Whispers in the Dark

Chapter 2

Aunt Marge was not a pleasant person, let alone a pleasant woman.

She was as large as her brother, and I would bet money on the suspicion that she has a wispy mustache growing on her lip. Her face reminded me of the bulldogs she bred for a living; vicious and flat out terrifying. For as long as I can remember, she's only inflicted pain and suffering.

When she visited on Dudley's fifth birthday, she whacked Harry in the sins with her walking cane (he had bruises the size of my palms for days) and I narrowly ducked a blow to the head for getting a little too close to my cousin's huge cake.

On Dudley's seventh birthday she did land a hit on me; one whack to my stomach that bruised massively and might have cracked a few ribs. She also set her bulldog, Ripper, on my brother.

The verbal insults started within the next year or so, once Harry and I could truly comprehend them. According to her, my father was an unemployed, drunken, and dangerous freak, and she then went on to call my mother things I don't dare repeat.

Now I was celebrating my first night as a teenager with the lady.

"Vernon, dear, and Petunia!" I jump to avoid the door as its flung open, moving quickly under the weight of her fur trench coat as Harry grabs her bag and Aunt Marge greets her brother and sister-in-law. "How are you?"

"We're well, Marge. How was the train ride?" Aunt Petunia asks politely as she goes to the kitchen to fix the tea.

"Wretched," Marge sighs. "Ripper got sick."

"Oh...that's...unfortunate," Aunt Petunia stammers uncertainly.

"It is, isn't it?" Marge nods. "I would leave him with the others back home, but he pines so when I'm gone. Don't you, dear? Yes, yes you do."

I purse my lips as Aunt Marge makes disgusting kissy noises at the waddling dog. Aunt Petunia sees me looking and glares, waving me and my brother into the kitchen and making us prepare dinner.

Aunt Marge sees us as we pass through the room and gives us a dark look. "So, still here, are you?"

"Yes," Harry deadpans and quickly leaves the room.

"Don't say 'yes' to me in that ungrateful tone, boy! Damn good of my brother to take you in, if you ask me." She turns to Uncle Vernon. "It'd be straight to an orphanage with them both if they'd been on my doorstep."

"Well then it's a good thing we weren't, isn't it?" I grumble, quickly following my brother before anyone can comprehend what I said.

I grab a kitchen knife and help Harry prepare the salad – one that I know only half of the table's occupants will eat – while Aunt Marge finally catches sight of her nephew. "Is that my Dudders? Hm? Is that my neffy poo? Come and say hello to your Auntie Marge." She flashes a handful of coins, and Dudley tears his gaze away from his game to extend his hand obediently, and only after he pockets the change does he allow his aunt to hug him. I smirk at him over his shoulder, and his returning glare promises retribution.

I give a small dismissing shrug as I turn back to the half chopped onion in front of me. I bend down to grab a small bowl, but I must have moved to fast because the room suddenly tilts nauseatingly. Harry must've heard my sudden sharp breath, because I see him turn around and fix me with a concerned look. "Ally?"

"I'm fine," I hiss, straightening up with the bowl in hand, "just moved too fast is all."

He frowns at me. "If you say so..."

I wave off his concerns as I begin constructing the salad and try to keep my hands steady, because I don't truly know what just happened; I try to shove the dark conclusions (possession, Voldemort, Snape, sickness, flu...) out of my mind.