SOLSTICE

051

"Harry! Harry! Harry! Open the door!" Aunt Petunia's voice shrieked from beyond the foyer.

“Bloody hell, my ears! Does this banshee ever do anything other than shriek or pull that stuck-up, constipated face?” Isabella nearly shrieked, covering her ears.

The world cut in from black to the dull, rain-soaked interior of the Dursleys' house. Harry hurried to open the front door. Rain lashed outside, and Aunt Marge appeared, exhaling heavily as she wrestled her dripping umbrella closed and shoved it into Harry’s hands without so much as a glance. She brushed past him into the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia stood waiting, hands wringing with forced politeness. Aunt Marge's bulldog, Ripper, strained against the leash in her grasp, rising on his hind legs toward Petunia. The two women exchanged greetings stiffly.

“Merlin, Harry, she’s already a blown-up balloon—how much more can she possibly stretch?” Ron exclaimed, eyes wide.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Uh… Little Weasley, that came out a bit wrong.” 
Both earned a slap on the back of their heads from Hermoine and Remus.

Meanwhile, Harry lingered in the foyer where Uncle Vernon shrugged off his wet car coat. Harry pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket.
"Uncle Vernon, I need you to sign this form," Harry said.
"What is it?" Uncle Vernon asked gruffly.
"Nothing. School stuff."
"Later, perhaps, if you behave," Vernon said, eyeing him sharply.
"I will if she does," Harry muttered, just as Aunt Marge caught sight of him.
"Oh, you're still here, are you?" she barked, her eyes narrowing.

James narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

"Yes," Harry replied, his tone flat.
"Don't say 'yes' in that ungrateful way." Aunt Marge thrust Ripper’s leash into Petunia’s hand with a grunt. "Damn good of my brother to keep you," she added, moving toward Vernon. "He'd have been straight to an orphanage if he'd been dumped on my doorstep, Vernon."

“He also wouldn’t have ended up dumped on your bloody doorstep if someone had used a bit of his brain.” James exhaled sharply, barely reining in his temper. 

There was a peal of laughter nearby. Aunt Marge’s face lit up as she turned to the source — Dudley, sprawled on the couch, stuffing his face with snacks and watching TV.

"Is that my Dudders? Is that my little neffy-pooh?" she gushed, smothering Dudley in wet kisses. "Give us a kiss. Come on. Up, up."
"Take Marge's suitcase upstairs," Vernon ordered.
"Okay," Harry mumbled.
Later, the four Dursleys sat around the dining table, their plates smeared and empty. Aunt Marge reached down, setting her filthy plate on the floor for Ripper.
"Finish that off for Mummy. There's a good boy, Rippy-pooh," she cooed.

"Ugh, bloody revolting woman," someone muttered, faces around the room contorting in collective disgust as if they'd all smelled something foul.

Uncle Vernon, grinning, held up a bottle of brandy. "Can I tempt you, Marge?"

"Just a small one," Aunt Marge replied, then turned to Petunia. "Excellent nosh, Petunia."
Harry moved to clear the dishes, taking even the plate Aunt Marge had given to Ripper without complaint. Vernon poured out a measure of brandy for Marge.

"A bit more," she said casually to Vernon, leaning closer to Petunia. "Usually just a fry-up for me what with twelve dogs." Then, louder, to Vernon, "A bit more. That's a boy!" She snatched the glass eagerly.

As Harry worked in the kitchen, he could hear Marge cooing at Ripper again.

"You want to try a little drop of brandy? A little drop of brandy-brandy windy-wandy for Rippy-pippy-pooh?" she baby-talked, then looked sharply toward Harry. "What are you smirking at?"