And his father before him."
They drank in silence, the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner and the chattering of the birds outside the window the only sounds. Algernon was humming under his breath. After a few minutes, the melody was picked up by a second, rather higher and more melodious voice. Algernon's face lit up.
"Listen to that!" he shouted, jumping to his feet. "They're singing!"
And indeed, the bright yellow flowers had raised their heads and were swaying gently as dulcet tones were emitting from between their petals. Algernon was gazing at them lovingly and he stretched out a finger to caress one of the green leaves.
"You can trust me, Gustie, you know," he said abruptly.
"Of course I know, Algernon. Don't be silly." Augusta pursed her lips, looking at him over the rim of her cup. "You're Frank's brother."
"Everyone knows that the regime at Hogwarts-" he broke off, sighing deeply. "Just what news do you have from Neville, Gustie? You must know something."
"I do know that Neville does his family credit." Her heart swelled with pride at the thought of her grandson, right there in the thicket of things, fighting against You-Know-Who and his Dark wizards. "We knew that time would come when he would have to, and I am very proud that he doesn't shrink back from his duty."
"It could cost him his life," Algernon said quietly.
"So be it. That didn't stop his father, nor his father-"
"Gustie!" Algernon strode over to her and dropped to his knees by her chair. "Augusta! Just listen to what you say! You're sending your grandson into a battle that is as good as lost! Neville could die there! You might never see him again! And all that in the name of his-"
"Family," she interrupted sharply. "Yes, Algernon, in the name of the family he is part of and the name he carries. Neville is fighting just as his ancestors have been fighting."
"And have died," said Algernon, his eyes flashing. "Your husband and my brother - dead. Your son - as good as-"
"Don't you dare speak of Frank like that!"
"But it's true! You know it's true! Frank and Alice have fought valiantly - nobody denies that. But what for? For a better world? A better life for their son? - The world is what it's always been, and their son has to fight the same futile fight as they did. You tell me, Gustie: where is the sense to it?"
"So what do you suggest, Algernon? Should we all just sit back and do nothing? Let You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters take over and rule over us like over a bunch of house-elves? Is that what you want?"
"No!" Algernon seized her hand with a violence that stunned her and pressed it to his chest. "No, Augusta, what I am saying is: go away with me! You, me and Neville - we could still go away, there's still time. Don't let him go back to Hogwarts after the break. We could head for Europe or maybe even further - I've got enough gold at Gringotts, it's yours, if you want it."
"Get up, Algernon, this instant!" Augusta drew back her hand sharply. "And stop being ridiculous. I'm not going anywhere. My place is here, and so is Neville's. And so is yours, if you only chose to see it. I'm not going to disgrace my husband's name by running away! And I'll have you know, Algernon, that your name will never be spoken in this house again should you abandon your family and your country in such disgraceful manner."
Algernon rose slowly to his feet. "You've never had a high opinion of me, I know that," he said. "I'm just the silly little man tinkering around with weeds in his greenhouse. Not the great big hero like my brother. But I love you, Augusta, I always have. And I will be there if you need me."
After the door had fallen shut behind him, Augusta shifted in her armchair and replaced Algernon's used cup with a fresh one for Enid. She would be here any moment, Augusta was sure of that.
She looked up at the painting of her husband. His gaze was full of tenderness. "My darling Augusta," he said, "oh, how I miss you. You're worth ten of him."
"I miss you, too, Frank," she said softly.
The Singing Dandelions had begun singing another, slower tune, telling in the language of the flowers of deep regard and unrequited love.
~*~
"Get back 'ere, you little cunts! I'll 'ave your balls for this!"
The shouts and curses, rancorous laughter and sound of running feet erupted on the other side of the fence. Petunia had long got used to it. She hardly ever flinched when she heard the foul language and had stopped sending Dudders inside when the delinquent children from next door (she had not yet found out how many there were - they seemed to multiply over night) poured out into the garden chasing their drunkard of a father or, alternately, being chased by him.
"This is stupid," said Dudders suddenly. He was sitting in a deckchair and browsing through a magazine that Hestia had brought recently for Petunia. It had a picture of a beaming woman in a tall, pink hat on the cover and was titled Witch Weekly. Petunia had loudly refused to touch it, and she then read it secretly, in the hope to find some decent advice on how to manage a magical household, but she had given up in frustration as all the tips required the use of a wand.
Petunia straightened up from weeding and wiped her sweaty forehead with her forearm. "What is, popkin?"
"You can't tear balls off cunts."
"Dudley!" Petunia froze in shock.
"I know he was speaking metaphorically," said Dudley, still leafing through the magazine and not even bothering to look up. "But still, it sounds stupid."
"Dudley," Petunia unfroze and sagged down helplessly. "Dudders, I'll have no such language in my house."
"This isn't your house," Dudley said. "And it's not my fault that they're swearing all day. It's either listening to them or," he lowered his voice and nodded at the house, "to that little moron trying to cheer up Dad. No-one else talks around here. Well - Hestia does. Sometimes."
Petunia took a deep, shuddering breath and clambered to her feet. For a few moments, she stood in the middle of the garden, holding a weeder in one hand and garden shears in the other. Her thoughts were running in frantic circles, and then she thought of something that she had read in a women's magazine, and she tried it out on her son.
"Your mummy and daddy have some little problems, popkin," she said gently, "but that doesn't mean that we don't love you."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever," said Dudley, standing up and throwing the magazine on the deckchair. "I'm seventeen, Mum, not seven."
She watched her big, grown-up son lumber towards the house and disappear through the door, and the tears that she had been suppressing for months were running down her face.
Dudley was nowhere to be seen when she went back inside. He must have locked himself in his room again. She had wiped her face so that no-one would see she'd been crying and walked through the house aimlessly. Vernon was in the living room, staring into the fire again, while Dedalus Diggle tried to entertain him with tales of goblins and dragons. The wireless was playing in the background, and Hestia Jones was just bringing a pot of tea and several cups through from the kitchen, levitating them in the air with her wand.
Something inside Petunia broke.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice rising to a high pitch. "What are you doing?!"
They all startled. The tea pot dropped to the floor, and even Vernon looked up from his stupor.
"Which one of us?" asked Hestia uncertainly.
"All of you! Any of you! Why are you here, invading our privacy, while outside- the people outside- is there a war going on or not?!" she shrieked. "Why are you here, pretending to be civil to us… drinking tea in this hole, instead of fighting so that we can go back home? This place isn't good for us - look what it did to my husband! What it's doing to me!" she broke down, sobbing hysterically into her hands.
She felt a warm hand on her back and the presence of someone standing beside her. But it wasn't Vernon, and that realisation made her cry harder than ever.
"Please, Mrs Dursley," said Hestia Jones, "please don't cry. I know that it must be difficult for you, but I didn't… we didn't…" Hestia Jones was stroking up and down her back soothingly. "You never seemed to care much of what was going on outside, in our world, so we didn't really talk to you about it."
"What do you mean?" sobbed Petunia. "Of course we want to know. We want to know what's going on-"
"-with Harry."
The room fell silent at once. Petunia turned around and saw that Dudley had come down the stairs and was standing in the doorway, filling it out with his bulk.
'"I've been listening to the wireless," he said, his face going very red. But he ploughed on bravely. "There is no news about Harry fighting the war. They only say that he has killed that man, Dumbledore, and that he's on the run from the Ministry. I dunno what that means. And nobody explains."
"Well, it's bloody effing obvious, isn't it!" roared Vernon and everybody jumped. Vernon had risen from his seat and was pointing an accusatory finger in their direction, his moustache trembling. "That abnormal freak and his abnormal comrades have lured us out of our house and have trapped us in this effing hellhole and are now laughing behind our backs! Potter is not fighting that Lordy... Voldy... Thing! There probably is no effing Lord Whatshisname! And - how could we have ever doubted it - Potter is a criminal! He's already sold our house and is now on the run with the gains!"
Vernon fell silent, breathing heavily. The room was completely quiet, except the buzzing of a fat fly that was criss-crossing the air over their heads. Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle were staring at Vernon, who was towering over everybody majestically, his chest puffed up in righteous anger and his jaw firmly set.
"I thank you for leaving me and my husband alone," Petunia said in a shaky voice. Nobody moved. "Now!"
Dedalus Diggle jumped to his feet and scuttled from the room, squeezing past Dudley. Hestia Jones followed suit, pulling Dudley away with her. The door slammed shut.
"I don't think that the boy is on the run with the money from our house." Her voice was still shaky, but was getting firmer with every word he spoke. "And neither do you, Vernon." She stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his quivering cheek. "But it was magnificent the way you told them, Vernon. They will never bother you again, my poor darling husband."
That night, Vernon blew out the candle before he came to bed. Under the cover of darkness, his hand wandered over to her side of the bed, along her flank and came to rest on her stomach. Petunia's breath hitched. Vernon's fingers moved slowly, pulling the fabric up until it was bunched around her waist, and then, he rolled over and onto her, grunting slightly at the effort. Petunia spread her legs for him and waited, waited until he had braced himself and then, huffing and panting, pushed himself into her and, moving in the forceful pace she loved so much, made love to her for the first time in months.
~*~
It had been a while since she had last visited the house. Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle were the principal contact witch and wizard for the Muggles, and Minerva's impression had always been that they were handling the Dursleys rather well. Mr and Mrs Dursley were mostly quiet and subdued whenever she saw them and seemed to have adapted to their surroundings. They no longer flinched when the portrait on the wall spoke to them or when the candles floated over their heads while they walked from one room to another.
However, there atmosphere in the house was very different now from what it used to be on her previous visits. As soon as she entered the kitchen, she heard stomping and shouting, and in the next moment, a very red-faced Vernon Dursley appeared in the door leading to the living room.
"A-ha!" he bellowed. "An intruder! Do you people think that you can come and go as you please in our house?!"
Minerva drew herself up to her full height and looked the enraged Muggle straight in the eye. "This is not your house, Mr Dursley!" she said. "This is not your house and I will not be spoken to like that!"
"When will we be going back to our house, then?" he demanded, his bushy moustache quivering with every word. "I don't see you make an effort to get us back. My wife, on the other hand, has been making an effort to make this place fit for human habitation, so it is only right and proper to consider it our house. I don't know what the places you people call home look like, but by the look of this pigsty-"
"That's enough!" Minerva's mouth had gone so thin that it was almost painful to speak. "It is for your own safety that you are here, Mr Dursley, and if you don't understand it-"
"My own safety, my arse!" roared that appalling man. "I would have been safer in my own home, with my sister's shotgun in my hands, than in this effing hole-"
"Mr Dursley!" she took a deep breath through her nose, her nostrils quivering. "You and your family are Harry Potter's relatives and as such are in a great deal of danger-"
"Potter, eh?" he shouted. "And where is he, that Potter? Fighting that Lord-thing, is he? Problem is, my dear woman-"
"I am not your dear woman," Minerva shouted, "don't you dare!"
They were standing almost nose to nose now, and Minerva could smell a mixture of sweat, firewhisky, Mrs Scower's All-Purpose Magical Laundry Cleaner and some stinging Muggle cologne. Everything about that man disgusted her, but she valiantly suppressed a shudder and forced herself to be reasonable.
"Mr Dursley," she said through clenched teeth. "I assure you that your nephew is, in fact, fighting You-Know-Who, and we are all doing what we can to support him."
"How?"
She blinked. Vernon Dursley startled. They both looked around and saw Dudley Dursley leaning over the banister with a frown on his big face.
"Go back to your room, young man!" said Vernon Dursley. "This is none of your business."
"But I want to know." Dudley began climbing down the stairs, slowly, but determined nevertheless. "I want to know what you are doing. What Harry is doing."
Minerva raised her eyebrows. "You do? From what I hear you have never expressed any interest in what Harry was doing."
"Are you one of his teachers?" Dudley had reached the bottom of the stairs and was hovering on lowest step uncertainly. "In that freak pl- that school?"
"What makes you think that?"
"Dunno." The boy mumbled in that annoying manner of all adolescents, wizard or Muggle. "You seem like a teacher."
"Dudley, I told you once, I won't tell you twice," said Vernon Dursley, but without any real fire to it. "Just go upstairs and leave me to deal with that... that..." he caught Minerva's eye and finished weakly, "woman."
"If your son really wants to know what is going on, you can't just send him away," Minerva said haughtily.
"We'll see about that!" Vernon Dursley bristled up. "Dudley! Your room! Now!"
"You try and make me!" shouted Dudley. "I always have to obey your insane orders! I'll be eighteen soon, then I can do what I want! And then what will you do?"
"That's enough!" Vernon Dursley roared, his face almost purple with rage.
"Yes, that is enough!" shouted another voice. Petunia Dursley was standing in the living room door, with a scarf wrapped around her head to protect her hair from dust and wearing long yellow rubber gloves. "Vernon! Dudley! What is going on here? What's all the shouting?"
"That woman's just barged in!" bellowed Vernon, while Dudley yelled: "Mum, tell him to shut up! I want her to stay!"
Minerva and Petunia's gazes locked across the room. To Minerva's great surprise, Petunia inclined her head ever so slightly, and Minerva accepted the unspoken invitation and, stepping around father and son who were still shouting abuses at each other, followed the other woman into the living room.
There were fresh flowers on the table and the painting on the wall had been covered up with thick green cloth. Petunia pulled off her yellow gloves and made a fuss offering Minerva the comfortable armchair by the fireplace and arranging tea cups, saucers, spoons, plates, and doilies on the coffee table. Her thin cheeks were very flushed.
"Tea will be ready soon," she said in a high-pitched voice. "I'm afraid it all takes a little bit longer, boiling the water on the coal stove."
"I can help there-" said Minerva, pulling out her wand, but Petunia flinched at the sight.
"No. Please don't. We don't use mag-" she bit her lip and continued: "we rather do it our way in this house, if you don't mind. Vernon can give me a hand." A still-angry Vernon Dursley, who had just stepped over the threshold to the living room, found himself being grabbed by his wife and pulled back into the kitchen. Dudley, who had followed his father, looked at his parents in surprise, but merely shrugged as the door fell shut behind them and lumbered towards the tea table.
Minerva looked him up and down as he was standing before her, shuffling his feet uneasily and clearly at a loss as to what to do with his hands. She almost smiled at the sight.
"Your shirt is untucked," she said.
"Oh, right!" He began to frantically tuck it in, his face getting redder and redder. Finally, he smoothed down his shirt front and thrust his hands into his pockets.
"Take your hands out of your pockets. You may sit down now." And as he did, almost stumbling over his own feet in the process, she pushed the open biscuit tin towards him. "Have a biscuit."
"No, thank you, Mrs-" Dudley broke off, frowning.
"McGonagall. That's Professor McGonagall. And now have a biscuit and tell me what it is that you want to know about Harry Potter."
He reached out a thick-fingered hand, grabbed a scone and jammed it into his mouth.
"I 'ant 'o 'oo 'at's 'e 'oo-in'," he said, spitting crumbs down his shirtfront.
"What has your mother told you about speaking with your mouth full?"
He swallowed frantically, almost choking. "Not to do it."
"That's right. Well, what is it that you want to know?"
"Harry. Where is he? I have heard on the radio-"
Minerva frowned. "The what?"
"The radio." Dudley pointed to a sad heap of metal parts on the windowsill. "It's no longer working. Dad went mad one day when it was talking about how Harry killed that old man, and he smashed it to bits."
"He was right not to believe these rumours," Minerva said. "Harry Potter did most definitely not kill Albus Dumbledore!"
"No, dad does believe it," Dudley said. "That's what got him so mad. He thinks it's all been a ruse to lure us away and hold us prisoners. And that Harry really is a criminal. He isn't, is he?" he added.
"Of course he isn't!" Minerva snorted. "Harry Potter - a criminal! This is all part of the Ministry's - that means You-Know-Who's - plot to discredit him! As I'm sure Hestia and Dedalus have been telling you again and again, Harry Potter is on a mission to destroy You-Know-Who."
"They haven't really been telling us all that much," Dudley said. He shifted in his seat uneasily. "Well, Hestia has… a bit. But my dad thinks that it's all lies."
She regarded him intensely, until he squirmed under her gaze.
"And what do you think, Dudley?"
~*~
Augusta had always liked the sea. It was scary and majestic and she sometimes idly imagined selling her house in Theddlethorpe All Saints and moving to a cottage by the sea side, where she would always be waken by the roaring of the waves and the howling of the wind. That was out of the question, of course. No respectable witch like herself could abandon her family house. Especially not now - people might get ideas and suppose that she had fled from her responsibilities. That must not be.
But it felt good to stand in the middle of a sandy beach, and to watch the waves turn darker and darker as evening fell. There was an abundance of lights behind her and around her - that was how Muggles were trying to disperse darkness and despair. There were plenty of Muggles around, too, but none of them came too close. A little old lady wrapped in a long cloak and wearing a tall vulture-topped hat was an oddity even by the standards of this place. One particularly adventurous child had approached her, asking to be photographed with her, but she only gave him a look that sent him running back to his mother as quickly as his short legs would carry him. She saw him later having a photograph taken with a man dressed up as a North American warrior and then with another one who wore a tight white suit, a black wig and tinted glasses. She guessed that this attire must be peculiar, even for Muggles, but she couldn't be quite sure.
She turned away from the sea and started walking back, climbed the steps leading to the promenade, scowled at a group of clearly imbibed youths who staggered out of her way, walked past Muggle takeaways, seafood and beverage stands, and gathering points from whence waiting Muggles were picked up by their droll trains. She watched the Muggles stumble about, shouting and laughing, children carrying balloons that were larger than themselves, pulling their parents into gift shops and ice cream parlours across the road, and Muggle men and women scurrying in and out of buildings illuminated with flashing lights in many colours, with names like "Fun Palace" and "Lucky Star".
She reached the North Pier at last, where she lingered for a while, looking out at the sea and the tower in the distance. Algernon had once pushed Neville off the end of the pier to force him to do magic. It had not worked and they had to Summon the boy before he drowned, and to Obliviate the bewildered and angry Muggle mob forming around them.
Algernon, the poor stupid man, had assumed that their trip to Blackpool meant that he was now permitted to make his advances. He wasn't, of course. She was quite insulted that he dared sully the memory of his brother Frank and told him so in unmistakable words. It seemed that Algernon took them to heart, because he had never since said any more of that nonsense. Not until now.
Augusta sighed. Algernon was family, and he was her Frank's brother, and she owed him her gratitude as it was he who had made Neville perform magic when everyone else had almost given up hope. She owed him the fact that Neville was turning into a man of whom she could be proud. She mustn't slight him.
Augusta turned on the spot and Disapparated, heading for the place where she hoped to learn something about her grandson's latest actions.
It was as though she had just accidentally turned a particularly powerful Time-Turner. Aberforth's bar was as dark and dingy as she remembered it. It had been a long time since she had last come here, and she had the impression that the sawdust covering the floor had never been replaced and that the few people sitting solitarily at the dirty and battered tables and gazing silently into their drinks were the same ones as on her last visit. The familiar smell of goats hung in the air.
Aberforth was standing in the same old pose behind his bar, polishing a glass with the same old rag. He barely looked up when she entered. But as she approached the bar, a glass that looked almost clean appeared on the scratched wooden surface and Aberforth was filling it with a golden liquid.
"The usual?" he asked in his gravely voice as he placed the glass before her. Augusta's mouth twitched with vague irritation at his assumption.
"Good evening, Aberforth," she said primly. "I see you haven't changed."
"Neither have you, Augusta. You haven't aged one bit since I last saw you."
Despite herself, Augusta's hand crept up to straighten her vulture-topped hat. She pulled her hand back with an annoyed snort. "Don't be silly, Aberforth," she said, but without any real conviction to it. Aberforth's blue eyes were twinkling.
Augusta looked around. "I'll never understand how you can make a living running this place. I've never seen more than half a dozen people in here. Or do any Hogwarts students come in here on Hogsmeade weekends?"
"Not any more," said Aberforth calmly. "Far as I know, the school rules are rather stricter these days."
"I don't assume you keep in touch with the school now that your brother is dead."
"It's not like he and I were close in the first place." Aberforth let go of the filthy rag and leaned in conspiratorially. "So if you came here to question me about what's going on in the school, I've got to tell you, you got the wrong man. I'm not all that well informed."
Augusta nodded slowly and emptied her glass. She took a few silver coins from her handbag. "Keep the change, Aberforth. My apologies for taking up your time."
"But I know someone who is very well informed indeed," he continued in the same low tone. "Professor Minerva is likely to turn up at any moment now, for a nightcap."
Augusta pursed her lips. "Minerva McGonagall? She didn't let Neville continue with NEWT-level Transfiguration, you know."
"Was he any good at it?" Aberforth asked. "I can't imagine Minerva stopping any student from going to her classes if he's talented."
"He would have been if he put his mind to it. He just lacks the confidence his father had. She made him take Charms instead."
"Ah, Charms!" said Aberforth, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Many people underestimate how many possibilities a well executed Charm opens to you!"
"If I recall correctly," said Augusta coldly, "the skill didn't do you any good. Something of a calamity, wasn't there? A Charm gone wrong?"
"There was nothing inappropriate about charming my goat," said Aberforth, and Augusta winced. "Amazing creatures, goats. Humans underestimate them, too. They're very clever and make good companions. And give delicious milk - which is more that can be said of most human companions."
"That's enough," said Augusta, cringing. "Stop talking like an imbecile."
"You sound just like Minerva. You two will get on like a house on fire."
"Are you sure she's coming? I don't want to waste my time waiting here if she's not."
"Oh, she is coming," said Aberforth. "She most definitely is."
~*~
Petunia was running. She hadn't run in years. It wasn't proper and it wasn't dignified and it made her side stitch and her breath come in short, sharp gasps, and her hair had come undone and she was still wearing her slippers. A group of nasty, tattooed boys shouted something obscene at her, and for the first time in decades the long-forgotten - dead, buried - wish was sizzling inside her again: to be able to do what her sister did, to hold a thin piece of wood in her hand and use it to turn these horrible people into slimy creatures that she could crash under her feet. But she wasn't like Lily, not a freak, just a normal woman, a loving, devoted wife and mother, and she was looking for her husband, because if he had run off, she would lose herself.
The pain in her side had got too much. Petunia staggered to a halt and leaned against a wall, clutching her side. "Vernon!" she screamed desperately, before a coughing fit seized her and she doubled up in pain, wheezing and gasping for air, reduced to a hoarse whispering, "Vernon…"
She smelled the stink even before she saw the man. "What can I do for you, good woman?" The words came out very slurred, and as she looked up, she saw the horrible drunk who was living next door to the... the 'safe house' stand before her with a beer can in his hand, swaying on the spot.
"What do you want?" Petunia shrieked. "Go away!"
He had the insolence to look offended. "What d'you mean, what do I want? Been running around the estate and calling me name, haven't you, you mad bitch? And 'ere I am, all yours." He made a mock-bow which nearly sent him sprawling. He staggered around on wobbly legs until he regained his balance and added: "Vernon Francis Gallagher, at your service. Ma'm."
"Oh, God," said Petunia weakly, pressing her handbag to her chest in a protective gesture. "Help. Please. Someone help me."
She watched in horror as the unshaven, smelly, greasy-haired, filthy-clothed and filthy-mouthed creature lurched closer, rummaging in his coat pockets and muttering to himself. There was dried blood around his nose. He finally found what he was looking for and pulled out a small plastic bag, emptied it on his palm and frowned. "Cheatin' cunt! I paid for ten, I did. But nobody respects the working man's money, the greedy bastards!"
He reached out a dirty hand and Petunia almost fainted. "Please, just go away," she pleaded, pressing her back into the reassuringly solid wall behind her. "Don't hurt me."
"Hurt you?" He looked genuinely surprised. "What on earth for? 'ere. 'ave one of these. Makes you feel better a treat."
A couple of small round pills were lying in his palm. Petunia eyed them nervously.
"I'd rather not, thank you."
"Oh just take one, woman! It'll do you good. Wipe that sour look off your face."
Petunia shot an anxious glance left and right. The street was deserted, it was only her and that maniac. She'd better do what he wanted; you never knew what he'd do if she refused.
She forced herself to give him a reassuring smile, feeling as though her face was twisted by a cramp, took up one of the small pills and held it cautiously between her thumb and forefinger. He was watching her, and so there was nothing else she could do but to place the pill in her mouth (it felt harmless enough) and pray to heaven that he had not given her rat poison.
She swallowed, squeezing her eyes shut, and waited for stomach cramps to start and a painful death to follow.
Amazingly, nothing happened. When she opened her eyes again a few moments later, feeling very foolish, the man had gone. Petunia blinked. The street was perfectly empty, except for a scabby black cat that was sitting in the middle of the pavement, washing itself. Had that horrible man turned into the cat? No, surely that wasn't possible. People couldn't turn into animals, she mustn't allow herself think like that. Or had she just dreamed the entire encounter? Was that all a result of magic wreaking havoc with her mind and senses? Were that man and the feeling of horror that she had felt part of some... enchantment, designed to keep her trapped in the house? She definitely felt better now. Petunia took a deep breath and fell into a trot. She didn't know where she was going; the area was entirely unfamiliar to her, but she knew that she had to find her Vernon.
The longer she walked, the more fear and anxiety were subsiding, replaced by warmth and tranquillity. Petunia didn't know and didn't care where she was heading. It felt good to just be walking, moving around in the fresh air, seeing new faces, and she found herself smiling at the people she met and at the world at large. Vernon would come back to her, she was sure of that now, she or Dudders would find him, and they would bring him back to the house and then they all would go back to their proper home, pick up their life again and forget about that nightmare of a life.
Eventually, Petunia stopped. She had arrived at a small square. There was a corner shop there - albeit a very suspicious looking one - and she decided on a whim to go in, despite the group of boys of a delinquent appearance loitering by the entrance and pretending to kick around a football.
They shouted something at her as she went pass them, but it didn't matter. For some reason, she couldn't see them very well, anyway; her vision was somewhat blurry - surely an after effect of having been cooped up in that house for so long. Her eyes were no longer accustomed to open spaces and sunlight.
Her hand was almost touching the door handle when the sound of running feet reached her ears, but before she could so much as turn around or even utter a sound, she was brutally slammed into the wall. Her vision blackened at the impact and the air was knocked out from her lungs. Petunia tried to scream, but it was as though her mouth was filled with cotton wool. Rough hands were holding her easily in place, despite her struggling, and someone was prying her handbag from her grip. And then there was screaming, a woman's voice, and the hands let go of her.
Petunia whirled around, a sudden surge of anger propelling her, and saw a blonde woman in a Paki-style dress wield a solid wooden club at her attackers, shouting abuses at the top of her voice. "Not by my shop, you filthy cunts!"
Petunia stooped down and picked up her handbag that her attackers had dropped. She saw them scurry away, but didn't care much. She directed her attention at the woman instead, a common-looking working-class woman with a hard face.
"Thank you," Petunia said stiffly, patting her hair which she felt looked a mess. The woman shrugged.
"I didn't do it for you," she said. "Can't 'ave SCUM LIKE THAT," she shouted after the retreating boys, "hang around my shop, putting punters off."
But Petunia wasn't listening. She was looking at the baseball club in the woman's hands.
"Where can I get one of these?"
The woman shot her an annoyed glance and disappeared back inside the shop.
Petunia suddenly shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. She remained standing there quite still a few moments longer, then, her mouth thinning into a determined line, followed the woman inside. She had the right to shop there just as any other free citizen.
She was browsing the shelves, enjoying herself so much as if she were in the middle of an M&S sale, and picking up individual items here and there. She mustn't forget getting a newspaper for Vernon; he wasn't happy at all with the papers the wizard had brought him this morning.
And as if by magic, the moment she thought her husband's name, the door opened and Vernon himself stepped in, looking magnificent in all his sturdy manliness, followed by her just as attractive, strong son. It was no wonder the blonde woman at the counter looked up from the magazine she was reading and gazed at them in amazement.
"Vernon!" Petunia squealed, overjoyed. "Over here!"
He stomped over, looking around in disdain, and she reached out a hand and straightened his collar. "Really, Vernon, just because we are forced to live like that, there is no need to look scruffy," she said affectionately. "And you too, popkin," she added with a look at Dudders. "Tuck in your shirt and do up your shoe laces."
Her son's face was rather pink, but he obeyed her like the good boy that he was. Vernon glowered at her. "What are you doing here, Petunia? This is no place for you."
"Shopping," she said brightly.
"Why didn't you stay in the house?"
"I've been looking for you, Vernon." Petunia pressed her palm to her husband's cheek, feeling his moustache tickle her thumb. "I've been worried you've… gone. For good."
"For good!" He laughed. "You silly girl! As if I'd ever leave you!"
"I know that now, Vernon. But you were gone, and I was all alone and didn't know… I was scared."
"That little idiot was getting on my nerves. I had to get out there, get a decent pint. Went to a pub, just around the corner. And then Dudders appears, tells me you're worried, looking for me. So we went looking for you." His gaze fell on her shopping basket. "We don't need this!" he said. "Nor this. Don't forget, Petunia, we don't have quite so much money as we are used to. And I'm not going to write another cheque for the wizards. I don't like the idea of these freaks cashing my cheques. What will the bank manager think?"
"They don't go to our bank," said Petunia. "And anyway - we can obviously leave the house without anything horrible happening. We could always go to a cashpoint."
Vernon merely grunted.
"Excuse me!" Petunia called to the blonde woman. "Do you know whether there is a cashpoint around here?"
The woman snorted. "Around here? It would get vandalised right away. No, you'll have to go to town for that. And if you don't have any money, then fuck off from my shop!"
"How dare you!" bellowed Vernon. "Do we look like we had no money? You serve this scum, you'll serve us!"
The woman opened her mouth to argue, but thought better of it. Compared with the other shoppers, of whom there was only a handful, Vernon looked wealthy like the Prince of Wales himself: tall and imposing, strong and well-fed, and dressed in a crisp shirt, a freshly ironed pair of trousers and shiny shoes.
"You have all you want, Petunia?" he asked in a loud voice. "Is there anything else you need? Have whatever you like. You too, Dudley."
Dudley immediately began filling the shopping basket with sweets, cans of Cola and beer, energiser drinks, and sport magazines. Vernon's moustache twitched. "That's right, my son," he said. "Everything you want."
"Do you need anything, Vernon?" asked Petunia, handing her husband the full basket and picking up a second one. Dudley was already carrying one. "I got you some newspapers, but I wasn't sure whether I got them right."
"As long as it isn't that damn Guardian," said Vernon. "That ruddy… freak got me The Guardian and The Independent today. What does he think I am? Some effing pinko liberal?"
"Oh no, I know that!" said Petunia quickly. "I got you The Daily Mail, but I was wondering whether you might want The Telegraph, too?"
"Might as well," Vernon grumbled. "There's nothing else to do in that bloody house than read. Telegraph's got a decent sport section."
"We've got everything, then," said Petunia cheerfully, taking her husband's arm. "Let's go home, Vernon."
Part III
Tags:
- character: aberforth dumbledore,
- character: augusta longbottom,
- character: dudley dursley,
- character: minerva mcgonagall,
- character: petunia dursley,
- character: vernon dursley,
- fandom: harry potter,
- genre: het,
- genre: rarepairing,
- hp_beholder,
- my fics,
- pairing: minerva mcgonagall/aberforth du,
- pairing: petunia dursley/vernon dursley
