Chance Meetings

Chance Meetings

Now, Petunia Dursley liked nice restaurants. She liked the softness of the chairs and carpet, the glitter of the chandeliers and the sparkling wineglasses, the soft murmur of upper-crust accents, and most of all, the white linen tablecloths. They were so clean, so pristine. And Petunia Dursley liked clean things.

What she didn't like was being left waiting. Both boys were finally out of the house for the fall term, and Vernon had announced that morning that he wanted to treat his wife to an old-fashioned night out. He'd made reservations at La Plaisir in town, and had told Petunia that he'd meet her there after work, and that she should be sure not to be late.

But it was now six o'clock, and Vernon was half an hour late. Petunia knew that it was probably something at work that had kept him, and not for the first time considered a mobile phone. They weren't too cheap, but it might help them keep in contact.

Petunia sighed and fussed with the menus in front of her.

Immediately a young waiter appeared at her elbow. "Would you like any assistance in choosing your entrée tonight?"

"What?" she asked, started. "Oh--oh, no thanks, I'm still waiting for my husband."

"Of course," said the waiter pleasantly. "Would you like me to check with the maître d' to see if there are any messages for you?"

"I can go myself," said Petunia brusquely, and stood up before the waiter could pull her chair back.

She strode across the sumptuous carpet, underneath the chandeliers, past the glittering wineglasses, and over to the highly polished marble-topped reception desk.

She had to wait half a minute for a young couple to be seated before the maître d' reappeared, and then she was nearly pushed out of her place by the most enormous stomach she'd ever encountered. Still, she didn't fall over, and merely turned to give the fat man an affronted look.

The maître d' returned, and Petunia asked if there were any messages for her.

There was one.

"Oh?" she asked icily. "Why didn't anyone come to my table to tell me?"

"The message has only just arrived, madam," she was informed politely.

"And what does it say?" she snapped impatiently.

"He apologizes for his tardiness--"

Petunia doubted that.

"--the car has broken down--"

Naturally.

"--and he's obtaining a taxicab to arrive here in the next half-hour."

Petunia sighed.

"All right," she said.

When she turned around to return to her table, though, the fat man who had nearly knocked her over was standing in her way again.

"Excuse me," she muttered, and waited for him to move aside, but he didn't, so she looked him in the face and opened her mouth to ask him to move.

It was only then that she realized he was staring at her, and had probably been staring at her during the entire exchange with the maître d'.

Suddenly the man shook his head. "I'm so sorry," he apologized in a rich and resonant voice, "but you remind me of a former student of mine."

"Oh?" said Petunia, curious despite herself.

"Yes, a lovely lady, died so young, too."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Petunia truthfully. Now that she got a look at the man, he wasn't unpleasant to look at--and that enormous stomach was very impressive. Petunia had always liked a well-built man.

"So was I, dear lady, so was I," said the fat man. Then he bowed as much as his bulk would permit. "My apologies. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Horace Slughorn."

Something about the name was familiar, but Petunia couldn't put a finger on it, so she didn't bother. She held out her hand to be kissed, which Horace did so.

"Petunia Dursley," she said coquettishly. Hell, she thought, if Vernon was going to be late, then let him pay for it. "My dining companion is late this evening; would you care to join me at my table?"

Horace's eyes traveled up and down Petunia's body, leaving Petunia feeling very girlish and young again. "It would be my pleasure, Petunia," he replied.

* * *

The waiter brought them a bottle of French wine and then disappeared.

"So," said Petunia, after Horace had poured for them both, "what do you do for a living, Mr Slughorn?"

"Please, call me Horace," said Horace. "I am a teacher," he then said in answer to her question. "Secondary school. Chemistry," he added.

"I see," said Petunia. She took a sip of her wine. It was excellent.

"Actually it's a bit more complicated than that," Horace said. "I'd been in retirement for quite some years, when the Headmaster appeared on my doorstep and practically begged me to return to take up my old post last year. They've had trouble keeping staff on, you see."

He took a large drink of his wine then, and held the glass up reflectively. "An excellent vintage, I do declare. Must be an eighty-two!" He looked at the label on the wine bottle. "Alas, eighty-three. I'm losing my touch."

"You're a connoisseur?"

"Merely an admirer, Miss Dursley, merely an admirer."

"Please, call me Petunia," said Petunia with a girlish smile. "And it's been many years since anyone addressed me as a 'miss'."

"Oh, surely not! You look barely a day over thirty."

That was certainly pushing it, but Petunia would play the game.

"Such a flatterer!" she giggled. "I suppose you wouldn't believe that I've one son, almost grown!"

"No, I wouldn't!" Horace declared, with a great show of startlement.

"Indeed I have. Dudley attends Smeltings--the local comprehensives simply won't do, as I'm sure you would know. Have you heard of Smeltings?" Petunia said, sipping again at her wine.

"Yes, yes, I have," said Horace. "It's well-known for producing ambitious young men."

"I'm very happy with it," Petunia said. "Dudley is doing very well there. In addition to the academics, he's recently earned the Boxing Champion title for the entire Southeast."

"Indeed! He must be a fine young man," said Horace. "I'm sure you're a wonderful mother. You sound very devoted."

"He's my only son. I give him everything I can," said Petunia selflessly. "Have you any children, Horace?"

"Me? No, no, I have no children. Although I consider all my students as my children, in a way. I take some under my wings and guide them--career advice, networking, that kind of thing." He gave Petunia a long, searching look. "You really do look extraordinarily like my former pupil."

"The one who died young?"

"Yes," said Horace sadly. "So, so young. Murdered, in fact, by a maniac."

Petunia shook her head sadly. "Serial killer?"

"Of a sort," Horace said, not taking his eyes off Petunia's face. "The lunatic killed both her and her husband--they'd only been married a year or two. Left the baby alone, for some reason. Little thing was only a year old. Probably saw both murders. No one knows why V--the lunatic didn't kill him as well."

"Oh, how awful," said Petunia.

"The boy is now one of my pupils, as a matter of fact," Horace continued. "He was raised by his relatives and has turned into quite the astonishing young man. Polite, capable--he'll go far, mark my words. I've taken him into my little circle as well; though, to be honest, there's little I can do to help him along his way."

"Why is that?" Petunia asked. She wasn't really interested in the student, but the longer she kept Horace talking, the more chance there was that Vernon would see the two of them talking and get furiously mad, and Petunia did so love it when he blustered, especially with jealousy.

"He's chosen a bit of an odd career. Law enforcement," Horace clarified. "I know a handful--more than a handful, perhaps--in the business, but, well, the boy is clearly destined for something a little different. More... confidential."

"I see," said Petunia.

"But enough about me and my pupils," said Horace, although it was clear he loved to talk about nothing else. "Tell me about your charming self. You have a son?"

"Oh, yes," chattered Petunia, more than happy to talk about her favorite subject. "Dudley. He's just seventeen, in his last year at Smeltings." She debated mentioning Vernon, and decided not to. "I think he'll go into business, such a fine mind. He gets excellent marks in maths, and his school reports show that he's an excellent leader. Lots of the other boys follow him."

"Excellent, excellent," said Slughorn into his wineglass, which he emptied and then refilled. "More wine, Petunia?"

"Please." Petunia held out her glass. A bright stream of liquid splashed into it, and Petunia was suddenly reminded of the color of blood.

"Dudley's such a popular boy, too," Petunia continued, when both their glasses had been filled. She was starting to feel deliciously giddy. "During the summers he's always being invited round by his friends' parents for tea or supper. Harry says he thinks Dudley's smoking, but I doubt it." Petunia heard what she said and realized she'd had far too much to drink.

"Harry?" asked Horace. "Your husband?"

"Oh, no," said Petunia with a little giggle. "Harry's my nephew. He lives with us because his parents got themselves killed when he was young."

"How sad."

"Drunk driving," said Petunia harshly. "They wouldn't have made good parents in any case, I'm sorry to say."

"Then it's good of you to take the boy in."

Petunia inclined her head graciously. "I couldn't very well leave him to the foster system, could I?"

"No, no, certainly not," said Horace with a shudder. "Such awful people! How old is your nephew?" asked Horace.

"He's seventeen as well," Petunia said tightly. "Though I'd rather not talk about Harry."

"My apologies. But I must say, it's quite a coincidence--my favorite pupil's name is Harry, and he's seventeen as well."

"It's a very common name," Petunia said dismissively. "But do tell me more about yourself, Horace."

"If you insist. Apart from teaching and guiding the minds of young people, I like to spend my time watching sporting events and enjoying the finer aspects of life." Horace's pudgy hands stroked the velvet of his smoking jacket. Now that Petunia looked closer, she could see that his cufflinks looked like diamonds. What kind of former pupils did this man have? "My students are invariably grateful for the connections I bring them."

"It's good of you to help them so," said Petunia flatteringly. "So many teachers simply do what they're paid to and then ignore the children the rest of the time."

Horace nodded and poured himself another glass. "Indeed, indeed. Some of my fellow teachers--though I shouldn't say."

"Oh?" asked Petunia. She did love good gossip.

"Well, I can't mention names, of course--"

"Of course."

"--but there is one particular teacher who is downright nasty to the pupils. In fact, I took his post last year--he was shunted aside into another department. But this teacher..." Horace shook his head. "He constantly taunts those who aren't his absolute favorites, takes points without any reason, and I've more than once seen his temper get downright violent. Fortunately he's been sacked, so I won't have to deal with him this year."

"That's good."

"Yes, I'm quite relieved." Horace looked sad, however. "Still, the young pup who's taken his place isn't much better. Closer to the age of his students than I'd prefer--in fact, the boy's younger sister is in his classes!"

"I can't believe they'd let that happen! Favoritism," said Petunia derisively. "At Smeltings, that kind of thing would not be tolerated."

Horace nodded and wordlessly refilled Petunia's glass.

"Surely you must have enough influence to prevent that sort of thing happening," said Petunia. She could hear herself slurring a little, but didn't mind. "If you have connections..."

Horace sighed. "I have tried. We have a new Headmistress this year, though, and Bill--that's the new teacher--was always one of her favorites. It's an insular school, you see."

"Rural?"

"Yes, yes, quite rural. Out in the middle of nowhere, as a matter of fact."

"Surely a well-connected city man like yourself needn't bother with such smalltime teaching. Why not take a better post? I'm sure they must be falling at your feet."

Horace smiled at Petunia, and Petunia felt herself go deliciously damp all over. "Sadly, they are not. I had retired, you see, and it's only as a favor to the Headmaster--may he rest in peace--that I came out of retirement. Minerva--that's the new Headmistress--insists that I stay on for one more year." He nodded importantly.

"You're such a charitable man, Horace," Petunia trilled, and leaned forward a little to show some cleavage.

Horace's eyes flicked to the cleavage and then back to his wineglass. Although his face was already quite red with drink, Petunia could see a flush tingeing his ears.

"You really look quite startlingly like Lily!" he exclaimed, as if to cover his embarrassment. He took a large gulp of wine.

Petunia, however, set down her wineglass and felt a lump form in her throat. She swallowed. "Lily?" she asked. "Your favorite pupil?"

"Yes, yes," said Horace sadly. "Beautiful name for a beautiful girl."

"My--my sister's name was Lily," Petunia said.

"Your sister..." Horace was staring at Petunia, now white with shock.

"And we've taken in her son, Harry."

"Harry..."

"Harry Potter." Petunia said the name flatly, trying to inject it was all the hatred she could muster.

Petunia and Horace stared at each other. Petunia felt her skin crawling. He was one of them, he was part of the world of the freaks! It was so awful... she'd been looking forward to a nice chat with a normal man, and now... Horace's bulk, a few minutes ago so appealing, now seemed merely more of an indicator of how wrong everything was.

Petunia crossed her arms and glared at Horace Slughorn. He was one of Harry's teachers? To think she'd been attracted to him for even five minutes!

"Petunia...Evans?" Horace finally choked out.

Petunia nodded frostily. "I was, once."

"Lily Evans was your sister."

"Yes," Petunia spat, then continued, "She got herself murdered by a violent megalomaniac who now threatens the peace of my family. Floating cakes, my sister-in-law inflated, and then two summers ago a pair of dementors came around and traumatized poor Dudders!"

Petunia took a deep breath and was fully prepared to go ranting in a furious whisper, when the most musical sound she'd ever heard came to her ears.

"Who the ruddy hell are you?"

Vernon had arrived. He stood, bulky and tall, outlined against the setting sun visible through the restaurant's windows.

Horace Slughorn hastily stood up, knocking over his wineglass. He bowed politely and shakily to Petunia.

"My thanks, dear lady, for your company thus far, but I must take my leave." He turned to Vernon. "You have a remarkable wife, good sir, and please trust that my interests are purely in friendship."

Then he turned back to Petunia, and there was a short pause before he said, "Harry is a fine young man, and he does both of you proud."

Then he walked away.

"Who was that?" boomed Vernon, taking the seat Horace had just vacated. "How does he know Harry? Is he--"

Petunia opened her mouth to tell the whole story, then closed it and shook her head. "No one important. Completely crazy. Still, he paid for the wine."

Vernon grunted and opened the menu.

~fin~