Monachopsis • Harry Potter • Book II

.2.

Sneaking into somebody's apartment at seven o'clock in the night was not one of Keziah's smartest ideas.

The sky was halfway from deep purple to black, the odd star visible across the heavens like salt.

Harry was behind her, carrying two large trunks stacked on top of each other. He was swearing under his breath.

"Can't you help me?" he hissed.

"I can barely carry myself," Keziah replied, trying to make out something in the dirty windows. "Treasure your working limbs, you prick."

If they'd been in Surrey, the Potter siblings would've already been sitting in a police station while Petunia shrieked about demented teenage lowlifes. Luckily or unluckily, depending on how you looked at it, they weren't in Surrey anymore.

Instead, they were standing outside a crowd of Hackney flats, planning the world's lamest break-in. Keziah was quite sure she'd seen a gang of boys eyeing them earlier, which didn't help the panic that'd been bubbling inside her since she and Harry had stormed out of Little Whinging.

Marge Dursley, Vernon's sister, had been in Number Four, Privet Drive for less than twenty-four hours before it had all gone to shit.

Marge was an even sorrier excuse for a human being than her brother and sister-in-law combined. She lived in the countryside with most of the other old conservatives whose favourite hobby was bitching about immigrants.

However, on the occasion, she left her countryside to make the city and the Potters miserable too.

"Don't you see, Petunia," said Marge over supper in the garden. Her empty plate sat in front of her and currently, she was chewing on a nasty cigar that spewed horrid smoke and made Keziah cough.

Vernon and Dudley were both tucking into their second and third helpings respectively while Petunia sipped her tea with a pinky out and Ripper the dog was barking at a squirrel up the tree.

Up until that moment, they'd ignored Harry and Keziah, who was sitting on the patio floor and picking at the soggiest chips, dipping them in the mushiest peas. She didn't even try the battered fish, which was burnt on the top and undercooked everywhere else.

It was disgusting.

"It's simple biology, really," Marge continued, slamming her fist onto the table, making Petunia spill tea over her blouse. Keziah hid a smile.

"If there's something in the blood, of course, it'll ruin the whole bunch. Not you Petunia, obviously, but your sister and her husbands were bad apples who created... those."

She threw Keziah and Harry the filthiest look as if they weren't even worthy to be alive. Harry's eyes were glazed as she spoke, a million miles away, but Keziah couldn't help but listen in. It was like watching a crash in slow motion.

"And the girl," Marge glowered at Keziah, "is the perfect example. A destroyed leg —" her laugh was more like a bark "— I doubt it! Probably just a sob story to garner sympathy. You know what their kind is like — no work ethic or motivation to boot. Nothing like you or I."

Harry grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly. A warning or comfort; Keziah wasn't sure.

"What did that husband do for work?" asked Marge, taking a deep gulp of wine.

"Erm... unemployed," said Vernon, his panicked beetle eyes flickering towards the siblings. "Didn't work."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," said Marge. "Living off everybody's else's hard-earned money. Shameful! That's what it is. And then they die in a... what was it?"