Chapter Text
Clara never really cared for the summer holidays, to be honest. While most kids her age, including her cousin, would spend most of their days playing video games and eating all kinds of refreshing snacks, Clara and her older brother, Harry, were assigned to do all the chores.
Outside.
In the heat.
Oh, how Clara hated it.
When they came back to Number Four, Privet Drive from King’s Cross Station with Uncle Vernon, their trunks (holding their textbooks, uniform, brooms, and other school necessities) were shoved into the Cupboard under the Stairs, where the pair of siblings spent most of their lives. As she watched Uncle Vernon struggle to put their trunks in place so the door could shut without proving to be a tripping hazard for poor Duddykins, Clara was exceedingly glad she had enough foresight to get most of her homework done while on Hogwarts Express. Harry, however, had to sneak out his books in the quiet of the night to do his assignments.
They were almost done with the summer vacation, however, and soon the school year would begin again. Clara and Harry could spend their days doing things they actually enjoyed, rather than being given the dirty, nasty chores that left them smelling like they had gone diving through the marsh of the Forbidden Forest. Her excitement only grew when she received her Hogwarts letter, complete with a list of all the textbooks required.
In the sweltering afternoon with the late-July sun reddening her skin, Clara worked in Aunt Petunia’s flower garden, trimming off whatever flower buds she could without Aunt Petunia noticing the bushes were looking a little less full than usual, and set them to the side. Along with summer vacation being almost over, Harry’s birthday was just around the corner - no, Harry's birthday was today, she reminded herself. He had already received gifts from his friends Ron and Hermione early that week, as well as the new Care of Magical Creatures textbook from the Hogwarts Grounds and Gamekeeper Hagrid. All that he needed now was a gift from Clara, which she was in the process of preparing. While it was similar to what she made him last year (okay, it was exactly what she made for him last year), she thought she could make up for it when they went to Diagon Alley for their school supplies.
She didn't exactly want to put in an order for something nice, seeing as the Dursleys were just the type of people to throw away or steal anything of remote value to spite others - or maybe it was that emotional manipulation Ursa talked about, she wasn't quite sure. What she did know was that Aunt Petunia had tried three times in July alone to take the jewelry Clara was given by the Head Auror, and each time, Clara had to find a new hiding spot for it when it wasn't on her person. So, it was pressed flowers.
Perfectly normal, inconspicuous, and far less coveted than anything she could buy in Diagon Alley.
A slam of the car door on the other side of the fence took her out of her thoughts, and she swallowed. Uncle Vernon's sister Marge was to arrive that evening, and she would be staying for a week.
Clara shivered as she remembered the nasty woman. She was different from Uncle Vernon in that she never kept her tongue in check, freely saying whatever came to mind. But like Uncle Vernon, she wore her displeasure for Harry and Clara on her sleeve for all to see - resulting in claims and comparisons that left her feeling sick.
“What do you have left?” Harry asked, leaning over her shoulder.
She startled, jerking out of her thoughts. “Just to toss the garbage,”
“I got it,” Harry volunteered, grabbing the bag to her left and heaving it up over her shoulder.
She watched him struggle with the weight of it as he unlocked the gate, before collecting her flower buds in her handkerchief. She wrapped them up securely and placed them in her apron pocket, patting it twice as a mental check that it stayed there and there was no hole in the apron that let it fall through. She grabbed the garden tools one by one, carrying the large tools into the shed to stack neatly against the far wall before gathering the small ones to lay them in their perfectly aligned spots, and carefully placed them in the shed, shutting the door firmly to keep the rodents out.
“Get cleaned up!” Clara heard Aunt Petunia shriek, followed by the slam of the storm door.
The Potter Siblings groaned, trudging into the house and up the stairs. Harry didn’t even bother tidying himself up much, electing to leave his hair as much of a mess as it could be. Marge loved to criticize people, so maybe Harry made the right decision when it came to keeping her happy.
Clara, however, scrubbed her skin raw under the spray of the too-cold water. At first, she thought that all she needed to do was to clean herself well, then maybe Marge would simply glance over her. No need to pay attention to something that was sparkling clean if everything else around it was, too. But then, she thought that if she took up as much time as she could in the bathroom, then she wouldn’t have to spend much time around Marge at all. As Clara fiddled around her shared room with Harry, she heard the front door swing open, followed by Marge’s booming voice. She felt her blood go cold, and her stomach dropped to her toes.
Maybe she really should just stay up here. Marge wouldn’t care - she’d probably rejoice at the knowledge that she never had to lay eyes on Clara again.
As she was thinking it through, the door swung open, and Harry walked in.
“Are you ready?”
Clara shook her head. “I-I don’t think I can,”
“Why not?”
“It’s Marge .” Clara hissed.
Harry nodded. “I know,” he started, “I hate her too. But Uncle Vernon made it perfectly clear that he wanted both of us down there for dinner, if nothing more than to make sure that we don’t do anything ‘freaky’ up here.”
“Do we have to?”
“We do,”
Clara sighed, plopping down on Harry’s mattress. “I hate that nasty woman,”
“I think the only one who likes her is Uncle Vernon,” Harry chuckled, sitting next to her.
There was a moment of silence before he spoke again. “I don’t know what happened that made you this terrified of her, I will be there this time. If she does anything to you, I will stop her.”
“But, what about Hogsmead?”
“Screw Hogsmead. I can always find a way to go.”
“But-”
“No buts. I can always go to Hogsmead, even if it’s when I’m twenty-seven. What I can’t always do, however, is stand up for you when you need it - Merlin knows I haven't done a good job of it recently."
"Harry," Clara started, though he ignored her.
"So, she does something that scares you, I’ll step in.”
“She always scares me,”
“Then I’ll always step in.” Harry smiled. “Come on, let’s get you out of those robes and downstairs for dinner. We don’t know when we’ll get food again.”
Clara nodded, following his direction. How did she ever luck out with such an amazing brother?
*
Dinner was a disaster.
Marge got drunk quickly and went off on a rant of breeding - both dog and human. Clara nearly burst into tears when Marge revealed that she had her help drown one of the puppies - the runt of the litter, who wasn’t as strong as the others and needed a little guidance to its’ mother. Clara tried to control her emotions, but Marge was quick to notice the change in her behavior.
“It’s always clear right at the start who’s the runt,” Marge said loudly. “They’re the kind who will never amount to anything. Best to kill them than to watch them fail, I say.” She took another drink of her brandy (she moved on from wine a long time ago), “It all comes down to blood, as I told Vernon earlier today. Bad blood will out. Now, I’m saying nothing against your family, Petunia-” she patted Aunt Petunia’s bony hand with her brick of a hand “-but your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here’s the result in front of us. Two disappointments, one worse than the other,”
Marge gave Clara a cruel smile - the same smile she gave her just before a dog chased her.
Clara tried to control her need to flee. She gripped on to the sides of her chair, holding her in place.
Marge’s dog Ripper started to growl lowly, setting Clara on edge.
“Bad eggs always produce the most runts in her litters, instead of producing proper, functioning members of society. The runt of the litter always is the biggest disappointment,” Marge continued, pausing to drink from her brandy, “far too soft-hearted for the world, too weak to find their way in society, and in constant need of assistance. Much too burdensome on us normal folk. They should all be killed right out of the mother’s womb, I say.”
“She is not,” Harry said, his voice taking on a dark tone.
“I-I beg your pardon?” Marge challenged.
“My sister is not a disappointment," he said louder, his voice firm and clear, "my sister is not weak, and not a burden. Just because she has sympathy for others - which you clearly lack - does not make her any less of a human.”
“More brandy?” Uncle Vernon cut in, grabbing the bottle in desperation.
“No, Vernon,” Marge hiccupped. “Let the boy speak. Proud of that sister of yours, are you? Your good-for-nothing parents, too? They died in a car crash - no doubt drunk-”
“They didn’t die in a car crash!”
“They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left you and your sister to be a burden on their decent, hardworking relatives!” Marge retaliated, swelling with impossible fury. “You are an insolent, ungrateful little -”
But she stopped. For a moment, it seemed like she ran out of things to say. She swelled even farther in anger, before Clara came to the horrifying conclusion that the swelling didn't stop - instead, it kept going, as if Marge's skin had turned to rubber. Her big, red face started to expand, her tiny, beady eyes bulged, and her mouth was stretched too far for speech. Her blouse buttons lost their strength to keep together, shooting across the dining room and bouncing against the walls.
Clara’s eyes widened. Marge was inflating like a balloon!
“Marge!” Uncle Vernon shouted, standing up with such a force that his chair skidded and fell back behind him, and grabbed for her hand as her whole body began to rise towards the ceiling. She was impossibly round now, her hands and feet stuck out to her sides like an oddly-shaped starfish. She began to drift outside, and Clara found it difficult to hide her bubbling amusement.
“No!” Uncle Vernon shouted again, seizing one of her feet.
He tried to pull her down, though he was nearly lifted off the ground in the process.
Harry ran off, wrenching the door to the cupboard open, pulling both his and Clara’s trunks out. Clara quickly pushed the trunks closer to the door, before following after him to grab her backpack filled with whatever meager clothing she had, turned on her toes, and tore down the stairs - Harry mere centimeters behind her. Just as they made it back downstairs, Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining room, looking far worse for wear. Ripper was also dangling off Uncle Vernon’s arm, causing her to smirk.
“Come back in here!” He bellowed, “Come back and put her right!”
A reckless sort of rage seemed to take over Harry, as he kicked open his trunk lid and seized his wand, pointing it at Uncle Vernon.
“She deserved it,” Harry panted, “She deserved what she got. You keep away from me - away from us .”
Clara reached for the doorknob, twisting it open.
“We’re going,” Harry continued, “I’ve had enough.”
In the next moment, they were out in the dark, quiet street, heaving their heavy trunks behind them - Hedwig’s cage tucked securely under Harry’s arm.