Another Mother's Hand

From the Desk of Petunia Dursley

September 15

To Do Today:

1. Pay water and petrol bills

2. Bring rubbish out to the bins

3. Attend Harry's funeral

The rain was coming down hard when I got to the Tin Whistle. It was a neighborhood place, very quiet, where a woman alone could have a drink after work without problems. I went once or twice a month, to unwind when things got too hectic.

That night, I hated to admit, I needed a drink. I needed several, but I'd decided to hold my limit where it always held. Two glasses of wine. No hard liquor, no mixed drinks. Two Zinfandels; Sauvignon Blanc if absolutely necessary.

Erol was there behind the bar. He was always so polite to me. Called me Mrs. D. He was working his way through university, making more in tips some weekend nights than I made in a week at Whitcomb, Stein and Lundford. Some nights, he didn't bill me for the second glass.

Not that I needed his charity. Between my salary and Vernon's alimony payments, I scraped by comfortably. But that night, I just wanted to drink. Actually, I wanted to get drunk, but I wouldn't. I had too far to walk from the Tin Whistle to my flat on Baxter Avenue. Three blocks, and a flight of stairs, to be precise. Not easy to do when you're pissed. Especially in heels.

So I stepped to the bar and ordered my Zin. No tab tonight, I told him, handing him a five pound note. He kept the change as I asked him to. It was just money.

My glass was cool, and I tasted a quick sip as I headed for the table in the corner. It was nice and secluded. I didn't really want to be bothered, and I certainly didn't feel like a chat.

I must admit, I never expected to see her there. She sat at the far end of the bar, alone, looking uncomfortable in her Muggle clothes, fumbling with the pound notes and change.

I suspected she wanted to be alone, too. And I didn't blame her.

Her only remaining child, Charlie I think, had moved home to be near her.

She'd lost so much. Husband. Five children. Still, she came to me at the funeral, held my hand gently, grieved with me.

I felt guilty accepting her condolences. I felt guilty being there at all.

But it was only right that I attended. Harry and I had made our peace, after all. He stayed with me when he left Hogwarts.

I kept my promise to Dumbledore. As long as he was alive, Harry had a home under my roof.

With or without Vernon.

She caught my eye across the room. I smiled weakly, not quite knowing what to do or say. I was still an outsider in their world. Even though Harry had forgiven me. Even though I'd spent the last two years making up for time lost, telling him everything I could about Lily, about his childhood, his grandparents.

I bit my lip. I was not going to start crying, right there in the Tin Whistle, in front of Molly Weasley and half the neighborhood.

She picked up her drink--from the looks of it, a strawberry daiquiri--and crossed the dark room. "Fancy a drink, Petunia?" she asked.

***

"It's just this next door," I called over the wind. The storm had gotten worse, and Molly seemed a little confused. I didn't know how much she'd had before I got there, but I supposed it was enough to make her wary of unfamiliar staircases in the rain.

I pulled open the screen door and fumbled with the key. The damned security light was out again. Molly, to her credit, did not pull out her wand. She knew me well enough, I suppose, to know I was still uncomfortable with that sort of thing. I got the door open and we bustled in, taking half the northwestern wind with us, it appeared. I hit the light and pulled off my rain slicker. "Welcome to my happy home," I said with a grand gesture. It made me laugh, and Molly laughed too.

My grand home was two bedroom flat, sparsely decorated with second hand furniture and a broken trash disposal in the kitchen. But it was dry and a safe port in a storm.

"It's lovely," she said. Ever gracious, that Molly Weasley. I took her slicker and hung it on the rack to dry. We were both drenched. "Thank you for inviting me," she added, looking around.

"I'm sorry it's not much," I said. It was freezing. I went to the thermostat and notched it up a degree or two. After all, I had company and I'd just bite the bullet when the bills came due. "Let me get you a robe. I'll put your clothes to wash, and we can wait out the storm, if you like."

She could have aparated out of there with a single flick of her wand. Could've dried our clothes, and warmed the room too. But Molly was polite. I had no magic, so she used no magic. "I'm so sorry about the mud." She pointed to the spots we'd tracked in. I almost laughed.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'll get it in the morning."

"I could..."

"No." My voice came out too sharply, and she looked hurt. I took a deep breath and tried to appear as gracious and generous as possible. "No, thank you, Molly," I continued. "You're my guest. Please, don't worry about it."

I led her through the master bedroom to my bath, showing her where the towels were and explaining to her how to use the tap. (I no longer took it for granted that Harry's friends knew these things.) As she fiddled with the knobs, I went back into my closet, pulling out a thick robe and slippers. I folded the robe and placed the entire bundle discreetly inside the bathroom door, taking her clothes with me as I did. Grabbing another robe and slippers for myself, I went to Harry's room, stopping only a moment to deposit Molly's and my wet things in the washer.

I stepped in the shower, setting it lukewarm as to not hog the hot water, and quickly scrubbed my face, hair and body. No more long rituals in the shower, with organic products specifically designed for my unique skin and hair care needs. Just wash and leave.

She was waiting in the living room when I came out. My robe was a little long for her, and she held it around her with just the fingers of her hands sticking out the sleeves. "Arthur would have loved this place," she said in her thick accent. "A real Muggle shower." There was a wistful expression in her eyes. "He would have loved this place."

"Are you hungry?" I asked, falling back on my old hostess days. Make them comfortable. Keep them fed. Listen intently and laugh in the right places. It was branded into my cerebrum like a tattoo.

"Oh, don't go to any trouble, dear," she started in with her own script.

"I'm famished," I said plainly, heading for the kitchen. "It's no trouble, since I plan on eating anyway. Besides, I never got the hang of cooking for one."

It was something we shared in common. She shrugged and followed me into the tiny kitchen. I hated it, of course, but it was functional and just had to do.

Molly looked around, her eyes growing wide at my meager collection of gadgets. The mixer. The horribly cheap microwave oven. "Amazing," she murmured.

"Do you like chicken?" I hoped she liked chicken, because with the funeral expenses this was not the month for beef. She nodded and I pulled two breast pieces from the fridge. I had broccoli and zucchini, so I pulled down the old electric wok from the cabinet.

We talked over the chopping of the vegetables, onions and celery and peppers. She told me about Charlie's new job at the Bestiary in London, working with orphaned dragons. I told her about my job at Whitcomb, and the fourteen-year-old staff I was forced to deal with.

We talked about cooking, and the weather.

What's more is what we didn't talk about.

Her empty house.

My son, who no longer spoke to me.

Our husbands, hers dead, and mine who had threatened me with a restraining order if I stepped within 500 meters of him or Dudley.

We didn't talk about the one thing that brought us together.

Harry was dead.

We'd buried him that morning, and we were both in shock.

I put too much soy sauce in the vegetables. It was ruined. Too salty, and I apologized, but Molly devoured her portion as if it were a five-star gourmet meal.

Vernon would have thrown it away. Of course, Vernon made three times my salary and could afford to waste food.

Her hair dried a pretty shade of red, in waves. She'd lost weight. Six funerals in three years. Anyone would lose weight.

We lingered over the empty dishes. The wash had finished. I heard the buzzer during dinner, but neither of us wanted to move. We just sat there, not really saying anything. The rain was pounding against the tiny kitchen window, and a crack of thunder here and there made us jump.

"Thank you for dinner," she said softly.

"You're welcome."

We fell into another long silence, just listening to the storm.

"I miss him," I said. I didn't need to explain about whom I was talking.

"They say it gets easier with time," she remarked, playing her fork against the cheap, ugly plate. "I don't see it."

"I've been going through his things. He had some pictures I wanted to give to you. They were taken at the Burrows, back when he was in school." She looked up and I saw the pain in her eyes. "Would you like me to get them for you?"

She nodded without a word.

I got up, leaving the dishes, hearing her place them carefully in the sink as I headed for Harry's bedroom. It was pretty much as he left it, Quidditch pennants on the wall, pictures, his books everywhere. He'd been studying for his Auror test when it happened.

I felt a knot forming in my stomach again, and hurried to his desk where the packet addressed to Molly lay. Hedwig twittered in her cage. Gawd, I still had to figure out what I was going to do with her, didn't I? I gave her a treat, shhhh'd her quickly, and went back out to the living room where Molly sat on the couch, one leg tucked under her thigh.

"There's quite a few here," I began, sitting next to her. "Several of Ron and Harry, and there's one with the twins." I pulled the pictures out. Harry and Ron; Harry, Ron and Hermione; a group shot of a backyard Quidditch game at the Burrows. A bludger was headed straight for Harry's head.

It seemed so right, when she began to weep, to hold her. It seemed so natural to stroke her hair, kiss her forehead. My own tears began to flow, and she wiped them away.

The kiss felt right, too. She smelled of honeysuckle, and I embraced her warmth and softness. Our lips brushed gently together, and she stroked her fingers through my hair. We'd been widowed and divorced at about the same time. Our bodies didn't realize we were in mourning. Our bodies only knew they were hungry, and that this contact, this tentative exploration, was the food they craved.

She was my friend.

And it didn't matter who had lost more, or who had suffered more, as we found solace in each other's arms on that stormy night. All that mattered was the sweet, sad pleasure we shared, and the healing touch of another mother's hand.