Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Domestic ❯ The Same as Us ( Chapter 9 )

“But… why a vase?” Harry looked genuinely baffled.

Petunia stifled a smile. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, lad, but many women are fond of flowers, and your mum was one of them. Furthermore, flowers are often sent as an apology when someone’s dropped a clanger, and I was sending Lil a bouquet of flowers.”

“Sure. Nothing says, ‘Darling Dearest, I’m a gormless plonker and kindly ask your pardon’ better than a bundle of smelly wilting blooms.”

“Oh, so you are aware,” she cheeked, watching his face burn scarlet. “Anyway, I chose to make the vase instead of buying it for two reasons. One, I wanted to make something that she would see and use regularly. If I illustrated a card, it might get shoved in a desk drawer. If I painted a picture, it could be hung in a room she rarely visited. However, Lil had always loved having floral arrangements around the house—as a centerpiece on the dining table, a display on the mantel, and even nestled between periodicals on the bookcases—so making a vase seemed a safe bet. I doubted that magic school or your father changed this aspect of her.

“Two,” and here she held her breath against the rush of emotion, “I wanted her to have something that was a sideways gift from Mum and Dad. During one of our chin wags whilst waiting for news on our parents, I told Lil about the present they’d given me in congratulations on becoming a mother. It was a gift certificate to a local pottery studio. I was out of practice, and excited to attend a class on hand-building objects out of clay.

“Lily never received a congratulatory present from our parents, and I know they would have got her one. It must have been destroyed in the floodwaters, for it wasn’t in Mum and Dad’s house.” She frowned a bit before conceding sadly, “If it was there, it wasn’t blatantly obvious. No gift-wrapped box or such. I’d hate to think I sold or donated Lily’s present by accident.”

“Which makes it a good thing you conceived of the ‘ugly’ vase,” Harry chimed in, and she was grateful that her nephew didn’t let her wallow.

“Yes,” she concurred, blinking hard. “It was quite the undertaking. I sketched out the details of the vase several days ahead of class. When I showed my planned project to the instructor, he warned me that the vase would use up my entire allotment of clay for the six-week course, and there was a risk that it would break in the kiln. So, I told him the broad-strokes version about why I was making the vase, and that I trusted it’d survive the firing process.”

“Clearly your trust was rewarded.” Did he sound a little funny?

Petunia nodded, puzzling over her nephew’s tone. “Dave—the instructor—and his assistants Mathew and Clara were invested in its creation. They helped me translate my sketches into reality. The style was whimsical, just accurate enough so that the elements were recognizable, but nothing was to scale, and all the bees smiled.”

“Bees?”

“Yes, bees.” She sighed wistfully. “I used to have photographs of the finished product, but they disappeared years ago, as did the sketches. I suspect Vernon binned them after Lil passed. I don’t think he was being cruel; I tended to dissolve if I looked at those articles too long. He probably felt it was helpful to be rid of them.”

“Can you draw it for me? I want to see the vase.”

Her mouth hung open, startled by the request. “I-I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s been an age since I’ve drawn anything.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect, I just want an idea,” Harry wheedled. Wheedled! He’d never used that tactic with her before. Or any tactic, come to think of it; her nephew usually let matters drop rather than attempt to get his way. She could only conclude that he felt, well, comfortable in her presence. Such a bizarre evening.

“All right,” Petunia finally agreed, pushing her chair away from the table and rising. “Let me scrounge up my art supplies.” She left the kitchen and flipped the switch to light up the staircase. She knew where they would be if Vernon hadn’t been “helpful” again.

Entering the master bedroom, her lips twisted. She hadn’t slept up here since The Argument and had forgot about the ruined feather pillows, never mind the damaged log cabin quilt (the last quilt finished by her mum, no less). ‘Cockwomble,’ she seethed, teeth aching as she ground them together. Stop. Not her focus, not now. Heading to the large wardrobe, she averted her eyes from the gaping hole in the drywall and carefully stepped around the jagged glass bits of her once-favorite turquoise vase. Petunia felt a twinge of guilt for destroying such a lovely vessel… even more so since she missed her target.

Swinging open the doors with more vigor than necessary, she shoved Vernon’s dress shirts to either side of the roomy interior, the hangers squeaking in protest as they slid across the metal rod. At the back of the wardrobe, buried under shoeboxes and unopened packs of socks, laid her current sketchbook and a red pouch that she knew contained colored pencils, a sharpener, and several types of erasers.

Petunia retrieved the items, navigated her way through the shards once more, and walked straight out the door, only pausing to turn off the overhead light. She considered leaving the whole shamble for Vernon to clean up by himself, and that included finding a reputable mender of heirloom quilts. (Then she thought, perhaps not the latter chore, as she knew her husband could be cheap when it came to repair work.)

Setting her supplies on the table, she went over to the cupboard to grab a new glass for water. Her throat was painfully dry all of a sudden (and she was not upset over that other stuff, no). “Would you like something else to drink?”

“I’ll make myself another cuppa as you start drawing,” Harry informed her with a knowing look, gesturing for her to sit down as he got up.

Taking a deep swallow of water, Petunia refilled her glass before reclaiming her seat. Flipping open her sketchbook to the first fresh page, she nervously repeated, “It’s been a while since I’ve tried drawing. This might look awful.” She unzipped the red pouch and withdrew a light blue pencil, her favorite color for sketching. She touched the pencil to paper and froze.

“Do you know, there are thousands of magic spells, maybe ten of thousands, or even hundreds of thousands?”

Petunia turned in her seat, met her nephew’s gaze. “No, I didn’t.”

“Don’t be impressed, Aunt. I never said I knew all of them. I use a dozen spells regularly and know about fifty more besides. I often have to look up spells to use them. Occasionally my pronunciation is off and that can cause odd little hiccups in conjuring. Exasperating stuff, magic. However, I eventually get it right and all’s well.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling her brows knit with confusion.

“The point is that even though I don’t have the best technique, I still have magic.”

It dawned on her right then that Harry was making an analogy about their talents. “I understand,” she said softly, just as the kettle whistled shrilly.

Letting the pencil whisper over the surface of the paper, Petunia could see the vase in her mind’s eye, all the details, and attempted to capture them with her strokes. It had been a tall vase, about sixteen inches in height. Her sister liked long-stemmed flowers, so it seemed ideal.

As she continued fleshing out the features of the vessel, Harry asked, “How did you imagine my mum bringing the vase to life?” He set the saucer and teacup on the table, but instead of sitting, he went and stood behind her, looking over her shoulder.

Petunia fought the urge to hide the paper with her arms. Grabbing a fistful of pencils from the pouch, she selected a light brown pencil and concentrated on rendering the “trunk” of the vase. “Oh, I knew that Lil would figure it out,” she replied, then casually disclosed several minutes later, “I wrote a poem that accompanied the vase.”

“Really? Can you recite it?”

“No. Maybe, but no. I am not a poet, boy. However, I’m pretty sure the copy I taped inside the lid of Mum and Dad’s box is still legible, if you want to read it… preferably not aloud.” She hoped he’d look for it; his hovering was making her itch.

To her immense relief, he moved away from her to inspect the box. Petunia began working on fat little bee bodies when Harry’s voice cut through her internal musings about bee’s knees and pollen dust.

“In the ley there stands a lone tree

Its leaves sway gentle in the soft breeze.

Known to all dragonflies and bees

It is a home of the fairies.

They wreathed their tree for all to see

Wi’ petunias, roses, and lilies,

And mushrooms like tails o’ turkeys

Where they could lie down when drowsy.

Fairies are not a fantasy,

Though never have they been seen by me

As more than lights twinkling so dainty—

Dancing amongst the blooms at eve.”

“Ugh,” she groaned, clapping her free hand to her eyes. “I told you…”

“It’s not bad, just a little twee,” her nephew generously proclaimed.

“Damned by faint praise,” she groused, as she modeled the rose petals. She peered up from the paper, gave him a crooked grin. “Incidentally, the bouquet of flowers I sent with the vase did not have lilies, roses, or petunias. Your mum preferred wildflowers. Unfortunately, cornflowers, poppies, and foxglove don’t bloom in the winter. I had to make do with the species that I could find: Daisies, hellebore, flowering quince, and, yes, heather.”

Harry pulled a face. “Was it grey?”

She chuckled. “No! I picked stalks of pink, purple, and white.” Petunia finished coloring and turned the sketchbook toward him. “It’s not exact, but it gives the gist of what the vase looked like.”

Harry approached and she turned the sketchbook toward him. He looked awestruck. “You can draw,” he breathed. “It looks like the poem you wrote.”

“Twee?”

“A bit dreamy,” he clarified.

Petunia grabbed her glass of water and washed down the shy embarrassment his compliment engendered. “Thanks. I wanted it to be an homage to the Evans family, you know, the flowers and tree.”

Her nephew nodded, then went still, his eyes thoughtful. “Hang on a minute. How did you deliver the vase to my mum? You told me that the Muggles who worked for the phone company and post service didn’t recognize Godric’s Hollow. What did you do if you couldn’t use Royal Mail? I’m assuming you didn’t try to drive there.”

“No, no driving.” Petunia chewed her lip, tried to think of a decent-sounding lie, and failed. Clearing her throat, she said, “I, em, I yelled at the owls.”

Harry tilted his head, eyebrows raised, looking uncannily owlish himself. “Come again?”

“You heard me!” she hissed in annoyance as he smirked. “For four evenings in a row, I stood on the patio in the back garden, and I told the owls I was related to a witch and needed a large carrier animal to deliver her a package. Thank heavens the Pennywhistles’ place was just a vacant lot at the time. They’d have thought me mad!”

Her nephew’s mouth quirked. “The Pennywhistles also think it’s ‘mad’ to wear white after August and they put on disposable gloves before entering their automobile.”

“D-disposable gloves?” she stuttered, as her mind wandered to every crime drama she’d ever watched.

“Yeah. Kenny, their son, once told me it was something to do with germs affecting resale value. Just nuts, right? So, even if they had heard you, I can’t imagine anyone would take them seriously.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I strayed from the main point, though. I assume you got a response on the fifth night?”

“I did,” Petunia confirmed. “I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, to be honest. Perhaps three great grey owls to hoist the crate? That’s not what came, though…”

“I’m a wizard, Aunt,” Harry said after she stayed silent, his eyes twinkling. “You could tell me a dragon landed on your lawn and I wouldn’t be shocked.”

She put a hand on her heart. “I’d be long dead and buried from a stroke if it were that!” Petunia exclaimed, knowing he was serious. “No, it was less frightening than a dragon, but still grand. It was a great golden eagle. Brightly gold, with brown and black ticking on its feathers and enormous orange eyes. It stood as tall as me, and its wingspan stretched the length of the house! Nearly knocked me over from the air buffeting as it came down.”

Her nephew stared. “The owls sent you a roc. A juvenile, from the sound of it. Adults tend to be larger than elephants. In fact, they often snack on elephants—but they never bother eating humans. You were safe,” he hastily assured her.

“That’s nice,” she replied faintly, grateful for her ignorance during the encounter. “All I knew was that it was beautiful and terrifying, and its eyes were intelligent. I explained my situation, placed the crate on the ground before it, and told the eag—the roc where my sister lived. It did a sort of hoppy-flappy maneuver, grabbed the crate between its massive toes, and took off.

“The next afternoon, as I was getting home from strolling Dudders around the neighborhood, Heather dove down from the elm tree. She hooted at me as she dropped a thick envelope into my hands and flew away. Lily had received the package.” Petunia met Harry’s eyes. “She said it was the loveliest ‘ugly’ vase she’d ever seen, and that you—yes, you—adored it. I bet she made the bees buzz and the dragonflies flutter ‘round it for you.”

“Did my mum say anything else?”

For a moment, she struggled, her selfish impulses against conscience, and relented. “You can read the letter yourself. It’s toward the bottom of the box.”

His eyes widened, and she watched as her nephew, with trembling hands, carefully removed memories from the box in search of his own treasure. It had been so long since she’d looked at these items. She’d carefully curated the bits of her parents’ life that reminded her of them the most. There was her dad’s marathon bib, number 27182, laminated. Her mum’s pocket Bible with the creased leather cover and faded foil lettering. The Simon & Garfunkel concert ticket stubs from their stint at Cross Keys in Liverpool, which her dad bought for her mum when he won a betting pool at work…

“My mum never wrote to you after this?”

Petunia looked up to see Harry swiping tears with one hand as he gripped Lily’s letter in the other. Draining the last of the water from her glass, she rasped, “No. That was it. I… think she knew it was only a matter of time before Moldy-vort learned where you three were hiding.

“The months stretched by without any word from her, and dark things began occurring throughout England. We saw news segments about robed people fighting in gardens with lightning sticks that sparked home fires, about horrific traffic accidents caused by people riding brooms… about murders committed by speaking words.” She licked her lips. “It was frightening. Vernon began to fill my head with the worst of magical people. I fought him on it, but as the incidents kept increasing in numbers and severity, I started to wonder what it really meant to be a witch.”

Harry’s face was savage. “You thought so little of your own sister?”

“No,” she said ferociously, baring her teeth at him. “I didn’t believe Lily was capable of such mayhem. What I never expected was that her magical world was just as dangerous as my normal one. That magical people killed each other over matters of station and the desire for power, the same as us. That there was no escaping the lowlier aspects of human nature, ever.”

“You thought witches and wizards were above you? Nobler or wiser somehow, because of hocus-pocus?” 

“I don’t know!” Petunia hadn’t consciously thought of it in those terms. “Until your war started bleeding into my life, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, I stubbornly held onto the notion that magic was mostly sweet and fun, not to mention useful.”

Her nephew glanced down at Lily’s letter. She followed his gaze, noticed that the pages were crumpled now in his grip, said nothing. “And when you found me on the first of November?”

“It stripped away all my illusions of magic and magic-users. It was also the second-worst day of my life.” She had no other words to describe it.

Green eyes blazed and dimmed by turns, and Petunia returned his regard, didn’t cower. “I don’t get you. How is it that you are capable of so much affection and depth, and you couldn’t spare me an ounce?”

They had finally circled back to the original topic of discussion, started hours ago, a lifetime ago. “The only way out is through,” her dad’s voice murmured in her ear. ‘I know.’

She drew a breath.