Blood

Petunia Dursley looked around her at the catastrophe that remained of her simple, yet elegant dinner party, and sighed. This mess was definitely not going to clean itself.

She looked at the clock. Eight thirty-seven. Perhaps she should be grateful to Harry for his outburst. She'd never gotten Marge out of their house before ten. Usually the old bat stayed well past eleven, begging off driving home so either Vernon had to drive her home or they were forced to insist she sleep over.

In their bed, of course. They'd be fine on the sofa sleeper. Not enough room for both in Harry's room, so kicking him off to the couch was not an option. Nor was asking Dudders to give up his king sized bed.

Vernon was furious. The call had come from the police a little less than 30 minutes before, and he'd let off his yelling at Harry to retrieve her from where-ever they'd dumped her. Fixed, normal-sized (for Marge at least), and no doubt completely ignorant of what had happened to her.

They were good at that, they were. Cleaning up their tracks.

Freaks.

Petunia picked up the broom and began sweeping the bits of broken china and glass into a pile. She gathered as much as she could of the large pieces and tossed them into the dustbin. Harry was off banging things about his room.

Blood will tell.

The words burned through her brain as she dropped to her knees, leaning forward to pick up smaller bits that had flown under the table. Mother's blood.

Blood Petunia shared, and blood Vernon had not thought to defend.

Blood that burned in Harry's veins. And her own.

He'd not meant to harm Marge. She knew that, even though he'd laughed.

She'd tried not to laugh herself, more concerned with the state of her dining room than her sister-in-law.

Blood will tell.

Petunia's hands trembled as a wave of dizziness took over her.

Tempers were bad. Tempers made the blood boil, isn't that what the old women used to say?

Blood will tell.

She watched with a familiar sinking desperation as bits of broken china began to shake of their own accord, as if in response to some small tremor only their sticky shards could feel.

Petunia slammed herself into a sitting position, staring away from the china fragments and folding her hands hard on her lap.

The rattling behind her stopped.

Blood will tell.

How many years? How many insults of that woman's had she squashed down, swallowed like rotten bits of meat? How much did she take, and how much did Vernon ignore?

Did he care? Did he even notice the insults? The not-so-subtle digs? Year after year after year....

Harry hadn't meant to harm Marge. Harry hadn't meant to harm her, Petunia thought. Harry hadn't .

The dustbin tumbled over without being touched.

Petunia closed her eyes hard, hugging herself tightly as she rocked back and forth.

Blood will tell. Blood boils. Her blood was hot in her veins. She was too angry. Too angry.

A tiny knock at her foot caught her attention.

A walnut.

Petunia didn't keep walnuts in the house. Vernon and Dudley loathed them and, although she loved them dearly, it made no sense to go to the expense just for herself.

This walnut sat there at her foot, as if staring at her.

She smiled ruefully. He did have a sense of style, the Old Man. Make it palatable. Have a walnut, dear? She reached down and it immediately cracked in her palm, revealing the most perfectly formed center she'd seen in a while.

Funny, Judas was paid in silver coins. Petunia was paid in walnuts. Over the last 12 years, walnuts. Pop it in the mouth, feel it go down. Taste it. Delicious. And the blood cools. The accidents stop. Clocks didn't break when she went near, nor televisions go blank. Radio signals came in sharp and clear, with nothing to interfere from Petunia.

All because one Old Nut sent her one occasional nut. And in return for protecting this child who turned mean old biddies into Macy's Parade balloons, she got a normal life.

It was ridiculous, absurd.

She stared at the nut in her hand.

Vernon would come home, and the fighting would begin. This is not how she'd planned her life to be. All she'd wanted was a normal, ordinary life with a normal, ordinary family. A membership in a club or two, girlfriends who came over for weekly games of bridge. A son who loved her, a husband who protected her.

Instead she got walnuts. And floating circus freak sisters-in-law. And a nephew who looked too much like his dead parents, his mother's eyes, always searching, always watching.

Lily would have known what to do. Lily always knew what to do.

Petunia began to cry softly. The dustbin rattled in front of her, and the walnut seemed to heat in her hand.

Eat it, she could hear the Old Man say. That was the deal. Protection for normalcy.

She could feel it burning within her. Before the Dark Times, when things were easy, an untrained witch was no big deal. She never felt the need to use magic, and as long as she kept herself in line, no one bothered her.

Lily's death had changed all that. Lily's death had changed everything.

Vernon knew nothing of walnuts or blood. And he never would.

Perhaps she should throw the bloody thing in the bin with the remains of her lovely china gravy boat. Take the Boy and run away, hide from everybody and learn what she could on her own. Protect them both.

Let the blood burn inside her. Let it rage, if need be.

Blood will tell.

She could hear Dudley in the other room. What would happen to him if she ran away from her safe little normal life? If she took her bad, burning blood and disappeared into the night?

Would he become like Vernon? Would he become like Marge?

Had she lost him already?

She swallowed the nut whole, no second thought at all.

She would not abandon her sister's son. Why on earth would she abandon her own?

It felt good, this tasty pill, as it went down, as its magic spread through her, dampening her own, calming her blood. The Old Man did good work. She felt the smile on her face, the relaxation coming back to her.

It was the right thing to do. She'd manage Vernon. She'd protect the Boy...and her son. She'd be okay.

A normal life. Let the Boy play with magic. She had her son, and her husband. She had her life.

Petunia stared at the overturned dustbin. This mess wasn't going to clean itself.