Chapter Text
Victoria Potter hated the summer. It was undoubtedly an unusual perspective for a girl about to turn thirteen, but she was about as far from a normal thirteen-year-old as possible. As a wand-carrying, potion-brewing, star-gazing witch, her true home was among other witches and wizards, but instead she was forced to spend her summers stuck in the Muggle world.
Even the positive parts of the holiday only served to remind her of what she was missing, back in the magical world. Her floaty summer dresses made her think of lazy days paddling with Susan in the Ouse River. The warm, dusky evenings reminded her of how the Bones family took their dinner by candlelight, the back door open to let in a breeze. And the flowers in the garden, once again tended into riotous colour by Victoria’s hands, brought to mind the abundance of fresh fruit and vegetables growing in the Workshop’s gardens, destined for an endless variety of delicious pies, tarts and quiches.
If that had been the worst of it, she might have been able to bear it, idling away the boredom and counting down the days until her return to magical society. But the indignities of the Muggle world were many and varied, and she quickly chafed at the mundane routine of daily life under the Dursleys’ roof.
She hated her many chores, Aunt Petunia making her help with the cooking, cleaning, and the ironing, all without the assistance of magic. She hated being forced to waste endless hours staring at the television, its hypnotic glare befuddling the Dursleys like a Confundus Charm. She hated the way Dudley’s friends would leer at her, every time they visited Hidebound House. And she hated that there was no Madam Pomfrey in the Muggle world to distribute Moon Potion, forcing her to suffer, for the first time in her life, the humiliation of her period—a stomach-clawing, gut-churning ordeal which had her cursing her lack of foresight in failing to secure a supply of the potion before leaving Hogwarts.
But above all, she hated how isolated she felt, how distant from her own kind.
Her only regular wizarding contact was with Tom Riddle, who would talk to her about everything from magical history to transfiguration theory. At first, they had communicated in writing, as they had been doing since she had discovered the diary. But as the holiday wore on, Tom increasingly invited her into his memories to speak in person, and it was through those memories that she was able to gain tantalising glimpses of the magical world.
One time, he took her to a lecture delivered in Egypt by Professor Dumbledore himself, a memory dating back to the summer following his third year. The topic of the lecture was the Dumbledore Consensus—then known as the Dumbledore-Grindelwald Consensus—and after the lecture was complete, Victoria and Tom had spent hours discussing its implications.
Another time, he took her to the summer of 1942 to watch one of Grindelwald’s rallies in Paris. Despite herself, she was secretly enthralled by Grindelwald, a tall, blond-haired man with sparkling blue eyes and a powerful voice, who spoke so eloquently on how the Statute of Secrecy held wizards back, and of the world that wizards and Muggles might create together if the Statute were repealed. She couldn’t help but find his ideas exciting, confined as she was within the Muggle world, limited in her use of magic by that very Statute.
Tom seemed to find her budding Grindelwaldism amusing. As with Dumbledore’s lecture, once Grindelwald’s rally was over they discussed the memory in detail, but to Victoria’s surprise, he was not very interested in Grindelwald’s philosophy—Tom’s distaste for the Muggle world led him to quickly dismiss the idea of wizard-Muggle union. Instead, he was far more interested in Grindelwald’s strategy, the way he used his movement to exert pressure on the International Confederation of Wizards.
It was not all trips to exotic locations. For the most part, Tom would bring her no further afield than Hogwarts, to some classroom or part of the grounds, and they would simply talk about magic. He showed her a clever charm which gave the subject the ability to see in the dark. He demonstrated a potion of his own design which imbued the drinker with a powerful Muggle-confunding aura, which could be brewed using only ingredients readily available in the Muggle world. And he taught her a most curious piece of magic, cast not with a wand but with a dandelion clock, which granted the caster a minute of good luck, followed by a minute of bad luck. It was only later that Victoria realised that this was another piece of minor dark magic, requiring the sacrifice of the dandelion in order to buy good luck with bad.
In return for these lessons, she told Tom all about her theory of transfigurative secrets. He listened raptly throughout her explanation, fascination written on his face, and interrupted only to seek clarification when she referred to theories which had been developed after his time. When she was done, he congratulated her on a fine contribution to the body of magical knowledge, before proceeding to poke numerous holes in her theory which even McGonagall had failed to spot.
It was this, more than anything else, which brought home just how brilliant Tom Riddle was. At the age of sixteen, his insight into transfiguration magic was already greater than Professor McGonagall’s. Not only that, but his mind worked incredibly quickly, able to dissect her theory within minutes of hearing it for the first time. Her appreciation for his abilities grew with their every conversation, and as the summer continued, she found her stomach performing rather uncomfortable, thrilling flips under Tom’s intense gaze.
But for all that she enjoyed her visits into the diary, her feelings of isolation and loneliness only continued to grow the longer she remained in the Muggle world. Tom was much older than her, and a boy, not to mention a book. She couldn’t speak openly with him, not like she could with her friends—he was so mature and serious and wise, she doubted he wanted to hear about the latest hairstyle she’d been experimenting with, or her increasingly scandalous dreams starring Cedric Diggory, or her many complaints about primitive Muggle feminine hygiene products. The last thing she wanted was for Tom to think her a silly little girl.
In fact, if you discounted the Dursleys—and Victoria did—her only real human contact was with Daphne, who would occasionally write her long letters in beautiful calligraphy, each missive recounting what seemed like an idyllic summer of hippogriff-riding around Framlingham, boating on the River Deben, and swimming in the sea off Southwold beach. Many of these outings were shared with Pansy, and Victoria very much enjoyed Daphne’s commentary on Pansy’s numerous misadventures.
‘It took several hours to persuade Pansy to get into the water, of course,’ one letter had read, ‘she was ever so concerned that the salt water would cause her to shrivel up like a mummy. Yet not a moment after she got in, she was stung by a jellyfish, if you can believe it! What rotten luck! I swear you could have heard her scream from a mile away, and she absolutely insisted that Daddy take her to St. Mungo’s in case it had been a Venomous Jellied Eel. That ended the day rather quickly, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
Other notable adventures had included Daphne tricking Pansy and Astoria into eating oysters—’Pansy made herself throw up afterwards, but Astoria actually liked it!’—and one time in Aldeburgh when Pansy had drawn the short straw and was forced to go into a Muggle shop to buy fish and chips.
‘I wish I’d thought to bring a camera,’ that letter had read, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen Pansy so nervous, not even before our Transfiguration final. I actually think she tried to hold her breath the whole time she was in the shop, which of course she couldn’t do, because she had to give them our order! She paid them far too much with their funny paper money and ran out so quickly she forgot Astoria’s food. She cried afterwards, but Daddy called it an Important Learning Experience. I think he might have fixed the straws.’
Even though each of these letters brought Victoria the pain of missing out on so much fun, she couldn’t help but look forward to them. They were the highlight of her week when they arrived, her sole lifeline to the real, living magical world, and she would drop whatever she was doing to devour Daphne’s every word. Once she had read the letter at least three times, she would get out her quill, ink, and parchment and carefully draft a reply, practising her quillwork as Mrs Malfoy had taught her.
In truth, Victoria never had much to say in response, given that she had no adventures of her own to recount. Still, even with so little to report, she could lose herself in her letter-writing, pretending just for a moment that she was a normal witch in a normal magical home, writing to her friend. In the absence of outings or visits from friends, she took to writing about whatever topic occurred to her, from her thoughts on curtain fringes to her observations on the strange behaviour of Muggles. She also took particular pride in reporting her publication in Transfiguration Today.
The owl from the Owl Office would always wait patiently while she wrote out her reply. Once finished, she would roll the parchment into a tight scroll before attaching it to the owl’s left leg, placing five knuts into the pouch hanging from its right. She would then watch longingly as it soared out of her window and into the sky, wishing desperately that she could go with it. The moment the owl was out of view, the illusion was broken, the stark loneliness of being alone in the Muggle world returning with full force. And thus the long, dull countdown to Daphne’s next letter began.
Yes, Victoria was quite convinced that her summer could not get any worse. It was therefore quite the shock to be proved thoroughly wrong when Uncle Vernon announced, one sunny morning in mid-July, that his sister Marge would be coming to stay with them for an entire week.
* * *
“Here she comes!”
An old, muddy Land Rover made its way down the lane towards Hidebound House, where the Dursleys were gathered in their Sunday best. The car stuck out like a sore thumb in Little Whinging, the thick, black fumes from its exhaust polluting the air. Although the village was ostensibly rural, it was mostly home to businessmen, bankers and lawyers, and all the Dursleys’ neighbours drove brand new saloons imported from Germany and Japan.
Out of the corner of her eye, Victoria saw Petunia’s lips narrow at the sight of the dirty car, and for once she felt some sympathy for her aunt. Petunia would never say a word, but it was quite plain that she found Marge’s visits almost as trying as Victoria did. No doubt she was thinking of all that mud across her polished hardwood floors.
The Land Rover turned violently into their drive, mounting the verge before coming to a spluttering halt next to Vernon’s gleaming Mercedes. Marge stepped out from the driver’s door to the sound of dogs yapping in the back. She was a large woman—not fat, but heavily built and square in the shoulders—and she was dressed in jeans, muddy boots, and a gilet. She was quite the stark contrast to the Dursleys, and even further from Victoria, who had not let her dislike of Marge get in the way of a chance to dress up. She was wearing her favourite Muggle dress, green with white polka dots and a very swishable skirt, and her long, dark hair was loose and perfectly straight—just the way Petunia liked it.
“Ah, Vernon!” Marge called, shouting even though she was just a few feet away. “What a journey! Found you in the end, though, even if I’m a bit late. You don’t mind if I let the dogs out, do you?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Three bulldogs came bounding out of the Land Rover’s back door, barking and running in circles, one of them pausing to urinate on a rose bush. Victoria had to resist the urge to take a step back, reminding herself that she was a witch and was not afraid of a few dogs. She just hoped that her cat, Dumbledore, had made himself scarce; she doubted his nerves would hold up to three dogs running around the house.
“And Petunia!” Marge barked, bearing down on her and giving her an aggressive kiss on the cheek. “So lovely to see you. Is that a hint of grey I see? Don’t worry, it happens to us all! Now, Dudders, let’s have a look at you!”
A mildly shell-shocked Petunia patted nervously at her hair as Marge turned to fuss over Dudley, and Victoria was sure that by the end of the week there’d be a new bottle of hair dye in the bathroom cupboard. Fortunately, Victoria herself was spared the dubious benefit of Marge’s affections; once she was done with Dudley, she simply looked Victoria up and down and said, “You’re still here, are you?”
Victoria put on a polite smile. “In the summers, at least.”
“And earning your keep, I hope.” Marge looked to Petunia. “Shall we? A cup of tea would go down very nicely. It was a long drive...”
They made their way inside, Vernon huffing and puffing with Marge’s suitcases. The dogs followed, still full of energy, and Victoria hung back to avoid them. In the front hall, Petunia led Marge into the living room with Dudley; Victoria made for the stairs, intending to avoid Marge as much as possible.
Vernon dropped the suitcases in the hall with a thud. “And where do you think you’re going, girl?”
“My room?”
“Not if you want me to sign that form of yours, you won’t,” he said, referring to a permission slip which had arrived with her Hogwarts letter a week before. She needed his signature on the form if she wanted to visit Hogsmeade during the school year, a privilege reserved for third years and above. “Now, go and help your aunt with the tea.”
With a heavy sigh, Victoria slipped into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water before rummaging through the cupboards for the teapot. It was a rarely used artifact—the Dursleys would almost always use teabags—but on special occasions they rolled the teapot out for guests. She found it at the very back of a cupboard, noticeably dusty from how long it had been left there, and she was giving it a wash in the sink when Petunia joined her.
“Good, you’ve got the kettle on,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. “Now, remember, one spoon of tea per person and—”
“And one for the pot,” Victoria recited. “Are we having biscuits too?”
Petunia withdrew a serving plate from a cupboard. “Yes, and cakes. I went to the shops yesterday to stock up.”
Once the kettle had boiled, Victoria used a small amount of the water to swill out the teapot, warming up the porcelain, before tipping the water back down the sink. She then added four heaped spoonfuls of loose tea into the pot and poured in the hot water.
“Take it through, then,” Petunia said. She was carefully arranging a variety of biscuits on the serving plate. “It can stew in the living room for a bit.”
Careful not to touch the scoldingly hot sides, Victoria carried the teapot through to the living room, where she placed it onto the coffee table.
“... the rebels should keep pushing, if you ask me,” Marge was saying. “The government hasn’t a clue what they’re getting us into with this treaty. The Danes got it right when they voted the whole thing down—they’re a sensible people, the Danish. Pity they changed their minds...”
Vernon sighed. “You know how it is, Marge. These bureaucrats will just keep asking until they get the answer they want.” He turned to look at Victoria. “Well? Milk and sugar, girl! Marge likes a proper builder’s brew.”
Victoria hurried back to the kitchen, pouring some milk into a small jug and grabbing a pot of sugar. When she returned to the living room, Marge was still talking politics.
“...of course the Irish were all for it—they’ve had it in for us for years. A very ungrateful people, after all we did for them.”
“At least they got a vote,” Vernon said. “No one gives us a say, do they? There are dark powers at play here, Marge. People pulling the strings in government—people who don’t want us knowing what they’re up to.”
He looked meaningfully at Victoria, but she didn’t really follow what they were talking about. Whatever it was, it sounded dreadfully dull. So she just smiled politely and said, “As you say, Uncle Vernon.”
Her agreement seemed to frustrate him, his face turning slightly purple, but she was rescued by Petunia.
“Victoria!” she called from the kitchen. “Come and help with the biscuits!”
Back in the kitchen, Petunia had finished setting out a platter of biscuits. “I’ll take this through and pour the tea,” she said, before thrusting an empty plate into Victoria’s hands. “You put the chocolate cake on this one.”
Victoria shrugged. “Fine.”
Petunia left her alone, her voice joining those of Vernon and Marge in the room next door. Not seeing any need to rush, Victoria took her time cutting the cake and carefully arranging it on the plate, using the brief moment of privacy to gobble down a slice for herself—it might have paled in comparison to Hogwarts’ fare, but it was still cake. Once she was sure that no trace of chocolate could be found around her mouth, she carried the plate through to the living room.
“... so I explained to him that I have a coloured butcher, so I couldn’t possibly be prejudiced,” Marge was saying. “In fact, he’s the best butcher for miles around!”
“That’s my sister,” Vernon said to Petunia, admiration in his voice. “You won’t find a more tolerant woman!”
Victoria struggled to contain her laugh; of all the close-minded Muggles in the world, Marge was surely among the worst. She did her best to keep her expression blank and placed the chocolate cake on the table furthest from where Dudley was sitting.
Dudley groaned in protest. “Bring that here,” he said. “I want the big slice on the left.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t hear a ‘please’ in there, Dudley.”
It was a silly comment, and she should have known better—sure enough, Petunia intervened immediately.
“Stop teasing your cousin, Victoria. A good hostess is generous.”
“Quite right, Petunia,” Marge said, pouring some milk into her tea. “You’d do well to listen to your aunt, girl.”
Knowing that arguing would be futile, Victoria sighed, placed the largest slice of cake onto a serving plate and passed it to Dudley, who took it without a single word of thanks. She then reached out to take a slice for herself, taking the smallest piece as Petunia would expect.
As she retreated with her cake to a chair in the corner, Marge spooned three heaped teaspoons of sugar into her tea, gave it a stir, and then leaned back into her chair with a satisfied sigh. “Well now, isn’t this nice? I can’t remember the last time I was here. It feels so long ago…”
“Four years,” Vernon said. “For Dudley’s birthday.”
Marge took a sip of her tea, smacking her lips loudly. “That’s right. It’s just so hard to get away from the kennels. It’s not like I can take all those dogs with me! But one of us had to keep it all going.” She glanced at Petunia. “Not all of us can go galivanting off to London like your Vernon. Quite the rebel, he was, with all those thoughts of starting his own business! But it turned out well in the end, didn’t it?”
Vernon puffed up with pride. “We’ve doubled our profits in the last year alone. Found a manufacturer in China who can make our new model at half the price. Of course, it meant letting go of a few workers, but that’s business, isn’t it?”
“Sacrifices must be made. It’s the same with dogs,” Marge said with a nod. “Sometimes, the mother will kill off one of the pups, if there’s something wrong with them. It’s the best thing for the litter. She doesn’t want to waste energy on a bad egg.” Her eyes fell on Victoria. “Take this one, for example. Little but air between her ears, from what you’ve told me!”
Victoria kept her eyes intently on her cake. Marge always took great joy in criticising her when she visited, and this time she was determined not to fall into the trap of getting upset. She would eat her cake, keep her mouth shut, and smile politely.
“That’s the least of it,” Vernon said, not even glancing in her direction. “Her head’s so full of nonsense, there’s no space left for a proper education.” He chuckled. “You can bet she won’t get a single GCSE.”
“It’s no laughing matter, Vernon!” Marge exclaimed. “How’s she supposed to get out of your hair if she’s got no qualifications?” She turned to face Victoria. “You should be thinking about your future, girl. If there’s any decency in you, you’ll get a job when you’re sixteen so you can stop mooching off your Uncle.”
Victoria clamped down on her desire to respond. There were so many things she could say: that she was, in fact, the top student in her year, or that she was already published, or that she had a vault full of gold lying somewhere under London—but all those responses would lead to more questions, ones which inevitably involved magic. So she smiled and took another bite of her chocolate cake.
Marge snorted. “You really are dumb as a doornail, aren’t you?” She looked Victoria up and down, her eyes lingering on her bare legs. “You need to be careful, Petunia. It’s a dangerous combination, a pretty face and no sense. She’s getting to that age, now—it won’t be long before she’s spreading those legs for some hoodlum!”
Victoria gasped, shocked out of her self-imposed silence. It was an incredibly crude comment. Dudley, however, found the whole thing hilarious, almost choking on his chocolate cake.
“Mind you, it may not be such a bad thing,” Marge added. “With any luck, she’ll get herself knocked up, and then she’s someone else’s problem.”
Victoria felt the heat rising to her face. Don’t say anything, she had to remind herself. Just think of that Hogsmeade permission slip.
Marge wasn’t done, however. “Where did you say you’re sending her, Vernon?”
“Some third-rate boarding school,” Vernon said, his lie clearly well-rehearsed. “I was against it, but I’m told her parents paid for it at birth. Completely absurd. Petunia’s sister went there too, you know, and came out of it with some very strange ideas.”
“Well, that explains it,” Marge said, setting down her cup of tea. “I can only imagine the hippie nonsense they’ve been teaching her. I only met the mother once, at your wedding, but she was obviously a tart as well.” She laughed deeply. “Clearly, the apple does not fall far from the tree.”
For a moment, Victoria was stunned by this new level of rudeness. Marge had always been insulting, yes, but this was low even for her. Yet she found herself feeling disdain more than anger. Marge was like a bug, she realised, or something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of your shoe. Anger was for equals, not insects.
She glanced around the room. Vernon was sending her a warning look, as if scared of what she might reveal if she opened her mouth; Dudley had eyes only for his second slice of chocolate cake; but Petunia… there was a pinched look to her face, as if she had smelt something bad. There had been no love lost between Petunia and her sister, Victoria knew, but perhaps Marge’s words went too far even for her.
She stood slowly, moving with control, doing her best to channel Mrs Malfoy’s poise.
“May I be excused, Aunt Petunia? I’m afraid I feel quite unwell. It must be something in the air.”
Marge’s eyes narrowed, but Petunia spoke first.
“Go.”
Victoria swept from the living room without another word, retreating quickly up the stairs to her bedroom. As soon as her door was shut, a tension went out of her, as if she’d been clenching every single part of her body at once. For all her resolve to stand up for herself more, she still did not handle confrontation well.
She slumped down with her back against her door, Marge’s grating voice still faintly audible from downstairs, and tried to put the nasty woman out of mind. What did she care about Marge’s ignorant opinions? The words of a Muggle should mean nothing to a witch.
She scrambled up from the floor with a sigh, picking up a small jug to water her plants. That was always relaxing.
Her bedroom had undergone something of a transformation since the beginning of summer, most notably in the flowers which she had brought back from various foraging missions in the garden. Her favourites were the row of unnaturally oversized daisies sitting on her desk, growing out of a series of repurposed yoghurt pots. A couple of fat bees were buzzing around their bright yellow carpels.
“Watch out, now,” she said as she approached, pouring a small amount of water into each of the yoghurt pots. The bees buzzed happily out of the way, one of them landing on her shoulder to investigate the green of her dress. Unlike most girls her age, she wasn’t afraid—by now she was well-used to the bees coming and going through her bedroom window, which she left open to let in the warm summer breeze. That window was now framed by the delicate, pink leaves of sweet pea, a climber which she had persuaded to grow around the glass, and on the sill below there were deep blue irises poking out of broken beer bottles she had found in the park.
The changes to her room didn’t stop at flowers, however. She had used what little Muggle money she had to buy some candles from a charity shop down in the village, and they were now dotted around her room, their melted, deformed wax showing the signs of long use. Her growing collection of magic books was piled up in two tall stacks by her desk, where their arcane titles would surely raise the eyebrow of any visiting Muggle, and in the corner of the room her cauldron was set up, surrounded by herbs, tinctures, and glass vials. She couldn’t brew potions in the summer—not without the Ministry coming to call—but that didn’t stop her from simmering some lavender to fill the air with its sweet scent, or smouldering some pine over the flames.
In short, her bedroom finally looked like it belonged to a witch. At Tom’s suggestion, she had worked hard to bring some magic into her living space, and although it had been difficult to overcome the sheer Muggleness of her surroundings, her labours were now beginning to bear fruit. There was something ineffable in the air now, a dreamlike quality, a little pocket of magic in this world of plaster, glass and electricity.
The act of watering her plants finally calmed Victoria’s irritation, and she took some time to carefully examine each flower, checking them for any signs of yellowing leaves or wilting petals. When at last she was done, she sat back on her bed, glancing at her reflection in the long mirror leaning against her wall. With a push of focus, her loose hair came alive like a Medusa’s, weaving and tying itself into a French braid which then coiled to form a messy bun.
“Much better,” Victoria said, patting the bun to make sure it was secure. She looked down at her dress. Perhaps the skirt was a bit on the short side, showing a lot of bare leg, but it was the summer, wasn’t it? It wasn’t anything particularly unusual. She returned her gaze to her reflection. “I’m not a tart.”
A sleepy, feminine mumble responded from the mirror.
“What’s that, dear?”
Victoria froze in surprise. A mirror spirit!
Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined that she could attract such a magical being to Hidebound House. Excitement raced through her, and she rushed over to her desk, brushing aside her Hogwarts letter and a well-thumbed copy of Transfiguration Today to reveal the diary. She flipped it open and picked up a quill.
“I caught a mirror spirit!” she wrote, not even taking the time to sit down.
Tom’s reply was immediate. “Let us talk in person.”