Petunia Snaps

By: Meester Lee

Fandom: harry potter

Summary: The events of the first part of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban occur differently in an alternate universe where Petunia Dursley loses her temper

Fic type: Books/Harry Potter

Pairings/Main char.: Petunia D.

Published: 2017-06-30

Last updated: 2017-10-24

Words count: 39,360

Chapters count: 21

Converted using www.FF2EBOOK.com
Date: 2018-10-26

1. Chapter 1

Petunia Snaps

Petunia Dursley loses her temper. Events during the first couple of chapters of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban occur differently in an alternate universe. Rated T for language and situations.

Harry Potter was created by JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own it or its characters. I have no desire to profit from this story. It is written strictly for pleasure.

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Petunia Dursley had been having strange dreams this year. In fact, she'd been having a lot of them of late.

There had a been a few the previous year, though fortunately far and few between. They'd mostly concerned her and Lily. A few times they'd been children again in Cokeworth, once or twice as middle-aged wives and mothers living near each other in Surrey, and then a horrid dream involving black magic, screaming, and murder as someone shot her sister dead with a spell of green light erupting from his wand. Remembering that dream the following morning, she silently cursed the murderer, the magical world, and the magic that had torn her and her sister apart.

The tempo and intensity of her dreams about magic had picked up even before Dudley returned to Smeltings after the Christmas holidays. Whereas before they might occur once every three weeks, they began to happen more often, starting at once every two weeks during the first three months of the new year, then once every nine days during April and the first couple of weeks in May, and then at least once a week until the boy came back from his school in Scotland. Now they'd been occurring twice and even three times a week.

The dream she'd had last night had not only been all too typical, but she remembered having it several times before. It had been the same; Petunia found herself walking alone in a strange wood, a wood that was older and wilder than the park near the river that she remembered from her childhood in Cokeworth. She was walking down a path, trying to get back to town, any town, one with people and houses and streetlights and automobiles, when a strange woman would tap her on the shoulder. She would turn to face the strange woman and would see that the strange woman was clad in a strange clothing, the sort of dress women wore back in the Middle Ages. The woman would then say something unintelligible.

Just as before, Petunia looked her in the eye and said "What did you say?"

The woman repeated herself.

Like the last couple of times, Petunia said "I don't understand."

Then, just as before, the woman said something else. The woman looked exasperated. A part of Petunia wondered if the woman had the Evans temper. This morning Petunia had come to another unsettling discovery; she realized that the woman had been speaking Welsh.

Petunia spent very little time thinking about Wales. The Evanses were originally a Welsh family, but they'd moved to the Midlands nearly a century ago to work in the coal mines and textile factories. Her grandfather, her father's father, had been Welsh, as had been his wife, as had been the wife of her other grandfather. The only real connection she felt she had had to Wales had been her surname. By the time that Lily and Petunia had come along the textile factories had mostly closed and the Coal Board was about to shut the last working coal mine in the area. When she married Vernon, she let that connection slip away, too. As far as she was concerned, she was English.

The dreams were bothersome, but lately something even more sinister had come to pass. The "funny stuff," as Vernon called it, had started happening again at Number Four Privet Drive.

She and Vernon knew all about the "freaky stuff" that had gone on before. Not only had her sister Lily been a witch, but so had the git she'd married, and so of course that boy she bore him had also been one of their sort. It was to be expected that there'd be "freaky stuff" happening if one of them had been around, although Petunia remembered grudgingly admitting to herself that the amount of freaky stuff had diminished, at least until the boy had dropped the pie on Mrs. Mason's head. But what was frightening was that the freaky stuff had started happening again even before the freak had returned from Hogwarts.

She remembered the first time that it happened. It had frightened her so much that she didn't tell Vernon. The neighbors across the way at Number Seven Privet Drive had had guests, a thuggish-looking man-boy on a loud, rumbling motorcycle and his slatternly girl friend. The man-boy liked to race up and down Privet Drive on his motorcycle and she and Vernon had to endure the torment of its loud rumbling sounds long after decent people would have gone to be. Worse, the man-boy and neighbors loutish insisted on playing loud metal music well after midnight.

Matters had finally come to a head one evening when Vernon had been called away to a sales meeting in Norfolk. The metal music had been particularly loud that evening and Petunia had been so offended that she marched over in person to tell the neighbors to turn down the music. She pounded on the door for what seemed like an eternity, only to be greeted by the loutish son, who responded to her demand that he turn down the music by smirking and then calling her a meddling old crone who should mind her own business.

At that point she lost her temper and the lights in the neighbors' house started flickering. The man-boy and his slattern girl friend came out of the parlor to smirk at her and she became truly enraged, at which point the stereo suddenly went silent and the light-bulbs in the neighbors' house began to rapidly explode. Petunia didn't remember much of the rest of the evening, save that she was able to walk back across the street and the neighbors no longer played their dreadful music nearly so loudly after half past ten. The man-boy and his horrible girl friend left the following day.

What happened next seemed almost anticlimactic. A deliveryman had dropped off a new set of china that Vernon had given her as a gift, Petunia had opened the packages and the plates, cups, and saucers were all the wrong color. Disappointed, Petunia and Vernon had stacked the plates, cups, and saucers to the side and Petunia resolved to deal with the merchant the following day.

Petunia called the vendor the following morning. After interminable waiting, Petunia finally got through to an assistant, who told her that the vendors would only accept returns if they were properly packed, and they wouldn't be able to come by to pick up the plates until the day after. It was late morning by then, and she discovered that she needed to work off her temper. She made the bed in the master bedroom, picked up the towels in the master bath, and set about wiping it down. When she returned after several hours of hard work, she discovered that the plates, cups, and saucers had turned into the pattern and colors that she wanted.

The following three incidents seemed almost minor, were it not for the fact that they involved magic. She and Vernon had received a letter from Smeltings; she opened it and learned from the head that Dudley's teachers had been disappointed with his progress during the past year and that he really should be putting more time and attention into his school work. She laid it out by Vernon's chair for him to read and found it wadded up into a ball when she emerged from her bath. Another time, she found several of the throw pillows on the parlor sofa were floating six inches above the large cushions minutes before Yvonne would come by so they would drive to take tea; Petunia hastily threw the pillows into a closet before Yvonne could ring the doorbell and gave a sigh of relief that her friend hadn't seen them. On a third occasion, a telephone salesman called her while she was cooking a stew; she turned away to answer the telephone and when she turned her attention back to the stove she discovered that the cooking spoon was stirring the stew all by itself.

At first she told herself that she couldn't possibly be the cause; it either had to be the boy or some of his magical friends pranking her. But the incidents continued and her surety weakened, at least until the boy came home from Hogwarts.

Her last walk around the neighborhood had proven equally unsettling. Despite the fact that she was certain that she was no more a freak than Vernon or Dudley, certain of the neighbors clearly believed otherwise. They looked at her strangely, a few crossed the street to avoid her or looked the other way.

One afternoon Petunia was doing gardening in her back yard and heard voices carrying over the fence. The neighbors living diagonally behind Number Four Privet Drive were a retired couple who occasionally had their grandchildren for company. Petunia thought that their grandchildren were generally charming and well behaved. At least she did until this morning.

"So who lives there?" asked a little girl.

"That's the Owl Lady's house," said Mrs. Wright.

"Why do you call it the Owl Lady's house?" said the little girl.

"A couple of summers ago they started getting an entire flock of owls roosting around their house," said Mrs. Wright. "There were dozens and dozens of owls, owls roosting in the trees, owls perched on the houses and owls perched on the cars. It was quite a sight, I can tell you."

"I'd love to see them," said the little girl's voice.

"It might be dangerous," said Mr. Wright, who was also in their back yard. "If she catches you out alone, she'll snatch you off the street and bake you into a pie."

"Really?" said the little girl.

"No," said Mr. Wright.

Petunia sighed with relief. At least they didn't think that she was a witch.

The boy came home at the end of June, Dudley had already turned thirteen at Smeltings, but she and Vernon made up for it with a belated birthday party that not only included Dudley, but also his old neighborhood friends. Harry, of course, had been left out of it; she'd sent him over to Mrs. Figgs. Vernon joked that perhaps the boy's owl and Mrs. Figgs' cats might have things to say to each other and speculated who might eat who. Vernon jokingly wagered that the cats would devour the owl.

Harry went upstairs to his room. He sighed. Another horrid summer at Privet Drive awaited him. He'd be away from his friends and Uncle Vernon had already locked away his schoolbooks and Quidditch broom. At least he didn't have to worry about Uncle Vernon putting bars on his window this time. He looked out his window into the Dursley's back yard. Nothing had changed; it was still the same. He looked over the back fence at the neighbors' back yard and found himself breaking into a smile.

One thing had remained the same from the previous summer on the other side of the fence. The old neighbor directly behind Petunia's house had moved away when Harry and Dudley were nine. The new neighbor was named Vincent Paxton, a man with a cheeky attitude and a dislike for Petunia's spying. After the blizzard of owls before the Dursleys finally relented and let him go to Hogwarts, Paxton had set up a very tall perch that not only loomed over the back fence but was festooned with three plastic owls. Uncle Vernon had been infuriated and appealed to the town council that Paxton's owl perch should be taken down for being out of code. Paxton had been forced to take down his owl perch, but then discovered that an owl perch two feet shorter would be in compliance. Up went the new perch, fully in code, and there was nothing Vernon and Petunia could do about it. Harry enjoyed looking at it.

Harry had a disappointment a week or so later when his friend Ron tried to telephone him. Ron had managed to connect, although he thought he had to yell into the receiver from wherever he'd been calling him from. Unfortunately, Ron had the bad luck to have Uncle Vernon pick up the phone at the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon bellowed in outrage, denied that Harry lived there, and forbade Ron to ever call him again,

Petunia spent the latter part of July in pleasant anticipation. Marge would be coming over, and despite the problems posed by her bulldog Ripper, she enjoyed Marge's visits. She and Marge and Vernon enjoyed many of the same things, agreed on many of the same things, and generally enjoyed each other's company. Marge would be staying for a week. Her one dislike about Marge was Ripper, but she thought she could tolerate the animal for a week, then it would be gone.

Marge had had a rough half-year. She'd first twisted her ankle back in October, then she'd had a heart attack in late November. Luckily for her, she'd had her attack at a dog show and was able to get prompt medical attention. Marge's friend Colonel Fubster had moved away. He'd met a tall, red-headed Frenchwoman named Françoise. Five weeks later he married Françoise, then suddenly moved to the continent and, after a final letter from the Vosges, had severed all contact.

Harry Potter thought that his birthday would be as horrible as his previous ones. And it was, although things turned better at one o'clock in the morning. Hedwig returned from a two-day absence with Errol, the Weasley's owl, and a Hogwarts owl. Hedwig and the Hogwarts owl bore up Errol and gifts from Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid. He appreciated the gifts from Ron and Hermione, was unsure as to what to make of Hagrid's biting book, and after seeing a form enclosed with a Hogwarts letter, worried about how he could persuade Uncle Vernon to give him permission to visit Hogsmeade.

It wasn't until after daybreak that Harry learned about Aunt Marge.

"I'd best be off to the station," said Uncle Vernon. "Marge's train gets in at ten."

"Aunt Marge?" said Harry. She's not coming here, is she?" asked Harry.

"She is," said Vernon, with an unpleasant smile. "She'll be staying for an entire week."

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Author's note: I am deleting the original part one. It lacked what I consider absolutely essential components. This is its replacement.

2. Chapter 2

Petunia Snaps Part Two Marge Arrives at Privet Drive

Harry Potter was created by JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own the rights to Harry Potter and neither desire nor expect to make any money from this story. I am writing for amusement and for ego gratification.

Petunia Snaps *Petunia Snaps * Petunia Snaps * Petunia Snaps * Petunia Snaps

"I'd best be off to the station," said Uncle Vernon. "Marge's train gets in at ten."

"Aunt Marge?" said Harry. She's not coming here, is she?" asked Harry.

"She is," said Vernon, with an unpleasant smile. "She'll be staying for an entire week."

"A word with you, boy," Uncle Vernon growled. "I expect you to be on your best behavior while my sister is around. I expect you to act perfectly normal. Perfectly normal, do you hear me?"

"I don't want to hear so much as a whisper about that freaky place you go to. You don't go there," Uncle Vernon added. "You're an inmate at Saint Brutus' Secure Center for Criminally Incorrigible Children."

"And no funny stuff!" Uncle Vernon said with emphasis.

"I promise to behave," said Harry "if she does." He couldn't talk to Uncle Vernon about the form now, he needed to talk to them when they were alone.

"You damn well better," said Uncle Vernon. He went out the door to get into his car. Harry walked after him.

"You're not going," said Uncle Vernon.

"But Uncle Vernon," said Harry, "what if I forget?"

"Forget what?" said Uncle Vernon.

"That I'm not a whatchamacallit, but a troubled youth at that Saint Blottos—

"Saint Brutus' Secure Center for Criminally Incorrigible Children," said Uncle Vernon. His good-for-nothing nephew chorused the last four words along with him. Uncle Vernon couldn't decide if it was cheek or if he was planning to comply. Knowing his nephew, he suspected the former.

"You wouldn't dare," said Uncle Vernon, clenching his fists. The boy didn't like his sister, but he hadn't made this much trouble about her before. "What is it you want?"

"I need you to sign a form for school for me," said Harry.

"A form for what?" Uncle Vernon said suspiciously.

"A form to allow me to visit the village near my school," said Harry. "Third-years can go, but only if they have a parent's or guardian's signature."

"So?" said Uncle Vernon.

"I'll co-operate if you'll sign your form," said Harry. "I'll do my best to toe the line." He hoped that Uncle Vernon could sense his sincerity.

Uncle Vernon paused, remembering what had happened when the Masons came over for dinner.

"I'll sign your bloody form," said Uncle Vernon, "but only if you toe the line. If you so much as step a toe where it isn't supposed to be, I'm warning you."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," said Harry.

Uncle Vernon opened the door of his sedan, closed it, and started it up. He then drove away to the railway station to pick up Aunt Marge.

Harry then went back inside and then rushed upstairs to his bedroom, freed Hedwig and Errol from Hedwig's cage, and opened his window. He was not going to leave poor Hedwig as a hostage for either Uncle Vernon or Aunt Marge.

"Hedwig, Errol, you've got to clear out. My Aunt Marge is coming over here and she's absolutely horrible. She hates anything that isn't a dog, and you'd be in danger every second you're here. You've got to leave. Fly away. Go to the Weasleys'; it's safe there."

Both owls awoke and looked reproachfully at Harry. Errol still looked worn out from his flight from the Burrow; Harry hoped that Errol was up flying back to the Weasleys and safety. Nevertheless the owls fluttered to Harry's window, then flapped their wings and flew out.

Harry paused in thought, deciding what he should do next. Aunt Marge was probably going to bring Ripper, her pet bulldog. Ripper hated Harry, and had bitten him a couple of times. Harry dreaded the idea of Ripper being loose in the house; he thought wistfully of the dragon-hide boots that some of the swankier Slytherins and Ravenclaws had worn at school. If he'd been able to wear a pair of those around Privet Drive, it wouldn't matter how hard Ripper tried to bite him, the bulldog's teeth would never penetrate the leather.

He then set to stowing away his wizarding and school supplies, fearful that he'd not have the time to hide everything before Uncle Vernon returned with Marge. By some miracle Vernon didn't return as fast as Harry feared he would and Harry was able to get his things into concealment. He gave a sigh of relief.

After a couple of moments to catch his breath, he heard the sound of Uncle Vernon's automobile on the gravel driveway. He must have returned with Aunt Marge. Uncle Vernon opened the front door and Aunt Marge walked in, Ripper at her heels. Aunt Marge was still recognizable, but she'd changed. She'd clearly lost a lot of weight. Not that it improved her looks in Harry's opinion; instead it made her look like what Harry thought that Millicent Bullstrode's Mum must look like. She glared at Harry in strong disapproval. She slid past him and walked into the salon.

"Where's my Dudders? Where's my neffy-poo?" she said, giving him a hug and then kissing him on both cheeks.

"It's lovely to see you, Dudders," she said. She paused, then stared at her nephew. "You've gotten fat."

"Petunia!" exclaimed Aunt Marge.

"Marge!" said Aunt Petunia, giving her sister a hug. "Delightful to see you as always!"

Aunt Marge then turned and took note of Harry. "So you're still here, are you?" she said Aunt.

"Yes," said Harry.

"Don't you say 'yes' in that ungrateful tone," growled Aunt Marge. "It's damn good of Vernon and Marge to keep you. Wouldn't have done it myself. You'd have gone straight to an orphanage if you'd been dumped on my doorstep." From underneath Aunt Marge's arm, Ripper took notice of Harry and added his growl for emphasis.

Uncle Vernon gave Harry no chance to recover. "Go take her luggage upstairs, boy!" he said.

"Dudders," said Aunt Marge. "As much as I like to see a growing boy, you've gotten fat. Why don't you lose some weight?"

And so it went on. Despite Aunt Marge's loss of weight, Harry's relations with Aunt Marge remained as bad as ever. She asked him why he didn't comb his hair properly. She asked him why he dressed in such slovenly clothing, and then asked Petunia why she didn't see to it that he dressed properly. She then asked Harry why he made such poor marks in school. Despite the fact that Harry was certain that Aunt Marge had never seen his Hogwarts reports, he tried to disagree with her and was told that he was being insolent and disrespectful.

After the meal broke up, the senior Dursleys retired to the salon and Aunt Marge told Petunia that if she wished to take better care of her health and the health of her family, she should fry less and refrain from thick, fattening sauces. She then told Vernon he could stand to lose a pound or two as well.

Harry remained behind in the kitchen to wash up. He tried to keep an ear on what was happening in the salon, not so much because he wanted to participate in the conversation, especially not as an exhibit of bad breeding and childhood habits, but because he wanted to keep track of Ripper's whereabouts and not get bitten. He was relieved when Marge decided to make an early evening of it and took Ripper upstairs with her.

The next morning, Harry looked out the window and saw that Mr. Paxton was out in his yard and was surprised to see that Errol and Hedwig had taken places on Mr. Paxton's owl perch. Hedwig must have hooted or something because Mr. Paxton looked at his owl, then looked at Harry's window, then smiled and waved at him. Harry watched with surprise as Mr. Paxton walked inside his rear door and returned a little later with a wide soup bowl and what Harry supposed must be small cuts of meat. Both Hedwig and Errol hopped off the perch and landed on the small outdoor table Mr. Paxton kept under his awning and let him feed and water them.

Harry didn't have long to enjoy the show. A bellow from Aunt Marge told him that he was expected to be awake, dressed, and at the breakfast table to cook and serve breakfast to Aunt Marge as well as Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley.

Harry hastily threw on some clothes and went downstairs. The Dursleys had already cooked breakfast and served themselves before he got downstairs. Harry expected that all four Dursleys would have consumed the bacon and eggs, but to his surprise, there were leftover bacon and eggs on the serving dishes. He'd love to help himself to what was still left; he was rarely able to get a decent-sized breakfast while living under Aunt Petunia's and Uncle Vernon's roof.

"The medico said that I should exercise more," said Aunt Petunia. "I say we should all go out for a morning constitutional."

Petunia's eyes widened at Marge's un-Marge-like behavior, but decided to be a good sport about it. "Yes, why not?" she said, trying to put on a game face. Other Dursleys were less enthusiastic. Both Uncle Vernon and Dudley had had large breakfasts and looked far less eager about being propelled into physical activity so soon after a big meal.

Harry wondered if he'd have to go with them. "Aunt Marge, do you want me to—" he began.

"Not you, boy," said Aunt Marge. "You can remain here and clean up."

Marge rose from her seat, leading the way; she held Ripper under her arm. The other Dursleys followed. Harry heard the front door close from the kitchen. Harry thought of the uneaten eggs and bacon in the kitchen. For once it looked like that the Aunt Marge thunderhead might have a silver lining.

The Dursleys returned from Marge's constitutional all too soon. By that time, though, Harry had managed to have enough breakfast that his stomach, at least, could pretend that it had had breakfast in the Great Hall. He then started washing up dishes and pans in the sink. From student to house elf in seconds, he thought.

That afternoon, he looked out the window to see that while Hedwig was still on the Paxtons' perch, Errol had gone. Harry hoped that Errol had finally flown off to the Weasleys'.

Petunia and Vernon learned that Marge's emergency heart surgery had taken something out of her. Aunt Marge decided to take a nap after lunch on the living room couch, Ripper dozing and drooling on the floor beside her. Harry thought about sleeping dragons, although the only dragons he'd seen were Norbert and the tiny sport dragons he'd seen in Diagon Alley.

Petunia watched Marge doze, and then decided that she ought to patrol the upstairs to make sure that the boys, particularly Harry, would toe the line.

Aunt Petunia did not see anything amiss. Harry's room looked surprisingly tidy. She looked out the window and saw to her displeasure that Harry's pet owl was perched on the ledge outside the window. The owl saw her, too, and moved away from the opening. That bloody bird was all too intelligent. Petunia heard the galloping of tiny feet from above. She wondered if there were squirrels again, and hoped that they were on the roof and not in the attic.

She so wanted them dead and gone. She and Vernon had hired exterminators earlier and either they'd botched the job or new squirrels had taken over. Desperation led to inspiration. She opened the window a crack and looked at Hedwig.

"You don't like me," she said, "I don't like you, either."

The boy's owl cocked her head at her. Petunia wondered just how well Hedwig did understand her.

"Why don't you do something about that squirrel?"

3. Chapter 3

Petunia Snaps Rippers New Chew Toys

Premise: What if events at Privet Drive had occurred differently during the first part of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban? Little differences can add up.

Harry Potter and its characters are the creation of JK Rowling and the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own them, and neither expect nor deserve any financial reward for my story. I am writing for my amusement and for ego gratification.

Marge awoke from her nap in the late afternoon, ending Harry's respite. Harry had used his respite to read Hermione's gift book concerning broom care. Just reading it reminded him of how fun it was to fly, and he briefly let his imagination get away from him and imagined flying around Little Whinging. Marge's bellow from below brought him crashing back to Earth and he went downstairs. It was every bit as unpleasant as he feared it would be. Aunt Marge again lit into him about his hair and deportment, comparing him unfavorably to Colonel Fubster's old batman, whom she'd met a few times. According to Aunt Marge, the batman stood ramrod-straight and was impeccably groomed and tidy. As an aside, Marge asked Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon why Dudley didn't pay more attention to his grooming and posture before she returned to criticizing Harry. Harry found it worse than enduing Professor Snape's criticism; Professor Snape could cut him to the quick, but at least he didn't spend all afternoon running him down.

Aunt Marge started talking about Harry's grades again, scowling at him accusingly while expressing her lack of surprise about his poor marks and his disrespectful attitude. Harry glanced at Dudley and saw his cousin smirk at Harry's discomfort, then saw Dudley's face go blank when Marge scowled at him and asked him about his marks at Smelting's. Harry was almost as surprised as Dudley; he'd thought that Aunt Marge thought that her precious Dudders could do no wrong. Dudley tried to reassure his Aunt that he was doing well at Smeltings, but Aunt Marge's "Speak up, boy!" caused him to stutter into silence. Dudley's second attempt to reassure his Aunt about his standing only drew a skeptical "Huh," as a response.

Uncle Vernon looked at Aunt Marge and frowned. He looked like he wanted to do or say something; he decided to reach for the television remote. Aunt Petunia beat him to it and turned on the television. Aunt Marge then turned back to Harry and accused him of being the inspiration for his cousin's poor behavior. Harry was confused and didn't know if he wanted to laugh or get angry; if anyone else beside Aunt Marge made that accusation, he'd have doubled over in laughter.

Aunt Marge then made another side-comment about Dudley and Aunt Petunia used the television remote to turn up the volume. The television now blared a program about interior decoration every bit as loud as the thuggish boy's from across the street's metal music, but Aunt Marge had to accept that she couldn't be overheard over the program narrators' discussion concerning furniture styles. She glared in anger at Petunia for interrupting her tirade.

In the meantime, Ripper decided that no matter how much he loved his mistress, the noise bothered him. He got up and walked out of the salon. Harry paid little attention as to where the old bulldog went. As long as Ripper didn't try to bite him or go upstairs, he didn't much care. Petunia lowered the television volume when Marge fell silent, and the Dursleys ceased fire and watched the remainder of the program.

At the end of the program, Petunia went into the kitchen and made a great show of first opening and closing the fridge, than opening the pantry and moving things around on the shelves. She then announced that she needed to make a quick trip to the nearest Sainsbury's, and drafted Dudley to assist her. Despite Dudley's desire to receive more of his aunt's largesse, he decided that remaining here wasn't worth it and left with his Mum, leaving Harry alone with Aunt Marge and Uncle Vernon.

Following more critiquing, Uncle Vernon turned the television to a sports channel so he could watch the football playoffs. The network interrupted coverage of the game with a notice about a mass-murderer on the loose whose name Harry heard as Sirius Black. The network then showed a picture of him and warned viewers that Black was intelligent, unpredictable, and extremely dangerous. This in turn caused Uncle Vernon to turn up the volume in case the Black maniac turned up in Little Whinging.

That'll be the day, thought Harry.

"They shouldn't have abolished the death penalty for his sort," said Uncle Vernon.

"Hanging's too good for him," said Aunt Marge. "If I'd caught him sniffing around my place I would have used my shotgun to put him down."

That's assuming that he was stupid enough to ring the doorbell, thought Harry. If he'd been a dark wizard, the first sign Aunt Marge would have had of him would be as he pointed his wand and said Avada Kedevra!

Petunia returned from Sainsbury's about thirty minutes later. She summoned both Harry and Dudley to the kitchen, irritating Marge, who'd started a fresh round of criticism regarding Harry's deportment. Petunia then told Dudley to entertain Marge and told Harry to bring in the groceries. Harry, relieved to be doing something other than remain with Aunt Marge, gladly went out to the car to comply.

Petunia again did most of the cooking, although she did pass off the task of preparing the ingredients to Harry. Once things looked like they were off to a satisfactory start, she went back to her bedroom closet to dress up for dinner. She looked down on the floor of the closet and shrieked with horror; Ripper had decided that her best dress shoes made fine chew-toys and ruined them. Marge shook her head at Ripper's destruction, but implied that she'd pay to replace them, and Petunia let the matter drop for the evening.

The news program came on. After the announcers read the top stories, including a further notice concerning Sirius Black, one of the BBC's television journalists did a feature on the new American president. Petunia was disappointed that she was busy in the kitchen preparing the ingredients for this evening's dinner; she ecretly thought there was something charming about the new American president. She found him boyish and roguish at the same time, qualities so utterly lacking in that dried-up stick George HW Bush. Petunia decided to leave the telly on so that the boys could keep up with the sports scores, and maybe, just maybe she'd get another glimpse of that rascally Clinton fellow.

Aunt Marge didn't like Bill Clinton. "I don't trust him," she said. "There's something shifty about him, just like that boy over there. The problem with the last batch of American presidents is that none of 'em could sit a horse. That Reagan fellow was the last one who could, and he was a bloody actor, not a politician."

After dinner and washing-up, Harry gritted his teeth and unwillingly walked into the salon for more of Aunt Marge's critiquing. Aunt Marge again critiqued his appearance and clothing, then surprisingly made a couple of side-comments implying that Dudley was following his bad example. She even told Dudley to stand up straight and tuck in his stomach. Dudley's jaw dropped with astonishment; Aunt Marge had never talked to him this way before. That was a mistake on Dudley's part; Aunt Marge told him to close his mouth and stop looking like an idiot. Aunt Petunia looked almost as shocked as Dudley.

Petunia tried to talk it over with Uncle Vernon after they retired. She'd always enjoyed Aunt Marge's visits before, but wondered why she found this visit so trying. "Vernon," she said. "What's gotten into Marge? She's never been this unpleasant before."

That night Petunia had a dream about three witches. They were brewing something in a cauldron in the back. She went back there to tell them to stop and shove off, but somehow they'd gotten her to look into their cauldron. The glowing yellow potion steamed and occasionally bubbled as the fire heated it. In a way, it was fascinating and she found herself so interested that she lost track of everything else. When she looked up, she found that the potion had somehow transferred itself into one of her large sauce pans and that she was wearing cooking gloves and a stirrer.

After her dream, Aunt Petunia couldn't sleep and rose early. She decided that she didn't want to show herself to the neighbors quite yet and went out into the back yard. She was lost in thought when her foot brushed against something on the patio. She looked down and saw that it was a severed squirrel's tail. She was so shocked that the only thing she could think of doing was to have the boy remove it later.

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I am following the canon Harry Potter time line here, as set out by JK Rowling in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

4. Chapter 4

Petunia Snaps Monster Book Second Printing

Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own Harry Potter or its characters, and neither intend nor deserve to financially profit from this story. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Petunia Snaps: Two weeks earlier

In another time and place, Carole Shoemaker was forced to rebook her tour of Muggle London from a Tuesday to a Wednesday, and chose to spend her morning visiting Diagon Alley instead.

Hagrid entered Flourish and Blotts and walked over to a display table set in the middle of the store. He smiled at the contents of a bird-cage like enclosure with reinforced bars. Harry would like one o' those, he thought. He reached in and pulled out a book, then quickly closed the cage. "Your pardon, Madam," said the half-giant to a pretty witch he'd brushed against..

"That's OK," said Carole.

Hagrid looked down at the witch. She was in her twenties, perhaps her thirties, auburn-haired, freckled, with a nice smile. The half-giant was charmed by her smile.

"What is it with those books, anyway?" asked Carole. "I mean like they bite."

"They're The Monster Book of Monsters," said Hagrid.

"But aren't they dangerous?" asked the American witch.

"Oh, they're not as bad as all tha," Hagrid said blandly. "Yeh see, the trick is," he said grabbing the book towards its spine, "if yeh stroke it along its spine, it becomes right docile, it does."

The half-giant held the book firmly closed while the American witch gingerly stroked the book along its spine. She did it again, and the book's entire attitude changed. The teeth and claws retracted, the book relaxed, and it began purring in response.

"It likes you, it does," said Hagrid.

"I see," said the American witch.

The American witch smiled, her eyes twinkling in mischief. "I'd like to get a copy," she said.

"Yeh can have that one," said Hagrid.

"But you were the guy who plucked it out of the cage," said the American witch. "You sure you don't want it?'

"Oh, nah," said Hagrid with a gentle, dismissive shake of his hand. I'll get me another one. Besides, it's not for me, it's for a young friend of mine."

"Are you going to keep it?" he asked.

"Actually, I think I'll buy it, then give it as a gift," she said. "My Dad is up in Colorado visiting my Aunt Helen's. He's been complaining that the adventure books he's been reading don't have enough excitement."

"Oh, I think he'll have fun with tha' one then," said Hagrid with a smile and a wink.

"Oh, I think he will," she said.

The American witch turned away and then walked towards the cashier's with her book.

Hagrid smiled, opened the cage again, and pulled out another copy of The Monster Book of Monsters.

After taking the book in a firm grip, he began calming it by stroking it along the spine. It began purring, and he walked up to the cashier's. The American witch had just finished purchasing her book. She looked up at him, gave him a bright smile, then said "Nice to meet you. Thanks for your help! Bye!"

Hagrid walked up to the cashiers with his copy of The Monster Book of Monsters and placed it on the counter. The cashier opened the cover, turned to the back of the title page, looked at it, then closed the book. He looked at Hagrid with concern and said "Are you sure you want this one?"

"It looks all right to me," said Hagrid. "What's the matter with it?"

"Second printing," the cashier replied. "They're trickier than most of them. "

"Most of the first and third printings let you know what they are straight out of the gate. They'll start biting and clawing right after you open the covers. The ones from the second printing don't act that way. They bide their time. They'll wait until you leave it alone on a chair or a shelf or until you're up to page fifty or so, then they'll let you know what they're really about. That's why the second run was short. Unsettled people, it did. You sure you can handle that?"

"Oh, I don't see no problem," said Hagrid confidently. "And I'm sure the boy that I'll be giving the book to will be able to sort it out in short order. He's a likely lad."

"It's your money," said the book clerk. "And don't say I didn't warn you."

5. Chapter 5

Petunia Snaps Part Five Hoots and Promenades

Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and of Warner Brothers. I do not own either Harry Potter or its characters. I neither intend nor deserve any financial compensation for this story. I am writing for my own amusement and for ego gratification.

Author's request: Some ego gratification would be nice. How about posting a nice review? Thank you.

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Harry woke up on time on the third day. He looked out the window and then looked over the fence to see if Hedwig was still there or if she had finally obeyed his instructions and had flown away. He didn't see Hedwig, which saddened him. He felt alone and battered in a household that hated him. Unfortunately, the only chance he had for getting his Hogsmeade permission form signed was to continue to co-operate and pretend to be a Muggle. He put aside thoughts of Hogsmeade and thought of the more immediate future: making breakfast. He had no way of knowing whether Aunt Marge was going to cut back or if she'd eat as heartily as she usually did. Unfortunately, that meant going into the breakfast area and enduring more of Aunt Marge's critiquing. The form, he told himself, think about the form.

He went downstairs. Breakfast was again in his hands: Aunt Petunia hadn't started cooking. Harry decided to err on the side of caution and make sure that everyone would have a little more than enough. To Harry's surprise, Aunt Marge again ate sparingly. She again announced her intention of taking a post-breakfast constitutional and again the other Dursleys followed her out the front door for a stroll.

Two decent breakfasts in a row, Harry thought philosophically. He looked out the window to see if Hedwig was there; if she was, Harry promised himself, she'd get some of the bacon. But Hedwig was still gone.

By this time the Dursleys had reached the end of the block. Their progress had been noticed by a pair of young girls that Petunia knew lived on Magnolia Crescent. The Lyndseys, she recalled, that was their name. One of the girls looked at the strolling Dursleys, nudged her sister, and loudly said "Look, it's the Owl Lady!" Both girls giggled.

"The Owl Lady?" said Aunt Marge.

"Just neighborhood kids," Aunt Petunia said hastly.

Vernon didn't believe Petunia's explanation. That boy and his bloody bird, he thought. He didn't think he was going to sign that permission slip after all. It might be good evil fun to string the boy along, then dash his hopes at the last minute.

"We had a couple of owls land on our roof a while back," said Petunia as blandly as she could, hoping that Marge would believe her. "Now a lot of the gamines call me the Owl Lady."

Dudley found himself bothered by the Lyndsey girls' cheek. He would have found such insolence intolerable if the Lyndseys had been boys. But Dudley didn't dare harass the Lyndsey girls: their older brother was a serious martial arts student and could make short work of him without even breathing hard. Dudley knew that some of the neighborhood kids kept secrets from him and his gang, but even he had heard that Eric Lyndsey had gotten his brown belt and was preparing to get a black one. The thought of confronting Eric, even with his gang behind him, caused a shiver of fear to run through him.

Aunt Marge set the pace and she also chose to walk a bit longer than before. Petunia could keep up with her, but both Dudley and Vernon were looking a bit winded. Dudley begged for a rest break, but was smacked down by his aunt. "A boy like you should be up to a little stroll," she said dismissively.

The Dursleys continued their stroll. Marge began a discourse as to how the Dursleys could go about institutionalizing Harry and keeping him there full-time. Vernon and Dudley enjoyed Marge's monologue, but Petunia was distracted by the disturbing sound of an approaching ambulance. To her relief, she saw it through the next intersection with the siren blaring and warning lights flashing, then heard it doppler away from them. She wondered what had happened, and if anything serious happened to the neighbors. Mister Tower across the street had fallen over in his back lawn with a heart attack or a stroke, the neighbors spotted him some time later and called the emergency services, but when the EMTs reached Mr. Tower, he'd been a lost cause.

Four blocks later and not only was Dudley looking severely winded, but so was Vernon. Thinking of Mr. Tower forced Petunia to look at Vernon with a new perspective: for the first time Petunia looked at Vernon and saw that he was no longer the solid young man who'd courted her. He was no longer young, he lacked a youngster's immunity from heart failure, and for the first time Petunia began to fear that Vernon could have a heart attack.

The Dursleys returned home winded and sweating. Petunia noted that the boy had had cleared the table and had washed and put away the pots and pans. Aunt Marge announced her intention to go into the city to do some shopping, and asked Petunia to drop her off at the railway station.

Harry went upstairs to check on something in his room. Petunia and Vernon had discussed Harry's attempts to co-operate in deceiving Aunt Marge. Vernon had given him poor marks, but she thought he was trying at least marginally harder than some of the older teenagers living in the neighborhood might have.

Harry was gone too long for Marge's taste. She suspected him of wanting to rifle through her things to sell for drugs and liked to keep an eye on him. "BOY!" she yelled. "GET BACK DOWN HERE!" The boy came back down the staircase unsuccessfully to conceal his sullen reaction.

Harry hadn't been upstairs living down to Aunt Marge's expectations. Instead, he'd carefully lifted the floorboard in his bedroom and had pulled out gift books. He planned to read Hermione's book on broom care when he had some free time so he'd have something to think about to distract him from Aunt Marge's non-stop belittlement, but he had to move and set aside The Monster Guide to Monsters to get at it. He pulled out and set aside Hagrid's present; the book was unmoving and inert, just like an ordinary book would be. Harry hoped that the magic that had animated the book's behavior had faded away and that from now on it would just be another book, a book with an odd binding and cover, but just another book.

Aunt Marge's bellow from downstairs stopped Harry's move to place The Monster Guide to Monsters back under the floorboard. He rose and went back downstairs, hoping that the magic that had animated the book's teeth and claws had drained away. In the salon and distracted by Aunt Marge's commentary, Harry was unable to see the book awaken, scuttle off his bed , and then creep under it.

Petunia then drove Marge to the station, a short ten minute drive. But Marge made it a tiring ten minutes by telling her that as the woman of the house, it was her duty to see to it that the two men in her life (the orphan didn't count) should eat properly and lose weight. That she hadn't meant that any problems like blood pressure and heart congestion were on her head. Petunia refrained from saying anything back to Marge while she was driving, but sat behind the steering wheel seething as she drove away from the station's drop-off area.

The drive back from the railway station might have been a return to normalcy, but Petunia's car was low on petrol, so she drove to the nearest service station to put more in the tank. Unfortunately, Mrs. Reed from Poinsetta Lane was filling her car and had brought her toddlers with her. The toddlers recognized her immediately and started hooting like owls until Petunia finished refilling her car, rolled up the windows, and drove away.

Uncle Vernon decided to mark Marge's absence by driving to the office and picking up some paperwork. Dudley stepped out to see some of his mates and left, leaving his door open. For spite, Dudley left Harry's door open, hoping that Ripper would do to Harry's wizarding stuff what it had done to his Mum's dress shoes.

Aunt Petunia looked out in the back and set Harry to cutting the grass. Neither she nor Vernon used a power mower but they did have a push-mower that did the job just as well. Pushing the hand-mower back and forth, Harry was soon hot, sweaty, and unable to keep his mind on the four-legged tormentor inside the house. Petunia watched him, satisfied that the promise of his precious form would keep him in line, then stepped out the front door to make a round of Privet Drive to see what the neighbors were up to. Preoccupied, neither Petunia nor Harry saw Ripper rouse himself from a nap, walk into the downstairs bath, and leave a pile of poo on the floor as criticism for not allowing him into the back yard to do his business.

Ripper then went upstairs. He was an old dog, but he could still climb the stairs himself. He walked through the door of the furthest bedroom, tried to chew on a couple of square plastid things, then gave it up as a bad job when he discovered that they had no treats for him.

He then walked into the second bedroom. He could tell by the smell that he'd walked into the stray pup's bedroom. Ripper was old, but he knew things. He knew that his mistress and the big one were related, and that the big one was the leader of the pack. He and the lady were together. Ripper also knew that the smaller one was third, and the stray pup was fourth. He also knew that the stray was a target. Mistress and the other big one occasionally punished him when he chewed on things, but Ripper was certain that nothing would befall him if he did some teething in here.

He walked into the stray pup's space to find something to chew on. Just to show who was who and what was what, he lifted his leg and peed on the stray pup's dresser. Distracted, Ripper never thought to look under the stray pup's bedding and take note of a hairy, multi-eyed, multiclawed square thing awakening and eying him with malice.

6. Chapter 6

Petunia Snaps: The Chase Is On!

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own it, nor do I expect or deserve any financial reward for my story. I am writing for my own amusement and for ego gratification.

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Much later Harry Potter took a Muggle-style self-defense course endorsed by the Ministry that taught unarmed combat techniques to wizards and witches who'd been disarmed of their wands but were still within physical striking distance of their opponents. One of his trainers was a boisterous but highly-competent American whose enthusiasm bordered on the wrong side of bonkers, at least as far as Harry was concerned. "It's not the size of the dog in the fight!" his trainer liked to shout, "It's the size of the fight in the dog!" Thinking back on what he saw on Privet Drive the summer after his second year at Hogwarts, Harry concluded that he'd seen the American maniac proven at least half-right.

Ripper was an old bulldog whose best fighting days were long, long behind him. He was totally unprepared for what happened next. Nor would it have mattered much even if he'd had an inkling of what was about to happen: there was no threat display, no warning barks, or signs of aggression from underneath Harry Potter's bed, just the quiet clacking of The Monster Book of Monsters' claws against the wooden floor of Harry's Bedroom as the book crept quietly closer to the edge of the bed while the dog left his marker on Harry's dresser.

It happened in less than seconds. The claw-bearing, multi-eyed square thing had already positioned itself within striking distance. Now it scabbered towards the bulldog. Only now did it emit a growl, but Ripper had no time to prepare for the attack. The book was on him.

It had been years since the elderly bulldog had been in his last fight. Even then, his Mistress had intervened to keep the other dog from thrashing him. He'd not even tussled with other dogs to stay in practice, and now his age and lack of practice worked against him.

The book was on him with malice and ferocity, biting and clawing at him. Ripper realized that he was in over his head with a savage opponent without the slightest intention of giving way. He did succeed in pulling the book away with his front paws once, only to find that the book leped again at his face. Shock turned to fright, fright turned to terror, terror turned to panic, and Ripper turned to flee, the book still biting and clawing him.

Ripper fled into the short upstairs hallway, the book hard behind him and nipping at his flanks. Now he did something nobody on Privet Drive ever heard him do before: he began yapping in fright. That gave him no respite, the book continued to chase him, chasing him downstairs into the front hallway.

Ripper raced into the salon, The Monster Book of Monsters not far behind. He ran past the chairs and sofas and into the dining room. He ran around the couch, circled Vernon's chair, then raced into the dining room, the book in hot pursuit. Ripper and the book circled the table several times, then darted out into the salon again.

"What the-?" asked Petunia.

Ripper's terror remained at fever pitch; the square thing was not playing by the rules. Sometimes an alpha dog would make do with a submission or allow a challenger to back away, but the square thing was out for blood—Ripper's blood.

Petunia watched in amazement. Normally, she hated magic, and the thing chasing Marge's dog was clearly magical. But the sight of the book unlocked old memories, memories she'd set aside and deliberately forgotten about years ago. Enough of the old pain had dissipated so that she was able to watch the spectacle of the slobbering, poo-dropping old bulldog being chased by a magical book with malicious enjoyment.

At the same moment, Harry walked in through the door to the back yard and stared in horror at the sight of Hagrid's gift book chasing Ripper.

His aunt gave him no time to gawk. "You, Boy, the master bath! Bring back several bath towels! Do it now!" she commanded. Harry did what he was told: hewent into the master bath and came back with several bath towels.

In the meantime, Ripper used some of the last of his strength to leap on the couch. He looked down at the multi-eyed, multi-clawed copy of The Monster Book of Monsters and peed again in terror.

The book's attention fixed on Ripper, Harry let a pair of bath towels unfold and then leaped on the book. After considerable struggle and considerable wear and tear on Harry and even more considerable wear and tear on Petunia's linens, Harry managed to smother the book in towels so it was unable to move or claw or bite him.

Harry thought that Petunia was going to command him to strap the towels in tape or something and then throw it in the rubbish bin, but his aunt surprised him. Petunia bent down and began stroking the towel-wrapped book. Harry watched with astonishment as underneath the towels, the book's entire demeanor changed. Instead of clawing and biting, the towel went limp and then began to purr loudly enough to be heard through the toweling, much like old Mrs. Figg's better-natured cats.

"How did you get this?" Petunia asked.

"Friends," said Harry. "They gave it to me for a birthday present."

"I'm not surprised," Petunia said in disapproval. "One of your father's hoodlum friends once gave me something like this," she added grimly. "The Wolves of Cumberland; a romance written by people of your sort."

"But I figured it out," she said with a smirk. "Stroke it the right way and it becomes as mild as a kitten."

Petunia handed the book back to Harry. "I want you to take that thing back upstairs or to wherever you hid it and wrap it with a belt or something so it doesn't escape."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," said Harry with more enthusiasm than Petunia normally heard from him.

Petunia then turned her attention to the other source of disruption. "All right you," Petunia said to the aged bulldog, "get off the couch!"

Perhaps if Petunia waited a bit longer, it might not have happened. Or perhaps it would have anyway. In any event, it probably wouldn't have mattered. Ripper reluctantly jumped off the couch and onto the floor. As Ripper sidled past Petunia, he gave her a malicious look and nipped her on the ankle.

The next few hours were unpleasant. Petunia made Harry drive Ripper into the back yard, then sent him to the master bath for a wash cloth, bandages, and disinfectant. After making him put on disinfectant and bandages, Petunia had him help her out the door and into her car, where she and her nephew spent the better part of the early afternoon waiting for a doctor or nurse to see to Petunia's dog bite.

She was sent home with bandages, antiseptic, a prescription for an anti-biotic and stern-faced instruction from the medico attending her to avoid contact with stray dogs.

7. Chapter 7

Petunia Snaps: Part Seven. Clothes Make The Man

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and its characters are the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own it. Nor do I intend or deserve any sort of financial reward for this story; I am writing for my own pleasure and ego gratification.

Speaking of which, I do enjoy ego gratification. How about writing a nice review?

ALSO: An authorial reminder. This is an alternate universe where the events leading up to and including the first part of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban happened a little differently

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Vernon had returned home when Petunia and Harry returned from the clinic. Harry expected Aunt Petunia to relate the full story about Hagrid's gift book attacking Ripper, but she didn't. She did mention that Ripper had pooed and peed in the bathroom and other parts of the house, and that Ripper had bitten her.

Dudley came in a while later as Harry was belatedly wiping Ripper's pee off the sofa. To Dudley's surprise, Petunia told him to put a bowl of water out on the patio for Marge's dog. Petunia knew that Ripper hated Harry, that Ripper had bitten her, but maybe the wretched animal would treat Dudley the way he'd always done.

After Harry had cleaned away Ripper's mess on the sofa, Petunia set him to work in the kitchen preparing ingredients for dinner. In other circumstances, she might have criticized how he chopped, sliced, and peeled, but she was still feeling resentful towards the bulldog who had repaid her hospitality by biting her.

Aunt Marge called in from the railway station and asked to be picked up. Vernon volunteered to drive her home. When Aunt Marge arrived home, Petunia allowed Marge to greet Dudley with a kiss on the cheek and to make a great show of giving him an expensive present. Aunt Petunia then told her that Ripper had bitten her. Marge was unsympathetic: at first she denied that Ripper had bitten her, and then she said that if Ripper had bitten her, it must have been something she did to provoke him. Vernon said nothing in his wife's defense, and Petunia was left fuming and even Marge turning her attention away to criticize her nephew for his slovenly grooming and slovenly clothing habits did little to dissipate her resentment towards Marge and her dog.

Marge then saw what The Monster Book of Monsters had done to Ripper and asked in outrage what sort of creature could have done such a thing to her beloved bulldog. Harry and Petunia exclaimed that a large, vicious stray cat had made its way into the back yard and had gratuitously assaulted Ripper, ceasing only when Petunia and Harry together drove it away. Vernon thought the story was dodgy, but he reluctantly accepted it. After all, Petunia was unlikely to take the boy's part on anything. After expressing her disapproval, Marge busied herself to treating Ripper's wounds, further remonstrating with Harry for not seeing to them earlier, with a couple of asides to Petunia for not doing anything to keep vicious animals out of her back yard.

Dinner was tense that evening: even Vernon noticed it. His sister did most of the talking ; neither his wife nor the boy said anything. Marge interrupted her criticism of Harry to critique the Americans' new President Bill Clinton; she thought the American president was clearly one of the rabble, and like most of his sort, his gutter sensibilities would soon show in his conduct. His wife seemed to be paying an unusual amount of attention as to Marge's dog's whereabouts in the dining room. Vernon turned on the telly, but even that did little to spark conversation.

The Dursleys retired early that evening. Harry made a point of volunteering to wash up. Petunia thought the boy's show of enthusiasm had been laid out a little too thick, but said nothing.

Despite the dog bite, Petunia was able to eventually drift off to sleep. She did wake up to Vernon's snoring, but despite her husband's snoring and the dog bite's pain, she was able to fall asleep again. Her dreams that evening were disturbing. She again found herself in her back yard with the three witches. This time, she recognized one of them as Lily, only this time it was a Lily who had also crossed the forty mark.

"Tuney, could you be a love and pass me that henbane?" said Lily. "I'll be needing it in just a mo'."

"Why certainly, dear," Petunia began.

Her dream-self's response was so alarming that Petunia woke up and spent several hours staring at the ceiling.

The next morning, it took Petunia a little longer to get out of bed and prepare for breakfast. She not only had to do her usual preparations, but she also had to strip off the old bandage on her leg, apply anti-septic, and then apply new dressing.

A flesh wound, the quack treating her had called it, Petunia recalled bitterly.

She heard someone tread heavily down the stairs, accompanied by a lighter trot. Probably Marge, she thought. Another heavy tread came down the stairs, which was certainly Dudley's.

She came into the dining room and was pleased to see that despite Lily's boy's dislike of Marge, he'd done a satisfactory job of making breakfast. She grudgingly gave him credit for helping with dinner the previous evening; he'd done a good job of preparing the meat and vegetables. A memory of Lily joking that potion-making helped her cooking skills erupted before Petunia could suppress it.

Marge then announced that she wanted to make a shopping expedition into the city and that she'd like to take Dudley with her. Vernon gave his consent. Petunia was tempted to say no, but decided to give her assent. Dudley looked less than entirely enthusiastic, which surprised Petunia. She always thought that her son cared for his Aunt Marge. A disturbing thought came to her: might Dudley have been pretending the whole time?

Vernon decided to stay in this morning. Harry set to work doing chores: cleaning up breakfast, making the beds, cleaning the bathrooms. When he was done, Vernon sent the boy out to trim the grass on the front lawn. Vernon still toyed with the idea of refusing to sign the boy's precious form while Marge was here, but decided that it would be sweeter to dash his hopes at the last minute.

In the meantime, Petunia started opening kitchen cabinets and inventorying supplies. She decided that for Marge's final evening at Privet Drive, she'd bake a cake. Despite her vivid memories of what happened the previous year, she doubted that the boy would make trouble this time: he was quite aware that he owed her a very large favor and Vernon had told her that he really wanted his precious permission form signed.

She allowed herself to think a little more about the boy's situation: that meant that she had to reopen more doors to a painful past that she'd closed long ago, but she decided that she needed to do it. The boy had few, if any friends, in this neighborhood, so she could probably trust him to run errands. After all, he was thirteen, still too young to apparate, and as far as Petunia knew, there were no floo connections in Little Whinging. She could trust him not waste the rest of the day making trouble with his fellows. She decided that she could send him off to the local market on foot as a combination errand and reward.

Ripper asked to be let inside again after Harry's departure, and Vernon opened the door for him. Petunia eyed the old bulldog warily, then had an inspiration. She remembered that she and Vernon had a small, tidy bookshelf tucked off in a corner of the salon. She picked up a dark brown leather-bound book approximately the size of The Monster Book of Monsters, caught Ripper's eye, and began stroking the book. Ripper's response was to make a wide berth around her.

Harry came back about an hour and a half later. The local planners had placed the market a long distance away from most households in Little Whinging, and many locals, particularly pensioners and the infirm, had difficulty getting to it. The boy had made good time getting to and from the market, she noted. Harry admitted that he had spent a little of the money Petunia had given him on a spiral ringed notebook and a couple of pens. Vernon thought to make a scene, but for once Petunia disagreed—if the boy was thinking about school, he'd be less likely to make trouble while he was living at Privet Drive.

Vernon then assented to Harry going upstairs, and Harry gratefully retired to his room. He used the opportunity to open his copy of The Monster Book of Monsters and began reading. For the moment, he had relief from both Ripper and Aunt Marge, and he was going to enjoy his respite. Idly, he wondered how the authors would describe and depict a Marge-monster.

Marge called from the station in the late afternoon and asked to be picked up. She and Dudley had been clothes shopping. Harry was there to open the door for them and Marge rewarded him with a smirk as it to say "Do you want to make a scene of it?" Harry did nothing, save to bring in Marge's purchases after Vernon told him to. Harry noted that Dudley looked surprisingly uncomfortable.

"Well, we spent the better part of the day in the City," said Marge. "My precious neffy-poo now has a new wardrobe, and I'm sure he'd like to show it off." Dudley looked surprisingly unenthusiastic.

"Come on, Dudley," said Marge, "let's model some of your new outfits."

""I'm sure that Marge has bought you some lovely clothes," said Petunia, forcing more enthusiasm than she felt. Clothes-shopping for her men, excluding Harry, of course, had been one of her sources of pride. "I'd like to see them."

"I wouldn't mind seeing them myself," said Vernon, who'd noted the risen tension between Marge and his wife and hoped to pour oil on the troubled waters. "Chin up, son, I'm sure you can endure the fashion show."

Harry had often wondered how Dudley would cope with having to wear clothing that didn't fit. Before he'd escaped to the Weasleys' the previous summer, Harry liked to imagine Dudley trying to squeeze into clothing one or two sizes too small for him.

Dudley went upstairs to his room, changed into his first new outfit, then came back downstairs. Dudley's new clothes were too tight; tighter even than the clothes he already had that he was outgrowing.

"A little tight," said Vernon.

Dudley went back upstairs to try on another outfit. The new outfit fit—barely. The colors, though…Harry discovered to his chagrin that Gilderoy Lockhart had had a delayed effect on him and had given him the beginnings of a sense of style. Harry now realized that Dudley's new outfit would look ridiculous not only in the Muggle world but in the wizarding world as well.

Dudley's next outfit was far too tight; both Harry and Petunia saw that both shirt and trousers needed to be buttoned and the center seam was in danger of ripping if Dudley squatted or sat down.

At first, Dudley's one-man fashion parade was funny, then Harry began to realize that he found it sickening. Before he went to Hogwarts, Harry never actually had clothing that either fit of suited him; He'd always had to make had to make do with Dudley's cast-offs. Seeing Dudley's second outfit, Harry deduced that the rest of Marge's purchases were as bad or even worse.

Petunia looked in her son's face and saw his humiliation. She looked at her husband, caught his eye, and discretely shook her head.

"That's enough," she said, a little more firmly than she'd wanted to.

"But Petunia, he's got more," said Marge.

"He can show them off later," said Petunia.

"Dudley," she said. "Why don't you go upstairs and put on something more comfortable? You can always put on your new clothes some other time."

Dudley went back upstairs, closed his door, and did not come back downstairs. When Harry was sent upstairs to announce that dinner was ready, Dudley said that he had a stomach ache.

Dinner was tense again. As she had before, Marge criticized Harry's appearance and clothing, and asked Petunia and Vernon if they had looked into a way of incarcerating him full time. Harry gritted his teeth and tried to think of broom care and being able to go to Hogsmeade with his classmates. His efforts to conceal his emotions were unsuccessful; Marge called him sullen and ungrateful.

Marge decided to have a second glass of wine at dinner. Marge then commented on Dudley's stomach virus. She said that the boy probably got it from hanging around low-living companions and that Petunia should monitor his friends more closely. As an aside, Marge intimated that Dudley was beginning to show a sullen attitude that she suspected he'd contracted from Harry. She suggested that it might be a good idea not only to thrash Harry in the salon so Dudley could watch, but also give Dudley a couple of strokes to discourage him from taking the stray's path. Harry listened and wished that for once he could be as stone-faced as Professor Snape. He glanced over at Aunt Petunia and saw that she wasn't happy either.

Vernon noted the changing temperature at the dinner table, switched the channel to a news program, and turned up the telly. The announcers covered celebrity, accidents, a couple of natural disasters, and then a labor strike on the continent.

Marge had things to say about the striking Continentals. "The problem with that lot," she said, "is that they were not only born on the bottom, they act like they're on the bottom, and no matter how much education and polish they apply to themselves, they'll always act like the rabble they are. Always."

Petunia listened without saying anything, then asked "Vernon, could you hand me the remote, please?" She then flicked through the channels and stopped on a program that covered the burgeoning touristic opportunities in the former Eastern Bloc.

Dinner broke up shortly after that. Mercifully, Marge announced that her day trip to the city had worn her out and that she'd be retiring for the night. She then asked Petunia if she should look in on Dudley to see how he was faring.

"I'll see to him myself," said Petunia. "It could be a stomach virus or something. Boys, you know. Besides, I don't want you to catch it."

That night Petunia dreamed of her Uncle Allan, whom she hadn't thought of for years. He sat there at the Evans dinner table expounding on class struggle and the need for a militant labor movement. Petunia had said goodbye to all that when she started looking for men like Vernon who could take her to a better life.

"The trouble with these Toffs," said Uncle Allan, "is that for all their talk about advancement according to merit and opportunities for the clever and hard-working, they'll never accept you in their heart of hearts. You were born on the bottom, they were born on top and that is the way it ought to be, and that is that."

8. Chapter 8

Petunia Snaps Part Eight A Well Spoken Young Man

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and its characters are the creation of JK Rowling and are the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own them, nor do I expect or deserve any sort of financial recompense for this story. I am writing for my own pleasure and for ego gratification.

Speaking of ego gratification, positive reviews are quite gratifying. Feel free to write one.

Author's note: Part Eight grew on me while I was trying to think of a plausible reason for cutting Aunt Marge's visit to Privet Drive short. I remembered a stock photo of Jason Isaacs (Lucius Malfoy) posed with a pair of dogs and the idea for this section came into being.

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The electricity was off at Number Four Privet Drive when people started waking up the following morning. Petunia hoped that it wasn't accidental magic on her part or on the boy's. Petunia's remarks had gotten to her in areas she'd though were invulnerable.

Vernon rose to get out of bed. He hoped it was a power outage, not the boy and his freakiness. Just as he was getting to his feet, the lights came back on. He was relieved about that, but remembered that he'd now have to go to the bother of resetting the various electric clocks scattered around the house.

The boy was in the kitchen starting breakfast when he arrived in the dining area. Marge and Petunia arrived a little later. Vernon remembered that tensions had risen between the two women in his life and turned on the television for relief.

Dudley came down the stairs a bit later, wearing his old clothes. When Marge asked him why he wasn't wearing his new ones, he blandly replied that he was afraid of staining them while they were out on their walk. Harry silently gave Cousin Dudley a credit for cleverness. He didn't think that he had it in him.

The Dursleys were now seated at table for breakfast. The news program was showing a feature on dog breeding in the United States and recent concerns regarding excessive inbreeding. Aunt Marge frowned in disapproval.

"I know a lot about bad breeds," she said. "Sometimes you get little pups, scrawny things, no good for anything. Not their fault, it's the fault of the bitch who bred them. Sometimes the best thing to do is to put down the whole line, bitch and all. I had Colonel Fubster do it for me more than once; now I'll have to get someone else." Harry was too busy doling out bacon to catch his Aunt Petunia's expression.

The phone rang after Aunt Marge led the Dursleys out on another constitutional. Harry picked it up. It was a woman's voice that Harry had never heard before.

"Is Margaret Dursley there?" asked the woman. "Harry was tempted to tell her to shove off but thought better of it.

"I'm sorry, she's not," said Harry. "She's gone out for her morning constitutional along with my aunt, my uncle, and my cousin. She should be back in about forty minutes. Could I take a message, please? I can tell her to call back."

"Can I ask who I'm talking to?" asked the woman on the other end of the phone.

"This is her nephew Harry Potter," said Harry.

"THE Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived!" exclaimed the woman on the phone.

Harry's mouth dropped open and he felt the sensation of dropping into a pond of boiling oil without a wand. He knew that some wizarding families kept dogs, he supposed that there must be wizarding dog breeders as well, but he hadn't thought that they intermingled with their Muggle counterparts. It was a double shock to find out that they did so, and that at least one of them interacted with Aunt Marge.

"Actually my Aunt Petunia is my biological aunt," Harry said hastily. "Aunt Marge is the sister of the man she's married to."

"Is Margaret related to any wizarding families?" asked the woman on the phone. She was still thrilled to be talking to him.

"No, she's all Dursley," he added, "and Muggle."

"Does she know about you?" asked the woman on the phone. "Should I tell her about your exploits?"

"Please don't," said Harry, an urgent tone in his voice. "My Aunt and Uncle don't like magic and I'd be happy to keep my Aunt Marge in the dark about the you-know-what. My Aunt Petunia still misses her sister."

Why did I say that, Harry wondered. Something to think about later, he decided. He didn't have time to think about it right now.

"Ah," said the woman.

"I can still take your message, though," said Harry. "The phone works fine and I don't think either Aunt Petunia or Aunt Marge have floo connections."

"All right, I'll respect your Aunt's wishes," said the woman. "This is Vivienne Derwent and I'm a member of the County Summer Dog Show. One of the panelists who was supposed to judge the dog show this weekend has taken ill, something Muggle, although you don't have to tell her that. Anyhow, we need a judge and your Aunt Marge is the most qualified person we could contact at short notice."

"I still can't believe I'm talking to the real Harry Potter!" the woman exclaimed.

"You'd better give me your phone number," said Harry. Mrs. Derwent did so, and Harry wrote it down. Wizards might use floos, but Harry thought that phones were more widespread and convenient.

"Can I do anything for you?" asked Mrs. Derwent.

An idea came to Harry, one that made him smile.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "When you talk to my Aunt Marge, could you please tell her what a polite and well-spoken young man I am? I'm sure she'd appreciate it."

9. Chapter 9

Petunia Snaps: Part Nine. The Last Supper

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own it or its characters, nor do I expect or deserve financial remuneration for my efforts. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Yes, I like having my ego gratified. Please write a nice review.

Author's note: rated "T" for language.

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The Dursleys came back from their stroll about twenty five minutes later. Harry had been taking deep breaths to calm himself before he had to deal with Aunt Marge, and was able to deliver Mrs. Derwent's message with a straight face and a polite manner, which still didn't spare him from Aunt Marge accusing him of smirking.

After telephoning Mrs. Derwent back, Marge briefly discussed the upcoming dog show and enthusiastically agreed to be one of the judges. She then announced her change of plans to the Dursleys. "There's a local dog show. One of the judges is sick and they asked me, me, to help judge it," Aunt Marge said with pride. "I'm afraid that I'll have to cut this visit short, Vernon. Maybe I can visit again in September."

I don't care if you do come by in September, thought Harry. I won't be here.

Dudley retired upstairs to play video games after he returned home from the house. He called his friend Gordon, who told him that he and the rest of the gang were invited to go to the cinema with him that afternoon; Gordon's mother would be driving them.

Harry went upstairs and set to sorting his own room and belatedly making his own bed. He looked up and saw Dudley.

"Bloody clothes don't fit," said Dudley.

"I didn't have anything to do with it," said Harry. "I was either here or on foot to the Sainsbury's. If I wanted to jinx your clothes, I'd have to be right there to charm them while you were trying them on, and I'd have to be thinking about it. And most of my mates are at school, not here." Dudley turned around and walked out.

Harry realized that the clothes problem bothered him. Dudley had a golden opportunity to go downstairs and accuse Harry of using the M-word but let it pass. His cousin came back in with a couple of shirts and a couple of pairs of pants with the price tags and pins still on them.

"Well these don't fit, and they're supposed to be in my size," he said. "You explain it."

Harry opened them up, looked at the shirts, looked at Dudley, then looked at the size tags. He opened a shirt, stared at it, then looked at the size tags again. This was ridiculous, he thought.

"Someone put on the wrong size tags," said Harry. "Did Aunt Marge get these off a sale table?" asked Harry.

"Yeah," said Dudley, "what about it?"

"Somebody stitched on the wrong size tags," said Harry, "One of the third years, his Mum used to work in a store in Birmingham. He told me that his Mom watches the sales tables like a hawk. Occasionally the stores get a lot of shirts or trousers with the wrong size tags stitched on. A bloke or two trying on clothes finds out the hard way that they don't fit, and the bad batch gets thrown on the sales table to get rid of it. I bet that's what happened to you. No you-know-what, just some idiot with a sewing machine."

"What the bloody hell do I do with them?" asked Dudley. "If I throw them in the rubbish bin, Aunt Marge will pitch a fit."

"Well, wait 'til she's gone," said Harry. "She's leaving tomorrow to go judge her dog show."

Harry's conversation with Dudley was interrupted by Marge's bellow from downstairs.

"I gotta go," said Harry.

Harry returned to the salon. Aunt Marge favored him with an evil look. "I don't know what tripe you used on my friend Vivienne," she said. "But I'm not fooled. You're still a littlesneak."

"This institution of yours," said Marge, "do they use the cane?"

"Yes," said Harry. Well, they used to, he thought. Mr. Weasley mentioned a couple of his scrapes when he was going to Hogwarts.

"Have they ever used it on you?" Marge asked.

"Yes," said Harry.

"They didn't use it nearly enough," said Marge. "If they'd caned you enough they'd have beaten that insolence right out of you."

Ripper shook himself awake and started growling. Not wanting to get nipped, Harry edged over to Aunt Petunia, whom he'd noticed had picked up a brown leather-bound book that looked a little bit like The Monster Book of Monsters and had started stroking it. Ripper gave both Harry and Petunia dirty looks, but remained by his mistress.

Vernon and Marge provided much of that afternoon's conversation, which centered around people and places they'd remembered when growing up, with occasional side discourses on dog-breeding, politicians, and out-of-control teenagers. Once in a while Marge would comment on the Harry's absent expression while he tried not to let Marge upset him by tuning her out. By the time the time for lunch had come around, Marge had accused him of being a drug-user.

Helping to prepare and serve lunch was a blessed distraction. Harry was able to concentrate enough on the process of serving and preparing food that he was able to tune out Aunt Marge.

Harry was relieved when Aunt Marge took her nap. One more night, he thought. One more night. Aunt Marge will be gone in the morning. If I can hold out that long, Uncle Vernon will sign my form and I'll be able to visit Hogsmeade.

Harry knew that he was not going to have any free time this afternoon. He set to work helping Aunt Petunia to ready Aunt Marge's farewell dinner. Aunt Petunia set him to cutting and peeling vegetables and preparing sauces while she went to work on the cake she was planning to serve for dinner. Harry had brief flashes where he found himself in a triple potions class, not with Professor Snape standing over him, but Aunt Marge.

Dudley must have left to go to the movies by mid-afternoon, but neither Harry nor his aunt noticed; they were too busy. Unfortunately, neither had thought to keep an eye on Ripper, who responded to their new behavior by leaving poo on Vernon's newspaper.

Dinner preparations were well underway when Aunt Marge roused herself from her nap. Marge came back downstairs, saw Ripper's mess, then denounced Harry for his inattentiveness for failing to notice and clean up after Ripper. Vernon added choice comments of his own and told Harry to get to work cleaning it up.

Happily, Aunt Petunia not only had plastic trash bags, but also rubber gloves, and Harry was able to pick up Ripper's ordure and the soiled newspaper, put it in the plastic garbage bag, then take the mess to the rubbish bin. After vigorously washing his hands, he resumed helping his aunt. Harry wondered bitterly if that was going to be Uncle Vernon's excuse for not signing his form.

Marge noticed his failure to deter Ripper's action. She began to upbraid Harry for his slovenliness, but was interrupted by Aunt Petunia.

"Harry, come here," she said.

Harry turned away and headed towards Aunt Petunia's kitchen. If it got him even a little relief from Aunt Marge's non-stop commentary and criticism, he was glad to take it, even if it was directly under Aunt Petunia.

"You, boy, come back out in the living room. Don't you dare turn your back on me when I'm talking to you," said Aunt Marge.

"I need him in the kitchen," replied Aunt Petunia. "There's only so much I can do by myself."

A short time later, matters in the kitchen were sufficiently under control that Petunia set Harry to putting on the table cloth and setting the table. But even as the boy went about doing her bidding, she felt a rising sense of discontent. She had worked hard at being a proper hostess for Marge, yet she realized that she not only felt that Marge was being ungrateful, but that her hospitality was being abused.

Dudley had not come back down since his return from the cinema with his mates. His closed bedroom door soon proved to provide no relief. "Dudders!" boomed Aunt Marge. "Why don't you come in and keep us company?"

Seeing no escape, Dudley walked into the salon as unwillingly as Harry supposed an inmate of a real St. Brutus' would walk to the horse to be caned. Harry didn't know if there was a real St. Brutus' Secure Center or if they used canes, but he had seen a real caning horse; the headmaster between Phineas Nigellus Black and Amado Dippet was an enthusiastic advocate of caning, and Mister Filch had lovingly and carefully maintained the old headmaster's equipment against the day that caning would again be a punishment at Hogwarts.

Marge looked at her nephew and frowned. "That boy of yours," she said. "I like to see a man with a large brisket, but Dudders has more fat than meat on him. Doesn't he exercise? At least the skinny one seems to be moving, even if he spends most of it sneaking around."

Petunia saw the look of distress on her son's face and something inside of her began to melt. She shot a resentful look at her sister-in-law that Marge failed to pick up.

She then cast a glance at her other problem child. Her nephew looked like someone trying to keep a grip on his temper. For all that he looked like the git with the glasses, Petunia had to concede that he had the Evans temper underneath his skin.

Petunia had a sense that the calm in the household was hanging by a thread, and either she'd blow up, or the boy would blow up, or both of them would. She feared the consequences. She'd put in years making herself into a proper middle class housewife. This was her world, and she didn't want to lose it.

She decided to do what she could to lessen the chances of her exploding at table. She decided that whatever happened, she'd drink as little as possible. She still had those fancy bottles of European mountain water; she'd set them out by her place.

The peace continued from the appetizer through the salmon. Vernon went on a long discourse about Grunning's, which Petunia noted that her nephew responded with a vacant expression of polite inattentiveness. If she could just maintain the present atmosphere, thought Petunia, dinner could end on a peaceful note and everyone could retire peacefully to bed.

It was not to be. Aunt Marge produced a brandy bottle and Petunia despairingly realized that dinner conversation was about to take a turn for the worse.

"This Potter," said Aunt Marge, interrupting Uncle Vernon's consumption of a second helping of cake. "You never told me what he did."

Uncle Vernon had just taken a bite from his second helping of cake. He grinned evilly at Harry, took a bite of cake, then took a deep breath. Uncle Vernon's face took on a look of alarm and he started coughing.

"Vernon!" said Aunt Petunia, and rushed over to behind Uncle Vernon and started pounding him on the back.

Harry looked alarmed himself. The last thing he wanted was for his uncle to choke or have a heart attack at the dinner table. If the Ministry didn't blame him for his uncle's demise, the Dursleys certainly would.

Uncle Vernon looked alarmed and gestured. He grabbed Dudley's water glass, gulped down the contents, drew in half a breath, then coughed into his napkin.

"Damned cake!" he said.

"He was a free-lance book-keeper," said Aunt Petunia hurriedly. "He was between jobs when he and my sister died in a motor crash."

"Drunk driving, no doubt," said Aunt Marge. "He probably spent most of his time on the dole."

Harry realized he was losing control of his temper. The lights started to flicker.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again," said Aunt Marge. "It's one of the basic rules of breeding. You see it all the time with dogs. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with the pup. Of course, sometimes the best thing to do in some cases is to put down the whole line. Not just the pup, not just the bitch, but also the litter the bitch came from."

Marge was too far in her cups to see Petunia's face turn to stone and her knuckles turn white.

"The skinny one is a hopeless case," said Marge. "It's a pity he's still too young to be kept institutionalized full-time." Dudley began to grin at Harry's predicament; watching Aunt Marge criticize Harry was one of the highlights of her visits to Privet Drive.

"This other one, though, I see him picking up some of the skinny one's bad attitudes," Aunt Marge continued. "You need to come down on him and you need to come down on him hard before he sets down on the road the skinny one's taken. A firm dose of the strap will begin to set things right."

Dudley's expression of enjoyment at Aunt Petunia's commentary turned to a look of alarm at Aunt Petunia's latest suggestion.

See how it feels, Dud, thought a nasty part of Harry's mind.

Harry knew he was losing control and his prospects for regaining it was slipping away. Harry didn't dare look at Aunt Marge. It wasn't that he was afraid of her; it was what he was afraid he might do. Instead, he decided to look at Aunt Petunia.

Aunt Petunia wore an expression that Harry had never seen on her before. She sat still and expressionless in her chair, her eyes seemingly staring at nothing, her breath slow and controlled. He knew what that meant when he did it; he was trying to control his emotions and not explode. He didn't see that Aunt Petunia ever getting angry with Aunt Marge's remarks; she never had before. In fact, she'd usually been glad to join in with Uncle Vernon's criticism.

"Petunia!" bellowed Aunt Marge. "You're staring off into space like you were mental!"

"As I was saying about Dudley," she began. "I think he needs a dose—"

"Don't tell me how to discipline my children, Marge!" said Petunia dangerously. "I am quite capable of disciplining them myself." The lights began flickering on and off again and the table began trembling.

"Petunia!" began Marge.

Petunia looked Marge in the eye. "Not another word!" she said.

Marge opened her mouth to say something back, then something strange happened. Marge's eyes widened in alarm, she put her fingers to her throat, began feeling around where her Adam's Apple should be, then her eyes widened again.

She looked at Petunia accusingly, then banged her fist on the table.

"DON'T YOU DARE!" said Petunia. Marge sat in her chair speechless in shock and anger.

"You, boy!" said Petunia to Harry. "The garden. Now!"

Harry got up from his place at the table and opened the sliding glass door. Aunt Petunia followed him outside and pointedly slid the glass door closed before anyone else could follow.

"We are going out," she said. "Get your wand and let your bloody bird out—out the window."

"I told Hedwig to go stay with the Weasleys," said Harry.

"Good," said Aunt Petunia. "Then bring your wand."

"But my wand. Uncle Vernon, Dudley, and Aunt Marge will see it," said Harry.

"Cover it with a sweater or something!" said Aunt Petunia.

"No back-chat. Set to it. Now," she added.

Aunt Petunia opened the sliding glass door and re-entered the parlor, Harry trailing behind.

"I've decided to go shopping. I'm taking Harry with me. I'll be back later," said Aunt Petunia.

"But Petunia, dear, you have so little use for the boy," said Vernon.

"He's got a spare pair of hands and I can put him to work instead of letting him loll around in idleness," said Aunt Petunia. "Dudders and Marge get along well enough. You can keep Marge entertained until I get back."

Harry thought this was absolutely bonkers, but the situation in the dining room was already threatening to drive him to cut loose. Harry raced upstairs to grab his wand and a sweat-shirt. As an after-thought, he lifted the floor-board in the spare bedroom, grabbed the small money-bag he kept there, then raced back downstairs. Aunt Petunia had already started the engine when he reached the front hallway.

Dudley looked longingly at Aunt Petunia's car, but only reached the front door before Aunt Petunia had started the engine, backed down the short driveway, and had swung onto Privet Drive.

She did not stop to pick him up. Harry and Aunt Petunia left Privet Drive, reached a cross-street, then turned onto a through road.

"You're probably wondering what happened," said Aunt Petunia.

Harry said nothing. He'd never seen Aunt Petunia quite this incandescent with anger.

"Marge reminded me that I'm an Evans. If I stayed there I would have done something I'd regret."

"But why am I here instead of Dudley?" asked Harry.

"You have a lot of faults, boy, but you don't whine," said Aunt Petunia. "I need to put some distance between me and Marge and if Dudley were with us, we wouldn't get two blocks before he'd start whinging about something."

Aunt Petunia drove the car onto the motorway. Harry saw the signs for the city, wondered where Aunt Petunia was going, and began to settle back and enjoy the ride.

Harry's descent into relaxation came to a sudden and abrupt end. Something made a loud, wet bang under the bonnet, the car's gauges went red and yellow, and the engine shut down. Aunt Petunia quickly shifted the car into neutral and let the car's dying momentum carry over onto the shoulder.

SPOILER: No, Petunia's car's breakdown was NOT due to magical causes.

10. Chapter 10

Petunia Snaps: Chapter Ten. the Knight Bus

I don't own Harry Potter. Harry Potter was created by JK Rowling and is owned by JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I don't want any money for this; I'm not entitled to it. I'm only writing for my amusement and ego gratification.

Author's note: I decided to stick with the movie version of the Knight Bus. Despite the fact that JK Rowling didn't write it, I understand that she liked it at least as much as the version she wrote in the print version of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and if it was good enough for her, it's good enough for me.

Alert readers will note that events of this ride differ from what was shown in the third Harry Potter film. There's a credible explanation for the different events: Petunia and Harry boarded at a different location on a different evening.

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Harry had no idea as to where and Aunt Petunia were going but riding in the car with her seemed to be better than remaining back at Privet Drive with Aunt Marge.

Aunt Petunia drove the car onto the motorway. Harry saw the signs for the city, wondered where Aunt Petunia was going, and began to settle back and enjoy the ride.

Harry's descent into relaxation came to a sudden and abrupt end. Something made a loud, wet bang under the bonnet, the car's gauges went red and yellow, and the engine shut down. Aunt Petunia quickly shifted the car into neutral and let the car's dying momentum carry over onto the curb.

Aunt Petunia sat still behind the driver's wheel, staring off into space and slowly breathing just as she had during Aunt Marge's final comments.

Harry got out and sidled over to the front of the car. Uncle Vernon didn't like him opening the car's front hood, but Aunt Petunia tolerated his doing it, especially after she'd ordered him to wash it in the driveway. He lifted the bonnet to look to see what had caused the breakdown. One of the car engine's radiator hoses had burst, spraying radiator fluid all over the engine compartment.

Aunt Petunia opened the door on the driver's side and walked over to stand beside him. She saw what had happened and scowled at the broken radiator hose.

"Can't you fix the d_ thing?" she asked.

"I'm not supposed to perform magic where it can be seen by Muggles," Harry replied.

"Hardly secret," said Aunt Petunia. "I grew up with your mother after all. She liked to show off her magic on holidays."

Harry stood still in indecision. He did not want to break the law.

"Well, do something," said Aunt Petunia. "We can't stay here, it's too bloody dangerous. If you're worried about being seen, I have an umbrella. I'll open it while you get on with your work. People might be seeing you fussing around under the bonnet, but they won't be able to see just what you're doing."

Harry realized that Aunt Petunia had a point. Staying here on the side of the road with traffic hurtling by was too dangerous. "All right," he said.

"Aunt Petunia, please," said Harry. Aunt Petunia opened her umbrella and Harry pulled out his wand. He pointed it at the ruptured radiator hose and said "Reparo." Aunt Petunia walked back over to the driver's side, and turned the ignition key, but the car still wouldn't start.

Aunt Petunia got out of the car and walked to the front of the car to confront her nephew.

"I'm sorry," said Harry. He saw her expression and backed up, still holding his wand. He looked helplessly at his aunt and her forbidding scowl.

"This is too much," said Aunt Petunia, staring at Harry. "Men! Useless strutting peacocks who can't do anything useful! And to think!"

Aunt Petunia never completed her next sentence. Her rant was interrupted by a loud honk and the rumble of a large purple three-decker bus slowing down to a stop just behind Harry.

A tall, slender man with unkempt hair wearing an outrageous purple bus conductor's uniform stood on the bus' rear platform.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. I'm Stan Shunpike, I'll be your conductor for this evening" said the man in the purple uniform.

Aunt Petunia walked past Harry and the rear platform of the Knight Bus.

"Excuse me, ma'am," said Stan. "We don't take normally take muggles on the Knight Bus."

Petunia caught Stan Shunpike's eye and stared him down. "Stand aside," she said. "I'm Lily Evan's sister. You'll take both of us or neither one shall board."

Were she by herself, Stan might have barred her way. Maybe. Daunted, he stood aside.

Petunia stepped aboard. "Harry, pay the man the fare," she said over her shoulder.

The boy had just enough sense to run back to Aunt Petunia's car, open the car door, grab his precious wand, his sweatshirt, and a couple of shopping bags before he scampered to board this ridiculous bus. Harry quickly dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of gold and silver coins Aunt Petunia didn't know he had.

"Ow many?" asked Stan.

"Two," said Harry.

"Where to?" asked Stan.

Harry couldn't think of a nearby destination.

"The Leaky Cauldron, that's in London," he blurted out.

Stan knocked on the window of the driver's compartment. Harry got a glimse of the driver. The driver had big, thick eye-glasses.

"You 'ear that, Ern?" said Stan. "The Leaky Cauldron, that's in London!"

"So, two beds," said Stan. "All right, Ernie, take it away!"

Stan's directive was echoed by a shrunken head with a dreadlocks and a Caribbean accent.

"Yeah, Ern, take it away! And sit down, it's going to be a bumpay ride!"

The Knight Bus shot forward. Aunt Petunia fell backwards into one of the beds behind the driver's compartment, not an empty one, but one occupied by a drowsy wizard.

"Oi!" cried the sleeping wizard as Aunt Petunia's backside fell into his lap.

"Sorry," said Aunt Petunia, who wasn't feeling particularly sorry at all.

"Not to worry," said the wizard. "No harm done. Besides, you've got a lovely bum."

Aunt Petunia froze him with a stare. "Keep your comments to yourself," she said icily.

Harry allowed himself to be distracted from the bus conductor and heard the interchange.

Harry saw a half-awake witch about twice his age smile at Aunt Petunia's performance.

"So you are?" said Stan.

Harry didn't think he was in too much trouble. After all, it wasn't like he'd inflated Aunt Marge like a balloon or anything. But still, he wasn't sure that Aunt Petunia was allowed to be on the Knight Bus, so he used an alias.

"I'm Harry Evans," he said. "This is my Aunt Petunia."

Stan was reading a newspaper. A man dressed in what looked like a prisoner's uniform was laughing wildly in a front-page photograph underneath a headline that read: BLACK STILL AT LARGE! MINISTRY WARNS PUBLIC!

"Who's that?" said Harry. "I caught a glimpse of him on the telly at my aunt's and uncle's, but I didn't catch his name."

"Who's that? Who's that?" Stan said rhetorically. "THAT is Sirius Black! 'Aven't you 'eard of him?"

"No," said Harry. "My aunt and uncle ignore the wizarding news."

Stan leaned forward so his face was mere inches away from Harry's. "'e's a murderer…."

Petunia never talked about that night's ride on the Knight Bus with anyone. She did decide that she did not want to spend the rest of the trip on the same bed as the rude old wizard. She saw an empty bed a short distance away, took a chance that the bus wouldn't lurch or screech to a halt, and jumped onto it. One she was on the bed, she immediately lay down and tried to keep her attention on the ceiling. The sawying chandeliers did not ease her discomfort.

"First ride on the Knight Bus?" asked the thirty something witch who'd overheard Petunia dressing down the drowsy wizard.

"Yes," said Petunia.

The bus then screeched to a halt as the shrunken head, whose name was Dread, shouted "Old mon with a cane at Twelve O'Clock!"

Petunia started to slide forward and grabbed the railings at the side of the bed just in time.

"You might want to hang onto those until the bus stops at your destination," said the younger witch.

Dread the Head found the sudden stop riotously funny and started a count-down. When he reached one, the bus shot forward again.

Petunia grasped the handrails and prayed for the first time in she didn't know how long.

The rest of the trip had the same nightmarish quality, worsened at times by sensations of being stretched vertically when the Knight Bus slid through oncoming traffic or horizontally as the three decker bus squeezed under low overhead obstacles.

The bus made another sharp turn and then came to another, sudden halt.

"Diagon Alley!" said Stan. "Next stop Knockturn Alley!"

Petunia gingerly sat up in her bed. The younger witch saw Petunia's distress and helped her to her feet.

"Here, let me help you off," she said. Petunia grabbed her handbag and then gratefully accepted the witch's assistance. Out of the corner of her eye, Petunia noted her nephew gathering up his wand, sweatshirt and shopping bags, then walking to the exit to follow her. He looked rather shaken himself.

The witch helped Petunia step back on to solid, blessedly stationary pavement. Petunia turned to the witch and said "Thank you," after which she gave a sigh of relief that her nightmare ride was over.

"Well, what do you think?" asked the witch.

"If it's all the same to you, I think I'll stay with Network Rail," Petunia answered.

11. Chapter 11

Petunia Snaps Part Eleven Meeting The Minister

JK Rowling created Harry Potter and its characters; I didn't. I don't own the characters or their surroundings; JK Rowling and Warner Brothers do. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Petunia Snaps*Petunis Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps*Petunis Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps*Petunis Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps

Rated T for language and situations. I am writing for adults and older children. If the language and situations bother you, maybe you should wait until you're older.

"So where is this place you told the driver to take us?" asked Petunia.

"The Leaky Cauldron," said Harry. "It's off Charing Cross Road."

"Ah," said Petunia, "I've heard of it from your mother, but I've never been there."

"You know, Aunt Petunia, Muggles can't see the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron," said Harry. "If you need my help, I can—"

"I can see the entrance myself, thank you," said Aunt Petunia, and began briskly walking down the sidewalk towards the entrance.

Tom was already standing on the sidewalk and waiting when Aunt Petunia went around him and through the entrance. "Do you need a room, Master Potter?" said Tom.

"I dunno," said Harry, thinking about his aunt, who had just stormed through the Leaky Cauldron's front entrance. "We might."

"I'll hold the bags until you—" He paused. "Until Mrs Evans—"

"—Dursley," Harry interrupted. "Mrs. Dursley."

"Makes up her mind," finished Tom.

"Thank you," said Harry.

"I'll hold these for you," said Tom.

Harry gratefully yielded his shopping bags and walked inside. Business was light this time of night. He went searching for his aunt and found her sitting at a small corner table with a large cup of what Harry guessed was tea. His aunt was steaming as intensely as the hot tea in the mug she was holding.

"I'd spent fifteen years trying to create the perfect, normal home but nothing, nothing I can do is good enough for that woman," fumed Aunt Petunia. "If I had spent so much as another minute in that house with that woman, I would have struck her."

Harry's eyes widened. He'd never seen Aunt Petunia admit the slightest problem with Aunt Marge.

"I never saw any abnormal things before and I was quite happy not to," said Aunt Petunia. "They stayed out of sight and out of mind even when you lived under my roof. Now they're coming out of the woodwork."

That wasn't quite true, and they both knew it. Harry remained silent.

His aunt looked at him.

"Do you want something, boy?" said Aunt Petunia. "Then go get something."

Harry went up to the counter, ordered a hot tea, then returned to his seat opposite Aunt Petunia.

Aunt Petunia ranted all the way through her first cup of tea and Harry learned what she really thought of Ripper and the old dog's habits. He was surprised to learn that while she didn't like his owl Hedwig, she did give it points for being relatively tidy, so much so that she might give Hedwig permission to come downstairs.

Aunt Petunia still had things to say, stood up, and walked to the bar for another cuppa. She began a new rant about the neighbors, Aunt Marge's treatment of Dudley, and then went on a separate rant on how the teachers and staff at Smeltings' treated his cousin. She finished her second tea and walked up to the counter.

"I assume you take normal money," she said.

The Publican smiled and said "We do. Pounds and sometime dollars, US and Canadian. But we don't take charge cards."

"Can I use your telephone?" she said. "I left my cell back in my house."

"No, we don't have a telephone," he said. "But there's a little shop down the block that does. We have a mutual understanding and they let our customers use their telephone in a crisis."

"Good," said Aunt Petunia.

"Come along, Harry," said Petunia. She walked towards the entrance out onto Charing Cross Road. Harry had to move quickly to catch up with her.

It was a tiny storefront that looked closed but still had a couple of small lights on and someone who looked like he was from India working on his accounts.

Petunia rapped on the window. The immigrant looked at Harry and Petunia and let them in.

"We're from down the street and would like to use the telephone," said Petunia.

Petunia picked up the telephone and began dialing. Harry could tell by her finger movements that she was calling Privet Drive.

Uncle Vernon must have picked it up at the other end.

"Hello, Vernon? I'm all right," she said. "The car broke down on the motorway but I was able to get transportation into the city."

"No, he didn't," she replied. "The radiator hose broke on its own, no magic involved."

"Actually he tried to fix it."

"The boy mended the radiator hose, but the car still won't start."

"What? I told him to fix the d_ thing, and the car still wouldn't start," said Aunt Petunia.

"No, I don't know what happened to Marge's vocal cords," said Petunia.

"I don't care," said Aunt Petunia. "Marge went too bloody far, and if the boy did it, I won't beat him for it. Besides, he might know someone who can square things away and put Marge right again."

"Oh, there's somebody there now. Well, leave them to their work then. If they want coffee or tea, Dudders can serve them. The sooner that Marge is mended and they're on the way, the better."

"Where am I? I'm in the city," said Aunt Petunia. "A pub off Charing Cross Road."

"Well, it's too late to come back this evening. You've had a bit too much to drink and musn't drive. No, I don't want to waste money on a taxicab. I'll come back tomorrow," said Aunt Petunia.

"Put Dudders on the phone," said Aunt Petunia.

"Mummy had a breakdown and will return tomorrow," said Aunt Petunia.

"Mummy knows you're a strong boy and can take care of yourself," said Aunt Petunia.

"I'll be back tomorrow, Dudders. I love you and give my love to Vernon."

"Thank you," said Aunt Petunia to the store clerk. "How much do I owe you?"

The shopkeeper gave her a figure. Aunt Petunia opened her purse and extracted a couple of notes. There was also a tip jar, and Aunt Petunia put some coins there for a tip.

They returned to the Cauldron. Much to Harry's mystification, Aunt Petunia was again able to find the Cauldron's entrance without any trouble.

What was going on, he wondered.

Tom ambled over to Harry's and Aunt Petunia's table.

"The Minister would like to see you and your aunt, Harry," said Tom.

"I have no desire to see any sort of priest or preacher," said Aunt Petunia. "Useless fools in robes, the lot of them."

"You don't understand, ma'am," said Tom. "It's the Minister, as in government."

"Well, in that case," said Petunia. She rose from her table.

"Up the stairs, Madam," said Tom.

Tom led the way. Aunt Petunia gingerly climbed the stairs to the second floor. They were old and narrow, and reminded her of a couple of seventeenth century buildings she and Vernon had visited while they were courting.

"The first door on your right," said Tom.

Petunia entered the room. To her surprise, or perhaps not, Harry's owl was sitting on a perch right beside the door. The owl looked dubiously at Petunia. To her surprise, Petunia nodded at Hedwig; the owl was something familiar, howbeit uncomfortable, and Hedwig had done her a good turn.

The room looked very old, like something out of Tudor or Jacobean times. There was a man there, clean-shaven, wearing a proper grey pinstripe suit and bowler hat. He might have been a senior official at Whitehall, but the effect was ruined by a matching cape. He drew a wand, pointed it at the fireplace, and a fire burst into flames.

The burst of magic frightened her. She gritted her teeth and told herself to think of it as a fancy fire-starter.

"Good evening, Harry, Madam Dursley," said Minister Fudge. "I'm Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic."

Harry recognized the minister. In fact, he had seen Minister Fudge once before while he was wearing his cloak of invisibility. He decided that it would be wise to act like they'd never met.

"Good evening, sir," said Harry.

"How do you do," said Petunia dubiously.

"About two hours ago, the Improper Use of Magic Office received reports of accidental magic occurring at your residence at Number Four Privet Drive," said Minister Fudge.

Harry went pale and Petunia hoped that the Minister didn't note her gasp of fright.

"Upon investigation, ministry workers discovered that Miss Margaret Dursley had lost her vocal chords. She is currently undergoing emergency treatment at St. Mungo's and will be released and returned to Privet Drive after they have been restored. The procedure should be complete early this morning, and her memory will be suitably modified."

"I understand that you then set off on a drive," said Minister Fudge. "You then had some difficulty on the motorway. A broken radiator hose, I understand, and young Harry mended it."

"He fixed the hose all right, but he couldn't get the car to start," said Petunia.

"And you used an umbrella to conceal what your nephew was doing," said Minister Fudge. "I doubt that even a witch or a wizard with a sneak-o-scope could have seen what he was about. Your discretion is admirable."

"Thank you," Petunia said warily.

"I understand that you then boarded the Knight Bus and rode it into the city," said Minister Fudge. "Admirable pluck."

"The conductor said that I wasn't allowed to board," said Petunia, frowning at Minister Fudge.

"Technically no, but for some reason or other you were able to see the bus," said Minister Fudge.

"And now you're both here and you're safe," said Minister Fudge, looking pleased with himself, "and that's what counts."

"Madam Dursley, what do you want done about your automobile?" said Minister Fudge.

"Just move the car someplace where it will be safe from hooligans and I can have it towed to a garage and repaired tomorrow," said Aunt Petunia.

"Already done," said Minister Fudge. "Your car will be fixed and you will be able to drive it home tomorrow. We'll bring someone by the Cauldron when you're ready to pick it up."

"I didn't think anyone in the wizarding world was that good with cars," said Harry.

"Ah, but many of us have friends and relations who have friends and relations, young Harry," said Minister Fudge. "Some of those relations might not be magical, but they make up for it by being good auto mechanics."

"Madam Dursley, your car should be back in good working order and ready for you tomorrow."

Or someone's head will roll, thought Petunia. Underneath the smiles and bonhomie, this man was a scheming politician. He must want something.

"Thank you," said Petunia.

"In the meantime, I invite you both to enjoy the hospitality of the Leaky Cauldron," said Minister Fudge. "I believe Tom has a room for both of you to spend the night. You can ask downstairs for the keys."

Petunia and Harry both rose, thinking that the interview was nearing its end.

"And Harry, I would ask you to co-operate by remaining here at the Cauldron or within the bounds of Diagon Alley for the remainder of your school holiday," said Minister Fudge. "And please don't stray."

Minister Fudge turned his attention to Petunia. "Would that be satisfactory, Madam Dursley?"

"Yes," said Petunia.

"I do have a few things back in Little Whinging that I'll need for school," said Harry.

"I'll have someone co-ordinate their retrieval with you later," said Minister Fudge.

Good-byes were exchanged, and aunt and nephew departed. Minister Fudge sighed in relief. He was none too sure about which one of those two had performed the accidental magic. Albus Dumbledore had airily assured him that Petunia Dursley, nee Evans, had been tested in childhood and found to be lacking in magic. Dumbledore had scoffed at the notion of either Mister or Madam Dursley possessing magic. But sometimes, as Minister Fudge was uncomfortably aware, women well into their middle years began to manifest magical abilities even if they'd spent their childhood and earlier adulthood as Muggles.

Was Madam Dursley one such? He hoped not. Her sister, Harry Potter's mother, had been a member of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix. He did not want Petunia Dursley to fall into the wily old headmaster's orbit. She could make an admirable spokeswoman for Dumbledore's views, something Fudge did not want. And, perhaps even worse, she was a formidable harridan in her own right, and the less he had to deal with her, the better.

12. Chapter 12

Petunia Snaps Fertility Rites and Talk

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own Harry Potter, its situations, or its characters. I neither deserve nor expect any financial reward for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

For those seeking to see how the first part of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban played out in canon, read the book or watch the movie

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*

Harry and Aunt Petunia went back downstairs to seek out Tom and Harry's meager luggage. Tom personally escorted them back upstairs and showed them to a room. Petunia wasn't that impressed; the room was as antique as the one where she'd been greeted by the minister. She hoped for air-conditioning, but there was only an anachronistic-looking ceiling fan overhead with blades that Petunia suspected were controlled by magic. She searched for a light-switch but was disappointed to see only candles and a very old-fashioned table lamp that wouldn't have looked out of place when Victoria was Queen of Great Britain and Ireland..

Wizards, she thought disparagingly. They do love their magic and pretending that they lived in the Middle Ages. At least the management of the Cauldron had the decency to provide double beds.

She walked around their accommodations and was relieved to learn that this room had its own separate bathroom, a pleasant feature offset by the fact that it required hand-lit lamps for illumination.

A knock at the door interrupted Petunia's musings. She walked over to open it. A girl dressed in a maid's uniform topped by a witch's hat stood just outside.

"Compliments of the management, Mrs. Dursley, and we hope it proves satisfactory," said the maid.

Aunt Petunia opened the large package and found a night dress and a pair of slippers. She brought the collar and the sleeve up to her nose and sniffed. It was clean. A night with the freaks and weirdos and away from Aunt Marge might prove tolerable after all.

"Thank you," she said.

"There's another bag, Ma'am," said the maid.

This one was smaller. The second bag contained two packaged toothbrushes, a tube of toothpaste, a couple of bars of soap, a hairbrush, and a pair of combs. Aunt Petunia studied the items in the bag and she had to clench her teeth together to keep her jaw from dropping in amazement. From the packaging and the trademarks, they might have come from Tesco's.

"Harry," she called over her should, "Bring me my purse."

Harry walked over with Aunt Petunia's purse. Aunt Petunia opened it, hesitated for a moment, then gave the maid two one-pound coins.

"Thank you, ma'am," said the maid. "Good night."

Petunia decided to be the first to use the bathroom. She took off her party dress and hung it on a hook on the back of the bathroom door. She then set the packages with her night dress on the small bench and first washed off her make-up, then stepped into the shower and washed off much of the tension of the day now ended.

Coming out and now clad in her night dress, she told her nephew that it was his turn to go in, which he gratefully did. She was asleep before he came out.

She scarcely remembered her first dream, save that it was about her and Vernon and Dudley seated on the grass in some park or other and having a picnic. There was a stream and other picnickers on the side. She didn't know who they were, but decided that they were friendly enough to merit a wave, which she gave them.

She then woke up and found herself back in the Leaky Cauldron. Enough light came through the window that she could see her nephew sound asleep.

Despite the fact that she, too, had had a long, trying day, she found that she was unable to sleep. She remembered that one of her sister's scruffy friends saying that wizarding pubs kept later hours than their Muggle counterparts, and decided to go downstairs for a nightcap. She regretted not having a go-bag like the female super-spy in that movie she and Yvonne had gone to two weeks ago; all she had was her party dress. She changed out of her night dress, put her party dress on, and went out the door

Surprisingly there was a loud and noisy crowd reveling downstairs. It was a mixed crowd of men and women, and even from the top of the stairs, Petunia felt that their behavior bordered on the indecent. She was quite certain that the the men in the crowd were all wizards. There were a surprising number of younger women all tarted up flirting with them. Petunia was surprised to see that some of them looked to be in their late twenties and early thirties, at an age where they ought to know better.

She descended the stairs, gritted her teeth, and told herself that she'd make a straight path to the bar, order her drink, swallow it, then go back upstairs and lock the door.

To her dismay there was a male blocking her path. "Hello, Darlin', would you like to go have a frike with me?" asked a pudgy, ruddy-faced acne-scarred man wearing a wizard's hat, although Aunt Petunia did give him credit for a nice suit. A tall, dark-skinned stranger looking for all the world like a runaway Heathcliff from a Wuthering Heights dramatization took his arm and gently pushed him away.

"No, I don't think that the lady's interested," said the tall stranger to the pudgy wizard.

"Why don't we take this small table over here," he said. "You can have your drink without being interrupted."

"So what is going on?" said Petunia.

"Squib mothers. Trying to have magical babies," he said.

He looked her over. "You don't look like the sort," he said.

"I'm not," she said. "I came down for a night-cap before I went to sleep."

"Muggle?" he asked.

Petunia looked sharply at him. But why pretend?

"I believe so, although I've recently started seeing strange things here and there," she said.

She'd have to say it sometime, she thought to herself gloomily. "I might also have released some accidental magic on my own."

"So what brings you to the Leaky Cauldron?" he asked.

"My nephew's a-." She stopped. "Someone of your sort," she said. "I had a quarrel with my sister-in-law, then left before I did something I'd regret. We had a breakdown on the motorway. He had his wand out and somehow summoned something called the Knight Bus. This was the first address that popped out of his mouth and we decided to spend the night here."

"So no ulterior motives, then?" said the stranger.

"No, I'm married," she said. "I have a husband and a son of my own. I love both of them and I intend to remain faithful."

"Then you don't have to worry about me," said the wizard. "I was about to have a late-night drink myself, then go upstairs and go to bed."

"You sound like someone who likes listening," she said. "That wasn't true of the wizards I'd met."

"That's one of our failings," he said. "We talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, but we usually don't listen," he said.

"You seem to be a woman who needs to talk," he said.

"You seem to be good at listening," she said.

"I've got some muggle and squib cousins of my own. They've told me that I should seriously consider becoming a psychologist or a social worker," he said.

For the first time in years, Petunia smiled at something a wizard had said. The last time she'd done it, it was at a remark that one of her sister's husband's scruffy friends had made, a sad-looking man named Remo or Seamus, as she recalled.

One of the barmaids noticed them. Both of them ordered drinks.

They both quietly waited for the drinks to be served. Despite the crowd, they didn't have to wait very long. Petunia was grateful that the stranger was sitting with her; she wouldn't have to worry about being propositioned by some of the other wizrds.

The Heathcliff figure paid for both of them.

"Were you in the war?" asked Aunt Petunia.

"I wasn't brave in the last wizarding war," he said. "I kept my head down and hoped that I wouldn't get noticed."

"My sister was in it," said Petunia. "She and her husband were killed. I separated myself from any of her connections from the wizarding world and moved to one of the new towns. Not that I had many connections; I'd grown up Muggle and both my sister and I are Muggle-born. I would have stayed away entirely, except for the fact that my sister's orphan turned up on my doorstep."

"Was there magic in your household?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Mostly the boy's."

"How do your neighbors react to magic in your household?" he asked.

"I'm now called the Owl Lady," said Petunia.

The Heathcliff-figure smiled. "Well, from my point of view there are worse things to be," he said.

"And your nephew?" he asked.

"No fault of mine," she said. "My husband and I tried to suppress it. We thought he'd do better as a-." Petunia stopped herself. " He'd do better as a Muggle."

"Did it work?" he asked. Petunia could sense the disapproval in his tone of voice. She could not bring herself to look at him.

"No," she said.

"Magic is not something you can beat out of someone," he said. "It is there and will remain there, whether you like it or not. You were extremely foolish to try to suppress it. It looks like you're learning the lesson all over again."

Petunia sat uncomfortably in her seat. She desperately wanted to talk about something else.

Petunia realized that the stranger probably read her like a book. She expected the stranger to upbraid her for her treatment of Harry, but for some reason he refrained. Instead, he changed the subject.

"I didn't have a choice," he said. "I grew up in a magical family and I knew that I was a wizard," he said.

"Once you discover that you're a witch or a wizard, do you have to stay in the magical world?" asked Petunia.

"Not necessarily," said the stranger. "I saw an old mate of mine half a year or so ago. We used to be thick as thieves back in Hogwarts. One of the best flyers on a broom you ever saw. Then he broke one rule too many, had his wand snapped, and was then expelled. I thought I'd seen the last of him."

"But then there I was in the airport at Marseille, and there he was. He was dressed in a Muggle airline pilot's uniform. He'd found a way to continue flying. After he was expelled from Hogwarts, he went on to a Muggle school, took Muggle flight training, and became a Muggle airline pilot. He flies commercial airliners, has thousands of hours of flying under his belt, and is every bit as happy doing it as he was flying over a Quidditch pitch."

He smiled in reminisce. "My hat's off to him. Flying a broom is one thing, flying a big, complicated Muggle airliner is something else again." He shook his head. "I could never do it."

"So you've discovered that you're a late-blooming witch," he said. "What are you going to do, madam?"

"I don't know," said Petunia. "There was a time when I was younger that I would cheerfully have followed my sister to Hogwarts and learned how to become a witch. But she had powers then and I didn't. I felt angry and cheated."

"After she went off to school I started learning how to become a Muggle. I found a job, then found a husband, got married, and had a son. I built a good life for myself. I LIKE being a Muggle. I love my husband and I don't want to lose him. I have fifteen years of marriage and I don't want to toss it all aside because only now, after I've married, after that bastard killed my sister, do I develop powers."

"I want to keep my husband," said Petunia. "I want to stay with him and grow old. I hope to see my grandchildren. I don't know about the rest."

"You'll have to decide something," said the Heathcliff figure.

"I suppose," said Petunia.

"What path has your nephew chosen?" he asked.

"He's chosen to become a wizard," said Petunia.

They both sat in silence, surrounded by the noisy revelers. Eventually they realized that they were unwilling or unable to say anything else to each other and that their conversation was at an end.

"I'll walk you up the stairs," said the stranger.

He did just that, following a cheerful wizard and a happy but intoxicated woman in her late twenties that Petunia thought dressed like a tart go up the stairs and walk down the hall before reaching the top..

Petunia entered her room and locked the door.

There was just enough light in the room that Petunia was able to find the box of matches and light the candle on the nightstand. She slipped off her party dress, put the night dress back on, blew out the candle, and slipped back under the covers. Despite the faint noises from downstairs and the rumble of traffic off Charing Cross Road, she fell asleep almost immediately.

13. Chapter 13

Petunia Snaps First Light of Day

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own Harry Potter, its situations, or its characters. I neither deserve nor expect any financial reward for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Gratify my ego. Please write and post a nice review.

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*

Petunia awoke alone in a strange bed in an unfamiliar room. There were traffic noises outside her window, the sounds of a large city during the early morning. She gasped in fright for a moment, then remembered the tumultuous events of the previous day. The Leaky Cauldron, she thought, with the freaks and weirdos. She still didn't like them very much, but she didn't hate them as much as she had the previous morning.

She looked over at the other bed. It was empty. Her nephew had awoken and gotten out of bed. She sat up, looking for him. He was standing by the window looking at the motor traffic on Charing Cross Road.

"Have you washed up yet?" she asked.

"Yes," said her nephew.

"Good," she said. "I'll go in the bathroom, wash up, and we can go downstairs for breakfast."

She had to light candles in the bathroom to see what she was about. She thought more disparaging thoughts about wizards and their attachment to medievalism as she washed her face, then showered.

She put on her night dress before she emerged, showered and clean, if not made up.

She turned to her nephew. "Why don't you step out into the hallway while I change?" she said.

"All right," he said.

They both went downstairs for breakfast a few minutes later. Petunia recognized several of the wizards and squibs who had been partying the previous evening. They looked subdued and a little shame-faced.

They ought to be, she thought.

The Cauldron was beginning to fill up with a morning crowd: wizards, witches, and other creatures from other parts. A few came in through the front door, others from the back. That must be Diagon Alley back there, she thought. A few cast eyes over in her direction. What did they think of her, she thought. She thought of the couples from the previous evening and grimaced. Petunia felt extremely uncomfortable and wished that she'd brought a change of clothing.

Her nephew looked uneasy himself. He had somehow scraped up enough money from somewhere to buy a cap; he was wearing it with the visor pulled low over his forehead. She wondered why; this was his world, not hers.

It was now about 8:30 or so. Mid-morning. She wondered how Vernon and Dudders were doing. It had been a long time since she'd gotten angry at the two of them, never with the funny stuff happening, and she'd never left the house after losing her temper.

She supposed she'd have to call the funny stuff for what it was—magic. She wondered if the Ministry of Magic sponsored training programs for late-bloomers so they could keep their magic from running wild. Hers had. She thought of Marge and grimaced.

She wondered who she could contact about such a class. There weren't very many people in the boy's world that she trusted. Of those she knew, most of them were dead or worse. Of the living, she certainly didn't trust Dumbledore: that man's scheming had gotten Lily dead. Lily's husband's friends had been hooligans, and to underscore her opinion, there were multiple posters about Sirius Black. She wondered about the creepy boy from her days in Cokeworth and wondered how he'd turned out.

She might even have asked his mother, if she were still around; she'd met her once or twice. But the woman had been raised as one of them, and still looked down her nose at her and Lily for merely existing.

She thought about the boy's school. Lily had mentioned that a woman named McGonagall had been head of her house when she had attended Hogwarts. She wondered if she was still there.

She was about to ask him when a girl separated from her parents and walked over to her table.

"Well if it isn't Potty?" she said."What are you doing here? Providing stud service for Squibs?"

"I'm his aunt," Petunia cut in. "Who might you be?"

Petunia looked at the girl's outfit. She noted the girl's green and silver pin: a Slytherin. The girl looked ready to respond when her mother put her hand on her shoulder.

"Cressida Sedges, what did I tell you about Muggle-baiting?" said the woman. The woman looked at Harry and her eyes widened. She then looked at Petunia, studying her features.

"Are you Lily's sister?" she asked.

Petunia at first thought to deny it, but thought better of it.

"Yes," she said.

"I knew your sister at Hogwarts," she said. "Rival houses, but I admired her anyway. I can see where her fire came from. Our world is sadder from her loss."

"Thank you," said Petunia.

"A pleasure to meet you, madam," said the older witch.

"Petunia," said Petunia.

The two nodded at each other. The older witch turned to her daughter. "Come away, Cressida," she said, and walked away, taking her daughter with her.

Petunia wondered when her car would be ready. From the sound of it, the Minister implied that he'd have real mechanics work on it, not nincompoops with wands. If he carried through, it would still be a couple of hours before it was ready. Someone else probably had their car qued in front of it, and then they'd have to drive from the garage over to this part of London. She'd be here for a while.

She didn't much like sitting in the Leaky Cauldron. She felt cut loose, adrift, disconnected from the real world. Sitting in this pub with wizards, witches, and other assorted weirdos gave her the uneasy feeling that the real world ceased to exist.

One of the barmaids came by and brought them a menu. She looked down the list of menu items, found something suitable, and closed her menu in grudging approval. Someone here must know how to accommodate Muggle diners. Her nephew ordered bacon and eggs, she ordered grapefruit with toast, adding strawberry yogurt as an afterthought. The boy ordered tea, she wanted something stronger; she chose coffee.

There were several posters attached to the walls with ominous headlines: 'HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WIZARD?'. Petunia looked at the photograph in the posterand was surprised to see who it was: Sirius Black, one of Lily's friends. It must have been taken at the time of his imprisonment. She wondered what he looked like now; he probably looked the worse for wear these days. Well, she wasn't getting any younger, either.

She remembered her doubts as to whether Black had betrayed her sister. He hadn't seemed to be the sort. He had always struck her as being a reckless, spit-in-your-eye sort who fancied himself as a wizarding version of a swashbuckling adventurer. She would have thought that the person most likely to betray her sister and her husband was that little follow-along Peter What's-his-name, not his best mate Sirius. But the tribunal, she forgot its name, had pronounced him guilty and sentenced him off to life imprisonment in Azkaban, the wizard's prison. She'd assumed that they'd made the right decision; even growing up as a member of the working poor, she'd expected British authority to do the right thing.

Twelve years older and after two years of watching the wizarding powers-that-be indulge her nephew's antics, she still placed confidence in Her Majesty's Government, but she lacked that assurance about its magical counterpart. At this point, Petunia realized that she didn't care that much if Sirius Black was in prison for a crime he didn't commit. As far as she was concerned, a few years in Her Majesty's Prison would have knocked the hooliganism right out of him. But she very much cared if her sister's murderer's accomplices were still wandering around loose. She wanted them caught and punished.

Petunia and the boy, Petunia supposed that she might want to start calling him Harry, finished breakfast. She asked for the check, but was told that breakfast was paid for.

"What's that street out the front?" Petunia asked her nephew.

"Charing Cross Road," he replied.

Petunia opened her purse and discovered to her relief that she still has some coins in her purse. She put some coins on the table as a tip and rose from her chair.

"I'd like to get a paper," she said.

Petunia made her way out the front door, her nephew behind her, and stepped out the front door.

To her relief, once she was clear of the Cauldron she found herself back in the light and noise and traffic of a great city, and started walking down the street. She soon found what she was looking for. About two blocks down from the Cauldron there was a small newsstand two blocks down from the Cauldron.

From behind the stacks of newspapers and magazines, the vendor peered at Harry and his aunt, noting the half-concealed wand Harry had put up his sweatshirt.

"What's your pleasure, Ma'am?" he said to Petunia.

"The Daily Telegraph," said Petunia.

"We also have the word of the Prophets, if you're interested in what they have to say today," said the vendor.

"Beg pardon?" said Harry.

"He means he's also got copies of the Daily Prophet," said Petunia.

"Your mum's sharp," said the vendor. "We sell 'em under the counter to the right sort of folk. We do it discreet, keeps the Beaks happy."

"I'll take a Prophet, then," said Harry, momentarily abashed. He hadn't seen his aunt show more knowledge about parts of the magical world than he did until she'd tamed his copy of The Monster Book of Monsters.

The vendor put Harry's Prophet inside Petunia's Telegraph, and handed it to Petunia.

"Here you go, ma'am," he said.

Now armed with a bit of contact with the real world, Petunia felt that she could face the world of magic again. But first she wanted to stroll a few blocks on a real street in a real city before heading back to the Leaky Cauldron. She crossed the street, started down the next block and overheard a heated conversation that immediately drew her attention.

"We have over one hundred pairs of these bloody trainers that don't sell and they're occupying valuable space that we need for the new styles coming in tomorrow. We need to get rid of them and get rid of them fast. I don't care how far we have to mark them down, but I want them out, out of here," said an irate man who looked to be ten years her senior. He must be the owner or the manager, Petunia realized.

"Whatever you say, sir," said a harried-looking shop girl. She must work for him, thought Petunia.

Instincts honed by years of trying to look fashionable yet having to scrimp kicked in.

"Excuse me," said Petunia. "Could we see those shoes?"

The manager ushered Harry and Petunia into his shop and set the shop girl to attending them. Petunia opened the box and frowned in disapproval. Not so much at the shop girl, not even at the shoes, which were well-made and sensible-looking.

"How much are they?" asked Petunia.

The shop girl quoted a price. Petunia scoffed, and the shop girl quoted a lower price, one that was in reason.

"What's your shoe size, Madam?" asked the shop girl.

Petunia told her her shoe size, the shop girl disappeared to the back, then re-emerged with a box.

Petunia tried them on. They fit. She decided that she'd buy them. She'd been wearing low-heeled dress shoes when she and the boy had left Privet Drive. If she should choose to explore Diagon Alley or even walk around the Cauldron, she wanted practical footwear.

Inspiration struck her. The boy had been helpful. She looked at his trainers. They needed replacing.

"Harry, why don't you try on a pair or two while we're here," she said.

Harry's eyes widened in surprise; Aunt Petunia hadn't bought him a new pair of trainers for about as long as he could remember. Still, he would like new trainers, and as long as his aunt was in this contrary mood, he might as well take advantage of it.

"And your shoe size, sir?" said the shop girl. Harry felt distracted; the girl was good looking.

A short time later, they emerged from the store, Petunia and Harry now wearing new trainers, and Harry wondering if his aunt had been hexed and who had done the hexing. He was quite sure that he hadn't.

Petunia felt a strange sensation, a feeling that she might be in danger if she remained on Charing Cross Road much longer.

"Let's return to that Cauldron place," she said.

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*

I wish to express my admiration for the author of By Baker Street Station, I Sat Down And Wept. Part of this chapter was a tribute to a very enjoyable, well-written fan fiction

14. Chapter 14

Petunia Snaps Noontide Part One

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own Harry Potter, its situations, or its characters. I neither deserve nor expect any financial reward for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Gratify my ego. Please write and post a nice review.

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps

Petunia and Harry returned to the Leaky Cauldron a short time later, Petunia holding her copy of The Daily Telegraph and the shoe box with her dress shoes. Harry again noted that his aunt had no trouble finding the entrance and again wondered what was going on. His aunt had never showed any signs of magic before; why should she be able to see the entrance?

Someone was waiting for her after she entered the pub. A girl in her twenties said "Madam Dursley!" "Madam Dursley!" and made her way over to where Petunia and Harry were standing.

"I am Petunia Dursley," said Petunia.

"I am Ondine Poole and I'm with the Ministry," said the girl. Petunia looked over the girl's clothing and decided that however she felt about women working outside the house, this girl needed more instruction if she ever hoped to blend in with her Muggle counterparts.

"Minister Fudge sent me to help you with your automobile. I am told that the mechanics have looked at it, but the mechanic we use had a family emergency, so they won't have your car ready for you until late afternoon."

Petunia thought about her meeting with Minister Fudge the previous evening and hoped that heads would roll. She sighed with exasperation.

"You wouldn't happen to have a telephone on you, would you?" she asked.

The girl grimaced. "As a matter of fact, I do. The Ministry issued me one, but I don't know how to use it, really."

"Could I use it, please?" asked Petunia.

The girl went fishing in her bag and brought it out. She handed it to Petunia and watched as Petunia pressed the phone button and the phone began to light up. Petunia thanked her lucky stars that the girl or someone had turned the phone off; she remembered just how inept Lily's magical friends had been with Muggle devices. She then studied the keyboard and smiled in relief; the controls looked simple enough that she thought she could use it. She then checked the battery charge.

"You may wish to put your phone on the charger, dear," said Petunia. "Your charge is low and you need to recharge the battery."

"Does it need recharging?" asked Miss Poole. "I thought that cell phones only needed the one charge when they come out of the box and are good until they expire."

Wizards, thought Petunia, barely avoiding rolling her eyes.

"No, cellular telephones need to be recharged when their charges run low," said Petunia, trying to be patient as she'd been when explaining something to Baby Dudders, "otherwise they don't work and you can neither call out or nobody can reach you."

"Oh, like renewing spells?" said Miss Poole.

Petunia decided that she was not going to play science teacher to obtuse witches, especially when the charge was this low, and decided to let the matter go by saying "Something like that."

She dialed home and was relieved to hear Vernon's voice at the other end.

Harry watched. It took Harry only a couple of moments to deduce that Uncle Vernon must have picked up the phone on Privet Drive.

"Vernon!" said his aunt, and Harry watched her face break out with a smile.

"No, I'm all right," she said.

"No, I spent the night at one of those places."

"No, it didn't bother me too much. I slept fairly well," she said.

"No, nowhere I'd care to stay again. The next time we go on holiday, I want to go to someplace with electric lights and working telephones."

"Is Marge set right again?"

"They brought her home from that Saint Mungo's place."

"Ah, good."

"She can talk again?"

"Good."

Harry could tell she was lying.

"Does she remember anything about last night?"

"Just that I left in a huff?"

"Is she still there?"

"Oh, she's left."

"With her dog, I trust?"

"I'm with the boy's crowd and I feel out of sorts."

"They say that the car will be ready by mid-afternoon. One of their pet mechanics had a crisis at home."

"On the other hand, they said that they'll pay for the repairs. You can't beat that."

"I'm adapting. I went shopping and bought good walking shoes. No, I bought them elsewhere, someplace normal. I'll treat this as a excursion to the City."

"No, I don't dare stray too far away. They're the ones who know where our car is. I want to make sure they can find me."

"I love and miss you and Dudders, and I want to come home."

"Could you put Dudley on the phone?"

"Mummy's all right. I spent the night here and didn't have any trouble."

"I'll be here in the city until my car is ready this afternoon. Then I'll drive home."

"Of course I'll buy you a present."

"Mummy loves you and wants to come home soon."

"I want you and Daddy to be strong and wait for me until I get back."

"Bye, bye."

Petunia disconnected the call and again looked at the battery charge level.

"Thank you," she said, and handed the cell phone back to Miss Poole.

"If I were you, I'd get your phone charged," said Petunia.

Petunia wondered what she'd do next. She wasn't able to come up with an answer. An unwelcome thought rose from her subconscious to bother her: she was going to have to start dealing with these people more often whether she wanted to or not.

She continued to sit at the corner table she'd appropriated with her nephew wondering what she should do next, still feeling very much out of place.

Well, Petunia, do you want to hang around the pub all day like a freak in the zoo, she asked herself. She was able to answer that question readily enough: she didn't. But even in this strange place, she found herself a little bored with her surroundings and curious as to what must be nearby.

"So where is this Diagon Alley place?" Petunia asked Harry. "I got this close, I might as well have a glimpse of it."

"It's out the back door," said her nephew, "behind a brick wall."

"Well, how do you get there?" she asked. She remembered her sister talking about it, but neither Lily nor that awful boy had never told her about how to get in.

Petunia rose from the table. She saw someone else, clearly a wizard, get up and walk towards the back. She followed, not caring so much whether her nephew followed her or not.

"Excuse me," said Petunia, "Is this the way to Diagon Alley?"

"Yes, ma'am" said the wizard. The wizard was in his late teens or early twenties, about the time she and Vernon had started courting. He drew his wand and tapped several bricks in a pattern she didn't catch. She watched the brick wall disassemble itself, forming an archway. Diagon Alley clearly lay beyond it. She screwed up her nerve and walked through it.

Everything a witch or wizard would want, she thought.

In another time or place, she would have been thrilled to be here. Now, she felt like this was a road not taken. Now she felt out of place, like someone who'd suddenly found herself on the road not taken.

This was Lily's world, she thought, not mine. Unexpected tears started forming in her eyes.

She and her nephew walked along, her nephew wearing his cap pulled down low and trying to look icognito. They passed a bookshop, a clothiers, an Owl shop; Petunia thought of her nephew's pet owl and grimaced. She realized that while she made a truce with her nephew's bird, she stil didn't like them very much.

She thought to continue, but her nephew was drawn to a shop two doors down like filings to a magnet. She saw an old-fashioned broom in the window, howbeit one with a highly polished handle and what looked like stirrups. Stirrups?

Several young boys clustered around the window gazing at the broom the way their older brothers might look at sports cars or, she shuddered, motorcycles.

"So this Quidditch game is played on brooms?" she said.

"Off the ground" she said.

"Yes," said Harry. "We usually play from ten to just over one hundred fifty feet off the ground."

Petunia remembered Lily's then-beau James trying to explain Quidditch to her parents: wizards on brooms trying to throw balls though hoops while dodging other balls and each other. It sounded like madness, worse than what Americans called football; nowhere near as straightforward as football or tennis.

"A fine way to break your neck," she said.

Harry expected his aunt to say something like that but the other boys just stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at his aunt's heresy.

15. Chapter 15

Petunia Snaps Part Fifteen You Have To Be Carefully Taught

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own Harry Potter, its situations, or its characters. I neither deserve nor expect any financial reward for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Speaking of ego gratification, how about writing and posting a nice review?

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps

Her nephew continued to goggle at the new broom at the Quidditch store. Petunia left him there and began to examine the front windows of some of the other shops and their merchandise. She was so engrossed at studying the people around her and staring at the merchandise that she realized that she'd lost track of her nephew. She was no longer so worried. She now had an idea as to where the entrance was to this place and thought it more than likely that she could make it back to the Leaky Cauldron on her own without her nephew's assistance.

Harry rejoined her a short time later. Despite the fact that he disliked his aunt, he felt obliged to look after her here in the Alley.

To Petunia's distaste, the next shop was a pet store. She still didn't like animals and was particularly uncomfortable with magical creatures, but there was a large cage out front containing a flock of iridescent, color-changing butterflies that would periodically lift off their perches at one end of the cage and then flock to the branches at the other. She watched the butterflies change colors and then flock from one end of the cage to the other.

"Those are pretty," she said.

Harry's eyes opened in alarm. Aunt Petunia could see them? He'd heard about Queen Mab's Butterflies from earlier visits. Muggles weren't supposed to be able to see them.

He looked to the side to see a man in Muggle clothing standing in the street and clearly waiting for someone. He thought he recognized him from the platform at King's Cross Station; Gareth Hopkins' dad.

He walked over to him.

"Excuse me," said Harry. "Are you Gareth Hopkins' father?"

"Yes," the man replied with a smile. "Are you friends with my son?"

"Not really," Harry replied. "We're in different houses. I'm Harry Potter."

"Really?" said Mr. Hopkins. "My son has talked about you. He said that you're a devil of a Quidditch player and that you saved the school once."

"Thank you," said Harry. "Can I ask you a question?"

"I don't know if I'll have the answer but we can try," Mr. Hopkins replied.

"What if I told you that that cage out front contains a flock of color-changing butterflies?" said Harry.

"I'd say I'd have to take your word for it," said Mr. Hopkins. "I can't see them. I can tell that there's something in there, but for all I know, they're not butterflies at all but a flock of flying yellow or purples lizards."

Harry smiled. He decided that he liked Mr. Hopkins.

"Well, my aunt can see them," said Harry.

"Is your aunt a witch, or is she someone normal?" asked Mr. Hopkins.

"I thought she was a Muggle," said Harry. "at least until the last couple of days or so."

"Really?" said Mr. Hopkins.

Both Harry and Mr. Hopkins stood there for a moment at a loss for words.

"Well, if she can see them, my hat's off to her," said Mr. Hopkins.

"Have I been of any help?" said Mr. Hopkins.

"Er, um—" said Harry.

"Don't worry about that, then," said Mr. Hopkins. "That's something you're going to find out more and more as you grow older. Adults don't always have all the answers."

Mr. Hopkins looked up and stared at something or someone at a distance. Harry looked in that direction and saw someone waving at Mr. Hopkins.

"Well, I'd better be going," said Mr. Hopkins. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, as Mr. Hopkins walked off, leaving Harry still partially puzzled.

Petunia continued down Diagon Alley without him As she walked further down the cobblestones, she thought she saw someone familiar, someone she hadn't seen since childhood. He was tall, black-haired, and wore long, dark robes. She walked closer. Despite the fact that it had been the better part of twenty years since she'd last seen him, she recognized him immediately. Her nephew rejoined her just in time to see her walk up to him. Her nephew's expression changed to alarm.

"Well," she said, "I should have known that I'd see you walking around hereabouts."

"Allo, Tuney," he replied with a smirk. "It's been a long time since Cokeworth."

"I suppose you've found some means of supporting yourself," she said.

"I am a Professor of Potion Making at Hogwarts School," he said. "Young Potter here is one of my pupils."

"Is the boy any good?" she asked.

"He's not as good as his mother was," he replied. "I daresay you could do better."

Petunia glared at Snape; his tongue had developed more of a bite than it had when they were teenagers. She decided right then and there that she was not going to lose face in front of him. "Why thank you, Professor," she replied, as if he was giving her a compliment.

"You're welcome, Petunia," he said, and turned away.

Harry was gob-struck, so gob-struck that he decided to risk asking a question.

"Excuse me, Aunt Petunia, but did you know Professor Snape from before?" he said.

Petunia thought about denying it, then realized that her nephew was likely to run into more people who knew the truth of the matter.

"Yes," she said. "He used to come over and bother your mother before he and she went off to Hogwarts and then some while afterwards. He was a poor, wretched thing back then. His dad was a drunkard who used to beat his mum. I used to think he would come to no good end and here he was out on the street. I'm surprised that he's not in prison."

Harry was shocked into silence. So many things had just changed. The Snapes used to be neighbors? Snape knew his Mum? Had they been friends, or were they enemies? He had more questions but didn't know how to ask them.

"Oh," he said. He didn't know what else to say.

Less than a quarter-mile later, Diagon Alley made a turn to the left, and Petunia found herself standing in a small square crowded with vendor's tents on one side and some open space with what looked like some sort of theatrical stage on the other. Despite the tents and the small stage, Petunia could see that there was a stone obelisk in the center. It had a plaque placed about eye-level. Curious, she walked closer to read it. Probably something that only concerned wizards, she thought.

The inscription read "To the memory of the innocents who died here from an aerial attack on the night of January 21st, 1945 during the Second Great Muggle War." Petunia stared at the inscription, puzzled, then remembered that the Nazis had not only bombed London during the Battle of Britain, but had launched V-1s and rockets in the latter part of the Second World War. One of those must have impacted near here. She had thought that wizards and witches had been immune to the violence that had afflicted the rest of Europe. According to the plaque, apparently they weren't.

A short time later, she was looking over what looked like ordinary herbs in a tray at one of the street vendor's tent when she felt someone tugging her dress.

"Excuse me, ma'am," said the voice. It sounded quite young.

Petunia turned around to see who it was. It was a very young girl, not more than six years of age. The girl was petite, with a pretty face and long, honey-blonde curls, the picture of childish innocence, despite the fact that she was clearly someone from one of those families. The girl was dressed in an outfit that looked like a cross between a Victorian girl's dress and something that a fairy princess might wear. Despite Petunia's dislike for wizards and witches, she thought that the girl and her outfit were endearing.

"Excuse me," she said. "Is that a Muggle dress you're wearing?"

"Why yes," said Petunia.

"Do all Muggles dress like that, or do they sometimes wear other clothes?" asked the girl.

"I'm wearing a party dress," said Petunia. "Muggle women usually wear other clothes. This is not something I'd normally wear in daylight."

"So why are you wearing it now?" asked the girl.

"I was hosting a good-bye dinner for my husband's sister," said Petunia. "I got very angry with her, and I left the house before I did something that I'd regret later." I actually did something I suppose I'll regret later, dear, she thought, but you don't need to know that.

"Oh," said the girl. "Like you were going to hex her or something."

"Something like that," said Petunia.

"Well, why didn't you apparate back later and pick up more clothes?" asked the girl.

"Because I am a Muggle and I don't know how, and because my husband's sister wasn't supposed to leave until morning, and I didn't care to run into her again until my temper cooled," she said.

"Oh," the little girl said again.

Petunia wondered if the little girl had any more questions when a loud, angry voice spoke behind her and said "Isobel Grandine! What are you doing talking to filthy Muggles?"

Petunia turned around to see what sort of woman would say that sort of thing. It was a woman near her age, very well-dressed, although not in a style she'd seen in fashion magazines, and clearly a witch. She smacked her daughter, gave her a hateful glare, and said "Muggle filth!".

Petunia knew about the wizarding world's bigotry towards Muggles. Lily had talked about it more than once when she'd come home from school on holiday, but it wasn't something she'd experienced personally. Until now. Unless you count Snape's mother, she thought, and even then the bigotry had been largely obscured by the fact that she and Mrs. Snape hadn't liked each other, witchcraft or no witchcraft. This time it was in her face.

She stood there shocked at first, then felt her growing anger. She walked away from the vendor's tents towards that part of the square where the stage was standing. She noted that the open area was beginning to fill up with spectators.

An improbably-dressed huckster was making his pitch from the stage. Petunia couldn't tell if he was trying to dress like a carnival barker or a barker's wizarding equivalent. Either way she thought he looked ludicrous. He did have a loud voice and could be overheard by most of the bystanders in square. In the mood she was in, Petunia didn't know whether she wanted to give him credit for it or not.

"Ladies and gentlemen, wizards and witches, today's potion-making contest is sponsored by Pilford's Patented Potions, magical potions especially made for the witch or wizard pressed for time. Pilford's Patented Potions, potions of quality. Pilford's Patented Potions, so simple a Muggle could brew it!"

At that last remark, Petunia saw red.

"Ladies and gentlemen, wizards and witches, Pilford's is sponsoring a potion-brewing contest here in the Square of the Innocents in just a few minutes. We are accepting contestants to step up on stage to demonstrate their potion-making prowess. The winners will receive valuable prizes! Pilford's Patented Potions, so simple a Muggle could brew it!"

Petunia was still seething with anger. She began studying the area around the stage. She soon spotted a girl sitting at a table under a banner reading Pilford's Patented Potions. Underneath the table was a sign that read "Contestants Sign Up Here."

Petunia walked over and placed herself at the end of a queue of what she supposed were would-be applicants. The girl at the table handed forms to applicants and the line moved forward. Petunia soon found herself at the head of the line.

"So this Pilford lot is sponsoring a potion-making contest?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am," said the girl.

"What are the requirements for the contestants?" asked Petunia.

"No requirements, ma'am," said the girl. "Just fill out the application and take a number. We will choose four contestants by lot, and they will walk on stage and begin brewing."

"So simple a Muggle could brew it!" the barker cried again.

The barker's last pitch did nothing to cool Petunia's temper.

So simple that a Muggle could brew it? I'll Muggle you, she thought, anger coursing through her body.

Petunia opened her handbag and drew out a marker pen. The girl's eyes widened as Petunia uncapped her marker. "Could you please hand me an application?" she said.

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps* Petunia Snaps

Author's notes:

The Grandine name was an indirect reference to Isobel Gowdie, a reputed Seventeenth century Scottish witch. Gowdie was a cottager's wife, and I supposed that her snobbish descendants would have changed the family name to something with more status.

Alert readers will note that I altered the shape of Diagon Alley from Harry Potter canon. It turns with a notable bent.

The Square of the Innocents, as I named the area near the turn, was the site of a successful Nazi V-2 strike during the final months of World War II. I posited that unlike the Nazi air raids during the Battle of Britain, or even the latter V-1 attacks, incoming V-2 strikes would give their victims little or no chance to get away or get to shelter, magical or not.

16. Chapter 16

Petunia Snaps Potion Contestant Potion Contestant Part One

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own it or its characters, nor do I expect or deserve financial remuneration for my efforts. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Good reviews are always gratifying. How about writing a nice review and posting it?

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*

Petunia took the contestant application form from the girl. So this is how you sign away your soul, said an old voice from childhood.

Codswallop, thought Petunia. If God hadn't meant people to possess witchcraft, He would have made it impossible. She set about filling out the application: name, address, occupation. Whoever designed the form must have had contact with the wider world because it also had spaces for postal codes, telephone numbers, and even e-mail addresses.

She wasn't alone. There were about what looked like nearly a dozen would-be contestants either busying themselves filling out application forms or waiting for the next stage of the contestants' selection process. Several of them looked like stereotypical witches and wizards from childhood storybooks, one looked like an overblown dandy from a romance set during the Regency, and the other three looked like thuggish young sorts who followed the latest rock and roll bands.

Petunia finished filling out her form and handed it to the girl at the Pilford's table. The girl took it and gave her a token. "You'll need to hold on to this, ma'am," said the girl. "We'll next draw four contestants from the applicants and you'll want to hold on to your token so you'll know whether or not your number has been called." Petunia looked at the token the girl had given her; it was a small white ceramic square that said 42 on it.

More time passed. A few more witches and wizards filled out applications. A couple of them had seen her using a marker pen and asked to borrow it to fill out their forms. By now Petunia's temper had begun to cool and she began to worry. Just what have you gotten yourself into, she wondered.

As the crowd of onlookers and would-be contestants began to build up, Petunia saw one of the people she least wanted to see. Worse, he saw her and smirked. He walked over to where she was standing, dark robes moving in synch with his paces.

"Do you mean to tell me that you entered that potion-making contest?" asked Snape.

"Yes," Petunia replied.

Snape shook his head. Petunia couldn't tell if he'd shaken his head in amusement or in amazement.

"Tell me, Petunia, do you have any experience at potion-making?" he said.

"Not really, although your mother did set me to work a time or two chopping up ingredients for a couple of her potions while we were waiting for you and Lily to return home from wherever you had gone off to." Petunia watched as Severus Snape's next comment died before it passed his lips.

Severus Snape looked at Lily's sister, using legilimency to see if she was telling the truth. To his surprise, she was. It was something that his mother was likely to do. His mother did not approve of young, idle hands sitting around doing nothing. She already knew that the Evanses were aware that both she and Severus were magical. Moreover, with Petunia present in her kitchen, his drunken father was far less likely to raise his hand or even his voice against his mother with someone from outside his small family on the inside of his doorway.

The thought of his mother giving Petunia any sort of instruction was almost too much to imagine. Severus knew that his mother had given Lily some instruction when they came home from Hogwarts, those first few blessed years when they'd still been friends; but then his mother knew that Lily had been a witch. Lily had been an apt pupil, soaking up her instruction almost as swiftly as he had. He wondered how much instruction his mother had given Lily's older sister and how much, if anything, remained.

The pitchman on stage spoke up again. "We will now choose our four contestants. Pilford's Patented Potions, potions of Quality! Pilford's Patented Potions, so simple a Muggle could brew it!"

"The first number," said the pitchman, "Number twenty seven!" The colorful dandy Petunia had seen earlier mounted the stage with a confident stride and a big smile, which he showed to the crowd as he walked on stage. The pitchman directed him to a station on the far end of the platform.

"The second number," said the pitchman, "Number thirty three."

One of the young girls with long, violet hair, black-painted fingernails, and loud make-up made her way through the crowd, handed off her token, then walked up on stage. She saw Snape standing next to Petunia and gave him a tiny wave with her fingers. Petunia thought that she would have been a suitable consort for that thug who used to stay across the street, but noted that the girl didn't like Severus Snape, either.

The third number," said the pitchman. "Number forty two! This contest is produced by Pilford's Patented Potions, potions of quality. Pilford's Patented Potions, So simple a Muggle could brew it!"

That was her number. Petunia felt a surge of panic, the fear of being in over her head. She wanted to flee, but the thought of losing face in front of Snape helped her squash her impulse.

Snape was waiting by the foot of the stage.

"Well, professor, any advice?" asked Petunia in a tone of voice that she hoped showed more confidence than she felt.

"Proceed carefully and follow directions exactly," said Professor Snape, looking into her eyes. "Resist the temptation to improvise, no matter how tempting improvisation might seem. At most you risk doing no worse than that nephew of yours."

Petunia walked to the stairway at the near end of the stage and handed her token to the pitchman's assistant at its foot.

"That's a nice dress," said the assistant. "Would you like to borrow a robe to cover it?" Petunia paused in thought, then remembered both Lily and Snape's mum talking about the effects that splashed potions could have on clothing.

"Yes, please," said Petunia, hoping that a borrowed robe would protect her party dress.

To her irritation, the borrowed robe was bright orange and said PILFORD'S in large, white block lettering. Gritting her teeth, she put it on and mounted the stage. The pitchman directed her to a station next to the young girl's.

Petunia examined her contestant's station. She found it surprisingly well-stocked, with cutting knives, chopping tools, a small pair of bacon tongs, several plates, measuring cups, and a small scale. The measuring cups and scale looked like they might not look so out of place on sale at a regular cooking supply store. The cauldron could be heated not by wood fire, but by the sort of portable burner that normal people used for camping.

The pitchman called a fourth and final time, and a woebegone, threadbare wizard mounted the stage and took the station to Petunia's right. For some reason or other, Petunia felt friendlier towards him that she did towards the showoff or the insolent-looking girl and gave him a nod.

"Thank you," he said. Petunia noted that he had a North-of-England accent.

The pitchman went into a long spiel extolling the virtues of Pilford's Patented Potions. Petunia watched Snape work through the crowd, occasionally stopping, briefly conversing with someone, gesturing towards the stage, and occasionally exchanging coins. The shit, she thought, he's probably wagering that I'd fail. Years of resentment at Lily began to flicker back to life. She wouldn't quit now. She would remain on the stage until the bitter end.

The pitchman then strolled along the line of contestants. "Are there any special tools or accessories that you desire?" asked the pitchman.

"Muggle-style clothespins," said Petunia, "and wooden stirrers." She remembered that Snape's Mum had told her that metal or plastic stirring spoons often reacted badly to potions.

The pitchman's eyebrows went up. He'd pegged Petunia as a Muggle or a witch who'd been raised in the Muggle world, but she must have taken a little training somewhere along the way. Maybe she'd do well enough not to embarrass the firm.

With a flick and a tap of his wand, the pitchman first produced a set of long wooden stirring spoons, and then with another, first one set of clothespins, then another. Petunia looked at the clothespins and decided that they were too large and too heavy for hanging clothes on a wash line, but then that wasn't what she wanted them for. After studying the directions again, she attached several of the clothespins to the printed instructions.

The pitchman walked back to center stage, made his final pitch, activated a mechanical gong, and the contest began.

Petunia had started studying the directions and identifying her potion's ingredients even before the gong rang. She felt an unexpected swell of confidence. She could do this. Severus Snape said that she should follow the instructions exactly, with no deviations.

The starting gong rang. She could do this, she repeated to herself. Most of the ingredients were different enough that even people like her, people lacking any sort of real magical training, could identify what was what. She began to sort out the ingredients by the order that she'd need them and also with the difficulty she'd have preparing them.

Most of the ingredients didn't bother her. Many were herbs and came from plants she wasn't familiar with. A couple she already was familiar and comfortable with; she often used ginger for making desserts and the very occasional casserole. There were ingredients she wasn't familiar with, like ground-up jackelope horn,and ingredients she'd never used for cooking, like aloe. There were also ingredients that made her thoroughly uncomfortable, notably some sort of slimy, repulsive-looking worms; Petunia's stomach shifted as she saw them writhe and wiggle. She'd have to take them out of the container that had been set at her station and cut them up herself.

She scowled. If she could change Dudder's soiled diapers, she could slice and dice the worms on the cutting board. She was tempted to cut them up right then and there and get the process over with, but realized that she'd then have a cutting board covered in worm slime with no real way to clean it. She then noted that she wouldn't need the worms until well after she'd actually begun mixing the potion in the cauldron, after she'd added the first and second rounds of herbs, but before she added the moth wings. She'd postpone preparing the worms until later. Instead, she'd first start cutting, chopping, and weighing the herbs, then the lizards' tails and moth-wings, then the aloe, then the jackelope horn, and only then set to preparing the worms.

Having decided what components needed preparing first, she started by placing herbs she'd use on a set of small plates Pilford's had provided, then weighing the quantities she'd need. She pulled out one of the cutting knives that the organizers had provided and set to cutting them up.

It didn't take her long to prepare the herbs and insect wings. The lizard tails were a little more challenging, much like cutting a chicken she'd broil or bake. The aloe bothered her not a wit; it was much like cutting up avocado, even though aloe leaves had thorns. All she had to do with the jackelopehorn was measure it out and weigh it.. Only then did she begin to pull worms out of their container. The worms were repellent to touch, with thick, slimy coats. She placed one on a scale, calculating how much she'd need. She frowned; she'd need to cut up three of them.

She flipped the cutting board over and placed the first worm on the cutting board. She cut it into sections, then set to work on the second worm. The second one shot something out of its mouth and to the side. It missed Petunia and her other ingredients. She ignored it and continued butchering it. Then it was the third worm's turn. A thought came to her as she placed the diced worm sections on the scale, mentally subtracting the weight of the plate that held them. She remembered that the bloody French not only cooked with slugs but they actually ate them. The thought made her queasy until she remembered that all she had to do was prepare the potion, not eat it. She gritted her teeth and kept on going. There was still one worm over to the side of the cutting board. It was alive, as Petunia could tell both from its motion and the trail of slime it left behind as it moved. Petunia did not want it mixing with her other ingredients. She made a face, picked it up, and placed it back in its container.

It was now time to start heating the cauldron. The folk at Pilford's seemed to take their boast about their potions being so easy a Muggle could make them seriously: they'd provided a small box of kitchen matches. Petunia turned on the portable burner and used one to ignite the gas. She set it on low.

The potion's base was three quarts of spring water. Pilford's had provided some in plastic containers. Petunia smirked when she saw them; someone had gone shopping at Tesco's. She used a measuring flask and poured in just over three quarts; she'd lose some to evaporation. She turned up the burner's heat and watched as the cauldron's contents began to warm enough to begin simmering.

The mixing and time-keeping parts of making her potion didn't actually begin until Petunia would add her first ingredients to the potion's base. Petunia now had a little time to look over the crowd and look at the other contestants. She noticed Snape in the crowd, watching her. His expression was non-commital; he looked just as interested in the insolent-looking girl standing over to her left. Petunia then spotted her nephew looking at her with an expression somewhere between alarm and amazement. Watch me, boy, she said to herself.

Harry Potter had misplaced his aunt some time after she'd started talking to Professor Snape. He wondered where she'd gone off to. He hoped that she hadn't gone far. He wasn't that familiar with the far end of Diagon Alley and the Weasleys had told him that there were supposedly nooks and crannies with an even worse reputation than Knockturn Alley. Thinking that maybe Aunt Petunia decided to watch the potion-making contest, he decided to start looking over the faces of the small crowd who'd gathered to watch the contestants.

At the last second, he decided to look and see who was competing to win prizes from Pilford's Patented Potions this time and was astonished to see Aunt Petunia standing behind a small cauldron, second from the end. He started making his way through the crowd to mount the stairs to the stage. He was at the foot of the stairs when he was intercepted by a large, solidly-built wizard.

"Where do you think you're going?" the wizard asked Harry.

"That's my aunt on stage!" said Harry. "She's a Muggle! She needs my help!"

"You say she's a Muggle?" said the wizard.

"Yes," said Harry.

"Which as may be," said the wizard. "She's now a contestant and this contest has certain rules. No coaching or assistant on-stage from current and former students and faculty of magical schools. Each contestant stands alone."

"But my aunt," began Harry.

"Each contestant stands alone," said the wizard. "She'll compete on his or her own skill. You'll get her back when the contest is over."

"If you're worried, you can wait near the front of the crowd. That's the Potions Master of Hogwarts standing over there," said the wizard, pointing. Harry saw Professor Snape watching the contestants, paying particular attention to his aunt and a wildly-dressed girl about five or six years older than he was.

The cauldron and its contents began to grow hot enough to start simmering. Petunia set herself into the work of actually brewing the potion. She was secretly relieved that she wasn't going to be distracted by either Harry or Dudley finding ways to get into trouble; that meant she could give her full attention to what she was preparing. Some of the meals she'd cooked at home hadn't been as good as they could be because she hadn't been able to focus on what she was cooking.

The first few steps were deceptively easy: "Let the cauldron contents simmer, then slowly add the aloe and ginger." There was nothing as to how many times she should stir or in what direction. Petunia decided on clockwise movement and caution. "Raise the heat to a low boil, let cool, then add the chopped lizards's tails. Stir five times counter-clockwise.

This part of the directions had grown more exacting: "Raise the temperature to boil again and heat for three minutes". I can do this, she told herself.

The first contestant to falter was the young showoff. Petunia spared a moment from tracking the sweep of her wristwatch's sweep hand to see the showoff's cauldron boil over and the contestant to give out a loud yelp. She suspected that he had probably been a little ahead of where she was now. Shortly before their falling-out, Mother Snape had warned her that certain ingredients had to be slowly placed into the brewing potion, otherwise the whole brew would boil over. She was following the woman's advice and had also turned down the heat to what she believed was a low simmer for good measure.

She had no more time for him. She turned her attention back to her wristwatch's sweep-hand and then turned the burner down again, lifting the small cauldron and its contents to momentarily cool before she went on to the next step.

Severus Snape watched from below. He noted that young Potter had made his way to the front of the small crowd of spectators. Petunia's nephew looked set to rush up on stage and come to the aid of his aunt. In fact, he'd already tried to, but checked by the rules, he'd been forced to be a bystander. Snape wasn't surprised to see the first contestant knocked out of the competition; Tremont had been a careless student back when he'd been at Hogwarts and Snape wasn't surprised to see his efforts come to grief. Maybe the public humiliation would be good for him, although he doubted it.

He studied Petunia at work on the stage. Muggle or no, dressed in that ridiculous-looking borrowed Pilford's robe as opposed to something a respectable witch would wear, she worked every bit as intently as a Fourth or Fifth-year potions student would have in one of his classes at Hogwarts.

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*

Author's advisory: HELLO, BOYS AND GIRLS, DON'T DO THIS AT HOME! PLEASE DON'T FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS FOR PETUNIA'S CONTEST POTION!

I claim no real-life expertise at potion-making. I am NOT a practitioner of the craft. I have NO idea as to the effects that either ingesting or rubbing such a potion would have on the human body, and I would NOT recommend experimenting on humans or other animals. Again, this is FICTION, not real-life.

17. Chapter 17

Petunia Snaps Potion Contestant Part Two

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own it or its characters, nor do I expect or deserve financial remuneration for my efforts. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Yes, I like having my ego gratified. Please write a nice review.

Rated "T" for language. But then, this story is about grown-ups.

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*

It was now 1:38 PM. Petunia now had a space of time which she could put to good use. She allowed herself the luxury of seeing if the insolent-looking girl was still in the completion. She was, although Petunia was pleased to note that the girl look a bit rattled. Petunia then set to updating her check list and double-checking her remaining ingredients to make sure they were ready when the time came to add them to the contents of her cauldron.

Harry watched his aunt on stage brewing her potion on stage and fretted. He didn't give his aunt high chances for success; his aunt wasn't magical and he'd botched more than a few potions during his first couple of years at Hogwarts. What would he tell Uncle Vernon if hisAaunt 's potion boiled over or exploded and she had to go to St. Mungo's? To make matters worse, he saw a gaggle of Slytherins drifted towards the front of the crowd.

"What is that Muggle doing on stage?" said Clough, a Slytherin two years ahead in school.

"Nobody I recognize," said Tyler. "Someone ought to put her out of her misery."

"Maybe I ought to put her in her place," said Burgess, surreptitiously drawing his wand.

Harry was in a quandary. Snape was in the audience, he couldn't draw his own wand, and he did not want to cause a public disruption. What to do? Harry wasn't good at persuasion, but it was the only tool he had that might work without creating a scene. "You don't want to do that," said Harry.

Burgess looked at Potter and smirked. "Tell me why I shouldn't, Potter," he said.

"Because that's Professor Snape standing over there," said Harry, gesturing over to his left.

"Also, because Professor Snape knew the Muggle contestant back when they were kids, and hexing her might make him angry."

Burgess saw that the Gryffo was right; that was his Head of House standing nearby. He decided to risk fact-checking Potty's claim and sidled up to the Potions Master.

"Excuse me, Sir," he said. "Potter says that you knew the woman in the Pilford's robe when you were younger."

"Yes," said Snape. "And I've been curious to see whether she could brew a potion on her own for longer than you've been alive. It goes without saying that I'd feel that it would reflect badly on Slytherin House if someone took it upon himself to interfere."

Burgess's eyes opened. So Potter was telling to truth. Also, he'd just been warned off by his Head of House. Since he was a Slytherin Fifth-year facing his OWL exams, he decided that remaining on good terms with his Head of House was worth more than the satisfaction of hexing a Muggle impostor. He turned to Clough and the others. "Let's go," he said. "Nothing to see here."

Petunia missed the commotion in the crowd and the Slytherins walking away. She was adding in the chopped aloe when someone shouted out from the crowd.

"Oi, Cecily!" said the voice.

Petunia ignored him.

"When are you going to be finished with that rubbish and come down? Some of my mates are planning to go to the pub."

"Bob, I'm busy!" the girl on stage answered.

"Well, stop standing around with those wankers and get down here!" said Bob.

Harry watched as the crowd began to stir. Bob soon found himself surrounded by a growing cluster of angry witches and wizards. A solidly-built witch from Yorkshire told him in no uncertain terms to be quiet. A Cockney witch dressed as wildly as the girl on-stage told Bob in terms even he could understand to shut up and shove off. An elegantly-dressed, bejeweled witch reeking of old money and dark magic drew her wand and looked at Bob the way a child looked at a Christmas treat.

Professor Snape made his way over to the circle surrounding Bob. The Muggle fool was already shifting from one foot to the other and fighting off a barely-tolerable itch. Snape suspected that the jinxes had already started. He looked in Bob's eye, capturing the Muggle yob's attention.

"There is a pub four blocks down off Charing Cross Road called the Broken Mirror," said Severus Snape. "Wait for your lady friend there."

"And who are you to—" Bob began, then abruptly stopped talking.

"Go-" Severus Snape cut in.

Bob opened his mouth to say something, but found he couldn't speak. He waved at the stage, but quickly turned around and started making his way to the relative safety of the Leaky Cauldron and the exit that would put him out on Charing Cross Road.

Petunia didn't pay any attention to the altercation, she was busy. It was time to add the moth wings she'd measured out earlier. She began stirring clockwise, dropping in the crushed moth wings a little at a time: once, twice, thrice, four times. She stopped.

The potion now had to steep for four minutes before Petunia could add the ground jackelope horn. She was waiting for her potion to steep when she heard a wail from her left. The wildly-dressed girl's potion had congealed into a thick, immobile green sludge. A murmur of sympathy ran through the audience at the girl's wail. The unspoken feeling was that the girl might still have been in the competition if it hadn't been for that stupid Muggle's interference.

Severus Snape looked at the disappointed contestant and shook his head. Cecily Mays had been a promising Fifth-year Hufflepuff three years before when her parents had divorced while she was away at school. Her Muggle father, who had been paying her tuition, refused to pay for her spring term and she withdrew from school. He wondered what brought her to Diagon Alley. Had Miss Mays been trying to impress her loutish Muggle boyfriend, or had she decided that her place might be within Wizarding Britain after all? He hoped she learned a lesson from her ruined potion and broke off relations with the boy who'd ruined her efforts.

Petunia had paid no attention to Bob's and Cecily's interaction. The girl had been forced out of the competition. It was now a contest between her and the northern wizard.

It was now time to add the worms. The directions said that she had to stir seven times, adding worm sections at each turn. She added the worms and stirred one last time before turning up the heat for one last boil before she was to remove the potion from the burner.

She stole a glance at her competitor. He was still plugging away at his potion. Petunia suspected that he'd probably be the winner; he looked like he'd been preparing potions for longer than she'd been alive.

Petunia's instructions said that once she removed the cauldron from the heat, she might want to skim the top to remove any lingering impurities. She'd put that off until after she set the cauldron and its contents to cool.

Almost four minutes. She turned off the burner, lifted her cauldron from the burner, then set it on her stand. She picked up her remaining wooden stirrer and skimmed the scum off the top and waited for her potion to set.

She sighed with relief. Win or lose, she was done.

She glanced over at the threadbare wizard to her right. He was finishing up, too. He set his stirrer down, lifted his potion off the burner and set it on his stand. Petunia wondered how well he'd done.

The potion in the cauldron turned yellow, like a thick creamy sauce. Like the sauce in her dream, she remembered.

The pitchman saw that both remaining contestants had finished making their potions, drew his wand, and flicked it at the mechanical gong. It rang.

"Ladies and gentlemen, wizards and witches, our remaining contestants have finished brewing their potions. In just a moment, we will announce the winner of today's competition. Today's contest was sponsored by Pilford's Patented Potions. Pilford's Patented Potions, Potions of Quality. Pilford's Patented Potions, So simple a Muggle could brew it!

The pitchman first walked to the woebegone wizard's station, studied his potion for a moment, then walked back to Petunia's station, staring at it for much longer. He then walked back to the threadbare wizard's potion, stared again, then returned to Petunia's station, staring at her handiwork with concentration. His eyebrows rose in astonishment.

"Ladies and gentlemen, wizard and witches! Today's judging is difficult. We have two gifted finalists remaining on stage, but we do have a winner!," he announced, using wand-magic to amplify his voice. "The winner of our little contest is…" He turned to Petunia and murmured "What is your name, Madam?"

"Petunia Dursley of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey," said Petunia.

A murmur went through the crowd and there was scattered applause. Her horrid nephew had a grin like the cat who ate the canary and was vigorously clapping his hands.

Petunia saw Severus Snape working his way through the crowd. She noted Snape stopping every now and again and extending his hand, palm upward, and irritated wizards digging into their pockets and dropping coins into his hand. The losers were paying him off. The shit, thought Petunia. He hadn't bet against her, he'd bet for her. He turned towards the stage and smirked. Petunia glared back at him.

Petunia turned to the threadbare wizard. It was difficult to tell the ages of wizards and witches, but she guessed he was in his late sixties or early seventies. It wouldn't hurt to be polite here, she thought. She was still on their turf. "Congratulations," she said.

"I did na think I'd be losing to a lady from the South," said the threadbare wizard.

"I'm from Cokeworth originally," said Petunia. "The Midlands."

"South eno'," said the threadbare wizard.

Petunia didn't know how to argue with that, so she said nothing.

The pitchman walked up to the two of them. "Both of you did well," he said, "and since the scoring for first and second place were so close, Pilford's has prizes for both of you."

"And what do you say, Madam Dursley?" asked the pitchman.

"Thank you," said Petunia.

The pitchman handed her an envelope. Petunia opened it and looked at her prize. It was a fifty galleon gift certificate for magical animal traps, something she had no need of.

"Do ye have troubles with such—like in Surrey?" asked the threadbare wizard.

"No," said Petunia.

"I do," said the woebegotten wizard.

"And for you, Mister Sorsby," said the pitchman. The wizard's prize was a fifteen-galleon gift certificate to Flourish and Blotts, a bookstore that Petunia spotted shortly after she entered Diagon Alley. She'd seen a display of discounted gardening books. She suspected that they were still there.

She remembered having to read an American short story back when she was in secondary school: The "Gift of the Magi," by someone whose pen name was O. Henry. An impoverished couple set to give each other presents despite their poverty: he sold his pocket watch to buy her a set of brushes, she sold her hair to a wig-maker to buy him a fob for his watch.

Both Petunia and thanked the pitchman and descended from the stage.

Petunia thought again about "The Gift of the Magi" as she descended the stage. Piss on that, she thought to herself. She allowed the girl from Cokeworth who'd had to scrimp and trade to acquire the clothes and makeup to look glamorous to reassert herself. She thought of the wizard's gift certificate and the books she'd seen on display, turned to the wizard, and said "Mr. Sorsby, let's trade."

A short time later, Petunia left Flourish and Blotts with three wizarding books on small gardens and small garden design. She also bought a book on wizarding first aid; despite her exultation at winning the potion-making contest, she hadn't forgotten Mister Tower from across the way or that Vernon was close to Marge's age and might face heart attacks or strokes. She'd have to think of where to hide them when she returned home. For now, she decided, she'd have to store them in the boy's, no, Harry's bedroom.

Miss Poole from the Ministry intercepted her just as she stepped out of the bookstore and back onto Diagon Alley. "Madam Dursley, your car is ready," she said.

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps

Author's Advisory: I should have let you all know earlier, but this is the penultimate chapter for Petunia Snaps. I do plan to write and post the ultimate chapter sometime during the next three weeks, which should resolve some questions and leave others open.

However, if I do complete Petunia Snaps, that doesn't necessarily mean that I'll be over and done with it. There may be drabble-length and longer epilogues. If I think their quality is high enough, I hope to post them.

18. Chapter 18

Petunia Snaps: The End

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, its characters, and its situations are the creations of JK Rowling and are the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I don't own them, and neither expect nor deserve any financial reward for my story. I write for my own pleasure and ego gratification. If you like what you've read, gratify my ego and write a nice review.

Author's note: Remember, this is an alternate universe version of the events that occurred in the first part of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*

Petunia and her nephew exited Flourish and Blotts, Petunia carrying her books on gardening and wizarding first aid . Despite the fact that she wasn't a reader, she could almost feel comfortable in the bookstore if it wasn't for the cage of Monster books and the gravity-defying ways some of the stacks of unsold books tottered on some of the tables. She was neatly intercepted by the girl from the Ministry of Magic. "Madam Dursley, your car is ready," said the girl, Miss Poole if she remembered her name correctly.

"So are you going to bring it here or do we travel to the mechanics'?" asked Petunia.

Petunia remembered Lily talking about something called the Floo network when she came home for holidays. Lily said something about picking up a handful of ash, announcing her destination, and reappearing somewhere else dozens or even hundred miles away. She also thought about wizarding ineptitude with even simple Muggle devices and shuddered at the thought of one behind the wheel of her car. How did that old saying go? "Caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea."

"We can apparate if you'd like, or, if you prefer, we can floo to the nearest public fireplace and walk or catch a cab," said Miss Poole.

Petunia decided that she ought to put her foot down, and put it down now. She was not willing to apparate. The idea was too much for her and that movie she'd seen about normal people learning to teleport hadn't helped any; she'd been so unnerved that she'd walked out thirty minutes after it started.

"Let's take the Floo," she said.

She turned to her nephew. This was the parting of the ways for this year—he to his school and she back to Little Whinging. She looked at him and was struck by his green eyes. She'd seen them countless times before, but never really noticed them before. So much like Lily's, she thought. Impulsively, she gave him a brief hug.

"You take care of yourself," she said. "And stay out of trouble," she added, despite the fact that he was a boy and that he was already adept at finding it.

"Thank you, Aunt Petunia," he replied. Petunia detected a slightly different, more positive tone in his voice. "See you and Uncle Vernon next June."

They nodded to each other and then turned away.

"Excuse me, Madam Dursley," said Miss Poole, "but have you ever used the Floo before?"

"I know about it but I've never used it," said Petunia.

"It's easy," said Miss Poole. "To use the network, you go to a Floo terminal, they look like large fireplaces. Then you take hold of a handful of floo powder, step into the fireplace, then announce where you want to go. You should take care to enunciate your destination, otherwise you might not go where you want to go."

Petunia wondered if Floos were another one of those magical traps wizards liked to strew about to kill or injure hapless Muggles or novice witches. She suspected that they probably were. She swallowed, wondering if she should back out now. She decided that if she made a mess of it, she'd go quick.

"Well, lead on, MacDuff," she said, misquoting Shakespeare.

Miss Poole led her to a stand-along fireplace in a side room where a short queue of wizards and witches waited to step into the fireplace. Petunia watched them take handfuls of powder from a small pot at the side of the fireplace, speak their destinations, throw down their powder, then vanish in burst of green flame.

"So where are we going?" asked Petunia.

"Corby Lane," said Miss Poole. "It's in Banbury."

Corby Lane, Banbury, Corby Lane, Banbury, Corby Lane, Banbury, Petunia told herself. She repeated it softly to make sure that she'd get it right when the time came.

It was her turn now. She took a handful of floo powder, then stepped into the fireplace. She was badly frightened. Breathe, she told herself, breathe. When that didn't work, she counted up to twenty, then thirty, then forty. When she felt just calm enough to pronounce her destination correctly, she threw down her floo powder and shouted "Corby Lane, Banbury!" she shouted.

A woman who Ondine knew to be a mixed-blood watched Petunia vanish in a burst of green fire and said "A bit loud, wasn't she? What was she, a Muggle or something?"

Ondine turned to the woman and said, "Well, that's what the Minister thought. She could be a late-bloomer."

"So we'll be seeing her hereabouts," said the mixed-blood.

"We'll see," said Ondine.

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps

The Leaky Cauldron disappeared and Petunia rematerialized on her backside in what looked like a very old, disused store room, howbeit one graced with a large, oversized fireplace. She gathered her things, stood up and dusted herself off. She was definitely going to have to take her party dress to the cleaners.

She looked around the store room and wondered if she'd materialized in the wrong place. She was relieved to see daylight seep in from a skylight; she wouldn't stumble if she walked towards the door, then. She had just found a doorway when Miss Poole materialized in the fireplace.

"There you are," she said. "Good, we didn't lose you." Miss Poole walked towards the door Petunia had spotted, Petunia following her. She then drew her wand and waved at the door, which opened.

In only a short time, they made their way to a commercial street and were able to hail a taxi cab. Miss Poole gave the driver the address, and they arrived a short time later.

Petunia never liked garages, but she found this one blessedly mundane compared to the experiences she'd had in the last twenty four hours. Despite that, she found herself in for a little scolding.

"We fixed your car, Ma'am," said the mechanic. He then gave her a look of disapproval

"You've got a good car, but you need to take better care of it if you want it to last a long time."

"We did set it to rights," said the mechanic. "We replaced the hoses with new ones and filled it with new radiator fluid. We also changed your transmission fluid. You should mind your fluid levels. I'm surprised that your car ran at all; you were taking a big chance driving around with no radiator fluid. You should have replaced those hoses sooner; they could have burst, and then where would you be?"

"Also you need some brake work before long" the mechanic added.

Petunia accepted the reproach in silence. She did not want to relate anything about her breakdown and her subsequent adventure aboard the Knight Bus.

Miss Poole signed the forms for payment, Petunia signed the form accepting her vehicle, and she and Miss Poole said good-bye to each other.

Petunia then turned back to the mechanic.

"I'd like to stay in the driveway for a bit, if you don't mind," she said. "I need to look at the map so I can find my way back to Surrey."

The mechanic nodded and Petunia pulled out a map she kept in the glove box and started thinking of how she'd drive back to Little Whinging.

She had a long drive ahead of her. Surrey and Little Whinging was south and east of her. She'd have to start by towards the city, then travel on the motorways that skirted around London and the inner suburbs so she could take the road that took her back to Little Whinging.

It was a long, tiresome drive that lasted two and a half hours. Not only were there traffic bottlenecks and occasional stoppages, but she got lost a couple of times and had to either retrace her steps or take alternate routes merely to rejoin the route she'd chosen to Little Whinging.

There were perils, too, but familiar ones: fast moving motorists who weaved in and out of traffic like horses at a steeplechase, large trucks, and heedless drivers that jumped into traffic lanes she was about to enter. Eventually, however, she found herself on a familiar road, one that led back to Little Whinging and home.

Back on familiar streets again. She drove carefully; it wouldn't do to have an accident this close to home. Finally she was on home ground. She turned the corner and slowly crept up her block, and then turned right. Her driveway, her house. Home again.

Vernon was out. She wondered what she'd tell him. She'd read the odd romance novel or two, ones where the young couples running off to love and adventure. The stories almost always ended with all questions answered and all dangling threads tidied up. Her adventure had taught her that while she had some questions answered, she had many others that she'd have to deal with.

She realized that she'd left Privet Place the night before as a housewife who suspected that she had magic. She returned as a witch who wanted to remain a suburban housewife. She didn't know how to resolve what she thought were two contradictory roles, but she was going to try.

She stepped out of her car onto her driveway. Little Whinging, she thought, a normal town filled with normal folk. She was fishing for her housekeys when she heard a soft hoot nearby. She looked over and saw an owl, an owl with a letter in its talons. It wasn't Hedwig; it was someone else's owl. She took the envelope from the bird and gave it a couple of coins she had.

It was addressed to her. It was from the Ministry. She opened it.

-THE END—

Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*Petunia Snaps*

This is the formal end of "Petunia Snaps." Petunia Dursley is home, with a lot of lingering questions and issues concerning what she's going to do with her magic, how her having magic will affect her relations with Vernon, and how it might change her role in life.

I do not intend to deal with them as part of a continuing narrative. I am open to the idea of writing multiple drabble-length and slightly longer epilogues. I plan to post them as I think them up and write them down.

19. Chapter 19

Petunia Snaps: Epilogue One

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter, its characters, and its situations are the creation of JK Rowling, and are the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I don't own them, nor do I expect or deserve any financial reward for my efforts. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Petunia Snaps Epilogue*Petunia Snaps Epilogue*Petunia Snaps Epilogue*

The telephone rang while she was cleaning the dining room. Since Harry was off in his world, she had to do it alone. She finally had to acknowledge a thought that had occasionally bubbled up since her nephew had gone off to his school two years ago: it was easier when there were more people to do the work.

"Hello, is this the Dursley residence?" asked the caller. The voice was feminine and sounded young. Probably in her early teens, she thought.

"It is," Petunia said warily.

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Could I speak to Harry Potter, please?" said the girlish voice.

"He's not here," said Petunia. "He's gone to the city."

"Do you know when he'll be back?" asked the voice.

My, this one is nosey, thought Petunia.

"Not until next June," said Petunia.

"Oh," said the voice.

"Can I ask who's calling?" said Petunia.

"This is Hermione Granger," said the girl on the other end of the line. "I'm in the same house as Harry."

Another Gryffindor lunatic, thought Petunia disapprovingly, if she's telling the truth. She thought more girls had better sense. She feared that this girl might come to a bad end.

"What house?" asked Petunia. I'm going to have to be more wary when I take calls, she thought. Who knows who might be calling? She thought of Snape. And some of them, she thought grudgingly, have just enough whit to puzzle out how to use a telephone.

"I'm in Gryffindor," said the girl. "Same year as Harry."

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Dursley," said the girl. "Have a good day and goodbye."

The girl hung up. Petunia frowned. She'd definitely have to be more careful on the telephone.

Author's notes: I consider the main part of Petunia Snaps to be complete. Anything I post here is likely to be a short sketch, drabble, or scene.

20. Chapter 20

Petunia Snaps Epilogue Two

Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own the characters, plot, or situations of JK Rowling's Potterverse. Nor do I expect or deserve any financial compensation for my writing. I write for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Petunia Snaps*Epilogue*Petunia Snaps*Epilogue*Petunia Snaps*Epilogue

Petunia awoke to hear the scurrying of little feet. Tiny little feet. Little feet that were scuttling inside the walls. Rats or squirrels, she thought. Probably rats. She thought to awaken Vernon, but as much as she loved her husband, she knew that there wasn't much point in awakening him at this hour. Let him sleep, she decided. She'd tell him in the morning.

She turned on the light on her nightstand, then got out of bed. She'd gotten her own wand since she'd left her nephew in Diagon Alley back in August: oak, with a dragon-string core. She'd also started taking classes; she was all too aware that even the most-ill-trained witch or wizard was more than a match for her in any sort of duel, but she went anyway.

Lily met her in the hallway, then she realized that she wasn't asleep, but in something somewhere between a vision and a dream. It was an older Lily, one that was close to her age. Her sister looked at her and said "Good, you're awake."

"Of course I'm awake," Petunia replied irritably.

"There's a rat in the walls," said Lily. "The damn thing was there back in the Hollow and now I think it's skulking around here."

"I'll set the boy to it," Petunia replied. "He and his owl are pretty good about that sort of thing. Hedwig took care of a squirrel that had been getting into the attic."

She walked down the hall and entered Harry's room. That bird ought to be there and she had work for it. She opened the door and was met with the chill of sub-Arctic air and the strong sent of pine.

"Harry?" she said. "Hedwig?" She felt proud of herself for a moment for remembering the owl's name then felt her balance start to totter. To her alarm she found herself balancing on a tree branch a long way from the ground. Panic-stricken, she reached out and grabbed what felt like a handful of pine needles, but dropped her wand. She watched in despair as it fell to the ground.

She looked ahead of her found herself staring at a pair of owls guarding a nest. At first Petnia thought one of them was Hedwig, but she looked more closely and saw that the spots on the bird's feathers were slightly different. The owl shifted and Petunia saw that the owl was sitting on a hen-sized egg.

"Hedwig?" said Petunia.

The nesting owl shook her head.

"Hey!" shouted a voice from the ground. "Leave those owls alone! Stop bothering with them."

Petunia looked down to see a man with a knitted cap that went over his ears and dressed in a thick flannel shirt and down vest. American, she thought. No, Canadian, she decided. She'd grown curious enough about her nephew's owl to learn that they were common in parts of Canada. Furthermore, the man didn't quite sound like a Yank.

The branch she was standing on swayed under her. She needed to get safely down off this tree and retrieve her wand. Carefully balancing herself, she began to walk towards the tree trunk, where she hoped to find the right combination of tree limbs that would get her safely to the ground.

The next thing she knew she was safely back in her house on Privet Drive. Lily was standing there waiting for her, an amused expression on her face. It was a younger Lily this time, Lily as she looked shortly before she married that Potter git.

"Here you go," she said, handing Petunia her wand.

A dog started barking outdoors. Probably the Scotty that belonged to the neighbors across the way, thought Petunia. The dog was always finding something to get upset about in the wee hours.

"Don't mind the dog," said Lily. "He's always barking at things that are too far away to bother with."

"The rat is still within the walls," said Lily. "Don't let it bite the other children." She drew her wand and then apparated away.

"Lily?!" said Petunia. She felt her wand turn from hard and solid to soft and pliable, like a rolled-up serviette.

She awoke to find herself in bed with Vernon and clutching her covers. She suspected that Lily's message, or whoever's message was something important. She wondered what it meant.

21. Chapter 21

Petunia Snaps Third Epilogue

Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do not own the characters, plot, or situations of JK Rowling's Potterverse. Nor do I expect or deserve any financial compensation for my writing. I write for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Petunia Snaps*Epilogue*Petunia Snaps*Epilogue*Petunia Snaps*Epilogue

Petunia Dursley considered herself to be a good house keeper. Ever since Vernon had carried her across the threshold of Number Four Privet Drive, she'd done her best to keep her house clean and tidy. It was one of those things women were expected to do, tidying up after their men.

The problem with the men in her life was that none of them came close to making her housekeeping any easier. Admittedly Vernon had tried when he was younger; his Mum had tried to impress the lesson of keeping tidy, but he'd fallen away over the years. Dudley was a hopeless case. As for Harry, while he was tidier by far than Dudley, going into his room had always made her anxious; she was afraid that he'd leave some magical book or artifact out where it could burn, stain, or bite her.

She didn't have to worry about Harry again until next summer. A witch from the Ministry came by and she and Petunia had gone through Harry's closet, dresser, and shelves together and got his school things ready to pack off to Diagon Alley, where Harry was spending the rest of his summer holiday. Petunia had watched with envy as the witch had flicked her wand a few times and Harry's clothes had neatly folded themselves and then floated into his trunk. A few more flicks and his papers did the same. She balked at letting Harry's ink bottles go into his trunk with his school supplies. Let the boy play it safe and use new, sealed bottles instead of risking spills.

But Vernon was still very much in her life and she decided to undertake the ticklish job of dusting his desk. That could be tricky; Vernon was far from a slob, but his desk top could get messy. At the same time there was some sort of order to Vernon's desk, howbeit a sort of order only he understood. To cope, she'd learned to move the piles of paper over to the bed, where she replicated the same patterns they were on the desk, dust, then replace everything where it had been. A leaf fell out of the third-to-last pile, brushing against her ankle as she placed the pile back in the place where Vernon had left it.

Petunia picked up the paper that had fallen to the carpet and realized that it wasn't paper at all. It was parchment. In fact, it was the permission form her nephew had tried to get Vernon to sign just before Marge's accident. She felt a pang of guilt looking at it. Marge had temporarily lost her vocal chords on the last night of her visit, and had had to spend a night at St. Mungo's, the wizarding hospital. Petunia was all too aware that it had been her accidental magic, not her nephew's, that had so dramatically silenced Marge and set both her and Harry on a nightmare adventure to London and Diagon Alley.

What to do? At first, she was inclined to toss it. That was what Vernon would have done and probably do if he found the form again.

Then she had a better idea. She knew where the stamps and envelopes were cached on the desk just as well as he did. She addressed and stamped the envelope. Hogwarts did have a postal drop; letters sent there by what she thought of as the real Post Office got to the Highlands just as surely as they did by owl.

She read down the form, noting that it required the signature of a parent or guardian. Petunia paused at the blank for the parent's or guardian's signature; she was none too sure of the ins and outs of wizarding laws concerning guardianship, although she did know that Harry was blood kin.

She opened the top desk drawer. Vernon had a small collection of pens inside a small trayat the front, mostly ball points, although there were a couple of souvenir pens he'd acquired from conferences and hotels where they'd stayed together on holiday. There was also a felt tip marker. Petunia tested it; it worked.

She set the form on a blank space on Vernon's desk, picked up the pen, and wrote a large "Petunia Evans Dursley" in the blank space, then folded the parchment, put it in the envelope, and sealed it. She'd have to the store after lunch; there was a mailbox nearby and she'd post it there.