Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

July 24, 1991, 9:07 A.M.

Petunia Evans sat at the kitchen table in her house on Privet Drive, absently sipping her morning cup of tea even though it had gone lukewarm twenty minutes ago. Each time she took a less-than-pleasant sip she would remember this fact, then promptly forget it again a few moments later. She was distracted watching her sons as they sat on the couch in the living room watching bad daytime television. Technically only one of them was her biological child: Dudley took up most of the space on their small sofa by himself, his frame already broad and muscled like his father’s had been when Petunia first met the budding businessman. 

Petunia had gotten the house in the divorce; Vernon hadn’t contested it, had just been happy to get away. The fact that by that point he didn’t quite know why anymore hadn’t been much comfort to Petunia. Despite his shortcomings in many ways, he had been a good husband to her and she had loved him as much as she had been able to love anything in those days. Vernon was an eminently suitable suitor for the person she had wanted to be: ambitious, successful, very conscious of things like status and respectability. She had even tolerated his boorish sister and her dogs for his sake. It was no surprise that he had not been able to adapt to the news that what he thought he knew about the world wasn’t quite the whole story.

She’d forced herself to watch as a member of the Ministry of Magic Obliviated him when it became clear he would never accept their new circumstances, nor keep his mouth forever closed on the subject. The sympathetic official had left him with the vague notion that he had developed nonspecific ‘irreconcilable differences’ with his wife, which was true enough, and that he would prefer a quick, quiet legal proceeding so he could leave all of the unpleasantness behind. Petunia felt bad about asking for sole custody of Dudley, but she couldn’t bear the thought of giving him up, and sharing anything with stolidly-Muggle Vernon Dursley had become impossible. The Obliviator had even convinced him that he truly yearned for the big city, and so he’d moved to London. She hadn’t seen him in nearly half a decade, not since they’d awkwardly run into each other at Harrod’s.

The reason for the sudden upheaval in her life was sitting on the couch next to his cousin, chatting, occasionally laughing at whatever mindless drivel was on or elbowing for a little more room. Harry Potter (known legally to the Muggle world as Harry Evans) was perhaps a third the size of Dudley, and at nearly eleven years old showed no signs yet of filling out. Petunia had to replace clothes for Dudley it seemed almost by the month, while Harry still swam in what she’d bought him a couple of years before in anticipation of his potential growth. Despite their almost cartoonish physical differences, she had raised the two like brothers and they had weathered a few sibling disputes to emerge as close in friendship as they were in age.

Harry at least was lean, rather than skinny, as she plied him with as much food as he would eat and he had worked hard to keep up with Dudley physically. She had both boys in football from an early age, to train their endurance and reflexes, and as soon as they’d reached the requisite age she’d started them at the local boxing gym. Dudley was a behemoth, already training with fighters several years older, while Harry could barely make the lowest youth weight class but at least excelled in the ‘bob and weave’ portion of the exercise. He had developed a rugged mentality, always getting back up when someone did manage to land a punch, while Dudley was impervious to all but the heaviest blows. Petunia died a little inside every time she saw either one of them get hit, but she knew what might be required of Harry in the future: dark forces had marred his earliest years, and she’d been warned that fate was not done with him. It went without saying that Dudley would be involved as well. The two had grown too close for anything else.

Petunia and her own sibling, Harry’s mother Lily, had a typically tumultuous sibling relationship as young children, but the day Lily got her Hogwarts letter and discovered she was a witch, the ice had begun to form around Petunia’s heart. It hardened further when Petunia had gotten Dumbledore’s kind but final declination of Petunia’s desperate request to be included in the wizarding world. The two girls had little to do with one another while Lily was at Hogwarts, even during the summer holidays, despite Lily’s efforts to bridge the divide. After they had graduated and Lily had gone on to marry James Potter, fully integrating into the wizarding world, Petunia had cut her off completely, married the most Muggle man she could find, and prepared herself to live a life pretending that magic did not exist.

Harry had arrived on their doorstep as a baby not long after Dudley himself was born, with a note attached to his bassinet addressed to Petunia. It was a horrible way to find out that your sister and brother-in-law had died, and she’d never quite forgiven Albus Dumbledore for the insensitivity of it, no matter what his reasons had been and how much help he’d given her over the ensuing years (mostly from a distance). The faint silver lining of the tragedy, as much as she felt strange calling it that, was that Harry’s arrival and the shock of Lily’s murder had shattered Petunia’s carefully curated armor of anger and disdain. Despair had consumed her at first, and if not for her duty to her children guilt and bitter regrets might have crushed her.

After a good bit of therapy and self-reflection, Petunia was able to admit that her jealousy at Lily’s abilities had quickly darkened into a level of spite that had drained the joy out of Petunia’s life and turned her into a shallow, small person for many years. Slowly but surely, her grief had given way to determination. She couldn’t make up for lost time or bring her sister back, but she could fill her nephew’s life with the love his mother would have. Later, when she had managed to get Dumbledore to come and explain things to her (with the vociferous advocacy of Minerva McGonagall, for which Petunia would be forever grateful), that resolution had expanded to include protecting Harry, to ensure the Boy Who Lived could go on doing so in present and future tenses as well.

It was these revelations and her newfound determination in the face of them that had finally driven Vernon away. He was never much interested in Harry and had preferred to leave all interactions with the boy beyond the perfunctory to Petunia. His reaction to what Dumbledore had told them was to demand they get rid of Harry and the weird, dangerous world that came with him. Petunia wouldn’t hear of it, even before Dumbledore’s warning about the requirements of Harry’s magical protection, and it took less than a week for Vernon’s threats to go public to bring the Obliviator who took his memories and changed their lives forever.

Without Vernon’s presence, except for the support checks with his name on them that came regularly, Petunia’s life was consumed with her two boys. She’d regained her maiden name to represent to herself a clean break between the past and who she meant to be, throwing herself headlong into the many tasks and expectations of a loving parent. Dudley had a strong protective streak in him that she actively encouraged, and with the much larger boy at Harry’s side most of the issues the bespectacled, always-small-for-his-age boy might have had with other children at school were forestalled. The rest of them had been…handled. She’d worried whenever Dudley came home with schoolyard battle scars, but from the time he was six and lost a tooth over someone smashing Harry’s glasses, Dudley had taken pride in his self-appointed role. 

On the precipice of Harry’s eleventh birthday, Petunia was waxing nostalgic as memory after memory of the last decade flooded her mind when a knock on the door startled her out of her reverie. She dashed a hand across her face to prohibit the wateriness in her eyes from running down her maudlin cheeks. Both of the boys jumped off the couch in excitement as Harry muted the volume. Petunia rose from her seat slowly, feeling at least twenty years older than she was. She’d known this day would come and had been half-dreading and half looking forward to it for most of the past decade. 

Harry, ever quick, got to the door first and yanked it open to reveal a smiling, red-cheeked, red-haired, vaguely potato-shaped face atop a tall, gangly frame that had all combined to remind Petunia of the claymation man from Wallace and Grommet. Though she’d turned over a new leaf as a person long ago and would never have actually made the comment, Petunia couldn’t help having it run through her head every time they’d seen each other.

“All right, boys?” said Arthur Weasley, catching Harry’s slight weight up off the ground in a quick hug and then putting him down to greet Dudley and Petunia in turn.

“Hi, Uncle Arty!” came nearly in unison from the children. Arthur, despite being a solid, capable parent and a long-tenured Ministry official, was also in many ways a large child himself and much-beloved by children in general, his own and Petunia’s in particular. Some years ago, feeling isolated and alone in her Muggle house in her Muggle village, estranged from family and neighbors by her sudden divorce and with her secretly magical child, Petunia had hesitantly asked Minerva during one of their check-ins if there were a way to connect the Evanses to anyone in the magical world. It was understood that they must keep the knowledge of Harry’s whereabouts under wraps until the inevitable reveal when he went to school, but eventually Harry’s tiny conclave of secret-keepers had decided on an expansion to include the Weasleys, former members of the Order of the Phoenix who had fought with the Potters in the last war. 

Arthur had become the primary male role model in the boys’ lives, and the horde of Weasley children - especially Ron, who was their same age, Ginny, who was a year younger, and the slightly older twins, Fred and George - had become Harry and Dudley’s closest circle of friends. For Petunia, the true treasure was Molly. As still a relatively new mother, and a newly single mother of two to boot, Petunia had been holding onto her sanity for dear life. Molly had taken Petunia under her wing and was now her dearest friend - they spoke regularly, using Muggle mail so as not to draw attention, and visited as often as they could. The Weasleys’ home, known charmingly as the Burrow, had become a second home for Petunia and her sons - one she loved as much as her own, despite the constant chaos and clutter.

Petunia knew Arthur had likely skipped breakfast, so she overrode his protestations and busied herself making tea and warming up a pastry while Harry and Dudley enthusiastically answered Arthur’s questions about their TV show. When the kettle whistled, they all sat down at the table. After Arthur had taken a few bites of his pastry and sipped his tea, they shared a look and Arthur turned to Harry. “Well, I expect you’re waiting for some news, eh, Harry?” Petunia had taken Harry and Dudley to the local zoo for Dudley’s recent birthday celebration, where Harry had amazed his family by accidentally discovering he could speak to snakes. For Harry’s upcoming birthday though, there was only one present he wanted.

The not-quite-eleven-year-old threw a guilty glance at his cousin, but Dudley gave him a  smile of encouragement. Petunia’s heart tightened; for she knew (few better!) how Dudley must be feeling but only the slight tightness of his lips spoke of anything but happiness. “Yes, Uncle Arthur,” said Harry. “Have you got a letter for me?”

“I certainly do! Fresh from the desk of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore himself, ink barely dry. Why don’t you have a look?” He took a large white envelope from his robe and handed it to Harry, who tore it open with barely-contained glee. Only when his focus was caught by the letter did Dudley look at his mother, his face wearing the chagrin he refused to show his brother, for fear of dampening his joy. There would be no such letter for him - like his father, he had not a spark of magic. She caught him up in a one-armed hug and they leaned into each other, though she had to be careful to brace herself against his weight, and watched Harry eagerly read the words written on the fine parchment:

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…

Chapter Text

The time between the arrival of Harry’s letter and the start of his first term at Hogwarts seemed to Petunia to have passed by her in a dizzying blur. The acceptance letter had come with a list of the various esoterica a first-year student would need: a cauldron, enchanted glasses, and dragonhide gloves, to name just a few, along with a literal trunkload of books. This had necessitated a trip to Diagon Alley, the hidden wizarding enclave in the heart of Muggle London, where such things could be purchased. They coordinated with the Weasleys, of course, and Rubeus Hagrid, the massive Hogwarts groundskeeper, had accompanied them as well. He’d given the excuse that he had an errand of his own to run (“Hogwarts business!” he repeated proudly, several times), but Petunia knew he didn’t want to miss Harry’s first school shopping trip.

Hagrid had been an intermittent part of their lives for only the past few years despite the fact that he had been the one to actually bring Harry to Privet Drive so long ago, right after the tragedy. To call him massive was to actually sell him somewhat short: he was the biggest human being Petunia had ever seen, which made sense because he was actually only half human, the other half being (and this confused Petunia from a…mechanical standpoint) giant. Used to being some level of unwelcome in most places, magical or Muggle, Hagrid hadn’t wanted to impose himself on Harry’s life, but had always hoped to see him once the boy made his way to Hogwarts. 

It took until Harry was eight for those decent witches and wizards who did not disapprove of Hagrid for factors of his heritage and appearance that were outside his control (and made little difference anyway, beyond the occasional wingspan-related mishap) to convince him to reach out to Petunia and ask to visit. Minerva had brought the request herself, and on her recommendation and Molly’s, Petunia had agreed to have Hagrid come to the Burrow on their next trip (having him over to Number Four would have been difficult and unwise, at best). It had only taken that first encounter to endear the gentle, bear-like man to the children, and Petunia always let him know now when she was planning another trip to the Burrow.

The trip to Diagon Alley had gone very well…for the most part. One pain point was that Ginny still had a year to wait to attend Hogwarts with her brothers. The poor girl was quite despondent about being the last Weasley child left at the Burrow, and just looked sad the whole time. Dudley, who knew he would never have the chance to join the others at their magical school, kept her company as Harry and Ron busied themselves collecting everything on their lists. Dudley put on a brave face, but the adults (and Harry) could tell that the whole thing was difficult for him. Petunia watched Harry desperately try to include both Dudley and Ginny in the proceedings, but there just wasn’t much to be done: everything they saw was a reminder of what they would be missing out on. Ron was predictably unaware: he was an excellent boy, when matters of import were drawn to his attention, but was often focused on his own affairs.

In addition to that, there was the problem of money - or rather the problem that Harry had an incredible amount of it and the Weasleys had very little. Their trip to Gringott’s had thrown that into stark relief. After Hagrid had emptied a small vault of a tiny, grubby-looking package (Hogwarts business, very hush-hush), the Weasleys had made their own withdrawal to cover the few things they would have to get for Ron that were not able to be handed down from one of his brothers. There wasn’t much left after they took out a handful of coins, even though they were very judicious about what they planned to buy: everything from Ron’s robes to his books, and even his wand, were once the property of an elder Weasley boy. It was a shock, after that, to see the piles of gold and silver sitting in the Potter family’s vault, unused since James and Lily had died. Petunia wondered if the wizarding world had such a thing as compounded interest, and had a chat with their goblin guide, Griphook on the subject. It turned out that goblins did understand the concept, but only on a one-way basis: they loaned money and expected the debtor to pay interest on it, but the idea of paying wizards for the use of their money stored in the bank made his tiny, pinched face shrivel up even further in horror.

Harry had known about his family fortune, but it had never really come up much before and they’d never had the occasion to go and actually see it. Harry immediately offered to share it with the Weasleys; it warmed Petunia’s heart to see that the thought occurred to him spontaneously and he said it without hesitation. Molly and Arthur had refused, of course, but Harry had insisted on at least being allowed to use some of his money to buy a few things for Ron. Harry didn’t understand their reticence. To him the problem was simple: someone he cared about needed a thing and he had an abundance to give, therefore the problem was solved. He would not let it go, and finally the Weasleys relented, but on only one topic: Ron’s wand. A secondhand wand was definitely a limiting factor on magical capability, and even Molly’s pride bent at the chance to give her son such a benefit. “I’ll do the same for Ginny next year too,” Harry had confided to Petunia, voice fierce with determination. “At least.” Petunia had hidden a tear or two as she thought: Lily would have done the same.

The awkwardness of the near-argument had dissipated as they made their way from store to store; Petunia didn’t bring the subject up again after seeing that Molly clearly did not want to discuss it any further. The last vestiges had gone away when Hagrid rejoined them with Harry’s belated birthday present: a snowy white owl named Hedwig, who would be both Harry’s companion and long-distance communication device. Harry loved her immediately, as did the rest of the children, and nothing would do but that they let her out of her cage and get to know her immediately. Petunia thought Ron might be jealous, as his own pet was a dilapidated-looking nine-toed rat who had also once belonged to Percy. She hadn’t missed the conflicted look on Ron’s face when they had opened Harry’s vault, but Ron was caught up now with the thought of a new wand and seemed to be only purely excited for Harry. 

The rest of the trip proceeded smoothly until the very end, when they reached the store where Ron and Harry were to get their wands. It took a long time for Mr. Ollivander to find one that would suit Harry; the process for Ron was comparatively brief and he ecstatically swished around the length of holly (14 inches, dragon heartstring, reasonably pliable, said Ollivander) while waiting for Harry to be done. The various magical micro-disasters that were produced from the many wands Harry was not destined for were amusing, and the swell of brightness when the right wand was finally found was appropriately wondrous. Unfortunately, like seemingly everything else in the wizarding world, Harry’s wand had somehow come with ominous omens of questionable provenance. Petunia could scarcely believe it; of course Harry would be chosen by the one wand in a store filled with thousands of them that shared a core with Voldemort’s wand. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with! She had privately asked Mr. Ollivander not to tell anyone about it, and the old man had bowed and said he would hold the confidences of the Boy Who Lived close to his heart.

The wands’ connection stole Petunia’s sleep and invaded her dreams afterward. The dark wizard who had taken her sister and Harry’s parents away was defeated, supposedly, but no one was sure if he was truly gone forever. Hagrid certainly didn’t think so, and on the way back to the Leaky Cauldron the groundskeeper added that he didn't think Voldemort was human enough to die. What exactly did that mean? Hagrid couldn’t tell her, exactly, as he wasn’t sure of the details, but he was certain it was true. Voldemort had reputedly reached heights (and depths) of magic such as few before him, and what was possible at those extremes stretched the limits of her expanded credulity.

The potential for Voldemort’s return weighed heavily on Petunia’s mind, as it had since Dumbledore’s warnings years before. She had begun then, preparing Harry and Dudley in whatever small ways she could for what they might face: building the capabilities of their bodies and minds, of course, but most importantly, fostering what were now unbreakable bonds of brotherhood. Petunia couldn’t help but think, as foolish as it might have been to believe a Muggle could have done anything, that if she had been there for Lily as a sister should, Harry’s parents might still be alive.

–

A scant few weeks later, they were on their way to the train that would take Harry away from her for several long months. Though they had been there before on their way to various nonmagical locations, King’s Cross never failed to impress. It was like a cavernous network of concrete, glass, and steel. Its arched roof echoed back the clatter of luggage and the chatter of thousands of passengers, blurring it all together. Trains hissing and screeching metallically as they rumbled on their tracks only added to the auditory callidoscope, and thickened the air with fumes that smelled of coal and grease. 

The three Evanses made their way slowly through the crowd. Once, the boys would have stayed close to their mother to avoid getting lost in the press, but these days they walked behind Dudley instead as his already-prodigious size parted the sea of bodies better than Petunia’s slimmer frame. For her part, Petunia carried a neatly packed satchel while Dudley pushed a trolley loaded with Harry’s trunk and the cage which housed Hedwig. Harry, laden with a backpack of his own, walked next to Petunia, holding her hand to help guide her as her eyes scanned the passing signs denoting the platforms. “Eight…nine…yes, it’s right here, I think. This…bare pillar standing in the middle of nothing.” 

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters indeed, she thought. Petunia no longer had her former unreasonable disdain for all things magical, but she still had a few gripes with the silly lengths they went to not to do anything that would seem normal to a Muggle. Arthur had once told her that of all things one of the ways to enter the Ministry of Magic was to flush oneself in from a public toilet. She had to imagine whoever had come up with this way to hide a wizarding train station in plain sight was laughing up their sleeve the whole time at wizards and Muggles both together. She knew for a fact that there were enchantments that would repel Muggle attention or hide almost anything in plain sight no matter how large, so there was no need for such elaborate tricks. This was done by a gleefully malevolent mind - if she didn’t know it predated him, she would have suspected Dumbledore himself.

Harry swallowed hard beside her. “So I’ve got to just…walk through the pillar, right, Mum?”

“That's what the directions said. Mol…Mrs. Weasley advised you to do it at a bit of a jog if you’re nervous.”

Harry hesitated. “Umm…what if…I…” There were a sea of doubts expressed in those few words. What if I do it wrong? What if it doesn’t work? What if they changed their minds? What if I’m not really a wizard, after all? What if I fail? Even with the trip to Diagon Alley and everything else that had surrounded his otherwise-Muggle life these last several years, this was an unmistakable point of no return. He would be leaving his family, going out into a strange world to rise or fall on his own merit. Petunia knew there must be a horde of emotions chasing each other through the poor boy’s heart: fear, sadness, anxiety, and yes, excitement too, and guilt over that in the bargain.

Petunia knelt down and hugged him. He clung to her, the way he had many times as a little boy but hadn’t very often of late. “Never fear, my love, we’ll do it together. We three, headlong into cinderblocks!” Harry smiled, Dudley laughed. Together they took hold of the trolley with their hands overlapping on the pull bar and pushed it at speed (but not too much speed, just in case) toward the pillar between Platforms Nine and Ten. Petunia had her own moment of apprehension right at the end, but she needn’t have bothered: they passed through just fine, and emerged on the other side into a very different sort of train station.

“Dudley! Harry!” came Ron’s yell as he spotted them and ran over from where the Weasleys had been waiting nearby the portal. A cacophony of sound from the mass of other children and their families saying their goodbyes and boarding the train nearly drowned him out, but the Weasley crew managed to make it through the morass and happy greetings were exchanged all around. “Hiya, Auntie Tune!” was directed her way along with a series of hugs from the younger Weasleys. Petunia didn’t miss the looks Ginny threw Harry’s way when he wasn’t looking - they’d been growing more obvious for the last couple of years, to the point where they were the subject of no small part of Molly and Petunia’s conversations. They were careful not to get involved - not at this early stage at any rate - but elation over the potential pairing bloomed in both their hearts. 

Harry, Dudley, and Ron, of course, were thick as thieves and spent most of the time waiting for the train’s departure engaged in various rambunctious activities and embellished storytelling. Harry eagerly devoured all that Ron could tell him about the professional Quidditch scene, and Ron had developed an interest in football over the years so Dudley and Harry supplied detailed breakdowns (with ample demonstration) of the various matches they could remember. The twins were deep in conversation, likely about something mildly nefarious, and Percy was nowhere to be seen so Petunia and Molly had a chance to catch up. This mostly consisted of Molly filling Petunia in on whatever she’d heard from Bill or Charlie about their work: dragons and curse-breaking, very exciting. Petunia was always warmed by the pride in Molly’s voice when she talked of her children, and how from the very beginning she'd extended that same familial love towards not only Harry, but Dudley too.

Finally the train’s whistle called out that it would soon depart the station. Ron gave his mother a perfunctory hug and hopped onto the train, leaving Harry to say his goodbyes. Petunia gathered Harry up into her arms, and tears sprang unbidden to her eyes, matched by Harry’s sudden sniffling sob, and she hugged him tighter. “I love you, Harry,” she whispered. “Your parents would be so proud.” She felt him nod against her shoulder, and he mastered himself enough to get out a tear-filled “I love you too” before she released him.

He turned to Dudley, who bent down a bit and raised his fists; Harry did the same and they went through a brief exchange of strikes and dodges at half speed, timed so as not to actually hit each other. Petunia nearly teared up all over again as she watched her boys embrace. Dudley touched his forehead to Harry’s and said in a serious tone, “Better tell ‘em, wand or no wand, anyone looks at you wrong I’ll bloody well knock his block off.”

Harry laughed, “I can’t go around threatening people with my big brother, Dud.”

Dudley shrugged. “Not a threat, is it? ‘S a warning.” 

They hugged again, Harry’s slight frame nearly swallowed by Dudley’s bulk, and were separated by Ron yelling that the train was leaving. Harry leapt onto the stairs, and for the first time in many years he left his aunt and cousin behind. Dudley and Petunia waved until the train vanished into the distance, and then Petunia wrapped her arms around her son as his shoulders slumped. “I’ll miss him, Mum,” said Dudley after a moment, and Petunia sighed. “I will too, my love. Just think, though - you’ll have so much to talk about at Christmas!”

Chapter Text

Dudley and Petunia had been counting the days until Harry's return. There had been some discussion about them all spending the Christmas holiday together at the Burrow, but Molly and Petunia had ultimately decided to keep their plans separate for one more year. They’d be going to visit in a few days, but Petunia was more than happy to have some quiet time with just the three of them after such a long time spent apart. She was sure there would be an increasing push from the children to spend school breaks together in one place or another, and she doubted Number Four, Privet Drive, would be high on the list of destinations. Fortunately, she also knew she and Dudley had a permanent invitation to the Burrow.

Currently, the boys were finishing up the massive Christmas breakfast she’d gotten up early to make (or Dudley was, anyways, with Harry mostly waving around an empty fork as he spoke animatedly about his school adventures). Harry wasn’t necessarily a quiet boy, but she’d never heard him talk so much before all at once. He’d made new friends, of course (Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born!), an enemy (Draco Malfoy, who he had not threatened with Dudley, thank you very much), been sorted into Gryfffindor (where dwelt the brave of heart; Petunia was unsurprised), and become the youngest Seeker in living memory (Petunia wasn’t much for sports, but she was proud of him anyway). 

Alarmingly, a troll had made its way into the castle somehow, but Harry had dismissed that, saying that the teachers had gotten everyone to safety with satisfactory speed and taken care of the issue. He, Ron, and Hermione had found each other as soon as the teachers had begun escorting the students back to their common rooms, and spent an unexpected but welcome extra free period together while it was all going on. They had found an interesting way to compromise between their interests: Ron and Harry played a game of wizard’s chess, which Hermione couldn’t stand, while Hermione read aloud from Hogwarts: A History, which Ron largely ignored. Harry said he was happy with both activities, and mostly just enjoyed time with his friends. 

The troll incident wasn’t the only thing that began to shake Petunia's confidence in Harry’s safety. Due to an unfortunate coincidence related to shifting staircases (how were students supposed to get to class punctually if they couldn’t know where the stairs would take them at any given time?), the three had discovered the existence of a trapdoor in a ‘forbidden’ room on the third floor that was guarded by a giant three-headed dog. Dudley had been excited to learn that cerberuses (cerberi?) were real, but despite her amazement Petunia had expressed some concerns. Harry brushed the encounter off, saying that they’d just glimpsed it for a moment before shutting the door and were never in real danger. After a brief but vigorous internal debate, Petunia decided she didn’t have enough information to contradict him. She assumed that in a school for children, the adults would make sure anything truly dangerous was inaccessible, though she really did wonder why, instead of ominously warning them away from it at the start of term feast, Dumbledore hadn’t put some sort of impenetrable magical lock on it. She recalled a line Lily had read to her from The Fellowship of the Ring when they were small about wizards being subtle, though it brought a pang of regret for later ridiculing her sister for still reading that very same novel when they were teenagers.

The way Harry spoke of this Hermoine made her sound exactly like Lily: intelligent and strong-willed, with no time for nonsense. Petunia made a mental note to discuss this potential threat to Ginny and Harry’s eventual nuptials with Molly at the next opportunity. Petunia was pondering this while half-listening to Harry, who had launched into a detailed description of the process whereby he’d managed to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team and a blow-by-blow of the games that had followed, when Dudley exclaimed “What'd you mean, Snape jinxed your broom?”

What followed was not unlike an interrogation, though far gentler. What had been a throw-in to Harry’s story was of great interest to Petunia and Dudley, although it became clear the three friends didn’t have any actual proof that Snape had done anything wrong - everything was coincidental. Snape was a strict, unliked instructor as well as a rather unpleasant person, so it made sense that they would assume the worst about him. Petunia herself had known Severus when he was still a boy: his family had lived near the Evanses and he and Lily had been friends for a while. They had fallen out later in their teen years, but by then Petunia had been actively ignoring her sister so she wasn't sure why. She hadn't thought much of him then, but they had both been children and Petunia couldn’t imagine that Dumbledore would allow Snape to teach at Hogwarts if he was truly that bad. Still, Petunia wondered if she shouldn’t reach out to Minerva after the holidays and get her opinion on the matter. 

After they had finally resolved that issue, at least for now, Harry excitedly told them he had brought a surprise to show, and then hauled out an invisibility cloak, of all things, from his magically-enlarged trunk. He showed them a note from an ‘anonymous’ gift-giver (Petunia didn’t have to think too hard to deduce that it was from Dumbledore, but she kept that to herself, assuming he had his reasons for not signing the note) which claimed that the cloak had belonged to his father. James Potter had been the scion of an ancient wizarding bloodline, so having a powerful artifact to hand down to his son was not unbelievable, but Petunia was surprised that the headmaster had chosen to bestow it on an eleven-year-old. Children were not known for their impulse control, though Harry was a careful and conscientious boy compared to most of his peers, and the ability to move about unseen seemed like a temptation that would at least at times be impossible to resist. 

She didn’t voice these concerns aloud but she did remind Harry to be careful where and when he used it. A clandestine trip to the kitchens for a midnight slice of cake was one thing, but given all he’d told them so far about the environment at Hogwarts, it was entirely possible that going to the wrong place at the wrong time might actually be dangerous. They moved on to Christmas presents, and the worries of Harry’s tales of his first term at Hogwarts were soon muted by the two boys’ excited demolition of various brightly-wrapped packages.

However, Petunia could not forget about her concerns completely, and it turned out that Dudley hadn’t either. Harry had shoved his nose deeply into a book Ron had gotten him, something about Quidditch, and Dudley was having a midmorning snack. She was glad her son was so physically active; with the amount he ate, if he was sedentary he would have been the same size and shape as a beach ball. He ate quietly at first, but then he muttered, “Don't think he’s safe there, Mum.”

She stooped over the back of his chair to give him a hug. “He’s living in a world that’s strange to us, my love. It’s strange to him too. The adults there all want to keep him safe - not just because he’s a child, but because of who he is to them.”

Dudley grunted. “He’s just some famous person to them. He’s my brother.” He curled his hands, already bigger than hers, into fists. “He needs me.” His voice had gone from gruffly determined to heartbreakingly childlike.

Petunia sighed and hugged her son tighter. “We don’t have much choice right now but to trust the adults, the teachers, to keep him safe. You know Mr. Albus and Ms. Minerva. They’re good people, and powerful wizards in the bargain. I’m sure he will be alright.”

Dudley refused to be placated. “I’m not,” he said darkly. “You-Know-Who is a powerful wizard too, isn’t he? Mr. Albus and the other teachers can’t be with Harry all the time. Ron’s a good sort but he’s a bit oblivious, and I don’t know this Hermione. If I was there…”

Petunia shook her head. “We asked, love. They won’t let a Muggle attend the school, and we can’t force them. We’ll just have to trust, for now.”

Chapter Text

Petunia and Dudley had gotten to King’s Cross entirely too early in their excitement for Harry’s return, only to find out that they could not pass the barrier between platforms 9 and 10 by themselves. It was an uncomfortable reminder that despite their relationship with Harry and their friendship with the Weasleys, and several other witches and wizards besides, to the wizarding world at large they were only Muggles. They stood awkwardly in the empty area around the pillar, drawing odd looks from passersby.

Fortunately, Molly and Arthur arrived with Ginny in tow not long afterwards and their time immediately became more enjoyable. They passed through the portal alongside the Weasleys, and the adults commenced chatting about the various happenings in their lives: Arthur’s constant struggle to be taken seriously at work, the several modifications Molly had been making to her household spells, Petunia’s day-to-day, and Dudley’s school experiences.

Meanwhile, Dudley and Ginny had defaulted to what they often did now when it was just the two of them: Dudley was teaching Ginny about boxing. They made quite the mismatched pair, the hulking older boy towering over his diminutive ginger-haired counterpart. Nevertheless, it was clear that Dudley was training her in earnest, not just humoring a little girl. Both of them took the instruction seriously, though Petunia had watched enough of the boys’ training to know that Dudley always moved with great care to avoid injuring Ginny.

This was a regular occurrence during their last few visits to the Burrow, and Dudley had said Ginny took to the sport better than Harry had. Like her mother, Ginevra Weasley had a natural aggressive streak that Petunia’s gentler child did not share, though Harry was capable enough. When they sparred, Petunia had heard Dudley grunt in discomfort as Ginny’s tiny fists found their mark with alacrity, if not with great force, but he never turned up his aggression in order to get back at her or remind her that he was bigger and stronger. Far from it; Petunia could tell he was proud of her every time she managed to get past his defenses. Ginny was Dudley’s favorite of the Weasley children, and he looked at her like she was his own little sister while Ron and the twins were merely friends.

With these pleasant distractions thus in place, it seemed no time at all before the whistle of the train could be heard off in the distance. Petunia looked up from her huddle with the two elder Weasleys and for the first time she noticed the looks Dudley and Ginny were getting from some of the other families who had arrived. One particularly elegantly-dressed couple, clad in expensive-looking green and black robes, were staring at her as if by doing so they could bore a fatal hole in her skull. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with long, perfectly-coiffed white-blonde hair and startlingly grey eyes above lips twisted in a sneer that somehow managed to look regal rather than ugly: an aristocrat looking down on the disgusting peasantry. His wife was only a little less of a high-cheeked beauty for the sour look that stained her face as well. 

Petunia was taken aback, but Molly caught at her arm and winked when Petunia looked back at her. “Don’t worry about all that, dear,” she said, and Petunia knew her friend well enough to see the teeth behind her smile. “We’re a family of blood-traitors anyway, so we’ve been getting those looks for years. They say you’re known by the company you keep, after all, and we’re just fine with ours.” She hooked her arm through Petunia’s and stared steadily back at the other couple until they finally looked away in a huff. Petunia was grateful for her friend’s support; Molly was the most motherly woman Petunia had ever met, but at her core she was made of steel. 

“Who are they?” Petunia asked quietly.

It was Arthur who answered, and there was the fire of anger in the tone of her kind and gentle friend like Petunia had never heard before; he spoke quietly through gritted teeth. “The worst sort of wizards. The kind that give the rest of us a bad name, the kind that cheerfully followed You-Know-Who and helped him come to power in the first place. The kind who don’t even bother to hide their bigotry or greed, safe behind money and powerful friends.” He nearly spit the last words, then visibly took hold of himself and gave Petunia with a weak smile. “Those are the Malfoys, Lucius and Narcissa. Draco’s parents; I expect Harry’s told you a good bit about him.

Draco Malfoy had indeed featured multiple times in Harry’s letters and the stories he’d told them at Christmas, always as a villain or at least a secondary antagonist. Petunia was partially glad that there was no way for Dudley to join Harry at Hogwarts, because if he could then his coming to blows with Malfoy and his large cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, would be nearly inevitable: Dudley would let no insult or injury to his brother pass by unanswered. Petunia would have stacked Dudley up against any eleven-year-old she’d ever seen in a fair fight, and given him a good chance even with two-to-one odds, but at Hogwarts there was no guarantee any fight would stay strictly physical - who knew what dark spells the apparently-evil Malfoys might have taught their son? And what might happen if Dudley did manage to bloody the child of a family like that?

Her worries, as well as their conversation and Dudley and Ginny’s impromptu training session (the pair seemed fortunately oblivious to the looks they were getting) were put on hold by the arrival of the Hogwarts Express. The train pulled into the station and Petunia’s heart was immediately lifted by the smiling face of her son poking out of one of the windows, waving excitedly alongside Ron’s familiar freckled features and a girl with wild brown curls who could only be the much-celebrated Hermione Granger. 

From there it was a whirlwind as the children got their luggage and joined their families; Petunia was introduced first to Herimione and then to her parents, who were dentists from a London suburb less than an hour away from Little Whinging. Both of them were enthused to meet another parent from a Muggle background, though Petunia realized she had actually been somewhat privileged in her familiarity with the wizarding world despite her own lack of magical aptitude. The poor Grangers were adrift at sea in a rowboat comparatively speaking, and it was obvious that Hermione, in typical child fashion, told them only a limited amount of information about her life at Hogwarts and the wizarding world in general. Petunia was grateful for Harry’s openness, and for the fact that she’d reigned in her own impulses to react strongly to some of the fantastical and dangerous things he had told her at Christmas. The last thing she wanted was to make Harry withhold things for fear of worrying her, or that she would try to take him away from his new school and friends.

Both she and Molly immediately offered themselves as resources for the young woman’s parents, and exchanged contact information. After that, they decided to celebrate the start of the summer holiday with a trip to Diagon Alley for dinner. Eschewing the crowded Leaky Cauldron (where they were most likely to be bothered by people seeking to pay their respects to the Boy Who Lived), they opted instead for a set of outdoor tables at one of the South Side cafes. It was a very pleasant evening, and Petunia could see immediately how close Ron, Harry, and Hermione had become. She worried for Dudley, that he might be left out, but she quickly realized she needn’t have bothered. Harry included him in every aspect of the conversation and Dudley’s preexisting relationship with Ron as well as the fact that Herimione herself was a Muggle made Dudley’s integration into their group a relatively smooth process. Dudley got the chance to talk about his own school year (nothing about his classes, but a great deal about his new role as goalie on the school football team), but quickly moved on from that to ask a myriad of questions about the trio’s time at Hogwarts.

There was a great deal to tell, which Petunia only heard snippets of as the conversations of the adults and children quickly diverged. Arthur, as he was wont to do, was delving deeply into the details of Muggle dentistry with Mr. and Mrs. Granger while Molly lamented to Petunia that she only had one summer left before all of her children would spend most of the year away from her, either at school or in their own adult lives. Petunia was sympathetic; it was hard enough having Harry gone, she couldn’t imagine if Dudley were away at school as well and she left sitting at home with only their letters to sustain her.

After a while she heard Dudley ask a pointed question and Harry said “I’ve got some important stuff to tell you and Mum, Dud, but I want to wait ‘til we get home.” Dudley grunted his assent, and Petunia tuned back in to what Molly was saying, secure in the knowledge that whatever had happened, her son intended to keep their lines of communication open.

When everyone had finished eating and the adults judged that they’d given the children as much time as they could to savor the leading edge of summer freedom together while still managing to get home at a decent hour, they began to say their goodbyes. Petunia caught the distressed look on Hermione’s face. The Weasley house was full of children and steeped in magic, of course, while Privet Drive at least had both Dudley and Harry to share the summer months together, but Hermione was the only child of Muggle parents. Petunia felt a wash of sympathy for her; she remembered what her own summers had been like once Lily had begun going to Hogwarts and their relationship deteriorated. Petunia had drawn in on herself - she’d had friends, but none of them very close or very dear, just other small-minded, mean-spirited souls like herself who had enjoyed belittling others as a pack but felt no great draw towards each other during the holidays. 

She whispered in Molly’s ear as the two hugged goodbye, and Molly shot a look at Ginny but then turned to Hermione with her trademark warm, motherly smile. “Hermione, dear, you must come to visit during the holidays. We’ll get Harry and Dudley out at the same time, would you like that?”

“Oh, yes please!” said Hermione, her clouded face breaking into a huge smile that unselfconsciously highlighted her unfortunately-sized front teeth. She hugged Molly and Petunia goodbye before moving on to Harry, Dudley, and Ron.

“We’ll send loads of owls,” promised Harry. “Hedwig’ll get plenty of exercise!”

-

They got home late enough that there was no more chance for conversation until the following day; Harry had fallen into his bed almost immediately, exhausted, not even bothering to unpack his trunk. The next morning, breakfast was unusually quiet, especially right after a homecoming. Dudley and Petunia didn’t press Harry, but he could feel them waiting, and he finished his food quickly before taking a deep breath and plunging into an enumeration of all that had befallen him near the end of the school year. 

Harry calmly took them through hammer blow after hammer blow of ever more mind-blowing revelations, but the thing he had the hardest time talking about was his experience with a mirror that showed the viewer’s heart’s desire. He clearly felt uncomfortable revealing to them that his heretofore unrealized heart’s desire was to be reunited with his parents. Petunia quickly caught him up in her arms when he hesitantly stumbled through the words and told him that seeing her sister alive again would be quite high on her list as well, and that she and Dudley weren’t upset; wanting to see and be with his parents didn’t mean that she and Dudley thought he didn’t love them. Dudley, not normally much for mushy physical displays of affection, had come over and joined them and the three of them shared a moment of mutual comfort before Harry continued.

Everything after that he seemed to take in stride: the hunt for the meaning of the name Nicholas Flamel, Hagrid’s gain and loss of a dragon (with the added malevolence of one Draco Malfoy), their ill-fated detention in the Forbidden Forest (why was something with forbidden in the name even an option for the punishment of eleven-year-olds?!), and their ongoing suspicions of Snape. He told them of Dumbledore’s sudden absence and conversations that had led to the three friends’ heroic, impressive, harrowing run through the gauntlet to reach the Sorcerer’s Stone. 

Harry spoke proudly of how Hermione’s keen mind and knowledge gained from her near-obsessive study had guided them through much of it, pushing them forward when they would otherwise have stalled. He marvelled at Ron’s mastery of the living chess board and his storybook-hero sacrifice so Harry could advance. Harry’s own contributions were mentioned only in passing - he’d caught the key, of course, but the rest of what he’d done seemed unimpressive to him, all set up by Dumbledore or resulting from his mother’s sacrifice rather than his own efforts. Dudley pointed out, with a vulgarity Petunia would not normally allow, that most eleven-year-olds would have been cowering in fear rather than standing up to an adult villain, but Harry brushed it off as something anyone could have done if put to it.

When Harry got to the part about Voldemort (she might as well say his name, she didn’t share the wizarding world’s trauma about it and he was clearly going to be a figure of great import going forward) and how his head had appeared on the back of this Quirrell person’s head, Dudley’s grip on his mother’s hand became so painfully vise-like that she nearly whimpered. He was reacting in anger, not fear, and she couldn’t find a reason to tell him he was wrong: clearly her trust in Dumbledore and the rest of the adults at Hogwarts to keep Harry safe was misplaced, even though everything had turned out alright in the end. The fact that all this had happened without anyone - not even Minerva, who was a friend - saying a word to her spoke volumes about how Muggle parents of wizard children were valued in the wizarding world. 

As Harry revealed more and more, Petunia’s mind whirled in panic and she forced herself to breathe evenly as Dudley took over questioning Harry on the finer details of his experiences. She had to do something, but she wasn’t sure what. She knew she wouldn’t be allowed to take Harry out of school, nor was she even sure that would be a good idea. Dumbledore had told her long ago that dark forces would come for her son regardless of where he was and she could neither protect him nor teach him to protect himself with magic like he would clearly need to. However, she could no longer sit idly by and allow Harry to go off into the wizarding world while she waited at home wondering if he was wandering around the school grounds dodging dark wizards and courting magical disasters. If nothing else, Dudley would not stand for it: she wouldn’t put it past him to try and make it to Hogwarts on his own, no matter how absurdly impossible the effort might be.

She kept worrying the problem in her mind as she listened to Harry tell Dudley about how he’d gotten the Stone from the mirror before Quirrell had attacked him at Voldemort’s behest. The horrid unicorn-blood-fueled amalgam had been rebuffed and burned by what Dumbledore had explained was an extension of the protective magic that had been conferred on Harry by Lily with her sacrifice. Voldemort’s…essence?...had escaped and disappeared, while Quirrell had died. Thankfully Harry had missed most of that when he passed out, but it had to have been a seriously traumatic sight to see the man’s hands and face crumble to dust at Harry’s touch. Were there such things as wizarding therapists? Petunia made a mental note to find out.

Gryffindor had ended up winning the House Cup at the end of it all, based on some suspiciously-timed points given to the three young heroes that was capped by a very suspiciously-specific final amount awarded to a normally timid boy who’d gotten himself involved based on a misunderstanding. Suspicious to her, anyway; Harry didn’t seem to question it in his happiness and Dudley pumped his fists in excitement. She had to admit, Dumbledore had a flair for the dramatic, but the winning of an ultimately meaningless school trophy rated only a perfunctory smile from Petunia as she finally lit on an idea that would at least get her closer to the action. 

“Harry,” she said in what she hoped was a calm tone of voice, “Dudley and I have missed you terribly this year. What would you think of us staying closer to the school next term?”

Dudley’s head swung towards her wearing a fierce, knowing smile, and Harry’s face lit up. “That’d be great! There’s a village right nearby, Hogsmeade, and…”

They spent the next little while talking about how that might go. Petunia didn’t have the means to buy another house herself, but she knew that the Potters had left Harry a veritable fortune in their account at Gringott’s, the wizarding bank that was apparently run by goblins. She had specifically avoided the topic since it had come up when Harry was buying his school things in Diagon Alley before his first year began - they had all that they needed, and she never wanted him to feel like his fortune was a subject Petunia was interested in. However, she was confident that if she could ask Lily and James directly, they would be all for what she was planning to do.

When the boys went to bed, Petunia went to her side window and opened it just far enough to tuck the end of one of the curtains through the gap and then closed it again. Twenty minutes later there was a faint knock on the door that Petunia only heard because she’d been waiting for it. She opened the door to reveal the wizened but smiling face of Arabella Figg. After the divorce, Dumbledore had instructed Minerva to reveal to Petunia the fact that Arabella, a half-magical Squib, had been placed next door to Number Four as an early-warning system in case something truly bad happened and wizarding assistance was needed immediately. 

“Petunia,” the elder woman said warmly, and hobbled inside. Petunia shut the door and only then did the two embrace as friends. They didn’t have much regular contact, to keep up appearances, but other than Molly the Squib was Petunia’s only consistent connection to the wizarding world and she had come to rely on the older woman over the years. 

“Evening, Bella. I need you to send an owl to Minerva for me.”

Mrs. Figg peered up at Petunia through her thick glasses. “It’s not time for a check-in, and the boy just came back from school. Mind telling me why?”

Petunia hesitated. “Did you hear about what happened at the end of the school year, with the Sorcerer’s Stone?” Arabella shook her head, her eyebrows climbing to her hairline at the words ‘Sorcerer’s Stone,’ and Petunia gave her a brief synopsis of what Harry had told them. The older woman made amazed noises at the appropriate intervals, and shook her head in disbelief several times, which made Petunia feel more confident in her own thoughts on the matter. When she was finished, Arabella closed her eyes briefly and then leaned forward. “So, what are you going to do? They won’t let you take him out of school.”

Petunia shook her head. “I wouldn’t even want to. I thought about it, I’ll admit, but he needs to learn to use magic if he’s to protect himself. But I can’t just sit here in Little Whinging for another year and worry that Harry’s in danger, and that’s not to mention poor Dudley. He got into three fights this year after Christmas because he was so upset about Harry’s safety, and all this will have only made it worse.”

Arabella leaned back on the couch, nodding, and crossed her arms, motioning for Petunia to continue. Emboldened, Petunia forged on. “I want to move Dudley and I to Hogsmeade next term. We can buy or rent a space with some of the money from Harry’s account,” at which point Arabella interrupted, “Would have to be in his name, legally-speaking, but go on.”

Petunia nodded and scribbled in the little notebook where she’d been writing down the details of her plan. “I know the students only start visiting Hogsmeade in third year, but I’m hoping we can work something out for Harry because of the circumstances. We’re his family, Bella,” she said, somewhat plaintively even to her own ears. “If he’s to be in danger, we have to be there for him.”

Chapter Text

Getting the process started to purchase a house in Hogsmeade was quite difficult at first, mostly because Arabella’s letters kept mysteriously disappearing before they arrived at their destination. There was no mail coming into the Evanses’ house, either - not even normal Muggle mail, which was extremely odd. Fortunately, Molly popped by with Ron a couple of weeks into the summer to make sure they were alright. She loved Petunia’s idea and once she got involved, things proceeded with relative ease, though it took most of the holiday for the business portion to run its course. 

In the meantime, the Evanses fell into their normal summer routine. Petunia signed the boys up for a summer football program (Harry’s skills had atrophied somewhat and he said it felt strange to run around after spending the year flying on a broom playing Quidditch) and they both continued boxing. The students and instructors at their gym were all happy to have Harry back for the summer. Harry was especially sought-after as a sparring partner for newer and younger students: he knew just how hard to push and managed to make learning to punch each other fun. Having been the smallest and weakest once himself, he was adept at helping other children in the same situation without making them feel like he was just indulging them. Petunia had seen it for herself - it looked just like when Dudley would spar with Harry when they were just starting out and Harry was struggling to catch on.

There were, however, a few modifications to the boys’ typical menu of neighborhood adventuring, sports, television, and trips to the local library; for the first time their interests were forced to diverge somewhat. Harry couldn’t do magic at home without adult wizarding supervision she couldn’t provide, but he could at least study the spells, which both Petunia and Dudley encouraged him to do. It didn’t take much: Harry had been looking forward to learning magic since Petunia had told him about it on his seventh birthday, not only for the obvious reasons but because it made him feel closer to his parents.

In an effort to find some way to include his family in his magical education, Harry had taken to reading aloud to his family after dinner each night from A History of Magic; even though he would try to imitate Professor Binns’ droning voice, neither boy could understand quite why the other students found the subject boring. For Harry and Dudley it was like being asked to take a class on Lord of the Rings, which by this point Petunia believed they could recite from memory. Petunia could have cared less about the fantasy genre in general (her idea of reading for enjoyment still consisted of celebrity gossip by the magazine-full, if a bit guiltily so these days). Still, she enjoyed listening to Harry gruffly declaim to an enraptured Dudley on the finer points of things like the ancient goblin wars or the wizarding world’s struggle against Voldemort-precursor Gellert Grindelwald. It was one of the things Harry had in common with Hermione Granger, and the two of them often frustrated Ron by actually talking about the subject outside of what was mandated by the requirements of the class.

To fill the hours he was no longer spending with his brother, Dudley asked his mother to sign him up for mixed martial arts training, where he continued to demonstrate a natural aptitude for physical violence. Petunia knew that this was not an idle interest for him: he was determined to protect Harry with all of his considerable might; all she could do was make sure he had the tools to do so as successfully and safely as possible. She died a bit inside when he came home (often) with bruises and cuts, but there was a good deal of pride, too, which is what she tried to show him. As the next school year drew closer, Dudley had grown another two inches and traded more of his baby fat for working muscle. At twelve he was nearly the size of a grown man. Harry had stretched out a bit as well, but no matter how much she plied him with food he remained lean even as he grew taller. 

The two had decided to celebrate their twelfth birthdays during their first summer visit to the Burrow, so that Hermione could be part of things too. The girl had been overjoyed to be included, and decided that she would celebrate her birthday as well, which of course made Ron want to join in even though his birthday was months away from any of his friends. Molly and Petunia (mostly Molly, Petunia would happily admit) were happy to oblige and threw together an impromptu party. None of the children seemed to care about the lack of presents that resulted from their last-minute request. 

The only real low point of the summer was the fact that after their shared birthday celebration, Harry hadn't heard from Hermione again even though he sent several letters himself. He worried he’d done something to upset her, but Petunia consoled him that her parents might have taken her on a lengthy foreign vacation, or perhaps the letter issue was affecting her as well. Eventually he stopped writing, somewhat reluctantly, as preparations for their relocation became a larger part of their lives.

Finally, it was time to pack up and make the trip to Hogsmeade. There had been some general token resistance to a Muggle family moving into what had been an all-wizard village, but as there weren’t any actual laws against it Harry’s fame (and fortune) was enough to get the job done. Dumbledore was conspicuously absent from the proceedings, but with Arthur, Molly, and Minerva leading the charge it didn’t seem like anyone wanted to put up much of a fuss. As it concerned the famous Boy Who Lived, it did rate an article in the Daily Prophet, which no one was happy about. It had technically been public knowledge where Harry lived since his arrival at Hogwarts the year before, but no one had taken much notice until the rumors of his role in the events surrounding the Sorcerer’s Stone had begun to circulate, breathing new life into his legend. Afterwards, Arthur had to repeatedly tell off a reporter who wanted to interview the family (Petunia could never remember her name and settled on thinking of her as ‘that gnat’), but that seemed to be the end of it.

The house the three Evanses settled on (not that there were many options) was on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, on the far side from where the third-through-seventh-year Hogwarts students entered when they descended upon the town several times each school year. It was only a small two-story on the outside, but as Petunia learned was fairly normal for wizarding buildings it was enchanted to be larger on the inside. It had been unoccupied for a long time and was purported to be haunted by the previous occupants (not that ghosts were a deal-breaker, from what Harry had told them about Sir Nicholas). 

Molly Weasley descended upon their new home like the opposite of a tornado - just as much force, but directed at setting things to rights instead of scattering them about. She put the children to work as well (including the twins, who were surprisingly helpful when they wanted to be) and within a day the house had been bent to the Weasley matriarch's formidable will. Arthur showed up after the end of his day at the Ministry, and everyone was distracted for an hour or so marveling at the flying car he'd been lent for his job (Petunia wasn't sure why a Ford Anglia had been chosen to receive such an amazing ability rather than, say, a Jaguar or a Rolls Royce, but she kept that to herself). 

Finally, Molly put her foot down and the work on the house was finished. She directed Arthur towards an old dresser in the master bedroom, which began to produce some sort of black smoke when opened. Petunia watched with no small amount of curiosity as Arthur took out his wand and proceeded to call the smoke ‘ridiculous’ in a firm voice, at which point the smoke swirled about and finally dissipated. She asked what that had been all about and Molly said it was something called a boggart, and not to worry since they were relatively harmless and tended to set up residence only in unoccupied spaces. Such was the strained look on Molly's face that Petunia let the matter rest. 

She let Harry and Dudley have the comically capacious master bedroom, where they promptly installed a lavish set of enchanted bunk beds they had gotten during the shopping spree in Diagon Alley the Evanses had indulged in to furnish their new dwelling. The boys had the run of the second floor, on the promise that they would keep it clean, and she took a bedroom on the far end of the first floor to be as far from their regular early-morning ruckus as possible while also avoiding the bother of walking up and down stairs. She wasn’t getting any younger and had spent the last years of her prime chasing after two rambunctious children, so it paid to be judicious.

Petunia intended to return to Privet Drive for the summer- Harry and Dudley would want to see their friends in the neighborhood and surrounds, if nothing else - but it was strange to think that the place where they’d grown up and spent so many years would now be more like their summer home than a main residence - they might go back for a while during the Christmas holidays, too, but not for long, and they’d probably spend as much time at the Burrow across the year as they did in Little Whinging. She’d checked with Dumbledore (as always, through Minerva) and it seemed the protection that had been laid on Harry didn’t care for the address, or who owned the property. Harry technically owned their Hogsmeade home, and since he was a minor it was held in trust by Hogwarts for him - not by Petunia, Merlin forbid. It only cared about the choice for Harry’s blood relations to take him in. Since that hadn’t changed, and would not, they were in the clear.

-

After the majority of the job was done and the Weasleys left, Petunia and the boys went to bed. Despite all the excitement both of them were quickly asleep, likely due to all of the exercise and the lateness of the hour, but Petunia found herself still awake for a depressingly long time. She lay in her bed with her eyes open, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the faint, unfamiliar sounds of a new house in a new town. The night stretched on in seemingly  endless fashion, though she knew it hadn’t quite been an hour. The small creaks as the house shifted in the wind outside carried a little too sharply though the mostly empty rooms. The sound of the pipes in the walls were not in the rhythm and tone she was used to, firmly assigned in her subconscious as stemming from harmless causes. 

Even the silences felt heavy and watchful, pressing against her ears. In the dark, the house did not yet belong to her, and her pulse quickened at each unfamiliar stirring. She knew it was only temporary, that they would soon become as familiar with their Hogsmeade demesnes as they were with Privet Drive, but…for almost a decade and a half she had lived in the same place, and now she was committed to spend most of the year here, at least until Harry graduated. And where then? A small voice asked. When the children are gone, what will be left for you? Alone, at Number Four?

It had been a busy but enjoyable day, filled with the chattering of excited children, the support of good friends, and fulfilling work that had left her physically tired in the best ways. All the while though, the specter of doom had been hanging over her head, only just hidden behind the cloud of positive emotions that had surrounded this joint Weasley-Evans venture. It was the reason they had come: this wasn’t a pleasure cruise, it was a desperate attempt by her and Dudley to be at least close enough to Hogwarts that they could know what was happening with Harry with increased regularity. There was no guarantee they would even be able to do anything but wait for news, even here, close enough to see the castle.

As she often did at the behest of her therapist, Petunia went through the list of what she knew and didn’t know along with what she could and could not control. If she focused on what she did know and could control, while acknowledging what she couldn’t, it made the constricting feeling around her head and chest lessen just a bit, though it never went away. She’d spoken to Doctor Singh about it, but found it nigh impossible to have a useful session when she couldn’t tell the woman what it was she was anxious about.

As a single mother of two there were plenty of plausible explanations for generalized anxiety, but using them had resulted in a gentle, well-meaning offer to refer her to a psychiatrist to begin trying various types of medications. This Petunia could not do, for her anxieties were not based on overprotective, nebulous concerns about the general welfare of her children that her mind was having trouble dealing with in a healthy way, or even some clinical deficiency or disorder. They were drawn directly from the reality that an actual dark wizard was trying to find a way to murder her son and conquer the magical world where all of her friends lived. She didn’t want to stop worrying about that, nor did she want to take sleep aids that would leave her mind dull in the event of a potential crisis. So, she focused on her breathing and the facts as she knew them, her threats and her resources, whispering them under her breath so they would feel more real.

Just as she’d finally managed to calm her mind and begin to drift into a slow spiral that held the sleep she’d been searching for, she was startled awake by a knock on her door. It sent her leaping out of bed and wrenching open the door, heart pounding and throat tight. Standing shadowed in faint moonlight from a nearby window out in the corridor was a bulky form nearly as tall as she was and a shorter, skinnier one behind him - the boys, of course. She smiled tiredly and said “Couldn’t sleep either?” but then her attention was caught by the small, very curious-looking creature Dudley was holding by the scruff of its neck in one hand as it hung limply and quietly sobbed. 

Quite at a loss for words, Petunia glanced at Harry, their wizarding encyclopedia, who unfortunately looked nearly as confused as she was. “Honestly Mum, I have no idea. It was just in our room all of a sudden when Dudley was in the bathroom, no idea where it came from…er, he. I thought he was a really big doxy until he started talking instead of trying to bite me. Told me I can't go to school this year, said something about history repeating itself. I guess he was the reason our mail got so wonky last month, he was trying to make me not want to go back. I was trying to find out more when he said something bad about the family he works for and started beating himself with my lamp as some kind of self-punishment. Then Dudley came in and grabbed him. Now he's just crying a lot.”

Petunia blinked sleep out of her eyes and struggled to put aside the totality of this new strangeness in favor of focusing on what was most important. What was this creature? No, that didn’t necessarily matter. Was it a threat? Dudley clearly had it in hand, and it seemed a frail thing, but in the wizarding world one could not rely on what should make sense. Where did it…he…come from? What did he want? Yes, these were the places to start. 

Thus decided, she motioned the boys into the room and sat down on the bed. “Harry, could you put the kettle on? The decaf, dear, thank you.” Harry raced off, and she shook her head slightly when Dudley looked a question at her. She wasn’t trying to shield Harry from anything - not yet, at any rate - but in her experience a hot cup of tea all around really did set things off on the right foot. She looked at the creature, who had lapsed into quiet, wordless sobbing. “Can you understand me?” she asked, and the little fellow turned bright, shiny wet eyes far too big for his tiny head toward her and nodded. “If Dudley lets you go, would you agree to sit down on the bed here and chat with me for a bit? I promise, we won’t hurt you.” She spoke as gently as she could, but even though the creature was already in tears she did not expect the waterworks that followed her question.

“Sit…sit down? Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a human before, even a Muggle! Truly the things Dobby has heard about Harry Potter must be true, if even his Muggle family is so kind!”

She awkwardly patted the creature and motioned to Dudley to set him down. When that was done, he…Dobby?...sat down so heavily that he landed  on the rumpled comforter in a sprawl, as if his legs no longer worked, and there was a whole fresh round of crying. Petunia hadn’t had this many tears from Harry and Dudley combined even as infants, and she fought hard not to let her growing irritation show. She had just gotten Dobby calmed down when Harry returned, and upon being offered tea by the great Harry Potter himself it took another fifteen minutes before she could start again.

“Alright Dobby, can you tell me why you came here tonight?”

The creature bobbed his head. “Dobby came to tell Harry Potter that he must not go back to school this year! Dobby tried for weeks to keep Harry Potter from wanting to go back but he failed! Dobby had planned to try and keep Harry Potter from the Hogwarts Express but then he learned Harry Potter was already in Hogsmeade!”

Petunia let that part pass since it was not of central importance, but all three filed it away as the reason for the mail issue and she saw Harry brighten a bit, likely at the confirmation that Hermione had not just forgotten or not bothered to answer his letters all summer.

“Thank you for trying to help, Dobby - “ saying thank you was a mistake, as it apparently topped an invite to sit down and even tea as a generator of bawling over Harry’s noble character and lineage, though it was Petunia who said it. Letting a tiny bit of her impatience show, Petunia said “Dobby, we want to take what you’re telling us very seriously, could we focus please?”
“Certainly ma’am.” Dobby visibly took hold of himself. “Dobby is sorry that he cannot say all he knows, but terrible things are being planned to happen at Hogwarts this year that will put Harry Potter in grave danger!"

Moreso than usual? Petunia did not say. “How do you know this, Dobby?”

Dobby hesitated to answer for the first time. His mouth worked silently and then he hung his head, and tears began to leak from his eyes once more. “Dobby cannot say. Dobby is so very sorry, but Dobby promises he is doing all he can - his masters would punish him severely if they knew he was here!”

“Punish you? Why?”

“Dobby is a house-elf. House elves are bound to serve wizards, and when Dobby fails or isn’t good enough or - or if masters are in a bad mood, or bored - Dobby is made to punish himself.” This explained the lamp-beating that Harry had mentioned. “Dobby cannot go very far against his family’s wishes, ma’am, even if he wants to, even if he punishes himself after - Dobby would if it would help Harry Potter and his family!” the poor little elf hastened to assure her. Petunia patted him on the shoulder, and the small gesture threatened to send Dobby into another paroxysm of tears and praise.

“Who are your masters?” Petunia asked after the elf had calmed, then waved her hand as Dobby teared up again and began to apologize. “Ah, of course - you can’t say that either, can you? Are your masters the ones who are responsible for these plans?” Dobby quivered, and Petunia took that to mean yes. She was warming to her work now, as sleepy confusion left and determination to root out this mystery threat to her child took its place. The Petunia of yesteryear had actually prided herself on her deductive abilities, though they’d been used to ferret out secrets about the private lives of her neighbors and draw spurious conclusions about the sordid doings of celebrities rather than to do anything worthwhile.

All at once, lightning struck. As she pondered who Dobby’s masters might be, the look of vitriol she’d seen on the face of Lucius Malfoy while they waited for Harry’s return at the train station flashed through her mind’s eye. It was worth a try - it was the only evil wizarding name she knew, after all, other than Voldemort. “Dobby…do you work for Lucius Malfoy?”

Dobby froze, and his jaw clenched alongside every other muscle in his body; he became as still as a statue, his eyes frozen mid-blink. Suddenly, he exploded into motion, leaping down from the bed and beginning to slam his head against the floor. Dudley caught him up in his arms before the elf had managed to strike himself more than once or twice, and held Dobby easily as the elf struggled to get back to the business of hurting himself. Petunia was horrified by the cruelty of this enforced self-abuse, but a fierce joy had kindled in her heart.

Now, they were getting somewhere.

Chapter Text

The move to Hogsmeade had delayed the process, but Petunia had not forgotten her certainty that Harry would need help with what had happened at the end of the school year in order to truly process it, help she could not credibly provide. She feared that if left too long he would repress it, as people tended to do with traumatic events they were not really equipped to handle but were forced into anyway, and the healing process would take far longer. Her own journey towards mental health in the wake of Lily’s death was still ongoing, but she remembered how difficult it had been in the beginning stages. She often wished she’d begun sooner, when she was young and before the darkness had a chance to twist its dreadful roots into her soul.

As it turned out, there was such a thing as a wizarding therapist, but they were not very common, especially not one that fit Harry’s particular needs. Finally, an owl directly from Dumbledore himself arrived, setting a date, time, and address for their first appointment. There was no preamble and no discussion, simply the data, which irritated Petunia but did not surprise her. It wasn’t that important; the goal was Harry’s mental health, and they were still moving in the right direction for that. Dumbledore’s recommendation meant a great deal, and Minerva had assured her that the old wizard had taken her request very seriously. He had apparently given lengthy consideration to not only what kind of person Harry might benefit from the most, but who they could all trust to keep Harry’s confidence. Petunia was surprised that such a thing was of concern for therapists, but wizarding law did not cover such things as doctor-patient privilege so discretion was in the eye of the information holder. 

Harry himself was hesitant about the whole thing, but after everything he had endured Petunia knew she couldn’t just leave it unaddressed. Minerva had delivered a teleportation device known as a portkey several days beforehand, and when they touched it together at the appointed time it took them to one of the out-of-the-way, Muggle-repelling locations scattered about the world where witches and wizards could travel to and from without fear of breaking the Statue of Secrecy. They arrived in an abandoned bus station on the outskirts of Inverness; from there it was only a short walk to the address, which corresponded to an otherwise normal-looking Muggle office building. A directory entry in the lobby read Septimus Thistledown, Mind and Heart Specialist, Suite 42. 

Harry and Petunia rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and arrived outside of the indicated office five minutes before the scheduled time. They travelled mostly in silence, Harry too nervous to talk and Petunia not wanting to push him. Petunia knocked, and an old woman who might have been Minerva’s elderly relative answered the door and invited them into the waiting room. She introduced herself as “Caity MacRiocaird” in a thick accent, and as they were the only other people there she set about cheerily regaling them with the doings of her many grandchildren. Petunia was grateful for the distraction for the few minutes it took for Healer Thistledown to appear at the door to his office and usher them in with a smile.

Septimus was tall and slightly stooped, with thinning grey hair swept neatly back, warm hazel eyes, and laugh lines etched deep into his face. Inside, the healer’s office smelled faintly of lavender and woodsmoke. A hearth flickered with green-blue flames, and a set of shelves bowed under books with titles like Healing the Unseen Wound and When Traditional Magic Fails. On the mantle above sat what appeared to be a medical accreditation from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, sharing pride of place with a diploma in psychology from the University of Edinburgh and a large framed picture of a warm, round-faced witch with kind eyes and a gentle smile. 

Her hair was gathered in soft braids beneath a wimple-like head covering, and she wore robes of deep amber and soft brown, embroidered with a huge golden badger on the upper left side of her chest. She was sitting down on a high-backed chair with the hairy bulk of the largest cat Petunia had ever seen sitting in her lap. The beast, easily as long as Petunia’s arm with an abundance of smooth smoke-gray fur, was lying curled on its side, one leg poking up into the air, apparently fast asleep. 

It was a wizarding photograph, which meant that as they entered the room the woman in the picture raised a hand and waved at them in a merry greeting. Harry waved back, and gently elbowed Petunia, who was staring, to do the same. Before Petunia looked away, she saw one of the cat’s eyelids flicker open and was transfixed by a single silvery eye. It closed again, so quickly Petunia nearly thought she’d imagined it, and there was no other evidence that the cat was aware of their presence at all.

“Mr. Potter, Ms. Evans,” said Septimus, recapturing her attention as he sat down behind his desk. He motioned them towards a cushioned settee instead of the chairs in front of his desk. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Why don’t you sit together?” Harry and Petunia returned his greeting and sat down. Harry looked away from the healer, eyes roving the floor and around the room, then to the window showing the street below. Petunia smoothed his hair, which was unruly as ever, and then rested her hand on his.

“Harry,” Thistledown began, “I want to get something out of the way right now, at the beginning of our time together. While I am aware of who you are in the wider world and personally very grateful for your parents’ sacrifice and all that has come from it, that is not my focus here, nor will we spend any time on your notoriety until and unless it is something you wish to discuss in the context of your overall mental well-being. I know you have had difficulty with well-wishers and your own celebrity, but you need not worry about that with me. Does that make sense?”

Harry looked up and smiled a bit. “Yes, thank you sir. It was…on my mind.”

The healer nodded. “Naturally. Another…point of order, shall we say: I appreciate that you’ve been taught to show respect to adults and authority figures, but in this room, if it is acceptable to you, we will dispense with that. There will be no need to call me ‘sir’ or show me a child’s deference - we are here for you to express yourself openly, and I encourage you to do so as much as you feel comfortable with. This includes speaking with me privately, should you ever wish to do so now or in future sessions.” He did not look at Petunia for her agreement as he said this; it simply was.

Harry, for his part, certainly did glance up at Petunia for her reaction, and she very specifically smiled and nodded encouragingly. “Professor Dumbledore recommended Healer Thistledown, Harry. We’ll place our trust in his methods. I’m only here to help you feel at ease; if you ever want to speak privately, say the word and I’ll wait outside.”

Septimus inclined his head. “Thank you, Ms. Evans. This brings up another important bit of business: though I hold Albus Dumbledore in the highest esteem and consider him a friend, Harry, you are my patient now and thus my highest duty is to you. Nothing that you say to me, nor I to you, will pass my lips without your express permission unless there is a clear and imminent threat to your life that such information would directly serve to combat. I hold to the same standard of confidentiality that you will likely be familiar with from the Muggle healthcare and legal system. If you wish, I am prepared to make an Unbreakable Vow to that effect.” He waited for Harry’s response with a pleasant smile. 

“Uh…that’s probably ok, s…Septimus. I trust you.”

Septimus smiled. “You don’t, not yet, and that’s alright, but I appreciate the vote of confidence anyway. I hope to earn your trust over the course of our association.” He waited to see if Harry had a rejoinder, then continued. “Lastly - but not least, never that - I will introduce you to Pax…or rather, I’m sure he will introduce himself.” 

At that, Petunia and Harry both looked around the room, but there wasn’t another living creature in sight. Petunia looked back at the mantle, and was startled to notice that the cat in the picture was now nowhere to be seen. The seated witch caught her eye and winked. She looked back at Septimus, who shook his head. “Pax is a Mooncat, a rare and highly magical creature, particularly long-lived. They were believed in ancient times to be dream guardians and chase away nightmares, but even if they’re not quite the fey marvels of myth they really do have a calming aura about them that can help with therapeutic treatment. I’m sure he’ll show himself again soon, it’s just he likes to impress my new patients with his…” Midsentence, the large creature poofed into view suddenly, hovering above the healer’s head on a cloud of smoke of an even brighter silver than his fur. “...abilities,” finished Septimus with a sigh. “He’s been loosely attached to my family for several generations now, and my calling as a healer seems to have convinced him to spend most of his time here in my office.”

As Petunia and Harry watched incredulously, the cat floated toward Harry like a descending cloud and stepped daintily into the boy’s lap. He turned about a couple of times before plopping himself down and curling into a loose ball of soft fur. Thus comfortable, Pax turned over on his side with half of his stomach presented upwards. He then fixed Harry with huge, liquid kittenish eyes and made a quiet mrrowl, batting gently at Harry’s hand until the boy reached down to begin offering tribute in the form of belly rubs.

“You’re a Hufflepuff then? That’s Helga, isn’t it, the Hogwarts founder?” asked Harry, and when Septimus nodded Harry continued with narrowed eyes, “Are you from one of the old wizarding families then?” Petunia knew what he thought of such people, but that was based almost entirely on his experience with the scions of the most ancient house of Malfoy.

Petunia saw Septimus suppress a wince, and his tone was very even when he responded even though his smile didn’t falter. “In a manner of speaking, yes, though of a very minor branch of the house.” Harry nodded, the noncommittal answer combining with the demands of a furry tyrant to let the matter drop for now. Septimus waited for Pax to have his fill of attention before the great cat settled by all appearances back to sleep on Harry before he spoke again. “Harry, you’ve been through not just one difficult thing, but many of them, and at a very young age. Some are so far in the past that it may be difficult to remember many details, and some are so fresh you likely remember large parts of them quite vividly. I do not intend to dive straight into all of that today - not unless you wish it, or have something you particularly want to address?”

Harry shook his head, and the healer went on. “Talking about hard things usually works best if we are able to build some trust between us first. It’s important to know that therapy is not about fixing you, for you are not broken. It’s about giving you space to put words to what weighs on you, at your pace, so that your mind can process it healthily and it does not begin to unduly affect your life and state of mind in a negative way. Does that make sense?”

Harry glanced at Septimus, then back down at his trainers. He gave a small shrug. “Sort of, I suppose. I’m not really sure what good talking about all of it will do.”

“That’s understandable,” Septimus said gently, as if he had expected to receive that answer. “We’ll begin with talk, of course, but there’s far more to it than that. Once we are able to define your trauma and your feelings about it, I can give you tools to help you deal with it. What matters right now is that you know this is a safe place. I will not judge you for being or having been frightened. Bravery, after all, often means being honest about fear. Nor will I judge any other feelings you might express to me about your experiences: anger, resentment, sadness, perhaps feelings of unworthiness or powerlessness, or even those like jealousy, and pride. The same goes for any mistakes you might have made, think you made, or worry you might make in the future.”

Harry hadn’t reacted when Septimus talked of fear, but as he began to list other feelings Harry’s eyes crept up and a guilty look flashed across his face. Petunia felt him tense up, and when Septimus touched on mistakes he was worried he might make, Harry unconsciously curled in on himself as if trying to disappear. At that moment, Pax mrrowled again and shifted on Harry’s lap. Harry’s hands automatically started to move back and forth once more over Pax’s soft fur and the cat began to purr with a deep, rumbling force Petunia could feel through the settee. Septimus didn’t say anything for a time, and eventually the tension in Harry’s shoulders visibly loosened somewhat. Petunia’s arm shifted behind him, not quite a hug, but near enough that he would feel her reassuring presence too.

Septimus leaned back. “For today, Harry, I’d be very interested to hear whatever you’d like to tell me about your life. For instance, I hear you’re quite the Quidditch player…” Petunia knew as soon as the words came out of the healer’s mouth that the man had found the key to getting Harry talking, at the very least. The rest of the time in the session was filled with stories from Hogwarts, starting at Harry’s fateful first flying lesson and continuing into Quidditch tales, but the healer gently led Harry to talk about other things with a well-timed question or two here and there: friends, enemies, successes, failures, humorous moments and near-misses. Petunia admired the way the healer made it seem all in the natural flow of conversation as he was piecing together the tapestry of his patient’s life. 

Soon, time had elapsed and Pax had been unwillingly dislodged from his new favorite sleeping place. As Septimus walked them to the office’s door and showed them out, he smiled at Harry. “Remember, this isn’t a race. A healthy mind and heart are a lifelong journey. We’re just walking this part of it together. We won’t be able to see each other in person during the school year, very likely, but you’ll be getting an owl from me about once a week. Do try to send one back, but don’t worry about what you say, or how much - just tell me anything you feel like writing down, and we’ll see how it goes.” 

Harry seemed to be alright as they left the office and returned to Hogsmeade via portkey, but just to be safe Petunia took him to get ice cream at Honeyduke’s anyway.

Chapter Text

The initial excitement over meeting Dobby and beginning to plumb the depths of his knowledge had soon worn off. Petunia learned, after several increasingly irritated inquiries through her wizarding contacts, that the guesses of a Muggle based on the ominous predictions and nonverbal reactions of a house-elf (who disappeared soon after his reveal-by-omission, lest his treason be discovered) was no basis for an investigation. This was frustrating in the extreme, especially since Lucius Malfoy had been a Death Eater, known and active during the war. Of course, he’d claimed that he was under the Imperius curse, which compelled his obedience to Voldemort and thus removed responsibility for his actions. Apparently a significant number of Death Eaters had made this claim, and some held positions of power and authority within wizarding society to this day, not to mention great wealth. Only Voldemort’s most fanatical supporters had refused to renounce him and so were sentenced to the wizarding prison, Azkaban.

Petunia thought it all far too convenient, though she couldn’t speak to how likely it was magically. Was there no way to tell that a person had been cursed like that? Minerva had said there wasn’t, but she’d also mentioned a potion called Veritaserum that could force someone to tell the truth. How was it that Death Eaters were not required to testify under its effects? Why was it not used in every case of criminal accusations? Who needed a court when you could just have someone swallow a potion and say “I was not willingly a supporter of Voldemort” and have done?

 Molly and Minerva had come round for tea together the day after they’d received Petunia’s owl telling them about the nocturnal visitor; despite the subject at hand it had been an exceedingly pleasant morning. They had both said that sort of thing just wasn’t done, though Molly had immediately added that it damned well should have been in this case. Everyone in the Order of the Phoenix (a sort of paramilitary resistance organization headed by Dumbledore, a counter to the far more numerous Death Eaters) were certain Malfoy and most of the others were lying. Unfortunately, the Ministry and the greater wizarding world had been so eager to move on from the dark days of the war without further upheaval to their society that it had all been summarily swept under the rug instead of being turned into the wizarding version of the Nuremberg trials. 

It didn’t help that the wizarding population was so much smaller than the Muggle world and many of those under suspicion were part of its well-entrenched upper echelon. Petunia stewed about the whole thing for days, and the only thing that got her mind off of it was when the Weasleys showed up at the new house a few days before the start of the school year for their now-annual joint trip to Diagon Alley. Harry was particularly excited because he’d finally had a letter from Hermione, wherein she asked where he had been all summer and why he hadn’t been answering her letters. The text had gone on for six pages in the girl’s tight, orderly script, mostly filled with things she had found out in her summer reading, and ended by asking if the Evanses might meet the Grangers in Diagon Alley when they took her to get her own school things. Ron had gotten a (shorter) version of the same letter, and plans had been hastily laid. 

On the appointed day, the Weasleys arrived bright and early. The happy chaos the ginger-haired brood brought wherever they went filled the house most pleasingly, though Petunia was a bit concerned when Arthur told her he had brought floo powder and had the house connected to the Ministry floo network to make travel to London more convenient. Apparently, to floo, one tossed a pinch of the powder into a house’s fireplace (she’d wondered why theirs had one, given the air conditioning enchantments Molly had put in place), stepped into the fireplace, and stated a destination audibly. If done correctly, one was flooed to a fireplace in the stated location via flame, somehow. 

No one mentioned what happened if it was done improperly, and Petunia didn’t want to ask for fear of losing her nerve. She thought it was rather cumbersome compared to the apparition spell she’d heard about, which amounted to limited teleportation (something Harry and Dudley both assured her was ‘OP’ in fantasy and science fiction settings). A relic of ages past, no doubt, considered traditional and therefore maintained. It certainly caused the word floo to be said too often in any related conversation for such a ridiculous-sounding word.

As Muggles, she and Dudley could not floo by themselves, but they could be taken by a witch or wizard, so Harry and Ron jointly took Dudley with them while Fred (or George? She was never sure) gallantly offered her his arm and led her into the fireplace. He took a pinch of powder and tossed it into the fire. She was startled by the flames that immediately lit around them even though she’d been told what to expect; one just did not get used to being surrounded by a conflagration based on a single rushed informational session. Still, she felt she’d handled it fairly well, only clutching at her escort’s arm a little tighter than before. Unfortunately, the drifting residue of the powder made her sneeze just as Fred (or George) was saying the name of their destination, the clear enunciation of which was apparently a key part of the whole process. 

To say the trip was disorienting was a large understatement, but after what seemed like hours emerald flames spat Petunia out onto a cold stone floor. So dizzy she nearly retched, Petunia stumbled and nearly fell atop a skeletal hand that was placed on a pedestal next to the fireplace. She steadied herself and hurriedly made sure she was nowhere near anything else in the room. Beside her, Fred (who she was beginning to suspect was actually George) rolled easily to his feet, brushing soot from his sleeves as though tumbling through a fireplace into a strange room were the most natural thing in the world. This was not the publicly-available fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron, where they had been intended to go, but a musty basement filled with a panoply of strange things. 

Sudden fear shot through her and stole her breath. Her heart began to pound and her vision began to dim, but then she looked over at George (or Fred), who had dusted himself off and was surveying the room. He looked back at her with trademark insouciance and said “Wicked!” His cavalier attitude, which had often mildly irritated her in the past, was strangely comforting in this case. She clawed back control of her body and closed her eyes, breathing in rhythm until the fear receded and her heartbeat slowed. Opening them again, she took in the shelves around them: cabinets of sinister trinkets, shadowed glass cases filled with twisted bones and shrunken heads. “This place… feels wrong,” she murmured.

“Like as not we went a little off course when you sneezed and we’re not too far from where we're supposed to be,” said George (or…oh, what did it matter). “In fact…dark, musty old cellar with enough creepy stuff to fill a Muggle Halloween pop-up store…we’re down the basement of Borgin and Burke’s, I’d guess. Magic emporium, on the dodgier side. Shop’s in Knockturn Alley, just off Diagon. Never been here myself, but Dad said they deal in all sorts of bad news. Can’t believe they don’t have their fireplace off the normal Ministry network, or locked down or something. Mum’d have an entire litter of kittens if she knew we were here. George is going to be so jealous!” he chortled.

Petunia gave herself a small silent congratulations for having guessed the correct twin in the first place. Before she could reply, they heard the shop’s door open on the level above. Fred pressed a finger to his lips and they silently approached the stairs, ascending carefully to avoid hitting any creaky spots in the aged wood. They crouched by the basement door in the dark as voices filled the shop. Fred whispered something and flicked his wand; a small panel like the screen of a television swirled into view on the door, through which they could see the shop beyond.

Startlingly for her, Lucius Malfoy stood at the counter across from a stooped, heavyset old man she assumed had to be the proprietor. Draco stood at his side, instantly recognizable from Harry’s description by the white-blonde hair he shared with his father. The elder was coldly elegant, a serpent in fine robes, while his son was clearly attempting to mimic his father’s easy grace in his own gangly way and not quite managing it. Lucius set a bundle down across from the shopkeeper, who cut a dingy figure in comparison. “The usual, Borgin. On consignment.” He somehow managed to speak smoothly while holding his regal sneer. Petunia wondered if, as a child, Lucius had practiced haughty looks in a mirror while other children made mud pies and learned to share.

They watched as the shopkeeper - Borgin - opened the bag and examined its contents; Petunia could not see much of what was inside, but she caught a hint of something glinting metallicly beneath a filmy black cloth. “Of course, sir. Just as you say. Ah…” Borgin hesitated, and then forged on, his clear reluctance putting a quaver in his tone. “The, ah, consignment fee has increased since we spoke last, what with the, ah, current environment. The extra precautions and necessities of avoiding Ministry attention have caused expenses…”

Lucius was able to cut him off with the mere narrowing of his eyes and Borgin stammered into silence. Lucius dropped a green cloth bag on the counter that clinked with the telltale sound of coinage. “Do not trouble me with such trivialities, Borgin, or you may find your little venture here more trouble than it is worth.” Borgin bowed his head and did not argue further. Petunia was stunned by the scenario; here was a man who should be in prison, or at least on the outskirts of respectable society due to his actions in the war, not only able to walk free under the sun but throwing his weight around like a petty king and making open threats with the weight of government behind him. There was no way this was a secret. Other people knew he acted like this, yet they did nothing. For what seemed the thousandth time since Lily’s letter arrived on her eleventh birthday, Petunia desperately wished for a wand. She felt so powerless. 

Her reverie was broken by the sound of Draco’s voice, an overeager version of Lucius’ haughty tone. “Father,” the boy said obnoxiously, “Why are you hiding our things away? It’s not fair. You should just go to the Minister, and - ”

Lucius shut him down immediately. “Silence, Draco. Do not question me.”

Shortly after, the Malfoys swept out in a swirl of dark fabric. She heard Fred exhale heavily, his cheer returning as the tension on his face released into a grin. He looked at Petunia and waggled his eyebrows ridiculously. “Well, Auntie, looks like you’ve just had your first taste of the wizarding underbelly. Not bad for a maiden voyage.”

Petunia gave him a look she’d perfected over years of reining in two headstrong boys and Fred held up his hands in mock surrender, grin never slipping. “Blimey, I think you’d make a fine Gryffindor. You look just like old McGonagall when she thinks I’m being impertinent.” He did a fair impression of Minerva’s pitchy brogue.

Petunia’s heart leapt at the thought of herself belonging to a Hogwarts house - any house, but especially Lily’s Gryffindor. Well, not any house. Not Slytherin. She couldn’t fathom why a house that had produced, as she’d been told, every famous dark wizard in British history, was allowed to continue to lead its students down the path of selfish ambition. Molly had halfheartedly said something about the Founders’ intent when Petunia had brought it up, but in Petunia's mind, the Founders were long gone - it was for future generations to decide the best interests of the living.

Fred peered into the little magical window he’d created and then stepped back as Borgin collected the bags Lucius had left him and disappeared into a side room. “Right,” Fred whispered, “time to scarper before the old lad gets round to finding us loitering in his fine establishment. Come on, Auntie Tuna!”

Petunia hated the nickname the children had given her long ago, when they couldn’t pronounce her full name properly. Now that they could, she knew it was said with love, so she tolerated it. Barely. “Lead the way, Mr. Weasley,” she said in a flat voice that earned her another devilish grin. Fred opened the door into the empty front of the shop and boldly strode out with Petunia on his arm. Not bothering to close the door behind them, they hurried to the front of the shop and were through it and into the dim light of the morning sun that filtered down through the haze that seemed to be covering Knockturn Alley.

It was not a comforting scene. The air outside was thick with smoke and whispers as witches and wizards in tattered cloaks haggled over unknown curios, often glancing around as if to make sure they were unwatched. A witch with yellowed teeth and straggly, dirty-looking hair leered at Petunia. Petunia drew her handbag close as if it was a shield and stuck close to her escort. Fred was at ease beside her, as if he was strolling down a brightly-lit promenade.

“Best trick,” he murmured, “is to act like you belong. Nobody’ll bother you if you look like you’re planning something dodgy yourself.”

Petunia’s eyes darted nervously. “How do I do that, pray tell?”

“I dunno. Walk casual.”

They reached the crooked archway where Knockturn Alley met its more upstanding counterpart. Relief washed over Petunia as sunlight spilled through the brickwork. A minute later her sharp ears caught a familiar chorus of voices: Molly’s anxious scolding, George’s laughter, Ginny’s chatter…Dudley’s voice. Harry. In the lead now, she hurried along towards the sound.

Harry saw her first. “Mum!” he called, streaking her way and wrapping her up. She noticed with a small pang, as she had several times over the summer, that he could nearly look her in the eye and his arms could wrap all the way around her thin frame with more than room to spare. She recalled a boy whose little face, hidden under a mop of black hair she could never quite manage to tame, had attached himself to her leg as she’d carried him around Number Four. Dudley, who had outgrown her long ago, wasn’t far behind, a worried look on his bluff features. She hugged Harry and stretched an arm out to enfold (symbolically, at least) Dudley as well. “No harm done, my loves. Just a bit of an involuntary side trip.” Behind them, she saw, was Hermione, looking like she’d taken a bit of extra care with her appearance for this outing. 

“Hello, Ms. Evans,” said the girl brightly, stopping just short of the family embrace. Ron wasn’t far behind. “‘Ello Auntie. You alright? Fred get one over on you?” the youngest Weasley boy said knowingly. Petunia laughed and shook her head. “No, we’re all right Ron. And Hermione, dear, hello! Harry missed you this summer, we all did. You must drop that silly ‘Ms. Evans’ though - I’m not even sure who that is anymore, I’m just ‘Auntie’ or ‘Mum’ these days.”

Petunia didn’t miss the way Hermione’s cheeks reddened when Petunia said that Harry had missed her, exactly as the wily older woman had intended. So there was something there!

“Fred!” Molly’s voice came into focus as she began to upbraid her son. “Where have you been?” She enunciated sharply at volume, her words threatening like a drawn sword. Fred raised both hands innocently. 

“Took a scenic route, Mum. Thought I’d give Auntie a little tour of wizarding London.”

Petunia cut in before Molly could launch into a signature tirade. Her voice was composed, but her heart was still pounding from what she’d seen. “Your son was nothing but gallant, Molly. We’ve other things to discuss, but later.” Molly hesitated, but then her expression softened into curiosity, though she said nothing more about it. Fred winked at Petunia and looped an arm around his mother’s shoulders, steering her toward Flourish and Blotts. The rest of the group followed suit and made their way toward where Arthur was waving at them from the entrance to the crowded bookstore. His head was just visible above a huge sign that proclaimed Gilderoy Lockhart’s ‘Magical Me’ Book Signing Today! with a picture of a smiling, foppishly-dressed blonde man who was moving between several exaggeratedly carefree poses.

Chapter Text

Petunia lay restlessly on the couch in the Hogsmeade house and struggled to pay attention to the magazine she was reading to unwind from the events of the day. It wasn’t because of the loud sounds of the three boys playing upstairs (Ron had been allowed to stay with the Evanses until the beginning of the term in a few days), but rather because she couldn’t shake the feeling of trepidation that was haunting her like the ghost of the previous owner of the house that they’d finally drawn out of hiding a week previously. Willemina Frank was a perfectly pleasant woman, but she was quite shy even for a ghost so she tended to follow people around invisibly, which was what had unnerved previous potential residents and the occasional passerby. Having already decided to purchase the place, and well-versed in ghosts from his time at Hogwarts, Harry had been the one to finally get her to reveal herself. After that, she stayed mostly out of their way, though she enjoyed a late night chat now and then. That suited Petunia, who often found it difficult to fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning, just fine. It had been a very strange encounter for her, as Muggles didn’t naturally perceive ghosts like wizards did, but fortunately Arthur had been able to put some sort of charm on Willemina that brought her into focus for Petunia and allowed them to talk freely.

The day, which had started off in such a terrifying but revelatory manner, had only continued to get more stressful. That Gilderoy Lockhart, whatever his magical qualifications may have been, was a puffed-up, self-important dandy who had immediately recognized Harry and used the poor boy’s reluctant fame for his own benefit, saying that together they would make the front page of the Daily Prophet. He reminded her of one of Vernon’s distant relations that she’d been unfortunate enough to see more than once at family gatherings. Bertram was a town councilman, and so pompously overblown about it that even in the darker times of her soul, Petunia couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him for more than a few minutes. Harry had been so embarrassed; Petunia had put the kibosh on the whole thing rather quickly, but not until a few pictures had already been taken and Harry had been loaded down with the cad’s collected works. All for show, of course; she would be surprised if Lockhart had an altruistic bone in his whole body. She saw through him immediately, having seen his like by the dozen in her years-long addiction to Muggle tabloids and gossip shows. 

Here in the wizarding world, however, it seemed that Lockhart was almost one-of-a-kind, and people were not as wise to his disingenuous ways. To make matters worse, Lockhart had announced, to general acclaim from everyone but the Evanses and, comfortingly, Arthur, that he would be taking over as Defense Against the Darts Arts teacher at Hogwarts for the upcoming school year. Based on the number of books dedicated to his deeds, the man was certainly capable enough, but Petunia had no idea why Dumbledore would choose such an obviously terrible person as a teacher of young children. Then again…Slytherin House persisted.

Petunia had been floored when Molly herself - solid, stable Molly Weasley - looked at her in disapproval when Petunia pulled Harry away from the signing table and made an unkind comment about Lockhart under her breath. Molly was well and truly taken in by the man, with his fancy clothes, his practiced smile, and his too-white teeth. Fortunately, her rift with Molly had been short-lived and quickly forgotten. It was not because of their long friendship, but because the next person they ran into was someone upon whom they could readily agree: Lucius Malfoy. 

Petunia had seen him from a distance at King’s Cross, giving her that cutting, judgemental glare, and then closer up at Borgin and Burke’s, looking down his nose, making threats, and clearly up to no good. Now she’d gotten a taste of him up close and personal, Draco tagging at his heels like some sort of feral duckling, and it was no better. Despite his perfectly coiffed hair, expensive clothes, and chiselled jaw, he was as cold and inhuman as the emerald-eyed golden snake pins on his collar. He’d casually but pointedly insulted everyone present, singly and as a group, and gone so far as to snatch one of Ginny’s school books and deride it as ‘tatty’ before tossing it back in contempt. Normally mild-mannered Arthur hadn’t backed down an inch, and the confrontation nearly came to violence before Hagrid wandered into the scene, seemingly oblivious but enormously in the way. Lucius had finally settled for one last condescending sneer and walked away.

Still trying to imitate his father (and perhaps convince himself of his own importance, as sadly too many young people often were), Draco had stepped in and started to say (or spit, really) something to Harry. Petunia was not a believer in violence or even the threat of it as a solution to everyday problems, but she had to admit that the look on Draco’s face when Dudley had quietly interposed himself between the Malfoy boy and Harry was quite satisfying. Dudley could pop his knuckles just by squeezing his hands tightly, which wasn’t an indicator of anything other than built up fluid in one’s joints, but the sounds (and likely the size of the fists and the stature of the boy that made them) had such an effect on Draco that he turned tail and hurried to catch up to his father’s coattails without another word. 

Ron and Harry had been afire with the encounter afterwards, and though Hermione and Ginny had both rolled their eyes at the boys’ enthusiasm, Petunia could tell that they were gratified by it as well. Ron openly mourned the fact that they would be back at Hogwarts without Dudley when next they ran into Draco with Crabbe and Goyle at his back. “I bet Dud could take the lot,” Ron had boasted loyally, but Dudley had only smiled and said nothing, content to let his friend and his brother wax increasingly hyperbolic about what Dudley might do to the two young thugs and their petty tyrant. Toward the end of the conversation, one would have thought they were talking about Hercules himself and not a larger-than-average twelve-year-old.

The day had blurred along after that: lunch with the Grangers, which the adults allowed to go on longer than planned for the children’s sake, and then a series of abbreviated forays about the stores to finish school shopping before everything closed down. Once again, Harry had engaged the Weasleys about contributing funds to the effort of outfitting Ginny, and once again Molly had tried to demure. This time though, Arthur had a private chat with his wife and in the end they had relented a bit more. On top of a new wand, Ginny had gotten new robes, a new set of dragonhide gloves for Herbology and Potions, and a few other small things, though Molly had put her foot down about buying new books, likely out of stubbornness after Lucius’ earlier insult. 

Ginny had been over the moon to be allowed new things, as most of her clothes were very old hand-me-downs from her mother. She squealed with delight over each purchase, no matter how small, which pleased Harry to no end. Her gratitude toward him knew no bounds, and temporarily overcame the shyness she’d exhibited around him for the last few years; Harry was the recipient of several violent hugs. Her wand, a long piece of yew with a dragon heartstring core, fit her nature perfectly: fierce and strong, with a personality much larger than her size.

Ron had asked to stay with the Evanses instead of going home, since he already had his trunk packed. Molly hastily negotiated with Petunia for Ginny to go too; with the twins and Percy planning to be off with friends for a few days, Molly and Arthur would have the Burrow to themselves, which was a rare occurrence. As they departed via the Leaky Cauldron’s fireplace, Petunia heard Arthur saying he might take a few days off from the Ministry and Molly was giggling like a schoolgirl. Petunia wondered if there wouldn’t be a new red-haired child making their debut by the following summer.

The youngest Weasley was passed out on the couch across from Petunia, her head leaning forward and resting gently on The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. She was so eager to begin her magical education and join her older brothers (and Harry) in the ranks of spellcasters that she’d thrown herself into the expansive text as soon as she’d gotten home, but not before casting a wistful glance at the three boys as they galloped up the stairs to begin whatever chaotic nonsense seemed best to them at the time. Her gaze lingered longest on Harry, of course. Petunia had encouraged her to join them, but she’d straightened her shoulders and told Petunia with determination that she wanted to be ready when the term started. 

Petunia rose and gathered one of the many blankets strewn about and a couple of small pillows and covered the girl. She tucked the pillows around Ginny’s head so she wouldn’t wake with a sore neck. Petunia sat back down and smiled as Ginny unconsciously snuggled herself into the provided warmth and comfort, slipping a little deeper into sleep and beginning to snore very quietly. 

Tomorrow there would be time to worry, to fret over the skulduggery of the Malfoy clan, the potential plots of a lurking Voldemort, and the inevitable catastrophes that would be associated with Harry spending another year in a place where he and hundreds of other children could learn to fly, brew poison, and turn each other into snails. Tonight she would allow herself to settle into the couch cushions while the pleasant noise of happy children and the faint din of soft rain on the roof filled her with a sense of safety and peace.

-

A little over two weeks after the term had begun, Harry was able to come back for his first visit. He was uncomfortably aware that he was being given special treatment, since students were not normally able to visit Hogsmeade until third year and then only on certain infrequent days. Dumbledore (through Minerva) had agreed that in Harry’s case, given all that had befallen him and all that yet might, it was worth the exception to let him loose for a few hours periodically to give his family some extra peace of mind. He wasn’t allowed to go anywhere outside the house; Minerva had brought him herself and would bring him back to his dorm in a few hours. Petunia knew it was yet another thing that weighed on Harry, as he had already had his unwanted fame undeniably shoved in his and everyone else’s face by the Lockhart incident. She felt bad, but not enough to give up the opportunity to make sure with her own eyes that Harry was whole and unharmed every so often.

On this occasion, Harry didn’t have too much of a great significance to tell them: there was no new villain or quest in his life. He was mostly full of complaints about his new Defense teacher. “Honestly Mum, it’s even worse than you’d think. For our first class, he just opened a cage full of Cornish pixies and told us to deal with them! No instruction at all! Then they stole his wand, so he hid in his office while they chased us around. The lesson was supposed to be us getting them back in the cage, I guess, but everyone else ran off, except poor Neville - he got caught and hung from the chandelier! If not for Hermione we'd have been completely mucked up.”

“So, business as usual then?”

Harry directed a long-suffering look at Dudley, who grinned cheerfully back at him over his second helping of waffles. “It’s not that bad, Dud.”

“Right,” said Dudley, his dry tone implying the exact opposite.

Petunia very carefully did not smile. The frequency with which Harry described a difficult event in his and Ron’s lives and then followed it by saying “But then Hermione fixed it, of course,” or some variant thereof was only increasing as their schoolwork became more difficult and demanding in their second year. The girl was simply brilliant, and an almost unbelievably diligent worker on top of it, which was a nigh unbeatable combination. The saying went that hard work beat talent when talent didn’t work, but Hermione Granger had both aspects more than covered. Harry had always been a good student, but the only places he could keep up with his friend were in practical spellcasting (Harry was a bit better under pressure and the wand movements came more naturally to him) and of course anything related to being up in the air on a broom. When it came to general knowledge and magical theory, Hermione was far and away the best in their year, even among the Ravenclaws, whose House was supposedly dedicated to the pursuits of intellect.

Petunia tuned back into the conversation in time to hear Harry say, “If this goes on much longer, I think she might just snap and kill him.”

“What? Who?” she asked anxiously, and Harry turned a confused look on her.

“Hermione, Mum, I think if she has to take lessons from Lockhart much longer - “

“Professor Lockhart, Harry.” Petunia couldn’t let him lapse into bad habits during his visits, on the off chance it would affect his ability to come at all.

Harry rolled his eyes in the manner of all young people when an authority figure correctly reminded them of something of which they are less than fond. “Right, if Hermione has to sit classes with Professor Lockhart much longer, I think she might go full loony and attack him or something. If you could see the looks she gets on her face when he goes on about his hair and the latest article on him in Witch Weekly…mental, I tell you, she’s like to curse him frozen like she did with the pixies and just teach the class herself.”

Harry and Dudley laughed at that, but Petunia did not. She considered Defense to be the most important of the courses Harry was taking, since he had in the not too distant past been forced to defend himself against those very dark arts the class purported to oppose. Having an incompetent teacher for History of Magic might not matter as much, but a failure to learn Defense might have fatal consequences. Charms, Transfiguration, and even Potions and Herbology weren’t far behind in Petunia’s estimation - one never knew what might come in handy in a pinch.

“If you’re not learning enough in class, Harry, you need to make sure to work on defensive spells on your own time.”

Harry closed his eyes and groaned. “Do you and Hermione trade owls every night? She says the same thing after every class. She’s threatening to give Ron and I extra homework!” He said the words with horror, and Petunia let her reading glasses slide just slightly down her face so that she could give him the most effective silently-stern look she had in her parental repertoire. He felt her heavy silence, opened one eye and glanced at her, then let out an exaggerated sigh. “I know, Mum. Magic isn’t a game, it could save my life. I’ll do better, I promise.” Petunia stepped closer and hugged him; she only had just so much time to do so before he left again, so this was the seventh such embrace accomplished since he arrived (not that she was counting). He’d grown again already, she noticed, and would likely overtop her by summer, if not before.

“How’s Ginny doing?” Dudley asked, with his mouth full. “Settled in alright?”

Harry shrugged. “Hard to say - always reading, that girl, like a miniature Hermione.”

-

That night, after Harry left with Minerva and Dudley went to bed, Petunia turned off all the lights in the house, waited an hour, then went to the small window in the attic and lit the candle she had sitting on a small table in front of it. Willemina popped her head up through the floorboards; Petunia let out a small yelp but carefully didn’t scream. “So sorry dear,” said the ghostly woman, “I forget people expect a body to walk down the hall, not float up through the ceiling.”

“It’s alright, Wil. Actually, I’m expecting company. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. I saw a lovely little family of squirrels up in the tree out back, newborns, you know, but I’ll tell you all about it in the morning. Good night!”

“Good night, Wil.” Petunia sat in the flickering light of the candle for close to an hour before she heard a soft pop next to her and Dobby appeared out of thin air. The little elf was dressed as always in the ragged remains of a pillowcase, yellowed with age in a way no washing could remove, and his whole body stooped forward like a spindly sapling, down to the flappy bits on the ends of his ears. He cut a most piteous figure, but he turned to Petunia with bright, eager eyes. 

“Miss Petunia, so good to see you! Dobby is sorry, he got your signal but he had to wait until his duties were done before he could leave the house. Has Harry Potter visited his family, ma’am?” Dobby always called him that, for so he had been named when he defeated Voldemort and became known to the wizarding world. Petunia didn’t mind, it was a small kindness to allow Dobby to speak as he wished, one she knew was sadly rare in the poor creature’s life.

“It’s alright, Dobby. Good to see you too. Yes, I’ve seen Harry and he’s well. Are you ready?” Dobby swallowed hard, but nodded his head firmly. He stepped closer to Petunia and she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug so he couldn’t get free to start beating himself in punishment for betraying his foul family.

Then she began to ask questions.

Chapter Text

On the one hand, Petunia was happy that it had only taken a few days after Harry's first visit for her to be able to see him again. On the other hand…

“He called her a mudblood, Mum. I had to do something.”

“Harry…”

“It’s the worst sort of thing you can call a Muggle-born. I wouldn’t let anyone talk to her that way, least of all that slime, Malfoy.” He looked up at her with fire in his eyes. Lily’s eyes. “It was like he was saying it about my mother, too.”

That struck Petunia in the heart, and in all of the not-quite resolved issues she had with her childhood, her relationship with her sister, and all of the surrounding concerns. She was temporarily at a loss for words. She had never seen Harry so angry: he was unrepentant, refusing to say that what he’d done was wrong even though it would have perhaps mitigated the penalty: a month’s worth of detentions and suspension from the Quidditch team. The thing was, though as a parent she shouldn’t say so, Petunia wasn’t sure she fully disapproved of what he’d done. Harry had put into action against Draco what she’d yearned to do to Lucius.

The knuckles of Harry’s right hand were still red  and swollen where they’d connected with Draco’s chin, but he’d refused ice or Muggle medication. The fierce look on his face said the pain was a badge of honor. Minerva had told Petunia (trying desperately to master her glee and keep an appropriately stern look on her face, Petunia could tell) that the Slytherin boy had only the chance to utter the epithet in the middle of one of his bombastic tirades before Harry had wordlessly stepped into a straight punch that had folded Draco up like the loose-hinged, paint-stained old stepladder in their garage at Number Four.

The bruises on Harry’s face and body had come later, when Crabbe and Goyle descended on him in pursuit of vengeance for their little tyrant. They had gotten in several heavy blows before Fred and George, along with teammate Angelina Johnson, had leapt to Harry’s defense, which had ignited a general melee between the two teams. The fracas had quickly expanded to include every Slytherin and Gryffindor within earshot, along with an older Hufflepuff named Cedric Diggory that Minerva had confessed to Petunia she wished had been placed in her own House. Poor Ron had been cast aside bodily by Crabbe and Goyle when he had bravely tried to put himself between them and Harry and was now in the hospital wing recovering from a few cracked ribs.

Everyone who’d thrown a punch at anyone else was in trouble almost as deep as Harry, and the only unsuspended members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team were Katie Bell, who’d frozen up when the fight began, and team captain Oliver Wood, who had desperately been trying to deescalate things before his teammates got into trouble and ruined the team’s chances of winning the Quidditch Cup. Everyone else was suspended indefinitely, and the only silver lining was that all of the Slytherin side had been taken out as well. Minerva vacillated back and forth between outraged teacher, despondent Quidditch superfan, and fiercely proud Gryffindor as she recounted, among other things, how Angelina had headbutted Slytherin captain Marcus Flint, a brutishly-built older teenager twice her size, in the face and broken his nose. Apparently, all of this had somehow resulted in Angelina asking out Fred, who had, like any boy with half a brain and a pair of working eyes would have, said yes.

Finally, Petunia asked if Minerva could give them some time with Harry, and the elder witch excused herself and promised to come back in half an hour. When the door shut behind her, Petunia turned back to the kitchen and saw Dudley, who to this point had surprisingly said nothing, with his head down close to Harry’s, speaking quietly. Petunia made no effort to listen in, and waited until Dudley stood up and walked back to the bowl of leftover shepherd’s pie he was having as a midafternoon snack (a particular favorite ever since she’d cadged the recipe from Molly). Harry looked calmer now; most of the fight seemed to have left him. “Thanks, Dud.”

“Anytime.”

Petunia walked back into the kitchen and sat down across from her son. She was quiet for a few moments as she gathered her thoughts. Harry started to say something, but she held up a hand and he fell silent. “I’m not going to tell you what you did was right, Harry. It might feel righteous, but the fact of the matter is you were the one to escalate to violence, and detention might not be the only consequence you have out of it.”

“Mum, I…”

“How many people got hurt today because of a fight you started? Ron is in the hospital wing, and it sounds like half the school is nursing bruises.” Harry looked down at the floor silently. “And it may not end here, no matter what you say or do,” she continued. “Things like this can take on a life of their own, and the stakes are higher now. Today it’s fists, but tomorrow it could be wands in the corridors, dueling in the bathrooms. How many spells do you know off the top of your head that with only a little imagination could be used to hurt someone?” She waited until he glanced up and responded in a small voice.

“Loads.”

She nodded. “That’s what I thought. Harry, Draco Malfoy may be a bully, but up until today he was willing, even if unconsciously so, to respect a line. Words hurt, and at your age they can leave painful marks indeed, but they are only words.” She let that sink in and then hit him with the real hammer blow. “How does Hermione feel about what happened today?”

Harry winced. “She…told me off, actually. Said the only thing worse than what Malfoy did is me getting suspended over it, and a bunch of people getting hurt. I thought…I thought it would make her feel better, to see Malfoy get his. I thought I could make up for what he said.” 

Petunia resisted the urge to get up and soothe him; he needed to feel the seriousness of his actions for a bit. Comfort could come later. “Part of her probably does feel good that her friend defended her, Harry, just like there is a part of me that wishes I could have been there to see you knock that brat’s block off.” Harry, eyes a bit watery, looked up at her and a bit of his fierce grin returned as she continued. “But Hermione is a smart girl, and she knows it would have been better for you to use words, or better yet, to let it go entirely.” Harry bristled, but she forestalled him. “Dear heart, what do you think would have happened if instead of hitting him, you had acted like he hadn’t spoken at all? He wanted to see how his words hurt Hermione, how they angered the rest of you. Wouldn’t it have been better to make sure he didn’t get what he wanted?”

“Got bit more ’n ‘e wanted though, didn’ ’e,” chuckled Dudley around a mouthful; she shot him a look that said not helpful. He gave her an eyeroll but held up his spoonless hand in surrender.

Harry sighed. “Of course you’re right, Mum, but it’s so hard to just let things go. Malfoy’s such a pillock, all the time. And Hermione…she was devastated, it made me so angry.”

Petunia nodded. “I know. But the more of a reaction you give someone like that, the more likely they are to keep doing it. Best to act like Draco Malfoy doesn’t exist, as long as all he’s got are empty words. I know it’s easier said than done.” Harry nodded, head still bowed; Petunia put a finger under his chin and gently lifted his eyes to meet hers. “But heed, Harry: if it is ever more than words, if Draco Malfoy or anyone else starts anything serious, you’re not to hesitate.” She leaned in close and touched her forehead to his. “You finish it.” Harry nodded, then his face fell and he groaned. Petunia looked up at him worriedly. “What is it, dear?”

“Septimus is never going to let me hear the end of this, is he?”

Chapter Text

Petunia and Dudley had planned on spending a relatively quiet Halloween together until Dobby appeared unexpectedly. After several unpleasant and unsuccessful sessions Petunia had refused to question Dobby further, despite his pleading, and they hadn't seen him in some time. The candle in the attic window had gone unlit for weeks. This time, the house-elf had abashedly told Petunia that he didn't have news, but that his family (for the sake of his self-punishment geas, they kept up the pretense that Petunia did not know he worked for the Malfoys) had gone out for the holiday and he had simply hoped to be allowed to linger in the Evanses’ home while they celebrated. He promised to stay out of their way.

They told him that was nonsense and welcomed him in, of course. They filled him full of cider, pumpkin bread, and chocolates til he was nearly bursting, though he struggled to eat and drink between bouts of tearful appreciation. Upon being told about trick-or-treating, he had suggested that he teleport Petunia around the house so Dudley could ‘trick-or-treat’ at different rooms, since neither Evans felt comfortable going out into one of the wizarding world's favorite holidays. Petunia loved this idea, and she and Dudley dug out several of the boys’ old costumes so that they could dress up Dobby as well. Sadly their act of giving him clothes couldn't free him, but the look of joy on the little creature's face when he yelled “Trick-or-treat!” and they showered him with candy was more than worth the effort. When Dobby left, late that night, he had managed to hug them both and say he had a good time without breaking into piteous sobbing even once, though his eyes were decidedly watery.

The day after Halloween, Harry arrived for his biweekly visit and he now sat at the kitchen table with his arms folded tightly over his chest as if he were hugging himself. He’d told them as soon as Minerva had dropped him off (looking a bit grim herself) that he had something important to tell them, but he asked them to give him a few moments to work out how to say it and not to ask any questions, so Dudley had busied himself making a snack and Petunia had returned to her crochet project. Both watched Harry out of the corner of their eyes, and it was clear he could tell because he kept fidgeting in his seat and looking down at the table.

It took Harry several minutes of heavy silence to screw up his courage and begin. “On Halloween, Sir Nicholas invited us to the ghosts’ Deathday party. Ron, Hermione and I went down to the dungeons.” Harry spoke rather quickly and did not look up at them. “It was…honestly, it was awful. Loads of ghosts, all drifting about and making everything cold. The food was all moldy and rotting, and the music sounded like someone dragging chains across the floor.” He gave a little shiver. “Ron nearly passed out when the ghost orchestra went through him. We stayed just long enough to be polite and left as soon as we could.”

Dudley shrugged and dug into his bowl of cereal. “It does sound like a ghost party, doesn’t it? What’d you expect?”

“I don't know, but why was Sir Nicholas so keen for us to go then?” Harry said irritably, throwing up his hands. “Anyways, that's not the important bit. On the way back, I…” Harry took a deep breath and then forced out, “I heard a voice. It was sort of hissing, like the evil sorcerer from Aladdin when he turns into that dirty great cobra. It was saying things like…like kill, kill.” He glanced up at them and then continued hesitantly, “Ron and Hermione couldn’t hear it. Only…only me.”

Petunia’s fingers curled tight around her teacup, but she kept her face as clear of tension as she could. Gently, she said. “Go on, love. What happened next?”

Harry’s voice dropped lower. “I followed it down a corridor, to where I thought it was coming from.” 

Dudley stage-whispered “Don’t go in there!” like an impolite horror-movie audience member, but Harry pointedly ignored him. 

“It kept saying kill, and it was getting louder.”

“Right, ‘course you kept going after it then, had to, only makes sense.”

Harry groaned. “I know it was stupid, alright? That’s not the point. Ron and Hermione were with me, even though they couldn’t hear anything, but all of a sudden the voice went away and there was nothing there, no one. Then we looked up, and…and…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “It was Mrs. Norris, Filch’s cat. She was hanging by her tail from a torch bracket, stiff as a board. We thought she was dead. And on the wall next to her, someone had written in big red letters, ‘The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware.’”

The kitchen seemed to grow colder with his words. Harry kept going, his voice threatening tears. “That’s when everyone was there, somehow: teachers, students, and worst of all, Filch. He went mad, shouting that I’d killed his cat. I think he’d have attacked me if no one else were there. She’s not dead, just petrified, but he didn't know that, and he still thinks it was me that did it. I don’t even know how to petrify someone!”

Dudley interjected, “Bet you ‘Mione does,” but Harry rode right over him.

“Filch hates me now, and everyone else saw me standing there too. Of course Malfoy loved it, he made a joke about how it would be mudbl…Muggle-borns next. Now there’s rumors flying ‘round the school about the Chamber of Secrets and the Heir of Salazar Slytherin. I’ve heard people actually think it was me, that I did those things, that I'm the Heir…”

He trailed off and silence fell over the room. Harry seemed to have exhausted himself in the telling; he slumped in the chair, looking so very young and vulnerable. Petunia took a moment to gather her wits so she could process all of this and say something confident, comforting, and helpful to her poor beleaguered child, but it took her a beat too long. Suddenly, Harry shoved back from the table. “I'm going to go up to my room, I'll just be by myself for a bit and then I’ll go back.” He half-rose, but was stopped short when Dudley's hand clamped down on his shoulder, gently but immovably. 

“You must’ve gone completely off your nut.”

Harry shot him a horrified look, and Dudley quickly realized how that sounded and said hurriedly, “To think you need to go be by yourself right now, I mean. What, d'you think we'd think you've gone mad or somethin’? Or what, you're somehow this Hair of Sleazy Slithering character? Only known you all your life ‘aven’t we, you muppet? When would you’ve ‘ad the time?”

Harry stopped resisting his brother's implacable grip and sagged back into his seat; Dudley sat down next to him and commenced eating again. “Besides,” he added between bites, gesturing with his utensil. “Hermione’d never stand for it, and you’re rubbish at keeping anything from ‘er.”

Harry stared down at his hands. “I just thought…things have changed so much, and with me away all the time, learning magic and all…and I can talk to snakes…”

Dudley started laughing. “Absolute muppet. Just ‘coz you’d gone to clown school an’ learned Klingon wouldn’t mean we’d think you’re suddenly Pennywise.” 

Harry laughed in spite of himself. “Ringing endorsement there, Dud. I won’t tell Hagrid you compared Hogwarts to a clown school.”

“Yeah, best not. Fancy ‘e could chuck me easy as ‘e does the little potato-men in the garden.”

Petunia was grateful both for Dudley’s blithe confidence and for the few moments he’d given her to collect herself (though not for the reminder about that horrible movie; the trailer had been enough to give her nightmares). One should think I’d be used to this sort of thing by now, she thought with some self-recrimination, but her therapist would be telling her not to should on herself like that. What mattered was that they move forward, and that began with reassuring Harry that they remained, as ever, on his side. “Dudley’s right of course, Harry. We believe in you without restraint, always.”

Harry gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks, Mum. I don’t know what I’m going to do about all this.”

“There shouldn’t be anything for you to do, Harry. There are experienced, adult witches and wizards at that school; this is their responsibility. As for any rumors about you, when all of this is put to rest by your teachers people will see that there’s nothing to them, and they’ll fade.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. It’s just…last year…”

Dudley shot Petunia a look and she winced internally. “Yes, there are things you were involved in last year that you never should have been, but that should be behind us. I have every confidence that your teachers, and Professor Dumbledore, will be able to handle the problem. You just keep yourself safe and don’t go off following any more disembodied voices down corridors.”

Harry seemed to accept this, and then they moved on from the subject for a while, speaking of more pleasant things. Dudley was reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream for his English Literature class, and amused Harry by reciting several of the sillier lines (they laughed particularly over ‘And though she be but little, she is fierce!’ fitting Ginny perfectly). For his part, Harry hit the highlights of what he’d been learning in History of Magic and complained a bit about his new admirer, a first-year named Colin Creevey who kept taking his picture. 

All too soon it was time for Harry to go, and Minerva popped back in through the front door. Petunia asked Harry and Dudley to give them a moment, and the boys went upstairs so Dudley could show Harry how he’d rearranged their room. When she turned back to Minerva, the older woman had a sour look on her face. “I know what you’re going to ask me, Tune, and I wish I had better answers to give you.” Minerva closed her eyes briefly. “The cat is alive, but petrified, as no doubt Harry told you. No spell I know was the cause; we don’t know what did it, but I very much doubt it was a student. Harry found her, as you know, along with Miss Granger and young Weasley. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Always in the wrong place,” Petunia muttered. “He heard some kind of voice, and went after it.”

Minerva sighed. “That boy has the same heart your sister did. He can’t walk past mystery or danger without wanting to see it for himself, and those two young fools would follow him into a firestorm. And have, what’s worse. Miss Granger at least should know better, but there’s a reason that with all the intelligence in the world she still wasn’t sorted into Ravenclaw.”

Petunia looked down at the table. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was a light patter of rain against the window. When Minerva did speak again, her voice was quieter. “What was written on the wall said that the Chamber has been opened again. Most of us don’t believe it’s possible, but…the signs are difficult to ignore.”

Petunia’s head snapped up. “Again? What is the Chamber, anyway?”

Minerva nodded grimly. “No one knows for sure, but it’s said the founder of Slytherin House, Salazar Slytherin, built the chamber somewhere in the school and placed within it a monster that would someday purge Hogwarts of all whose blood was impure - Muggle-borns, of course; there’s a reason nearly all children of blood purist families end up in Slytherin. It’s supposed to be opened by the heir of Salazar, whether that is meant to be a descendant of his line or perhaps just a sharer of his purpose. How they’re meant to do so remains a mystery, as is the chamber’s location, of course, or it would have been destroyed centuries ago. There was an incident fifty years back, before my time, where it was supposedly opened. A student was attacked by something and died. The school nearly closed, but the attack was not repeated and it all eventually blew over. If this truly is the Chamber, then what happened to that cat may only be the beginning.”

A shiver passed through Petunia. “And Albus? What does he say?”

“That we mustn’t panic. That we’ll find whoever’s responsible.” Minerva hesitated, then admitted, “But I’ve not seen him look so troubled since...” Since the night Harry got his scar, she didn’t say, but she didn’t have to. The rain picked up, hissing against the glass. They could hear the boys laughing upstairs. Petunia reached for her crochet hook again just to have something to do with her hands. 

“Is Harry in danger?” It was an absurd question on the face of it: of course he was, perpetually it seemed, but Minerva caught her meaning. She looked frustrated. 

“For now, I don’t believe he is in any more danger than any other student. I wish I could tell you more, but I don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. I can at least tell you we’ve teachers patrolling the corridors every hour, even at night.”

Petunia nodded. “Thank you, Minerva,” she said sincerely. “I know you don’t have to tell me anything.”

The gray-haired witch fixed her with a fierce glare. “I certainly do, Tune. You’re his family, and I’ll always be honest with you.” Petunia stepped in and caught Minerva up in a hug; bound up in it was their shared worry over Harry and their determination to protect him. As they parted, Petunia took a deep breath and made what she knew was likely to be a futile effort. 

“Minerva, I know this came to nothing before, but…Dobby, the house-elf, what he told us about history repeating itself…it fits, doesn't it?

Minerva looked pained. “I know you place great stock in him, Tune, but…”

Petunia stopped her. “I know you can’t do anything with his testimony directly, or even confirm he works for the Malfoys. I just mean to say…it might give you a place to start?”

Minerva shook her head. “I’m sorry, Petunia, but we can’t investigate students, and we’ve no authority over anything outside of our walls. Lucius Malfoy is the next thing to untouchable without clear, direct evidence of wrongdoing. For heaven’s sake, he’s one of the school governors!”

Petunia bit her lip until it nearly bled, letting the pain push down the rage and fear that threatened to spill over onto her friend. She almost brought up the scene from Borgin and Burke’s, but she knew that as a Muggle and a minor, her word and Fred’s together were worth only a bit more than Dobby’s, especially when set against the wealth and influence of Lucius Malfoy. “I don’t agree, but I understand. It’s not your fault. You’ll let me know, though, if you hear anything else?”

“Of course.” The Transfiguration mistress looked quite chagrined, her mouth pursed even more tightly than usual, and Petunia knew Minerva was as frustrated as she was herself; she doubted the powerful witch was used to feeling so helpless. Petunia called Harry down and they said their goodbyes before he and Professor McGonagall went a little out into the yard. 

Dudley stepped out onto the porch and called out, “Oi, Harry!”

“What is it, Dud?”

“Ginny doing alright?”

Harry shrugged. “Fine, I suppose. I don’t see her much, but when I do she’s always got a book in her hand, must really be studying a lot.” With that, he and Minerva disappeared before the rain could further soak their robes.

“What did she say, Mum? You’re going to tell me, aren’t you?” Dudley sounded a little desperate, and Petunia put her arms around him, though they were not quite able to wrap around his back. 

“Of course, dear. Just promise me you won’t do anything rash.”

“Is it that bad?”

Petunia fixed him with a mother’s stern look. “Promise me.”

“Alright then, I won’t. I promise.”

“Good. Apparently this all has happened before, fifty years ago…”

Chapter Text

A soft knock on the door in the middle of an otherwise quiet evening startled Petunia so badly that she dropped the teacup she had been drying and it shattered on the floor. Dudley made it to the door first and looked out the peep hole. “Mum, it’s Harry and Hermione,” he said, pulling the door open. “What’s wrong?” he asked, gesturing for the two of them to come inside and out of the drizzling rain. “And where’s Ron?”

“He’s not feeling well. Hermione’ll explain.” Harry’s tone was subdued; he still had his invisibility cloak wrapped around him, and it caused him to present an odd half-there appearance as his body ended just below the waist. Petunia hadn’t seen Hermione since their pre-term trip to Diagon Alley; the two embraced warmly after Petunia greeted Harry and Hermione easily mended the broken cup with a flick of her wand. When they separated, Harry looked at Hermione; she took a deep breath and began, “There’s been some new developments and we - Harry, Ron, the twins and I - thought we’d better talk about it with a…well, with an adult, and the teachers…” she trailed off, looking uncomfortable, likely at the fact that she’d nearly said something negative about her professors. 

Petunia smiled in understanding. “It’s alright, dear. Come, sit down, everyone.” They retired to the couch in the living room and Harry settled into it heavily, looking both exhausted and upset. Once again, Hermione took up their narrative. 

 “There was another attack last night,” she said, and then dashed away a tear from her cheek. “Colin Creevey’s been petrified. Camera and all. No one knows what did it. There’s been so much going around about what happened to Mrs. Norris and the writing on the wall about the Chamber, and now this, everyone is so afraid,” she continued before being almost immediately interrupted.

“Or gleeful, in Draco’s case,” muttered Harry, earning him a slightly exasperated look from Hermione that made him sink even further into the couch cushions.

“Anyway, Professor Lockhart,” and here Hermione couldn’t help her mouth twisting with distaste at the respect she felt compelled to offer him, “announced he was starting a duelling club, to help teach us how to defend ourselves against threats. We weren’t that interested in it, until we heard Professor Snape was going to be teaching as well.” Dudley gaped at her and she sighed. “Say what you will about his teaching style, and you wouldn’t be wrong, he is a great wizard. He’s particularly known for his ability with nonverbal spells, which can be extremely useful if you’re facing another competent spellcaster. There were lots of students there, and Lock…Professor Lockhart actually got up and dueled Professor Snape. At least, it was supposed to be a duel, but it went about as you’d expect.” Hermione donned an impish smile as she spoke, but it was short-lived. “After that, they paired us off, and that’s when things started to go wrong. Harry got paired with Malfoy by Professor Snape - I think he wanted a chance for Slytherin to show up Gryffindor. The teachers said disarming spells only and Professor Lockhart was counting, but Malfoy cast early and knocked Harry down.” She stalled for a moment as Dudley clenched his fists, making his knuckles crack in a startling fashion. 

Dudley took a deep breath and then said, “Keep goin’ Mi, sorry.”

Hermione cleared her throat and continued, “So Harry got up and cast back at him, only he didn’t use a disarming spell either - “

“Had to defend myself, didn’t I?” Harry burst out angrily, and Hermione let out a frustrated cry. 

“Harry James Evans-Potter, do you want to tell the story or do you want me to tell it like you asked?”

Harry had the grace to look properly chastised, and Petunia had to hide a smile at their interaction behind a cough. “As I was saying,” Hermione went on, her face a bit red with righteous indignation, “Harry cast back and hit Malfoy, and then Malfoy hit him again. The other pairings weren’t much better - very few of us really knew what we were doing at all and several people got hurt, including Ron. He’ll be alright, just needed to go sleep off a confusion charm so he didn’t feel up to venturing out again. Millicent Bulstrode nearly took my head off with her bare hands, the brainless cow.”

Brainless cow, mouthed Dudley at Petunia in shock - the Hermione they were familiar with must be quite upset to use such language. Hermione went on, “The teachers got upset and Professor Snape put a stop to the worst situations. It might have ended there, but then the professors said they’d teach us to block spells. Professor Snape had Harry and Malfoy pair off again, and they had to get up in front of everyone. This time when they started, Malfoy conjured a snake, which you’ll likely not be surprised is definitely not in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two. Everyone was scared - well, except Harry, actually. Professor Snape was going to banish it, but Lockhart went ahead and made it worse by throwing it up in the air!” She was so upset by the memory that she didn’t even realize she’d left off Lockhart’s appellation. “I can’t even imagine what he thought would happen, honestly he’s completely incompetent. The snake seemed so angry once it landed and it turned on the nearest student.” She paused, and looked over at Harry, who hunched in on himself a little more. “Then...Harry said something to it in Parseltongue.”

“I told it to leave him alone,” Harry said quietly while staring at the wall. This time Hermione didn’t seem to mind the interruption. Her eyes filled with sympathy, and then she looked back to Petunia and continued. 

“No one else is a Parselmouth, of course, they’re really rare, so Justin - the student - was confused; he thought Harry was telling it to attack him. Parseltongue isn’t exactly a pleasant language to hear if you don’t know it, so people assume the worst. Professor Snape finally got rid of the snake, and then everyone started whispering…there were already rumors about Harry being the Heir of Slytherin because of us finding Mrs. Norris, but now a lot more people believe it.”

Petunia glanced at Harry, but he was still staring at the wall and had his knees hugged up to his chest. “How did you get here tonight, Hermione?” she asked instead. 

“Oh, we talked to Fred and George about it, and they said they knew a secret passage that could get us to Hogsmeade. I know it’s against the rules but…” she faltered, her cheeks going completely pink. “We thought it was important, and I thought you’d want to know right away, and the teachers…” She trailed off again and held up her hands helplessly. Hermione was nothing if not respectful of authority, and was already well outside her comfort zone. Openly talking about how they did not trust the teachers to take them seriously about something related to Harry was more than she could bring herself to do. “If we could somehow find out who is behind all this, we could make it all go away - the rumors, the attacks, the threat to the school, everything.”

Petunia knew better than to think Hermione was just speaking of idle hopes. “You have an idea?”

“It’s a long shot, and it would mean breaking a dozen more school rules, but…I was thinking about Dobby, how you said he worked for the Malfoys and had some knowledge of them doing something bad at Hogwarts. He said history was repeating itself, and the Chamber is part of Hogwarts’ history. Allegedly it was opened fifty years ago, and a Muggle-born was killed. If Draco’s father is behind all this somehow, or at least involved or knows about it, maybe Draco knows something too. He’s such a braggart, I don’t think it would be hard to get him talking about it if the person asking was someone he trusted. There’s something called Polyjuice Potion…” 

Hermione went on to explain about the potion’s makeup and transformative properties to a technical level of potioncraft Petunia didn’t quite understand. Most significant was that it appeared she would have to steal ingredients from Snape’s private storeroom to do it. Petunia would have thought this would give her the most pause, but she seemed to have already decided on it and was confident it could be accomplished without discovery. “If we could arrange to get one of us into the Slytherin common room and talk to Draco in the guise of one of his friends, I’d wager we can at least see what he does know.”

“I’ll do it.” Everyone turned to stare at Dudley. Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it again, a look of speculation coming over her face. Petunia shook her head.

“Absolutely not, Dudley, the risk…”

“Be the same for me as for any of ‘em, ‘cept I can’t get expelled if I get caught. Plus, Mi, you said the potion works better the closer the user is to what they’re transforming into, right?” 

Hermione nodded absently, deep in thought. “Actually, you might get an extra ten…or even twenty percent efficiency…”

Dudley turned back to Petunia. “Even Fred and George aren’t near as big as Crabbe or Goyle, and their hair is the wrong color. I’m nearer the right build and my hair’s not the same color as a bloody tabby cat. It’s got to be me.”

Petunia hesitated. “Dudley…”

“Mum. I can’t do anything else to help, really, not from here.” He fixed her with a determined, pleading look. “Please, Mum. I've got to.”

Harry looked stunned. “Dud…” he began, but Dudley shook his head, jaw set. “Won’t just sit ‘ere and wait for somethin’ worse to ‘appen, Harry. I’m doing this.”

“This could really work,” said Hermione, reentering the conversation. “Dudley would be much more convincing as Crabbe than any of the rest of us would be as either him or one of the other Slytherin students - no offense, Dudley - and Crabbe and Goyle will be by far the easiest to get out of the way for a while. His transformation will last longer, too, so the margin for error would be larger. If we’re going to do this, Dudley actually has the best chance.” She looked over at first Harry, then Petunia guiltily. “Sorry.”

Petunia hated the concept but as she reluctantly turned it over in her mind, she had to admit that the benefits might outweigh the risks. She would be sending Dudley into the school after all, not a war zone, and even if he was caught it might be awkward and embarrassing but what would actually happen to him? He wasn’t a student, and he wouldn’t be the one breaking most of the rules. Very likely all they would do is escort him out with a talking-to and try to get him to tell them who had helped him - which would be useless. She looked at Hermione.

“What are the worst things that could happen? And how likely are they?”

Hermione looked gratified to be asked for her analysis of the situation. Lacking the ability to consult Minerva, Petunia couldn’t think of someone who might give her a more nuanced, considered, and accurate perspective on the matter. “The absolute worst possibility is that somehow the Minister of Magic would be visiting and catch him - in that case, there might be a Ministry inquiry that would have implications for the Statute of Secrecy. They could bring the case before the Wizengamot, who could approve interrogating Dudley under Veritaserum to find out how he accomplished it and have Dudley's memories of the castle and how he got in Obliviated. The rest of us could be expelled for our involvement.” By the time she reached the word ‘expelled,’ she sounded far less confident than she had when she began, but then she brightened. “I do think that’s highly unlikely. The most realistic negative outcome is that Dudley is caught by Professor Snape. In that case, though I’m sure it wouldn’t be pleasant, in the end Dudley would be brought to the headmaster, who would just have him escorted out and ask you, Auntie, not to let him do it again, and probably warn you about the possible dangers. As long as Dudley didn’t say who helped him…”

“I wouldn’t,” said Dudley, and Harry nodded his agreement. 

Hermione smiled. “Of course you wouldn’t, but without that there isn’t much else that the authorities involved would likely be willing to do. If we choose our timing right, when there is a Potions class on the schedule but Draco and Crabbe are free, no one should suspect anything is wrong as long as Dudley is able to come and go before the potion wears off. I’d assess our chances of at least evading discovery as good to very good. I’d never have suggested it otherwise,” she hastened to assure Petunia.

Petunia sighed and sat back in her chair. “Alright, but we need to go over every detail to make sure we get this right. Take me through your plan.”

Hermione leaned forward with a look of concentration on her face. “First, I’ll need a teacher’s permission to get into the Restricted Section of the library to find the recipe. Maybe Flitwick would do it without asking too many questions, he’s always seemed to like me. Second, there’s always at least one or two times in every Potions class where Professor Snape decides to spend several minutes sneering at one of us about a mistake we’ve made. Ron should be willing to do something truly stupid as a distraction. That will give me time to get the boomslang skin and the lacewing flies…”

Chapter Text

Hermione had informed them that the preparation of Polyjuice potion would take an entire month, so there was little to do but live life as usual until the fateful day arrived. It turned out that Hermione hadn’t had to ask Professor Flitwick for permission to use the Restricted Section after all, having taken a target of opportunity earlier in the school day.  “At least Lockhart was good for something,” she’d said. “He didn’t even ask why I wanted the permission slip. Too busy with his fan mail.” 

Dudley concentrated on the curriculum of the correspondence school that Petunia had gotten him into, at least as much as he ever did, and Petunia cleaned the house top to bottom so many times Willemina said she could hear the floors squeak. There wasn’t actually a great deal of work that needed doing most of the time, and Petunia found herself restlessly wandering about the house and grounds, wherever her pacing wouldn’t disturb her son as he navigated the dark and stormy seas of reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic.

The one ongoing problem their Hogsmeade house had was its variety of magical pests, which was particularly difficult because, as Muggles, she and Dudley couldn't use the normal wizarding methods to deal with them. She'd planted a free-range garden when they moved in, in mock of the curated geraniums she'd been so careful about as Petunia Dursley at Number Four, in what seemed like another life. Molly and Hagrid had given her very good advice on what to start with, and she’d added in a few of her favorites as well. 

Now her front yard looked like something out of a dream: clusters of marigolds and roses were mingled with flutterby bushes whose blossoms shifted colors in the breeze. Between lavender and peonies, a patch of puffapods swayed gently even without a breeze and burst into blooms whenever anything came near. Here and there, mundane ivy twined up trellises alongside snargaluff vines that twitched restlessly. Those were Hagrid’s introduction, he swore you could train them as a sort of intruder alarm and home defense system, but Petunia carefully avoided them when he wasn’t around to work his druid-like wiles on the fierce flora. The effect of it all was oddly harmonious: Muggle and wizarding wildness tangled together in one riot of colors and scents.

In the initial stages they had cleared out several infestations, but one type of creature had proved both particularly resistant and irritatingly recurring: gnomes. She was determined to express her new and improved self through horticulture, so the plants were meant to look strewn about in a charming sort of way, but the stout little humanoids had turned the garden into a battlefield. Two warring tribes had taken up residence with the property empty for so long, and they were tenacious. The creatures scurried about, disturbing root systems, snapping stems, and crushing petals with abandon as they traded territory back and forth, and despite the constant fighting there never seemed to be any less of them.

She wished Hagrid could come by more often: one of the best things about being closer to Hogwarts was his occasional visits. He was always a font of good humor (though very bad cooking). He’d tramp through her garden, going on about whatever tickled his fancy that day in his booming voice while absently plucking the gnomes up like weeds and pitching them into the hedgerow. After his thorough cleansings, it always took the gnomes far longer to muster up the courage to return than when she did it. It also took him a quarter of the time and he got rid of far more of them; he seemed to have a sixth sense for where they were burrowed. Unfortunately, he was always so busy with his duties as gamekeeper that she’d only seen him a few times so far. During his most recent visit, she’d confided in him about the children’s nighttime visits; he’d laid a finger alongside his nose and winked, then suggested she enlist Fred and George in her ongoing war, as they were apparently gleeful terrors on the Burrow’s gnomes every summer.

Try as she might, no amount of cleaning or gnome-punting would fill all the hours of the day and allow her to escape her worries over the upcoming mission. She did everything she could: the house was almost always filled with the scent of something baking, Dudley had not one but three new crocheted sweaters that he would never wear, and she was halfway through a blanket. The nights were worse, and her bouts of insomnia only grew more frequent. She’d begun to have nightmares; never very specific, at least not to her waking memory, but enough to see her too often waking from what little sleep she did get in a cold sweat.

Harry visited in the middle of the month, but was engaged in a deep, all-consuming mope about Gryffindor’s recent Quidditch loss, which had of course come without most of its preferred lineup. Only Harry was suspended for the whole year it turned out, as the initiator, but Angelina wouldn’t be back til mid-season for breaking Marcus Flint’s nose (she had also refused to apologize, and had sat next to Harry sorting flobberworms every evening for a solid month because of it). Fred and George still had a game left to sit out before they could return.

“Oliver won’t speak to me,” Harry had mourned when he first arrived, around a mouthful of scone (cinnamon sugar, which ought to have been enough to make anyone happy). He had been sitting on the couch with Petunia while Dudley made his way methodically through his daily weightlifting routine. It was leg day, which meant numerous lunges and goblet squats (or goblin squats, as the two boys had called them since their first trip to Gringott’s). 

“Why not?” Petunia asked solicitously.

“It’s the suspensions. The replacement Beaters are all right, not nearly as good as Fred and George of course, but the Seeker’s dreadful, actually ran into Oliver because he thought he saw the snitch by Wood’s left ear, but it was just sunlight. Oliver said it was a blessing when the poor fellow got himself knocked out by a Bludger a few minutes later. At least Alicia’s back, she was part of the fight but never threw a punch - just got hit herself. Katie was brilliant, we might even have won if…” Harry trailed off with a piteous moan, putting his head in his hands. Petunia patted him comfortingly, though she still just didn’t understand the fascination with competitively moving roundish objects that so many people shared different versions of. She had asked Dudley about it once and he’d shrugged and said he liked football alright but preferred a real contact sport, so no help there.

Eventually, Harry had to leave again and Petunia and Dudley resumed their interminable wait. Shortly after Harry’s visit though, Petunia grew angry at herself for whiling away the hours and not only sequestering herself but forcing Dudley to live in isolation as well. She plucked up her courage and stepped beyond the safety of her garden and into Hogsmeade, Dudley at her side, the crooked chimneys and snow-dusted rooftops of the town unfurling before them. The street was lively enough in the middle of the day, with witches and wizards in robes of myriad colors and styles moving to and fro, or sometimes flying overhead on broomsticks. There were a few small children, but of course no one Dudley’s age - they would all be at the castle.

Molly had advised her to head for a well-known pub called The Three Broomsticks when she made her first adventure into Hogsmeade, though of course her friend hadn’t expected her to wait quite this long. The sign was unmistakeable, and Dudley gallantly opened the door for her when they reached it. The warm smells of butterbeer and spices welcomed them into the relatively full establishment. The woman behind the counter immediately captured Petunia’s attention: she was statuesque, all warmth and sparkle in the dim glow of the lamps. Her hair caught the light like polished chestnut, and she moved with an easy confidence, balancing mugs of frothing butterbeer as though the clamor around her were nothing more than background music. She looked up at the newcomers with a smile that seemed both practiced and genuinely kind, the sort of smile that made even the most out-of-place traveler feel as though they’d stumbled into a friend’s parlor rather than a crowded tavern. 

“Welcome my dears, have a seat anywhere and I’ll be right with you.”

They sat down and true to her word, it was not long before their greeter made her way over to their table. Petunia had chosen a spot fairly near the bar itself, near the back wall. 

“All right then, haven’t seen you in here before, which means you’ll be the Evanses, then?”

Petunia was startled into silence, and Dudley took up the rejoinder. “Yes ma’am, I’m Dudley and this is my mum, Petunia.”

“Of course you are my dear, and a right pleasure it is to meet you, too. Hagrid’s told me all about you, of course, dear man can’t keep a secret half so well as he keeps those beasts of his.” She grinned conspiratorially. “Never fear though, mum’s the word and all. A friend of a friend’s a friend of mine, so they say.”

She waited for Petunia to reply, but the patter of her words,  the shine of her hair, and the twinkling of her eyes had quite made Petunia’s brain shut off. Not letting the silence become awkward, the woman continued, “And thank you, young man, but if you’re going to live in Hogsmeade you’ll have to drop the ma’am: name’s Rosmerta, or Madame Rosmerta if you’re feeling fancy.” Dudley grinned at her, and she patted him on the shoulder. “I do hear, all from Hagrid again of course, that you have the most wonderful garden up at yours, is that right?”

“You’ll have to come by and see it for yourself sometime,” Petunia’s mouth said without consulting the rest of her.

Rosmerta’s eyes widened slightly, but then laughed, a rich, happy sound. Her eyes twinkled. “I think I will at that!” she said, and then “Now, two butterbeers, on the house for first-time guests and then we can talk about lunch. I’ll be right back!”

They had a very enjoyable lunch, and Rosmerta stopped by their table several more times. Thankfully, Petunia’s brain and tongue had a chance to become unstuck, and she acquitted herself much better conversationally. On the way out, she and Dudley promised to make the Three Broomsticks a habit for lunch, and held true to that every day for the next two weeks. By the end of the month, Petunia finally got around to inviting Rosmerta (“Now that we’re properly well-acquainted, you must call me Roz!”) to tea. 

Just to see the garden, of course.

Chapter Text

A month to the day after the clandestine meeting, just before the end of term and the Christmas holiday, Petunia received the dreaded owl from Hermione letting her know the potion was ready (even though Petunia was decidedly not). Since there had been yet another attack, one that had somehow managed to petrify a ghost as well as a student, there was even more urgency to it all than before. Minerva had found the pair herself, as she’d confided in Petunia when she’d come by for tea the next day. The poor woman looked deflated, without any of her usual vigor; she loved both Hogwarts and the students within, and it tore at her to see them in danger.

That evening, Petunia found herself once again hosting an illicit gathering. This time Ron and the twins had come along with Harry and Hermione, the twins having guided them all via the secret passage again. They hadn’t gotten right to it; everyone seemed to be happy to pretend for a while that this was just a late dinner party, and they sat around the dining room table munching on the results of another round of Petunia dealing with her anxiety through baking.

Eventually, though, they had to get down to business. Holding her misgivings, Petunia watched as Hermione brought out the flask she’d stored the potion in. It hissed and gave off a faint greenish smoke as she unscrewed the top and handed it to Dudley, who poured the dubious-looking stuff into a water glass. The smell of the potion was revolting, like musty old dirt mixed with rotting vegetation and sulfur. Dudley eyed it with resignation, but held out his hand for Hermione to give him some of Crabbe’s short, bristly hair to complete the concoction. “Sure it’s his?” asked Dudley. He was wearing a set of the largest available Slytherin robes, which had been procured (with great difficulty and heroism, so they claimed) by Fred and George. “Don’t want to turn into his pet ferret or something.”

Hermione nodded. “We took it right off his head after we got him and Goyle to eat a couple of muffins laced with sleeping draught. We hid them in a closet - they should sleep for hours yet.” She shook her head. “Honestly, it was almost too easy. Those two barely have a functioning brain between them and Draco, all together.” The children all got a good chuckle out of that. Dudley dropped the hairs into the potion and watched as it bubbled and frothed, turning from gray sludge to a thick brownish mixture that at least smelled less like rotten eggs. He sighed, and Hermione smiled at him reassuringly. “It’s as safe as it can be, I promise. I brewed it according to the instructions exactly, it’ll work.”

When Harry talked of his time at Hogwarts, two things always featured heavily. Quidditch was the most frequent item, of course, but nearly as prevalent were stories about the brilliance of a certain curly-haired Muggle-born witch. Dudley had immediately embraced his brother's confidence in her abilities, and he waved his hand dismissively. “‘Mi, if you ‘anded me a lace doily and said you’d witched it a hammer, I’d expect it to drive nails.” Hermione shook her head and smiled, blushing a bit at his compliment; Ron and Harry were nodding in agreement as if this was obvious. “Just not looking forward to it, is all. ‘S not even the process, really, it’s just I’m so much prettier than ‘e is, I hate to give it up even for a minute.”

As the children laughed again, Petunia focused on her breathing. She watched the proceedings quietly, but her eyes betrayed nerves. She stood stiff, hands clenched in her skirts, watching her son with the same mix of fear and pride she’d felt since Hermione had first brought up the plan and Dudley had insisted on being the one to carry it out. Dudley took a breath, pinched his nose, and drank. The liquid slid down the glass like half-chewed gristle, almost as much solid as liquid.

-

Dudley nearly choked getting it all down. It was oddly warm, oily, and seemed to crawl down his throat instead of simply being swallowed. He looked around the room at his mother and friends, and they all waited with bated breath. He felt a little odd, as if he was starting to get a cold, and he closed his eyes to ward off a sudden dizziness.

 For a long moment, nothing happened. Then suddenly his stomach clenched like a fist, and he doubled over, gasping. The blood heated in his veins and raced along them as his pulse quickened like he was running a marathon. His skin prickled as though being brushed with nettles. His chest tightened and his ribs expanded, pushing his skin outward until it strained against the seams of his jumper. The taste of iron filled his mouth. His eyes snapped open, bloodshot, bulging slightly, and Petunia grasped Harry’s hand with a worried cry.

“Blimey,” Ron whispered.

“It’s all right, this is…this is all expected. The transformation is uncomfortable, but it isn’t nearly as painful as it looks,” said Hermione, a catch in her voice taking away from her attempt at reassurance. Dudley staggered, bracing himself on the table and knocking the empty glass on the floor, where it shattered. His legs stretched and then abruptly shrunk, bones crunching wetly as they changed. His fingers ballooned, nails thickening, and it made all of his knuckles pop like kindling. His face warped, nose widening, jaw pulling heavy and square, teeth grinding into place. He choked, gasping and reaching for his neck as his throat was altered to accommodate Crabbe’s deeper tone. His vision swam, edges warping, then settled lower to the ground through Crabbe’s thick brow.

Fred let out a low whistle. “That’s…properly hideous.”

Petunia’s hand flew to her mouth. For an awful second she looked ready to run to him, but she forced herself still, eyes shining with alarm. The transformation finished, Dudley looked down at himself. His arms were a bit thicker, his hands the size of ham shanks. He flexed, realizing that Crabbe was hiding a good deal of hard muscle beneath his round frame. Even his heartbeat sounded different, somehow heavier. He swallowed hard and coughed; the sound rumbled out of Crabbe’s throat. “Ugh. Feels like I’m wearing someone else from the inside out.”

The words stopped him cold. That wasn’t his voice. It was a gravelly, dull baritone that seemed to vibrate in his chest. Petunia heard George say “Wicked” in the exact same way Fred had when they emerged from the fireplace at Borgin and Burke’s; even for twins, they were uncanny. 

Fred clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh. “Merlin’s beard, you’re the full package.”

George walked over and clapped Dudley on the back. “That’s pitch-perfect Crabbe, Dud, you sound like you swallowed a troll!”

Dudley sewed up the strange new face he wore into a scowl. He knew what Vincent Crabbe would say to that - most anything that came out of a Weasley's mouth, really. “Shut it, Weasley, you blood traitor.” The words rolled out low and menacing, and even knowing it was Dudley behind Crabbe’s beady-eyed face and meaty fists, Harry flinched.

The twins collapsed into laughter. George leaned on Fred for support, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Not a Slytherin alive that would question that dulcet tone. Crabbe’s own mother would feed you off her plate.”

Hermione pushed forward with urgency to interrupt the two-man hilarity. “Remember, Dudley, it won’t last forever. You’ve got an hour, maybe a bit more based on compatibility. Get in, get Draco talking, and get out.”

Dudley clenched his fists again, took a shaky breath, and nodded. “Right. Who’s taking me, then?”

“I am,” said Fred, who was somehow instantly composed - for that matter, so was George. “Come on, Dud. Time to make like a tree.”

Getting into Hogwarts was surprisingly easy, which Dudley filed away for future consideration. Fred pointed the Crabbe-shaped Dudley toward a lopsided portrait at the end of a deserted corridor. “This way, big guy. Look mean, grunt a little, you’ll be fine,” he whispered, winking. With a shove, the portrait swung aside to reveal a cramped stairwell. “Shortcut to the dungeons. Straight on, then first left will take you right to their common room door. Password’s pure-blood.” Fred rolled his eyes. “Creative, innit? If anyone asks, you’ve just come from the kitchens, anyone’d buy that. Fake a stomach-ache and come back if they ask too many questions. I’ll meet you here in thirty minutes.” Dudley nodded, squared his borrowed shoulders, and lumbered into the passage.

Chapter Text

Dudley moved briskly down the stone steps from the Slytherin common room, his borrowed shoulders hunched the way he’d seen Crabbe carry himself. The door clanged shut behind him. His pulse hammered; he’d fooled Malfoy and found out what little the boy knew about the Chamber (not that it had been difficult, the blowhard barely paid attention to anything other than his own self-aggrandizement), but he still had to get out of the castle without being discovered. The strange sensation of wearing another person’s body like an ill-fitted coat hampered his movement. Every step felt too heavy, throwing off his balance as he strove to walk as quickly as he could without appearing to hurry to anyone who might see him. He couldn’t afford any questions.

As he came around a bend in the passage, Dudley’s heart sank as he saw nearly the worst possible thing imaginable coming toward him: it was the real Vincent Crabbe, apparently woken early from his sleeping draught-induced nap. It took the Slytherin boy a few moments to look up and notice that someone wearing his face was in his path. Initially Crabbe must have only registered another person in Slytherin robes, but as he moved closer he clearly realized he was seeing double. He stopped, one thick arm slowly coming up with a finger pointed at Dudley. His brow furrowed, then his eyes hardened with suspicion. “Oi, what’s this ‘ere?” His voice was even a bit thicker than normal from his recent unscheduled slumber. Thankfully, he was alone.

Dudley hesitated. What could he say? His mind raced but he couldn’t think of any way to justify his presence and appearance. He wasn’t sure Crabbe even knew about Polyjuice; could he pretend this was some prank and that he was just another Slytherin? He didn’t know any of the other students’ names though, except for Draco and Goyle. Wasn't there one called Bull-something? Or some girl with a flower name? No, there wasn’t a teenage girl who would be caught dead transforming into Vincent Crabbe. Harry had to have mentioned other Slytherin boys…Blaze? That couldn’t be right, no one was named 'Blaze' except in comic books.

 His dithering went on too long. The real Crabbe took a step forward, the gears of his brain grinding, then wordlessly he charged. Dudley reacted quickly to gain his own forward momentum, but Crabbe had gotten the first move and was in the same body he’d known all his life; he got a shoulder into Dudley's chest. 

The collision was brutally painful. Dudley staggered back, creating a momentary opening, and to his shock Crabbe pounced on it, surprisingly quick-handed for all his apparent bulk. Dudley barely ducked a sharp left hook that might have ended things prematurely had it connected. Trying to regain the initiative, Dudley countered with a feigned jab to Crabbe’s face and then a right hook of his own, quick and tight so he wouldn’t be exposed. It didn’t go as expected: the angle was a little wrong, the force muted by his inexperience with a stranger’s limbs. He only managed to batter Crabbe’s raised forearm, and desperately threw a knee at his opponent’s open midriff to cover his mistake.

Crabbe took the blow with a grunt but didn’t fold. Instead he stepped in, fists raised in a standard boxer’s guard. What is this? Dudley wondered. How is he this good? Crabbe was not some untutored thug, as Dudley assumed - perhaps he was meant to be Draco’s henchman in truth. Was the same true of Goyle? Was the other boy a secret kung fu black belt? Dudley was suddenly feeling less confident in his ability to ‘take the lot,’ as Ron had once asserted. 

The two young combatants stood toe to toe for a solid half-minute, which feels like an eternity in a fight. They traded bare-knuckled strikes in short bursts, skin and bone against skin and bone. Dudley slipped Crabbe’s oncoming right hand and countered with his left, but his shoulder didn’t quite follow directions and Crabbe blocked it easily. The impact of his fist on Crabbe’s forearm sent a painful shiver up Dudley’s arm. Crabbe followed with a heavy cross that Dudley couldn’t entirely avoid. He quickly leaned backward and it missed his face but smashed into his chest, near the spot injured moments before in their initial clash, and for a second he lost his footing and his breath, stumbling backwards.

Miraculously, Crabbe didn’t advance. He just stood with his fists raised and stared at his opponent for a moment. Dudley knew the burning in his own lungs had to be the same thing Crabbe was feeling. Dudley would have had an endurance advantage, had he been in his own body, but at least he had a good idea of the Slytherin’s general condition. “‘Oo are you?” Crabbe said, his chest heaving with exertion.

Even though he was in the middle of a fight, Dudley couldn’t help but lean into that good of a setup. “No one of consequence,” he said, in well-rehearsed imitation of a classic. He’d caught his breath and Crabbe had surrendered the advantage he’d gained with his initial rush, and the Slytherin boy knew it. 

Crabbe snarled and closed the distance again. Dudley got the worst of another exchange that left him with a bloody lip, but he got a good one in as well; Crabbe was hunched over more than usual now to compensate for bruised ribs. The two circled; Dudley tested with a feint, then snapped a jab at Crabbe’s chin. It partially landed, but Crabbe answered with a body shot that made Dudley’s side ache. They clinched, their equally-matched muscles straining, and both were breathing in deep, heavy rasps as they stumbled together into the wall. In this, Dudley appreciated the other boy’s sheer mass; Crabbe outweighed Dudley by at least fifteen pounds, and might have been Dudley's better in raw strength.

When they closed, Crabbe lost the required distance to throw his heavy punches and the fight began to turn. Dudley thanked his new mixed martial arts class; he wasn’t sure he could outdo Crabbe as a boxer without being in his own body. Dudley grabbed a fistful of Crabbe’s robes at the front of the neck and planted his foot outside of Crabbe’s, then twisted his hips, sending Crabbe’s bulk crashing to the ground. Crabbe groaned as he struck the stone floor heavily, but was able to turn the fall into an awkward roll, gaining distance to recover as Dudley pursued him, aiming a kick at his head that just missed. Crabbe stood and rushed at Dudley, coming in with that dangerous lowered shoulder again, but Dudley slipped aside and hammered Crabbe with an elbow that made him sink to one knee, momentarily dazed. 

Dudley pressed forward, but even hurt and at a disadvantage Crabbe was a difficult opponent. He bobbed back and forth, taking what strikes he had to on thick forearms and ducking the rest, though he took several more hits to the body for his trouble. The fight see-sawed, neither boy giving in despite pain and exhaustion. Dudley was impressed in spite of himself at Crabbe's tenacity. A lot of fellows were game for a fight, but it took a higher level of toughness to take punch after punch as your shoulders and arms grew sore, your pulse pounded in your ears, and every breath came with more difficulty from laboring lungs. Dudley had been trained for this sort of encounter; the fight was nearing the length of a full boxing round. For Crabbe to hang with him like this, it meant the other boy had too, despite his well-fed appearance.

The effects of the sleeping draught might have been catching up to Crabbe along with the rigors of the fight, and Dudley was slowly gaining the upper hand as he learned to use his unfamiliar limbs more and more. Just when he felt he might be close to a decisive end, Dudley felt it: heat rising in his chest, a sickly tugging in his gut. The Polyjuice was breaking down. His body felt tight everywhere: he was taller and broader in the shoulders than Crabbe but the other boy was thicker in the chest, hips, and legs. Sensing weakness, Crabbe lunged, but Dudley pivoted, slammed his knee again into Crabbe’s midsection, and shoved him into the wall. For an instant, Crabbe’s breath left him in an agonized grunt. Dudley seized the chance, twisting away, hurrying down the corridor as his limbs began to struggle to return to their proper shape.

Behind him came Crabbe’s enraged shouting, but there was no sound of running feet indicating that the other boy was giving chase. Though his legs and lungs burned with the effort, Dudley did not stop until he arrived at the location where he was to meet Fred. Trying to mute the sounds of his own gasping, he hunkered down behind the statue of a one-eyed witch to wait for his escort.

Chapter Text

Petunia was watching at the window, despite the fact that Fred and Dudley had left under Harry’s invisibility cloak and would be returning the same way. She hadn’t been able to sit down since they left, and the children had given up trying to engage her in conversation. She had given the whole of her concentration over to fighting off the panic that lurked just over her shoulder. Why couldn’t you have done it? You’re the adult here. You sent your son into danger, he's only a child! The fact that in no way was she capable of performing the task required was no salve for her worries, nor was the fact that the whole thing was in aid, not just of Harry, but of everyone at Hogwarts.

Finally, she heard the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs and had already hurried to the door when a soft knock came from outside. She pulled the door open and stood aside, counting two sets of footsteps before shutting the door again. The cloak came down to reveal first Fred, who looked his usual cheery self though a bit strained, and then Dudley, who was wearing his own face again, looking pale and tired. Petunia rushed to his side, followed by Harry, only a few steps behind. Dudley’s skin was blotched and clammy, and a set of fine bruises were already forming on his face and upper chest. His robe hung awkwardly from him in utter disarray, one sleeve nearly torn off, and his hands were raw, knuckles split and bleeding. A thin line of dried blood traced from the corner of his lip down his chin.

“Dudley!” Petunia threw her arms around him, her voice breaking between concern and fury. Harry followed, staring wide-eyed - the worst injuries he’d seen up close were from Quidditch tumbles, but this was another level. Dudley looked like someone who’d fought for his life.

“‘M fine,” Dudley croaked, though he struggled not to wince in pain with each breath. He returned his mother and brother’s hugs shakily and then they helped him make his way over to the couch. He closed his eyes for a few moments, but could feel a room full of people staring at him with emotions mixed between concern and curiosity. A flicker of pride made his battered face split into a crooked grin. “Got ‘im talking,” he said hoarsely. “Malfoy told me everything ‘e knows. ‘Course,” he added quickly, though he hated to disappoint the looks of relief spreading across the assembled faces, “tragically, ‘at ain’t a terrible lot. ‘E’s not the heir, that’s for sure, and ‘e don’t know exactly who it is, either.”

“What happened?” Petunia cried, unable to hold it in any longer. “Did Malfoy do this to you?”

Dudley laughed, and then groaned as it made his aching ribs hurt even worse. “Naw, twitchy git don’t have the ‘ands for that. I met Crabbe coming back through the corridors as I was leavin’. ‘E took exception to my face, can’t think why.” He essayed a smile that was hesitantly shared by the Weasley boys but certainly not Petunia, Harry, or Hermione, who looked particularly horrified. “Gave as good as I got though, maybe better, and managed to get away before either of us got ‘urt too badly. Quicker’n ‘e looks, Crabbe is, and bloody strong too.”

“He shouldn’t have woken up yet!” Hermione wailed. “I’m so sorry Dudley!” She hurried over to sit next to him and said, “Hang on a moment…medical magic is too dangerous to try untrained, but there are a couple of things…” She propped open a book on the side table: The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three.

“Bloody hell, Hermione, what, you already memorized everything in grade two and decided to move on?” Ron shook his head. “When d’you have the time?”

“Probably the hours we spend talking about Quidditch and playing Exploding Snap,” said Harry ruefully, and Ron replied,

“Yeah, and probably sleeping, knowing ‘er.”

Hermione ignored them and began paging through the book until she found what she was looking for. She muttered under her breath, reading one of the passages, and made a few twisty movements with her wand. After a few minutes, she turned to Dudley. “Alright, this one should be simple enough, and it’s not supposed to be dangerous to get it wrong, it will just fizzle and maybe sting a bit. Where does it hurt the most?”

Dudley gestured to his jaw, chest, and left side. “Got ‘it in the face, took a couple of body shots, might have cracked a rib or three, and the shoulder ‘e got into my chest wasn’t exactly fluffy pillows either.”

Hermione considered this, and then pointed her wand at his jaw. “I don’t think this spell will fix cracked ribs, but it will help with bruising and swelling. Episkey.” The word was said firmly and accompanied by a precise flick of her wand. Dudley immediately felt a sharp crackling feeling pass through his face, not exactly painful but not comfortable either. After it passed, the pain lessened, and everyone could now see the bruising had faded but was not completely gone. “Ugh, thanks, ‘Mione. You’re a lifesaver.”

“I’ve got one more I could try, if you’re willing. This one’s a bit trickier, and…”

Dudley waved away her words. “Do it, Mi. Every confidence and all that.”

Hermione extended her wand again and this time she made a slow circle around his side and then tapped her wand against him. In two distinct syllables, she said, “Lenidolor.” Dudley gasped as a wave of deep, cold numbness washed over him, beginning at the spot she’d tapped and spreading out across his whole body. He nearly fell over, but Harry caught and steadied him with a grunt. Hermione dropped her wand, both hands flying to her cheeks in distress. “Dudley! Are you alright? I’m sorry, there’s a reason they only teach us a limited amount of healing magic, the human body is so delicate…” The poor girl looked close to tears. 

“No, no, that was…ugh…smashing, really. A bit much on the front end, maybe, but it did the job, the pain’s almost gone. I just feel a bit sore now,” Dudley hastened to reassure her, reaching out to pat her on the arm now that he could move his arm with far less trouble. 

She took a deep breath and nodded with relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I was afraid…just remember, all that spell does is numb pain, it doesn’t actually fix anything. You still need to be careful and take it easy for a good while, or you’ll re-injure yourself just as if I’d never done anything.” The rapidity with which she moved from tearing up to lecturing was remarkable.

The other children were looking at Hermione with admiration; even Fred and George, two years further along in their magical studies, looked impressed. “Thanks, Hermione,” said Harry simply, leaning over the couch to give her a one-armed hug. “Absolutely first-rate work, as always, dunno what we’d do without you.” Hermione’s eyes shone at the compliment, and she leaned her head into Harry’s shoulder briefly before they separated.

When he’d had a little more time to rest, Dudley delivered a brief summation of what Draco had said: The Daily Prophet wasn’t reporting the attacks to the public yet; Malfoy thought that was Dumbledore’s influence, trying to keep things quiet. He’d complained about Muggle-borns being allowed into the school, and was especially disgusted with how Colin Creevey seemed to admire Harry. Dudley kept Draco’s comments about Hermione to himself; Malfoy’s grudge against the girl who outdid everyone in nearly every class, pureblood, half-blood, and Muggle-born alike, was well-known and would only increase the negative feeling in the room. 

Draco had revealed that he didn’t know who the heir was in the course of lamenting that he wished he did so he could help them. Petunia’s heart wrenched at the thought of this child having been so steeped in prejudice that he actively wished he could help hurt and kill others just because of their circumstances of birth. She assumed that, having never truly participated in anything beyond a child’s small cruelties, Draco didn’t really understand what he was talking about, was merely aping his parent’s far more refined hatreds. Petunia had some level of sympathy for the boy, as she remembered well harboring unreasonable biases in her heart against people who had never harmed her. That didn’t excuse his current behavior, of course, let alone anything worse he might do in the future.

Draco had further revealed that his father did know about the last time the Chamber had been opened fifty years ago, but wouldn’t tell Draco because it would look too suspicious for a student to have too many details. “Doesn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut, probably wise,” Dudley added. “He did say that whoever had been accused of opening the Chamber back then was expelled, but Draco thinks they’re still in the wizard prison, Azkaban, so it isn’t likely to be the same person this time.” Lucius had advised Draco to stay well clear of it all, especially since the Malfoys were already under some suspicion: the Ministry had raided Malfoy Manor just recently, under suspicion of the family possessing Dark objects.

“Too bad they’d already gotten rid of them all at Borgin and Burke’s,” said Fred, shaking his head.

Dudley grunted. “Not all of them. Must have had more than they could ‘old, because Draco said they’ve got some sort of hidden room below the main floor where they keep a bunch of valuable Dark stuff.”

Fred, George, and Ron exchanged looks. “Bet Dad’d be interested to hear that,” drawled Fred, laying a finger alongside his nose. 

“They’ll have moved it by now,” said Hermione. “Mr. Malfoy is no stranger to this sort of thing it seems, and I bet the first thing Draco did when Crabbe came in with bruises talking about fighting a twin was to tell his father what happened. We might get lucky and Draco will hesitate because he doesn’t want to look foolish, but I’m betting the risk of his family getting in trouble will overcome that before too long.”

“So we’re no further along than when we started,” moaned Ron. “This whole thing was a complete letdown. A month to brew the potion, Dud gets beaten up - ”

“Come off it,” said Dudley, who disagreed with that part of Ron’s assessment.

“Right, I’m sure Crabbe looks worse, but that’s not the point, is it?”

“Crabbe started off looking worse, for one thing,” said Fred in a sagacious tone.

“Too right, our boy’s a regular movie star compared to ‘im,” replied George loyally.

Ron shot them both a murderous look while they gazed at him innocently. “You bloody well know what I mean. Draco’ll be on his guard now, we won’t get anything else out of ‘im, and we’re no closer to finding out who’s opening the Chamber than we were before!”

“At least we know it’s not Malfoy,” said Harry. “That’s something. And we know it’s not the same person as last time, either, right? Is there any way to find out who that was?”

Hermione shook her head. “It was all hushed up, there’s nothing about it in the library or in the back issues of the Daily Prophet.”

Harry fell silent in thought. Petunia noticed suddenly that despite that Hemione was undeniably the smartest of the gathered Gryffindors (and arguably the smartest person in the room, even at twelve), Dudley was the most physically imposing, and Fred and George were the oldest, all of the children were waiting on Harry’s word to decide what to do next. It was often talked of that Harry was so much like Lily, but from what Petunia had heard Molly say of Harry’s father over the years, this was James’ nature coming out in his son. 

Of course, that wasn’t the only reason Harry, and really Dudley as well, had grown up the way they had. Bereft of a male role model for them, Petunia had turned to the friends of her earliest childhood: creased paperbacks by Tolkien and Lewis. Once they’d learned how, they’d begun reading them to each other, over and over, and then using their favorite scenes as scripts for their youthful adventures. They’d become regular denizens of the local library and their repertoire had quickly outstripped hers, devouring the collected works of Jacques and Bradley, Piers Anthony, and dozens of others. Their favorite movies had followed the same vein: Star Wars, Willow, The Last Starfighter. 

Harry had always idolized the Aragorns and Lukes, great heroes and leaders, while Dudley was drawn more to Gimli, Chewbacca, and Madmartigan, those friends of great martial prowess without whom the hero would not have succeeded. It made sense to her: Harry had always dreamed of great acts of heroism, the kind that got you a medal from the beautiful princess; Dudley wanted the power to fight evil, in the more direct sense of the word. Both, she thought with a quiet swell of pride and fear, had grown up believing it was their job to be strong and brave. Petunia often wondered if she’d done the right thing. Would it have been better to teach them to hide away, to live lives of quiet contentment away from danger? But she knew that was not Harry’s destiny, no matter what he, or she, wanted.

Harry finally sighed and looked up, nodding firmly. “Right. We’ll just have to keep our eyes open, then. We’ve reached a bit of a dead end, but we at least closed the book on a few things so we don’t waste time on them anymore. We keep our heads down, stick together at school, and we’ll meet back here to go over anything we’ve learned. Sound good?” Harry looked around to get a consensus from his peers, but he needn’t have bothered: everyone’s heads nodded immediately. Decision made, they began making preparations to go, which mostly consisted of packing up the few baked goods that hadn’t been nervously consumed while they waited and figuring out in what groups they could reasonably fit under the cloak to go back to Hogwarts. Harry, Fred, and Hermione were the last to go; Harry returned from taking Ron and George and hugged his family goodbye.

“I hope we don’t have to do that again anytime soon,” said Hermione as Harry and Fred arranged the cloak over them and held up a corner for her to slip under as well. The cloak was voluminous, but in order to fit they had to hunch down, especially Fred, and walk very close together. Petunia smiled as she watched Harry slip an arm around Hemione’s shoulders and tug her a bit closer to him to help the process along.

“What, use Polyjuice? Why?” asked Harry as he slid the cloak over both their heads and they disappeared from Petunia's view.

“I had to find a place no one would normally go to put all the ingredients in and let it come together. The girl’s bathroom I used has a really unpleasant ghost in it, that’s why it’s not used. They call her Moaning Myrtle for good reason, believe me. I’m not eager to meet her again.”

Chapter Text

The Evanses spent the first few days of the holiday and Christmas Eve with Ron and Hermione before the two of them went home for Christmas Day and the rest of the break. Gift exchange had been done on Christmas Eve, and it had done everyone a great deal of good to spend that happy time together, temporarily unburdened by worries over the Chamber of Secrets and attacks on students. No one had been allowed to remain in the castle over the holiday; every child had gone home to their families. Indeed, the real question was how many would return after the new year. 

Petunia could tell that all of the children were burdened by worry, but especially Harry. The poor boy seemed determined to have a happy holiday and not show the strain he felt, but it was obvious to her in the set of his jaw, the way he was quieter than normal, and the forced smile he wore whenever he could between bouts of faraway looks and frowns he didn’t realize were on his face. He even had a shorter fuse than normal, which was very unlike him - he nearly rowed with Ron half a dozen times, and only Dudley’s considerable forbearance kept him from having a similar problem with his brother. Hermione seemed to be the only one exempt from Harry’s ire. 

The other two wizarding children exhibited some signs of stress as well, but Harry was by far the worst affected. Petunia was grateful that at least now she had the resources to help him: during the week after Christmas, she was able to schedule another in-person session with Healer Septimus. Since it was difficult to do so mid-term, they had kept up via correspondence, but Petunia knew therapy had been the furthest thing from Harry’s mind for the most part. Snow had piled up in slow, soft layers across the landscape, turning the world outside into something still and pale. Inside Septimus’ office, the faint scent of juniper hung in the air - the proprietor’s choice of winter incense, subtle and clean. His great silver-furred mooncat, Pax, occupied the broad sill, tail twitching in the firelight.

Harry sat in his usual chair, legs drawn up, the scar on his forehead half-hidden by his unruly mop of hair. He looked tired, and Petunia knew it wasn’t just from the term. She could see the way his shoulders held tension, how he sat a little too still, not the restlessness of a boy who wanted to leave, but the careful stillness of someone trying not to show what they were holding in.

Septimus, cross-legged in his deep green armchair, watched him quietly for a moment before speaking. “You’ve had quite a term so far, Harry,” he said. “Even for someone used to unusual happenings. How has your homework been going?” Petunia knew that Septimus didn’t mean homework for his Hogwarts classes, but the mental health ‘homework’ that the healer had been coaching him through via owl post. It consisted of meditation, which Harry hated, journaling, which he liked a bit better, and what the healer called Cognitive Behavioral Therapy wherein Harry focused on determining what was a Harry problem and what wasn’t and trying to understand what he felt about himself in the process. The purpose was to separate his feelings about what he was going through from any negative effects on his own perceived self-worth. It was very close to what Petunia’s own therapist had recommended for her. 

Harry gave a small, humorless laugh. “Bit spotty, honestly, what with…everything.” He looked up at Septimus with a guilty expression. “Sorry.”

Septimus shook his head. “There is no shame or judgement here. It’s not important that we are perfect in our mental health practice, just that we keep trying to do our best every day to care for ourselves. Would you like to tell me what you’ve found hardest to deal with?”

Harry hesitated, eyes on Pax’s tail as it swayed. “It’s not one thing. There’s the whole Chamber bit, and everyone whispering about me. Ron and Hermione are always with me, the twins are around a lot too, and then there’s Neville, and the team.. but sometimes I feel like… like I’m standing in front of a wall and everyone’s throwing things at me to see what sticks. I never know when it’s going to hit me.”

Septimus nodded slowly. “That’s an apt way of describing it. It sounds as though you’re constantly bracing yourself for impact.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, that’s what it feels like. Like I’m in the ring with someone, but I’m blindfolded. I just have to guess how to block or duck.”

“Can you tell me where you feel it, when you brace yourself?”

“It’s sort of…all over, I guess? My neck gets sore though, sometimes, and my jaw.”

Septimus nodded. “That’s not uncommon. What I’d like you to do for a few minutes is focus on your breath and the tension in your muscles. Once you’ve identified it, use your breathing to slowly relax the places where you feel tightness.”

They spent a good few minutes doing that, and Petunia watched it progress through Harry, who struggled at first but seemed to find the path eventually. After that, it was a small transformation: he went from looking like he was cramped up in some invisible box to a more relaxed, almost languid posture. Eventually, Septimus broke the silence. “How do you feel now, Harry?”

The boy sighed. “Bit better, I think. Didn’t realize how tense I was.”

“We often get used to being in pain, both mentally and physically, without even realizing it, but it still hurts us.”

Harry nodded. “ I can’t stop thinking about what people are saying - that maybe I’m the Heir of Slytherin. I know I’m not, but when I heard the voice…now I can’t help doubting, wondering if something is wrong with me, if there’s something I don’t know about myself.”

Sensing his moment, Pax leapt from the sill onto Harry’s lap and Harry automatically began petting him, the cat’s calming purr presenting a counterpoint to the returning stiffness in the boy’s posture. Septimus waited several minutes for the beast to do his work, and when Pax had settled to sleep, he continued. “When you hear the voice,” he said carefully, “how does it make you feel?”

Harry shivered. “Afraid. Worried.”

“In what ways?”

“Lots of ways…it’s this hissing sound that seems to come from everywhere, like some closet monster, so that’s scary, first off. Then there’s all the attacks…I’m afraid and worried that every time I hear it, that someone else is going to get hurt. Doesn’t help that it’s happened. And I’m afraid I’m…” the words had come spilling out of Harry in a rush, but now he halted, his voice becoming small. “I’m afraid I’m going mad. No one else can hear it, only me. How do I know it’s even real?”

“Do you believe it is real?”

“Yes. I know it is.”

“What does it say?”

Harry hesitated. “A lot about killing, and things like that. Rip, tear…violent things. It wants to hurt people.”

“Do you ever feel angry at those times? Before you hear the voice, or after?”

Harry shook his head. “No, it just sort of happens, sometimes, it doesn’t seem like there’s any relationship between what I’m doing and me hearing it.” 

Septimus met Petunia’s eyes for a moment and she knew what he was thinking: was this something coming from within Harry’s own head? If there were no such thing as magic in the world, it would be almost certain that Harry was hallucinating, or something worse. However, in the wizarding world, it was more than possible that this thing was real and not imagined.

Harry continued on, looking down. “Mum, Dudley, Hermione…the people that care about me believe in me, but there are loads of people I’m around all the time that think I might be some mad killer.” He squirmed in his seat. “It’s silly, I know.”

“It doesn’t sound silly to me,” Septimus said gently. “It sounds like something real to you, and that means it deserves understanding, not dismissal.”

They sat in the quiet for a while, the fire crackling softly. Then Septimus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “May I tell you something about magic and emotion, Harry?”

“All right.”

“Bear with me, because this may not sound immediately applicable to you. There’s a tendency among wizards to think of emotion as something to be suppressed. To keep the mind clear so magic will obey. But that’s not entirely right. Magic isn’t a servant - it’s a mirror. It reflects what’s in us. When we deny fear or anger, we don’t get rid of it; we simply push it into the background, where it grows claws. When we are out of sync with our emotions, our magic can go awry, even for those with long experience. ” He gestured toward Harry with one hand, smiling faintly. “Or, in other cases, one begins punching people.”

Harry flushed. “Not my finest moment, I know.” He looked out the window, absently sinking his fingers deeper into Pax’s thick fur, and Septimus let the silence stretch. Finally, Harry looked back at him, expression defiant. “He deserved it.”

“I have no doubt,” Septimus said. “But we can agree that letting someone else dictate our feelings is giving them too much power, yes?”

Harry nodded. “That’s what Mum said. And you, too, in your letter. I’ve been trying the breathing exercises you suggested. Got anything else for me?” The question carried a bit of hope and longing rather than the cynicism it might have.

“A few things,” Septimus said. “One is awareness. The moment you feel something strong - fear, anger, shame - try to take a moment to stop and really feel it. I know that might not always be possible in the middle of classes or a match, but do your best. Once you’ve felt it, and know how it is affecting your body, name it. Silently, in your head if you must. Naming it gives you distance. It’s the mind’s way of saying, I see you, but you’re not in charge. Once you get used to doing this, you may find that some of those aches and pains you’re feeling from stress get less frequent, less severe, or perhaps eventually even stop altogether as you learn to deal with your feelings in a more conscious and healthy way.” 

Harry nodded slowly. “That sounds… simple?”

“Simple things often are best, but can still be difficult to remember when one is in the throes of a predicament.” Septimus reached for his wand (a short length of polished ashwood) and drew a small circle in the air. The faintest shimmer appeared before him, like a bubble of warm light. “And, lest you think I only have Muggle advice to give you,” he and Harry shared a smile, “There is a charm you might learn, if you wish. It’s not standard Hogwarts fare, and I’ll be straightforward with you, Harry: it’s not normally something I would teach to a twelve-year-old. The only reason I am considering it is because I reached out to Professor Flitwick and he tells me that your command of the second-year Charms curriculum is at a high level, and also because of your…proclivity for ending up in situations someone your age shouldn’t have to deal with. It is called the Spell of Steady Heart. It doesn’t erase extreme emotions, but it can steady the rhythm of your pulse and breathing when your emotions are too strong to control by will alone. Like a magical deep breath.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “That sounds dead useful.”

Septimus smiled. “It can be. But it’s not as simple as waving your wand and saying the words. You must feel what steadiness is before you can summon it.” He placed a hand over his heart, inhaled deeply, and said quietly, “Aequanimitas.” A warm ripple passed through the room, soft as a heartbeat. “Now you,” he said. “Without the word first, just the feeling.” Harry copied him, hand over his chest, breathing in, then out. “Good. Keep at it. When you can find that steadiness without forcing it, the charm will simply amplify what you’ve already made. Not replace it.”

After a few minutes, Harry’s shoulders had dropped from their defensive hunch. He let out a long breath. Septimus smiled. “Excellent. You’ve done more than you think already. Control is not about holding on as tightly as you can, Harry. It’s about being able to bend without breaking. Think of the Hogwarts Express going through a tunnel in the mountains. Once you’re in the tunnel, you have to go through it and come out the other side; trying to stop or redirect yourself in the middle could have catastrophic consequences.” He fixed Harry with a look that was not necessarily stern, but did command attention. “And you must heed: the spell might make the path easier to go down if you really need to in an important moment when you can’t do the work the proper way, but use it too much and your feelings will be like an elephant in a slip and slide: they’ll go careening all over the place.” 

Harry and Petunia laughed, but then Harry looked up at Septimus with a resigned expression. “So I won’t ever be able to just stop feeling scared?”

“No,” Septimus said gently. “The goal is not to eliminate emotion, it is only to reduce the ability of those feelings to own you and control how you act. A good heart - and you have one, Harry - must learn to work with its storms, not against them. None of us are ever completely free from how our emotions affect our responses, not even the great and powerful, like Dumbledore or even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, though I’m sure he would deny it.” Pax yawned, long and wide, and blinked at Harry with luminous eyes. Septimus chuckled. “Pax prefers storms he can watch from a window.”

Harry smiled at that. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I think I can try that.”

“Good,” said Septimus. “And if the world feels too loud again, remember what we practiced. Breathe. Name what you feel. Steady the heart. You’re allowed to be frightened and angry. You’re not alone in it. And remember, too, that no matter how it might seem at any given moment, life is not all about fear and anger. Happiness lives within each moment, and it has its place in your body as well. You must never be afraid to feel joy, even, or I might say especially, during times of great stress.” He smiled again. “So, a month of breathing practice, and then we will begin working with the charm itself.”

“A month?” asked Harry, plaintively. 

Septimus nodded. “The foundation is important. The spell is an aid, remember, not a replacement for the real work of therapy.”

“Alright.”

The session wound down in the soft quiet that came after good work. At the end, Mrs. MacRiocaird, Septimus’ secretary, brought in hot cocoa - one for each of them. They drank and chatted about smaller things for a while, and before they left Septimus wrote something down on a square of parchment and handed it to Petunia. “This is a simple grounding exercise - Muggle, not magical - but it complements the charm he’s learning. I’ve suggested it to him in my letters, but it’s more likely he’ll do it if he’s reminded by you in difficult moments. When he’s overwhelmed, go through it with him. Describe five things you can each see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, and one you can taste. It brings the mind back to the present.”

Petunia took it with a nod. “Thank you again, Healer. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Septimus inclined his head. “You’d do what you’ve always done - persevere. But it’s my pleasure to help. Goodbye, Harry. Look for my owl in two weeks, and I’ll see you again in the summer.”

Harry nodded, smiling. “Thanks, Septimus.”

Petunia and Harry left the office and walked to the elevator. “Feeling a bit better, love?” Petunia asked.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. A lot better, actually.”

As they stepped out into the crisp air, the last light of the afternoon touched the snow in gold. Petunia felt Harry slip his hand into hers, a rare gesture these days, and she squeezed back, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.