Bethany Beddarthin’s Better than You! The First Year

Miss Bethany Beddarthin Hates Pink

The Beddarthin Estate was a large house made exclusively of marble, and sat on a lone, lordly hill over the other less fortunate, which the Beddarthin Family always sent charities and fruit baskets to and were of course kept far away from by their extensive Beddarthin Grounds. The Beddarthin Estate was comprised of eight parlours, three halls, nine dining rooms, six play rooms, twelve bathrooms, two laundry rooms, nine breakfast rooms, four drawing rooms, two kitchens, three libraries, four ballrooms, and many others besides, including an attic room, where who should live but the Beddarthin Family's foul, wretched, good-for-nothing uncle.

Uncle, that is, to Miss Bethany Beddarthin, the wee only child of the Beddarthins, only just ten-years-old, and about to become only just eleven-years-old. In three days, in fact, was her birthday, and that meant a lot of excitement and hullabaloo was being centered around Miss Bethany - just like it always was. At this moment, no one could really help it.

"I WANT IT, I WANT IT, I WANT IT!" screamed Bethany, standing on her mother's make-up box.

Mrs. Beddarthin - and her on-hand staff of hair dressers, make-up artists, maids, cooks and professional shoppers - didn't know what to do.

"Darling, darling, darling," Mrs. Beddarthin crooned. "We can't get you one of those, they don't exist!"

"YES THEY DO!" screeched Bethany. "IT SAYS RIGHT HERE!"

Bethany shoved her picture book so close to her mother's face she almost got the sickly green cream on it. Mrs. Beddarthin pulled back to get a better look; a smile flashed onto her face.

"Darling," said Mrs. Beddarthin. "Dinosaurs are extinct."

"I don't want a dinosaur!" said Bethany, great angry tears spilling down her face. Her nose was beginning to dribble too, and she sniffed. "I want -" she checked the book again "- I want a pterodactyl!"

All of Mrs. Beddarthin's women twittered and cooed to each other, which was the worst thing they could have done.

"STOP THAT! STOP LAUGHING AT ME!" Bethany shrieked, and the women immediately quelled, looking stricken. Bethany gave a dramatic sniff, "I'm telling Daddy on you," and pranced snottily out of the room, followed stiffly by her valet.

You may have gotten the idea that Bethany is a spoiled brat by now, which is perfectly true. After all, her parents were very well-to-do - her mother was the heiress to an extremely popular fashion line, and her father was in command of a large corporation that sold construction equipment - and it had never crossed their minds to deny her anything she had wanted. Bethany was hoping this included long-extinct pterodactyls.

Her father was in one of the parlours, it transpired, but Bethany had a satisfactory time in trying to find him, which involved a lot of yelling and slamming doors so hard the valet had to stop and make sure they hadn't been knocked off their hinges.

Mr. Beddarthin was a very large man, with a large mustache, a large voice, and a large character, with very little hair in contrast. At the moment he looked twice as large as normal, as he complained very loudly to a trio of men. They were all overseeing a huge mountain of presents being stacked carefully into the corner of the parlour by a long assembly line of servants. Mr. Beddarthin and his trio were drinking brandy and scotch on the couches.

"I can't believe how the economy is going on these days! Can't get a blasted thing for my little Bethany's birthday at all! Forty-two presents! Forty-two presents? What kind of father gives only forty-two presents on their only child's eleventh birthday? A bad father I tell you that, last year I got her eighty-two!" He took a gulp of his brandy to fuel his next spleen. The trio nodded sympathetically.

A timid servant paused in the assembly line and said, "Sir -"

"And the difficulty of getting them all! Why, some had to be shipped from all around the world! America, Japan, South Africa, you name it. I think I've even got something in that stack straight from Grenada! Because you know that's where the best kind of stuff comes from, where it's naturally made, and only the best for my little Bethany!" He ended this with a proud smile.

"Sir -" the servant started again.

"Oh, yes, sir," said one of the trio, cutting across the hapless servant.

"Most assuredly, sir," said the second.

"We couldn't agree more, sir," finished the third.

"Sir -"

Mr. Beddarthin gave a foul frown to his empty brandy glass. "What kind of father am I?" he muttered. "Forty-two presents! It makes me ill, it does."

"But, sir!" sputtered the servant.

His absence in the assembly line had made passing the presents over more difficult, if not more enjoyable, and soon one of his fellows were tossing the presents over his gap to the other. The progress of one, sailing through the air with its ostentatious ribbons flying, finally caught Mr. Beddarthin's eye, which was in turn levied on the empty spot and then upon the servant that wasn't occupying it.

"So!" barked Mr. Beddarthin, jumping up and causing the tower of presents in the corner to shudder. "What say you!"

"Sir," said the servant nervously. The progress of the assembly stopped completely to watch. Mr. Beddarthin was slowly turning purple and seemed to be swelling twice his size.

"Sir," said the servant, a bit more strongly, as one would do when faced with mortal peril and was thinking, Bollocks, I might as well get in one shot. "You see, sir, you didn't give your daughter forty-two presents this year."

Time seemed to slow down.

"I didn't, did I?" said Mr. Beddarthin coldly.

"No, sir," said the servant emphatically. "You gave her one hundred and forty-two."

The universe held its breath. Mr. Beddarthin's beady piggish eyes swung to the tower, to the assembly line, to the servant, to the tower, and back to the servant again.

"Well," he said. "That's all right then."

And he sat back down again, as if nothing had happened and poured himself another brandy. The universe went back to what it had been doing, and time hurried on a bit faster, to make up for what it had lost. The trio of men waited patiently for Mr. Beddarthin to start again, with no visible sign they thought worse of him. Of course, there had never been any sign they thought at all. Respectfully, they were Mr. Beddarthin's 'Yes-man,' 'Assuredly-man,' and 'Couldn't-agree-more-man' at the company. Consequently, their vocabulary suffered, but if the conversation did, Mr. Beddarthin didn't notice.

However, Mr. Beddarthin was allowed to save a rant on motorcycles for another day, as his little Bethany had just flung the doors of the parlour open, stomped in and -

- Stopped with the sound of eyes popping.

Her valet followed in after, and began to arrange her curls to a less frightful mess.

"Ah, my dear Bethany -" her father began.

"PRESENTS!" squealed Bethany, and flung her arms in the air, walloping her valet a good one.

"One hundred and forty-two," said Mr. Beddarthin pompously, as though he had known all along. The trio of men all nodded approvingly, like seagulls bobbing on ocean waves.

Bethany stared at the tower in pure glee; then her spoiled disposition noticed a grave mistake. Her gaping mouth shut with a snap, and her glazed eyes turned fiery.

"PINK!" she howled, and the nearest servant was frightened so badly he tossed the present he had been holding into the air. It landed with an unpleasant shattering sound at Bethany's feet, and she looked down at it in fury.

"PINK!" she shrieked again, snatching up the present. "THEY'RE ALL WRAPPED IN PINK!"

She fell into a tantrum, ripping the wrapping paper off fiercely, despite her father's weak protests. The box revealed the inside gift to be a glass and crystal musical carousel, but Bethany did not notice; once removing the offending pink, she stomped the poor box and its fragile carousel into little, wretched bits.

"I - HATE - THE - COLOUR - PINK!" she screamed. No one stepped forward to stop her; even Mr. Beddarthin stared in abject horror. Mrs. Beddarthin had just skidded in on her stiletto heels, her brigade of servants right on them.

"Bethany!" gasped her mother.

Only then did Bethany stop, looking wide-eyed at her mother. Every gear in her brain clicked exceptionally fast, and she was soon bawling very loudly. Her mother scooped her pitifully up into her arms.

"Dearest!" she snapped at her husband.

"I - er, that is - one hundred and forty-two!" squawked Mr. Beddarthin.

But Mrs. Beddarthin wasn't listening. "Hush, hush," she said, bouncing Bethany on her shoulder as well she could and patting her back with recently manicured hands. "Don't worry, darling, we'll get you a pterodactyl... there's bound to be one for sale somewhere..."

But Bethany had quite forgotten about her pterodactyl, and shook her head. "My presents," she sobbed dramatically.

Mrs. Beddarthin, who was getting quite worried about getting snot down all her clothes, glanced at the crushed heap on the floor distractedly. "Oh, don't mind that, popkin. Daddy'll just get you a new one... won't you, Dudley?"

Mr. Beddarthin nodded vigorously.

"It's not that," sniffed Bethany. "They're pink. They're all wrapped in pink. I hate pink, I want them wrapped in red."

"And it's your birthday, and you should get what you want," said Mrs. Beddarthin, putting Bethany down, grateful for this easily solved problem. She waved a hand imperiously. "Rewrap them."

"But - but red's a kind of pink..." stammered Mr. Beddarthin.

"Rewrap them," said Mrs. Beddarthin again, her eyes flashing. "I want our daughter's birthday to be absolutely perfect, don't you, Dearest? I thought so. Now, darling," she said, leaning down over Bethany lovingly. "Why don't you stay here and make sure that do everything just so? I'll be my bedroom, if you need anything," she had already backed halfway out the door, shadowed by her court. "And Dudley," she said, with an edge to her voice. "We'll be talking to your worthless brother tonight about the party. Don't forget."

And the doors closed. Everything stayed still for a moment.

"You heard what my wife said!" barked Mr. Beddarthin at the servants. "Rewrap them! And do it right this time, damn it!"

The assembly line changed, and someone went and got red paper, and in a flurry began to rewrap the one hundred and forty-one gifts. Bethany watched the proceedings from a pouf in the corner, sipping raspberry iced tea that her stiff and bruising valet mechanically brought her. She sat there thoughtfully for awhile, and just as the tower began to grow in the corner again, she yelled:

"NOT THERE! PUT IT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM! I WANT IT IN THE MIDDLE! NOW NOW NOW!"

Miss Bethany Beddarthin always got what she wanted.

"Spoiled brat."

It was much later in the evening now, and Bethany had been put in bed long ago. In fact, not a creature was stirring in the house, except in that one parlour, where the firelight made the red-wrapped presents gleam, but seldom lit the figure slumped in one of the chairs. Mr. and Mrs. Beddarthin sat across it, stiff-backed with grim frowns.

"Be quiet, dear brother," growled Mr. Beddarthin.

"Really," said Mrs. Beddarthin. "One of the very few reasons we allow your sorry hide in our home, Uncle Thomas, is that Bethany enjoys your company so very much. Why, I wouldn't know. I could never stand such a foul -"

"You mean," said Uncle Thomas, cutting across her rising voice cleanly. "She enjoys torturing me so very much."

Mr. Beddarthin grinned nastily in the dim light. "Oh, yes. And what name is she on now?"

"I believe it was Uncle Gertrude two days ago," said Thomas without much interest. "Her past favorites, however, have been unique, fascinating racial slurs." He gave them a mock salute. "You've raised that brat well, Beddarthins. Hats off to you."

"You watch your mouth, Thomas."

"Aw, that's cute, Dudders. Just like old times with Mum and Dad. I'm getting weepy."

Mr. Beddarthin's fist tightened and his teeth gritted; Mrs. Beddarthin whispered urgently, "The party. We're here about the party."

Mr. Beddarthin relaxed very slowly. "Yes," he said, and did not seem to be able to go on.

Mrs. Beddarthin felt nervous; with everyone else - at home or work, what little she did of either - she never had the difficulty of a person quite like Thomas. The man scared her. His disposition was usually rudely intelligent, but there was something just under those eerily green eyes of his, like a blade in the shadow of his dark, rough fringe. Mrs. Beddarthin always imagined a slash of a knife when they flashed angrily - she shuddered. Thomas was dangerous, an outlaw in - his world. Her husband never talked about it, but Mrs. Beddarthin was certain he knew just why Thomas had come to them in the first place. It was times like these she was glad that her husband was there, and could not draw up any strength to be rude to him as she usually was. Mr. Beddarthin was her one and only protector in situations like these. Of course, she disliked to show it.

"So," said Thomas. "This party... Bethany's eleventh birthday, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Beddarthin slowly. She glanced nervously at her husband; his face was in deep shadow.

"I don't suppose I'm invited?" asked Thomas, with a small smile. "Not that I ever am."

"You can come," said Mr. Beddarthin suddenly.

Mrs. Beddarthin stared at him. "What?"

"What?" Thomas echoed hoarsely.

Mr. Beddarthin suddenly did not seem so comically balding, nor familiarly obese. The lighting seemed to make his face grimmer, more steadfast, when he locked eyes with Thomas. He smirked unpleasantly. "Eleventh birthday. You remember your eleventh birthday, Thomas?"

Thomas looked at him coldly. "What you're undoubtedly referring to," he said, "did not happen on my eleventh birthday, but before. And why should I care if your little snot-nosed brat turns out to be a -"

"You'll care," said Mr. Beddarthin loudly, "because if she doesn't, we're kicking you out!"

Thomas was on his feet in seconds. "What?"

Mrs. Beddarthin blanched, and even Mr. Beddarthin looked a bit scared, but he held his ground.

"You heard me, Thomas. Did you really think I was going to just let you live off of us forever? I knew you were on of the strongest of your - kind before you ran away -"

"I didn't run away -"

"- And I've lived too long wondering whether or not some of your old friends may show up on my doorstep to threaten my family!" bellowed Mr. Beddarthin, now on his feet and nose to nose with Thomas. "I planned this from the moment you put your disgusting, freakish feet in my house - if I didn't find a use for you, I wasn't going to let you stay here!"

"So you've been planning this," said Thomas through gritted teeth, "all along? We had an agreement, Beddarthin!"

Mr. Beddarthin only smirked. His wife stared at him, feeling uneasy, yet in slight awe. It had never occurred to her that - but, no, it was completely unlikely. They'd be getting rid of Thomas in, at most, four days. How wonderful.

Thomas did not say anything for a moment, then he chuckled, rather sinisterly to Mrs. Beddarthin's mind. "Very well, brother. If you don't mind a Dark wizard training your precious little Bethany when and if she becomes a witch, I have no objections. Good night."

He left the room briskly, and courteously shut the door with a small snap. Mrs. Beddarthin was on her feet in seconds.

"Are you positively mad?" she seethed. "That - that madman around our daughter, teaching her m - magic! Who knows what kind of danger he could put her in!"

"My dear Patricia," said Mr. Beddarthin, "do you really think that it will come to that? We'll be good and done with him in less than a week."

"But you dare to take the risk?" snarled Mrs. Beddarthin. "What if he does stay on? What if she really is a - a witch?"

"Calm yourself, my dear," said Mr. Beddarthin, as he calmed himself with a glass of brandy; his hands shook slightly as he poured. "It'll never happen. And if it does - Well!" He took a great gulp. "It won't!"

Thomas walked up silently to his attic room, seething. So. Beddarthin thinks he can rid of me, does he? Well, he's gravely mistaken, I'm not leaving this house even if his brat doesn't have the magical ambiance of a toad! I've worked too long, too hard, to make this house my hideout... If I left -

Just kill them, thought a little voice in his head. Murder them in their beds. Who's going to miss a few Muggles anyway? Especially Muggles like them.

No.

Coward.

I've played this part too long, thought Thomas. It's rubbing off on me. I'm not some crazed murderer. He stopped, and looked at one of the mirrors hanging on the wall. Am I?

Some part of you is.

He frowned grimly at his reflection. And that part of me is the one thing I don't want to be.

He went on, dimly aware of his surroundings. He rarely wandered the estate, but his feet always seemed to find just where he was supposed to be, up in his attic room.

Alone.

When he had left the Wizarding World, he hadn't known where to go. But when he had heard of Dudley's fortune... well. It was a perfect opportunity. And everything had seemingly worked out just as perfectly, up to this point.

Dudley had been lying. He didn't think up this plan when Thomas had first arrived. He simply wasn't smart enough, and he had been too frightened at the time. The only thing he was thinking was, "Yes, sir... yes, sir," over and over again. Thomas knew this for certain.

So what did that mean? Not much. Dudley could still force him out; he had been quite serious when he threatened Thomas, even if he was afraid. And leaving meant finding a new hideout, spending years putting up the proper wards... and potentially running into Dumbledore, something he could not risk...

So it all depended on whether or not Bethany turned out to be a witch. Well, was it likely? Thomas racked his brains. Had she ever shown any beginning signs of magic? It was not as though he spent much of his time with her, if he could help it. There was that one time Thomas had heard about, that she had bit her Math tutor and had left two inch deep bite marks. Could one, in a fit of anger, grow out their teeth like that magically? Possibly. Thomas had never been interested in this sort of thing. Of course, there was that one time Bethany had fallen - well, jumped, really, and quite dramatically - from a third story window, but was found unharmed, sitting neatly on the grass. Her parents had rattled it off as her dress billowing out and lessening her speed, a bit like Alice in Wonderland. It had always struck Thomas as improbable...

Was there anything he could do? Perhaps trick the magic that detects a new witch or wizard? No. He remembered that magical children were detected and written in a big book at the school just when they were born - Thomas was too late to change that.

But he could have faith in those two... magical occurrences. No Muggle kid bit that hard. Yes, it was pretty likely that Bethany was a witch...

"Good Lord," muttered Thomas aloud, just as he got to his attic room. Even if he had forsaken the wizarding world long ago, he could not help but feel sorry for it, when Bethany Beddarthin graced its ground.