tongues

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for zivvy —

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A child on the doorstep, cold and cute and crying for comfort. He brings the baby in. She sneers, "Toss it out."

Still.

They keep him.

There's no choice in the matter.

Harry is an adorable tyke, Vernon thinks. Petunia does not agree.

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Petunia does not agree with a lot of things. In turn, he agrees with her disagreement.

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"Pet," he says carefully, sliding his considerable bulk closer to her.

She hums and tugs a stitch tighter, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"About the boy — "

She looks up quickly. "What about the boy, Vernon?" Her hands are lowered to her lap, needle and thread forgotten. The red shirt pools carelessly.

"I think we should give him something to eat —some bread, I think — "

She gives a derisive little laugh. "You think?"

His moustache twitches. His cheeks flush slightly. "Yes, Pet. He's been in the cupboard for the whole day and hasn't eaten anything."

Petunia picks up her needle again and restarts her stitching. "I've told you this before, Vernon. The boy is a freak, just like my sister was." Her lips pinch together. "Don't waste a moment thinking of him. He's freakish and disgusting and wrong. Remember, Vernon? 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' Bad enough — " she sneers, lips curling back to reveal tea-stained teeth — "that we had to take him in. Bad enough that we have to clothe him, and provide a roof over his head, and deal with his ungratefulness — " She shakes her head physically. Her face is pale and pinched and she looks ill with hate.

Vernon hesitantly reaches out a hand and pets her. "I'm sorry, love. I shouldn't have said anything."

"You shouldn't have," she agrees sharply.

He pets her again. "You're right. The boy is a freak and he'll survive a little hunger."

"A freak," she says, tasting the word slowly as if to share its flavour with her husband.

He nods. For a moment he looks ill at ease, but then Petunia offers him some ribs to snack on, and the feeling passes and the moment passes and so do dark, insidious thoughts (thoughts like child and hunger and wrong) —

Freaks are wrong. Witches are wrong.

"This is delicious, Pet."

She giggles a little girlishly and touches her neck. Her eyes are bright and sexy, like she's thinking of —

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"The freak hasn't finished his chores," she says. Her yellow dress creases as crosses her arms.

"He hasn't?" Vernon says, pausing in the doorway.

"Did I not just say that?" she snaps.

"Oh."

"'Oh'?" she repeats. Her eyes are flat and dark. They stare him down.

He settles his briefcase on the floor.

"Well? What are you going to do about it?"

"What can I do?"

For a moment she looks at him. Then she steps towards him, her long, elegant neck on display and her eyes still dark. Her lips are soft when they meet his. "Vernon," she murmurs against his lips. She pulls back but leaves her hands pressed to his chest. "You work so hard to support this family. Thank you. But the freak isn't your responsibility, or mine. We care for him nevertheless, and he doesn't even finish the chores we set him. It's disrespectful."

"Disrespectful," he repeats.

She nods in approval. "A disrespectful, disgusting little freak. He's testing you. He thinks he's better than us because he has magic."

He starts a bit. "He is testing me, isn't he?" he asks. His eyes flick to hers for confirmation.

She's pleased. "Yes, Vernon." Another press of her lips to his, another whisper of that freak.

He's roaring "BOY" soon enough.

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So this is how it goes.

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Petunia whispers and kisses him and her eyes are so bright –

Petunia hisses freak and fucking freak, and he starts to think the words. He starts to eat the words like he eats what she makes for him.

Her tongue is sly and wicked against his own, and when she's not kissing him, she's spewing vitriol, his little Pet —

(Wicked tongues speak to wicked ears.)

So this is how it goes.