Chapter 8 — Christmas with the Dursleys
The morning Aunt Marge was due to arrive, the house smelled of polish, panic, and bacon.
That combination could only mean one thing: my mother was cleaning for company, and Vernon was pretending to help.
"Arthur, wipe that table again," Mum said, although I'd already done it twice. "And do mind the corners."
"Yes, Mum. Corners noted. I'll show them who's boss," I said, scrubbing with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man.
She gave me a look halfway between fondness and suspicion. "Don't get cheeky."
Aunt Marge—or Marjorie Dursley if you wanted to sound formal—was a woman who terrified furniture. Everything about her was loud: her laugh, her opinions, even her perfume, which smelled vaguely of wet dog and sherry. She adored Me and Dudley, but treated me like some odd experiment that had gone right by mistake. And Harry, well, she will meet him for the first time soon.
By mid-morning, Vernon was pacing by the window, moustache twitching. "She said eleven o'clock sharp! Eleven sharp! You can set your watch by Marge!"
Harry was in his playpen, babbling happily to a wooden block. Dudley was trying to climb into the same playpen, insisting he needed the "good toys." I was trying to prevent a domestic war.
The sound of a car horn saved me.
"She's here!" Mum called, straightening her dress as though she were about to meet royalty.
Vernon puffed his chest. "Right! Everyone behave. Marge likes proper manners."
I muttered, "Proper manners, improper opinions," earning a warning glance from Mum.
The front door opened with a gust of cold December air and a booming, "Vernon, my boy!"
Aunt Marge swept in like a ship entering harbour—large, loud, and impossible to steer. Ripper, her bulldog, waddled behind, eyeing Harry's toys as potential snacks.
"Petunia! Still keeping the place spotless, I see. And this must be our little Arthur!" she said, patting my head hard enough to rearrange my thoughts. "Look at him! My, how you've grown! Quite the young lad Built properly!"
"Thank you, Aunt Marge," I managed, straightening my hair, and continued with a grin, "You haven't changed a bit, Aunt Marge."
"Ha! Flattery at your age, dear boy? You'll go far," she chuckled, giving me a pat on the shoulder that nearly dislocated it.
She beamed. "And Dudders! Oh, what a picture! Just like his father—strong arms, good appetite, and those cheeks! I could just eat him up!"
Dudley giggled and offered her a biscuit, which Ripper promptly stole.
Then her eyes landed on Harry. "And who's this one again? The… other boy?"
Mum's smile went slightly stiff. "That's Harry. He's—er—staying with us."
"Ah, the nephew," Marge said, the word sounding like it tasted unpleasant. "From the… odd side of the family, wasn't it?"
I stepped forward quickly. "Yes, that's him! He's brilliant with blocks, you should see. Nearly built a wall taller than Dudley yesterday."
"Oh, really?" She peered at Harry like he might start reciting Latin. "Well, keep him busy, I say. Idle hands and all that."
"Yes," I said brightly. "We're teaching him the fine art of stacking things and not eating crayons. Very prestigious."
That earned a bark of laughter from her. "You're a sharp one, Arthur. Got your uncle's wit!"
"Must be hereditary," I said innocently.
Vernon guffawed, entirely missing the implication, while Mum sighed softly into her tea.
---
Lunch was an affair of roast beef, potatoes, and conversation that sounded like a competition to see who could speak the loudest.
"So, Arthur," Marge said between mouthfuls, "you're at that St. Gregory's school, aren't you? How's that treating you?"
"Oh, splendidly," I said. "We're learning the alphabet and how to make paper aeroplanes without losing an eye."
She snorted. "Good, good! None of that arty nonsense, I hope. Real skills, that's what boys need. Toughen them up! Honestly, Petunia, the people on my street simply don't know how to raise children anymore. All that nonsense about self-expression and individuality! Utter rot!"
Vernon thumped the table in agreement. "Hear, hear!"
He added, "I quite agree. Nothing wrong with a firm hand. Teaches discipline."
I took a sip of juice. "Firm hand's fine, as long as you don't mistake it for a sledgehammer."
Marge gave me a long look — then burst out laughing. "Ha! You've got wit, I'll give you that Arthur. Always have something clever to say."
Vernon chuckled nervously. "Yes, well, Arthur's a bright lad."
Petunia smiled thinly. "Arthur's quite responsible, actually. Helps with Harry and Dudley."
Marge leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough to still be heard across the table. "And this Harry—what exactly happened to his parents again? Bit of a strange business, wasn't it?"
For a second, my spoon paused in midair. "Oh, you know," I said quickly, "a tragic accident. They got caught in a rather nasty storm. Lightning, I think. Very dramatic. You'd have liked it."
She blinked. "Lightning?"
"Yes," I said with perfect seriousness. "I hear it was quite a shock."
Vernon choked on his drink. Mum stared at her plate. I smiled sweetly.
Marge blinked again, then laughed. "Good heavens, you've got a dark sense of humour! Vernon, you didn't tell me he was a little comedian!"
"I try my best," I said. "It keeps me from crying over homework."
Even Petunia chuckled at that one, though she quickly disguised it with a cough.
---
That evening, the house glowed with Christmas cheer—or perhaps just the reflection of Marge's sequined jumper. She and Mum were gossiping about the neighbours, Vernon was proudly carving the roast, and Dudley was trying to see how many mince pies he could eat before someone noticed.
I sat beside Harry, feeding him mashed potatoes and trying not to laugh at his attempt to wear a paper hat upside down.
"So," Marge said, waving her glass, "tell me, Arthur, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
"Oh, lots of things," I said. "An inventor, a scientist, maybe a writer. Depends what pays best."
"Good lad! Keep your options open. No use being a dreamer."
"Oh, I dream plenty," I said under my breath. "Just not out loud."
She didn't hear that, thankfully.
---
Christmas morning was pure chaos. Wrapping paper everywhere, Dudley shrieking with joy, Harry clapping at the sight of shiny ribbons. Aunt Marge presented me with a book about "proper discipline" and Dudley with a full set of toy soldiers.
"I thought it might teach you a thing or two about leadership," she said proudly.
"Lovely," I said, flipping through the pages. "Do they cover diplomacy or just shouting?"
Vernon burst out laughing. "That's my boy!"
We spent the day full of laughter and food and noise, and though I wouldn't have admitted it aloud, it was one of the warmest Christmases I'd had in either of my lives.
When it was finally time for Marge to leave, she made as much noise going out as she had coming in.
"Keep these boys in line, Petunia! And don't let that little one—" she nodded vaguely toward Harry "—cause any trouble."
Petunia smiled politely. "Of course, Marge. Safe travels."
She patted my head again—less violently this time—and said, "You're a good lad, Arthur. Keep your chin up and your fists ready."
"I'll keep both up," I said.
She laughed, Vernon carried her bags, and Ripper gave us one last suspicious glare before they disappeared down the road.
---
That evening, the world seemed suddenly quiet. Snow had started to fall, soft and steady. I slipped out into the garden, the air sharp and cold against my face.
The cat was sitting on the garden wall again, tail flicking lazily. Snow had started to fall, and the world looked almost silver in the fading light. I stepped outside, boots crunching softly. It didn't move. Just watched me with eyes far too sharp for an ordinary animal.
"Well, you've certainly got good timing," I said quietly, crouching down. "Don't suppose you've come for leftovers?"
It tilted its head, as if amused.
Then it meowed — a low, oddly resonant sound that sent a tingle down my spine. The air around me felt… strange. Heavy. Familiar in a way I couldn't quite explain.
I reached out slowly.
And in that moment, I felt it — a pulse of something warm and alive brushing against my magic. The same kind of sensation that came when I sensed other people's emotions, only deeper. Older.
The cat's eyes gleamed.
Then, just as snow began to fall harder, it took a step closer.
I froze, heart pounding — because suddenly, I wasn't entirely sure I was looking at a cat at all.
End of Chapter 8 — Christmas with the Dursleys