Stronger Than They Look

Chapter 4

"Harry leaned an inch or so to the left to see where Mad-Eye was pointing and there, sure enough, were the three Dursleys, who looked positively appalled to see Harry's reception committee." --OotP, Chapter 38

That afternoon, after "Aunt Petunia" came back into his room and assured him that Dudley was playing video games in his room and was therefore occupied for the next few hours, Harry found himself being asked about his life again.

"Those people who threatened me and your uncle at the station," she said. "What are their names?"

Where to begin? "Well, the man with the scary eye is Moody. He was an Auror, but he's retired now. That's like a homicide detective for wizards," he added, noticing the puzzled look on his aunt's face. Why he'd hallucinate being asked about this, he didn't understand, but there was no harm in playing along. "The woman with the pink hair is Tonks. She's an Auror now."

"What kind of a name is Tonks?"

"It's her surname."

"Why don't you call her by her given name?"

"She doesn't like to be called by her given name."

"Why not?"

"Because her given name is Nymphadora."

"Tonks is better, I must say. All those red-haired people; are they all Weasleys?"

"Yeah, that was them. You haven't met Bill, Charlie or Percy yet, but the rest of them were there. The man with the grayish hair and the shabby jumper is Professor Lupin. He taught us Defense Against the Dark Arts in my third year."

"Why for only the one year? He looks like he could use some steady work."

"He resigned because that git, Snape, told everyone Professor Lupin was a werewolf."

"Is he a werewolf?"

"Well, yes, but he was still the best teacher we ever had in the subject. He's safe, as long as he takes his Wolfsbane Potion every month."

"I'm sure he is," said Aunt Petunia, her pale blue-gray eyes still wide as Professor Trelawney's crystal-gazing orbs. "There was someone else there, wasn't there?"

"Yes. The girl with the bushy brown hair, the one who corrected Mr. Weasley's pronunciation of 'telephone,' that's Hermione."

"Is she the one who kissed you last year?"

"What?"

"Your uncle said he saw a girl by her description kiss you on the cheek; he told me after he brought you home from the station last year. Was that her?"

Harry's brain spun back to the previous June until he arrived at the time of making his way through King's Cross after crossing the barrier. Sure enough, he remembered Hermione touching her lips to his cheek before he got into Uncle Vernon's car. "Yeah, that was Hermione. Why?"

"He was concerned that you were taking up with...well, with one of your kind. Is she special to you?"

Harry covered his face with his arm. Even his hallucination thought Hermione was his girlfriend. Where did Rita Skeeter's influence end? "She's my best friend next to Ron. I like her a lot, but not like that. She didn't mean anything by that kiss. She was just trying to make me feel better about the end of that year."

An odd look passed over Aunt Petunia's face before she said, "That was good of her."

"Yeah, it was. But she's not special to me. I mean, she is special, but Ron's the one who fancies her."

Aunt Petunia looked surprised. "Does he now? Does she fancy him, then?"

Harry thought back to a moment in his fourth year, when Hermione shouted at Ron, "Next time there's a ball, ask me first and not as a last resort!" He smiled at the memory. "Yeah, I think she does."

"So is there anyone special to you? Any other girls in your life?"

Two images flew into Harry's head; one of Ginny grinning at him from her spot at the foot of Hermione's bed, the other of Luna gesturing at the notice board next to Gryffindor Tower. Why, when he was asked that question, did he have to come up with two girls, each with an appeal of her own? "Um, Aunt Petunia?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you asking me about this?"

"I'm only curious. I'd like to know a bit more about your life, but if you don't want to tell me..."

Then he remembered that his brain was playing tricks on him, and she wasn't real. "Yeah, of course I know some other girls."

"That's nice," said Aunt Petunia with a smile.

"I tried going out with someone this year," said Harry, before she could ask him about that. "And it didn't work."

"I'm sorry to hear that. May I ask what went wrong?"

There was Cho, crying like a hosepipe and ranting at him in Madam Puddifoot's. "She was having a bad year," Harry explained, with Hermione's litany of Cho's problems running through his head. "And I was having a bad year, too, but for different reasons. She thought I could help her, but I couldn't."

Aunt Petunia looked suspicious. "Why was she having a bad year? What happened to her?"

"Her boyfriend died," said Harry, seeing Cho's tearstained face at the Leaving Feast at the end of his fourth year. "So she had some problems this year, and I wasn't prepared for it. We sort of fell apart in April."

"It sounds to me like she wasn't ready for another relationship, and she treated you very inappropriately."

"Yeah, that sounds about right. But it doesn't matter anymore, because it's over now."

Aunt Petunia still looked at him with a hard, pinched expression, like there was something he hadn't yet told her.

"It's kind of sad, because I used to really like her. And when she started to act like she was interested in me...it was nice. It gave me something good to think about."

"What was it about her you liked?"

Harry thought back to the first time he saw her, just before the Quidditch match against Ravenclaw in his third year, when his stomach did flip-flops at the sight of her. Was that it? What had she done to elicit such a response in him? "I just liked her, it's hard to say why. She was so pretty, and always really nice. Even when I played Quidditch against her, she was sweet. Actually, she used that against me, come to think of it. My team captain had to yell at me to knock her off her broom if I had to. But she always seemed like a good person."

"And how often did you talk to her before you tried going out with her?"

Just how many interactions with her did he have before she kissed him under the mistletoe while crying her eyes out? There was the Quidditch match in his third year, of course, when she smiled at him from her broomstick while blocking his path. Then there were a few brief, but pleasant encounters during the Triwizard Tournament, and then came fifth year, when she started seeking him out. "Not very often. I didn't know her very well before we started going out, I guess."

"Perhaps that was the problem?"

"Maybe it was."

They were both silent for a moment, with Aunt Petunia's hand squeezing Harry's shoulder, until she spoke up. "I'm sure you'll meet someone else."

Harry shrugged. "I've got more important things to worry about right now, to be honest."

"Yes, I suppose you do. And you're still very young, anyway."

What was that supposed to mean? He was very young, but he didn't have time to wait for love; he was too busy preparing to kill or be killed. There was a murderer out there, who wanted nothing more than to kill him, and the day could come at any time. He wasn't yet sixteen, and there was so much of life he hadn't yet experienced. He rolled over on his other side, away from Aunt Petunia, and curled into a ball. Her hand stayed on his shoulder.

"This isn't something you like to talk about, is it?" she asked.

"No."

More silence. Then,

"Perhaps you'd like to talk about something else, then?"

He wasn't sure whether he wanted her to change the subject or leave him alone. Something told him, however, that now would not be a good time for her to walk out. He nodded.

"Did you know...have any of your father's old friends ever told you...your father was tone-deaf?"

"No," he said, turning back to her. It was the last thing he'd been expecting to hear, and he mused that was probably a good thing. "Was he?"

"It seems he was. On the Christmas holiday that he stayed with us, we all went out caroling on Christmas Eve--me and Lily, James, and my parents, went out with some of our neighbors--and your father didn't do so well at it. He made an effort, but we really should have left him home," explained Aunt Petunia.

"Why? What was wrong?" asked Harry, struggling to suppress a new grin in spite of himself.

"Actually, he wasn't fully tone-deaf, he was just ever-so-slightly off-key, so that his voice stuck out like a sore thumb. It didn't help that he didn't know any of our carols. Lily held him back and tried to help him a bit, but she gave up soon enough and took him back to the house." It was at this point that Harry started chuckling again. "My parents and I didn't see them again until we finished caroling for the night."

"So they were all warm and cozy inside while you and your mum and dad were outside freezing and singing?"

Aunt Petunia seemed to deflate; she let out a breath and slumped over. "It's funny you should say that, because there were three mugs of hot chocolate waiting on the kitchen table when we got home."

Harry smiled.

Petunia was alone, cleaning her living room. She was young; not past her mid-twenties. The pictures along the shelves depicted a baby Dudley. The house was perfectly quiet except for the gentle swishing sound of her wiping up dust. Then, she heard a babyish gurgle come from the hall, and turned around to see one-year-old Harry standing in the edge of the doorway. He was dressed in pajamas that fit him, with the scar just barely healed on his forehead. She put down her dusting cloth and walked up closer to him; he was hanging onto the doorjamb and watching her, his clear green eyes hopeful.

She lowered herself to her knees and held out her arms. Harry let go of the doorway and toddled up to her; she smiled encouragingly as he drew closer. His round-cheeked face split into a laughing grin and he quickened his jerky step until he tripped over his own feet, just as he entered her reach. He fell forward, but caught himself on her upper arms. Petunia straightened the little boy back up to his feet, then leaned in to scoop him up. He hugged her back and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She cradled his little warm weight in her long, skinny arms, while he laid his tiny hands on her upper back. His whole head was already a mass of cowlicks, but his hair was marvelously soft. She sat there and rocked her baby nephew back and forth, letting him coo and gurgle in her ear.

Petunia woke up in her bed, with Vernon sleeping beside her. The new moon shone through her bedroom window. Her bedside clock read 3:42. She lay in bed, confused, for a few minutes before she remembered that she was forty years old, her son and nephew were well into their teens, and that she hadn't held Harry in over fourteen years, though not for his lack of trying.

She hoped her son was sleeping just as soundly as his father. She hoped Harry was having pleasant dreams, too, and wasn't about to wake up. She scooted in closer to her husband and wrapped his thick arm around her bony torso, letting the steadiness of his snores lull her back to sleep.