Mrs. Petunia Dursley stood in the kitchen of Number Four, Privet Drive, and smiled at the spotless countertops, the gleaming cookstove, the shiny refrigerator, and the immaculate row of work-saving small appliances neatly arranged beneath the cupboards. Her eyes fluttered over happy tears at the perfectly color-coordinated decorative items that trimmed the walls and the freshly starched curtains that diffused the early afternoon light streaming in from the kitchen window above the sink. A glittering breakfront exhibited her best china dishes and crystal stemware, and upon the sideboard, her best tea set was displayed as if it was a treasure in a museum. A woman’s kitchen was her domain, and of this one, Petunia Dursley was queen.
But then her eyes strayed to the breakfast table, and they narrowed threateningly. Her left nostril began to twitch, and her smile inverted. The twitch migrated to her chin, and then to her shoulders as she thrust open the door (careful not to leave prints on the finish) and marched down the hallway to the foot of the stairs.
“Harry Potter!” she cried, and stamped her foot on the bottom step.
Her nephew peered cautiously from the doorway of his small bedroom. “Yes, Aunt Petunia?” he asked, a bit nervously.
“Down here. Now!” Aunt Petunia turned on her heel and marched back through the kitchen door (careful not to leave prints on the finish).
Cautiously, Harry walked softly down the stairs and into the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what he had done to upset his aunt, but then again, she was easily upsettable. His mere presence in her tidy house was enough to upset her, though he tried his best to stay out of sight. And then he saw what he had done, and his stomach sank.
Aunt Petunia pointed toward the breakfast table, and her finger quivered in time with her voice. “What … is … that … rubbish?” she demanded in a low, slow tone that told Harry that she knew exactly what it was, and she knew whose it was, and he was in deep trouble.
Harry swallowed. He had done the unthinkable.
He had left some of his Hogwarts books and parchments on the table.
Harry had recently received notice of his O.W.L.s and had, to his amazement, passed Potions. He would be in Professor Snape’s sixth-year class when school resumed in September. He had also received a message from Hermione that Professor Snape had assigned summer reading and study for the incoming sixth years, and she encouraged Harry not to procrastinate if he did not want to suffer more than necessary the potions master’s disdain.
“I’m”I’m sorry, Aunt Petunia,” said Harry. “I needed some room to spread out. My Hogw”my school books are rather large, you see, and my desk upstairs isn’t””
“Then spread them on the floor, if you must! But keep them out of sight!” In a lower voice, almost whispering, she said, “What if your Uncle Vernon had seen them? I shudder to think what he would have done. Since your headmaster sent me that hooter last year””
“Howler,” corrected Harry, recalling the cryptic message Dumbledore had sent his aunt just before he had left for school last fall.
“”whatever”your Uncle Vernon has been in a right state, and while I must keep my promise that you must stay under my roof …” She straightened up and her eyes flashed, “I do not have to put up with rubbish in my kitchen! Now go on, clear it off, get it out of my sight!”
Quickly, Harry gathered his parchment scrolls, quills, and his large, leatherbound books. Neither he nor Aunt Petunia saw the scrap of parchment flutter to the floor.
“Out!” she exclaimed, and as Harry hurried out the kitchen door, she took a cloth and angrily polished his prints from both sides of it.
Aunt Petunia dusted the tabletop carefully, then hurried to the sink to wash her hands. She was still trembling as she held her long fingers under the cool running water, and said to herself, “Dear me! I’ve got to get hold of myself! There’s that reception for the vicar’s new baby tonight at the church hall, and I’ve promised to make my special strawberry punch. I can’t let myself spoil it by being upset while I prepare it!”
She wiped her hands on a clean towel and opened the cupboard next to the cookstove. From the top shelf she took down a little tin box with a hinged lid that was designed to hold index cards. This was her special recipe box, and in it she kept safe the secrets of her fine cookery”the fluffy desserts, the hearty main dishes, the cakes and punches for extra-special occasions like dear Dudley’s birthdays. The strawberry punch was served chilled, though its preparation required its ingredients to be cooked. But it was so delicious that it was well worth the extra effort. Dudley loved her strawberry punch and she knew she would have to make an extra recipe of it for him if she wanted to have enough to take to the church hall that night.
“I haven’t made this in ever so long!” said Aunt Petunia aloud to herself happily, as she carefully fingered through the neatly-arranged cards until she located the one that her great-aunt Daisy had written by hand. The card was rather yellowed and stained, and old Auntie Daisy’s handwriting was rather scrawly, but the recipe yielded a beverage as sweet and fine as champagne. Aunt Petunia was certain it would impress the young vicar’s wife and the church ladies. She carefully tugged the old card from the box and turned to the pantry to begin gathering the ingredients. As she reached for the sugar canister, the card slipped from her fingers and fluttered down to the floor beneath the breakfast table.
“Oh, bother,” she grumbled, and got down on her knees to retrieve it. She found the card between the leg of the table and the leg of a chair, and then laid it carefully on the countertop. She set a large saucepan on the front burner and poured in a quart of water and two cups of sugar, and while it gradually came to a boil, she took several large packages of frozen strawberries from the freezer to begin thawing.
Consulting the card, she said, “Now, let’s see. I’ll need some cream of tartar, a pinch of salt, a drop of vanilla and … chili powder? I don’t remember chili powder the last time I made this”but there it is, written on the card. What else? Hmm, I don’t remember juice of three large Brussels sprouts, either. Well, it has been awhile since I’ve made this. In you go, then. What’s this? Petals from a yellow rose? I haven’t any yellow roses, only red and pink!”
Undaunted, Aunt Petunia reached for the telephone and punched in a series of numbers. After a pause, she said, “Mrs. Axelby, it’s Petunia at Number Four. How are you, dear? So glad to hear it. I wonder if I might ask a favor. Might I cut one of your lovely yellow roses for”” She hesitated; if she said she wanted it for a recipe, Mrs. Axelby at Number Eight might think it a little strange, and after all the peculiar things that had gone on in Privet Drive over the past several years, Aunt Petunia could ill afford much more. “”for the center of a lovely floral arrangement I’m making to take to the church hall tonight. The vicar and his wife have a new baby girl and”yes, I know, pink is for girls and I have plenty of pink roses, but”oh, thank you, Mrs. Axelby, dear. No, no, I’ll get it, don’t trouble yourself at all. ’Bye, dear.”
Aunt Petunia turned down the flame beneath the boiling pot and dashed out the back door. In a moment she was back, holding a large, slightly wilted yellow rose by a short, broken-off stem. Carefully she crumbled the bloom into the bubbling pot, and was surprised when the petals began to dissolve, like curls of yellow butter, into the mixture. Immediately, a sweet fragrance arose from the pot and curled her thin lips into a smile.
“Ah, that’s lovely,” she said. “This will be the best batch of punch, ever.”
Once more she consulted the recipe card. “‘Now add the berries seven at a time, stirring after each addition’” she read aloud, and thought it odd that it made any difference. But since everything had gone so well to this point, she thought it best not to contradict the recipe. She opened the bags of frozen berries and carefully counted them, seven at a time, into the slowly bubbling mix. There were four berries left over. She ate them.
The mixture in the pot was a rich red, and each time a bubble burst in the pot, it gave off such a delicious aroma that it was all she could do not to dip her nose into it. Yet there was still one step left in the instructions.
“‘Finish by laying upon its surface a single broom straw. When the straw uprights itself, the mixture will be ready,’” read Aunt Petunia. She furrowed her brow, but recalled that she quite often tested cakes for doneness by inserting a broom straw into the center, so perhaps it wasn’t so peculiar an instruction after all. She opened the broom cupboard and took her kitchen broom down from its hook. She broke off one of the straws and rinsed it under the tap before carefully laying it on top of the liquid simmering in the saucepan. She watched, fascinated, as after a moment, the broom straw began to turn slowly upright, and stood sticking straight up in the center of the pot.
“It’s done!” she said cheerily, and turned off the flame. “Now, just a little taste to be sure”” She dipped the tip of her wooden spoon into the thick, red mixture, blew on it to cool it, then took a careful taste.
“Ohh, this is perfection!” she cried. “Those sour-faced old sows down at the church hall, including the vicar’s stuck-up wife, will really smack their gobs when they get their snouts into this!”
Aunt Petunia clapped a hand over her mouth. What on earth had she just said? She looked around to make sure no one had heard her. “My goodness, I never meant to say that,” she said. “I might have thought it at times, but I would never have said it aloud.” Nervously, she stirred the punch mixture, then took another small taste.
“It really will be delicious punch. It will certainly help wash down all those despicable petits-fours and dry packaged biscuits those bitter old hens will be stuffing in their cake-holes while they cluck over that troll of a baby.”
Aunt Petunia clapped both hands over her mouth. Where in the world were these words coming from? She wiped her mouth as if it had cream on it and sighed, “Thank goodness Duddy’s out and didn’t hear me say that … or say that he’s a fat, spoiled, spotty little sponger who’s nothing but a great waste of space””
She whimpered and jammed her knuckles into her mouth, and her big, horsey teeth bit down on them hard. With her other hand, she snatched at the recipe card and looked at it closely. On the other side, which she had not seen, was written:
This potion, which may be brewed with ingredients found in most home kitchens, induces the drinker to speak nothing but the truth, especially truth which has long been kept secret. It has a pleasant scent and flavor, and most individuals will drink it willingly. The effects of the potion will wear off after one hour.
Down in the corner was written, “Report submitted to Professor S. Snape by Harry Potter.”
With a cry, Aunt Petunia fell to her knees and searched under the table. There, just out of easy reach under Dudley’s chair, was Auntie Daisy’s punch recipe card.
“Oh, my God!” she whispered. “I’ve brewed a potion! I haven’t done that since I dropped out of Hogwarts. Vernon mustn’t find out about that! He may be a big, manipulative, domineering berk, but he is my husband, and he’s given me a comfortable enough life without having to resort to the magic he’s so afraid of”big girl’s blouse that he is”what would happen if he knew I’m a witch!”
Anger bubbled in her eyes like the strawberry punch potion. “This is all Harry Potter’s fault,” she snarled, as she crawled out from under the table. “But perhaps if I gave the boy half a chance and an ounce of affection, we all might be happier here. It’s not his fault that I’m the only family he has left. My wizard-phobic husband and rotten brat of a son make living here hell for him, and I’m not helping. Dumbledore will turn me into a shrew for sure if I don’t fulfill my promise to keep Harry safe, for Lily’s sake. Damn it, I can’t stand this honesty!”
Aunt Petunia ran to the stove and seized the saucepan’s handle, and carried it toward the sink. Just as she was beginning to tip the contents into the drain, she had a thought: “It would be interesting to hear what some of the church ladies are really thinking. Mrs. Tuttle gave me quite a funny look the other Sunday when I wore my new hat … and I suspect Mrs. St. John-Smythe is playing at more than tennis with her tennis instructor. Yes, I think they will all quite enjoy my strawberry punch. I know I will.”
” Ms. Tattersall
Coming Soon: “Muskrat Love”
Available Now: “Dursley Gets Drilled”