The One with Momma!Marge
Chapter One
For once in his life, Vernon Joseph Dursley had no idea what to do.
He woke that dreary November morning in a rather good mood overall. His favorite shirt was freshly pressed, he rather thought his pants were the slightest bit looser, his brand new shoes were finally comfortably worn in, and he had found his lucky tie. His wife Petunia was downstairs, humming rather cheerfully as she set out the pans for breakfast, and his son was blissfully asleep. All was perfectly right and normal in his world.
Until his wife screamed bloody murder.
A minute later he found himself down the stairs and next to his wife in the doorway to his home, staring in fascinated horror at the basket on his doorstep.
"What is it?" he asked stupidly, not quite registering that there was actually a baby on his doorstep.
"What does it look like?" his wife snapped. Normally he would have been taken aback at her tone, for she had never used such with him before, but he could hardly blame her under the circumstances.
"Look," he said, hoping to turn her ire to something else, "I think there's a note."
Huffing irritably, Petunia picked the basket up and brought it inside the house before any of the nosy busybodies on the street could become interested and possibly spread rumors about them. With very little care, she set the basket roughly on the kitchen table and snatched the note from within the folds on the blanket the child was wrapped in. Throughout all of this, the child remained asleep. She blanched at the wax seal, dread forming in the pit of her stomach, but nevertheless opened the envelope and read the letter aloud.
"'Dear Petunia Dursley,'" she read. "'I deeply regret to inform you of the passing of your sister, Lily Anna Potter. Earlier this year, your sister, her husband, and her son went into hiding from a Dark Wizard whom had risen in our world who called himself Lord Voldemort. For reasons I cannot explain in this letter, Lord Voldemort had been after your sister's family for some time, putting them in great danger.
"'On Halloween night, he found your sister and her family. I am quite sorry to say that he murdered Lily and James both, but was unable to kill their son, Harry, due to a powerful charm Lily cast moments before her death. Harry is the only one to have ever survived a curse of such evil, the curse of death. He caused the curse to rebound upon its castor, destroying the Dark Lord to nothing but vapor. As such, Harry is now considered the savior of our world, the Boy-Who-Lived.
"'As Harry's only remaining family, I have sent him to you. Please be aware that by taking him in you will be activating very powerful and very ancient magic based off of the blood the both of you share. It will create a ward around your home, protecting you and your family from the followers of Lord Voldemort. For as long as Harry calls this place his home, the wards will not fail.
"'I must stress the importance of this. For both Harry's safety, and that of your family's, I suggest you do not turn him away. Yours Truly, Albus Dumbledore.'"
Vernon and Petunia stared at each other in abject horror.
"Not… not those people," Vernon whispered, his face turning a sickening puce. His wife glared daggers at the baby in the basket, despite the fact that the child had remained miraculously asleep throughout the whole ordeal.
"How dare they," she shrieked, crumpling the letter in her bony fist. "To assume they can just dump my sister's child on my doorstep and demand that we keep him! It's preposterous! And to use that… that… magic," here she grimaced, spitting the word out as though just speaking it could taint the air of her home, "on my house! I won't stand for it, Vernon!"
Vernon frowned, thinking quickly. Despite his looks and rather boisterous nature, Vernon J. Dursley could be quite sharp minded when the need suited him. It was this limited ability that allowed him to rise so quickly through the ranks of Grunnings.
He was tempted, first, to suggest they drop the boy off anonymously at an orphanage, but that was quickly discarded. The letter those… people had left behind suggested that they would know immediately if they went though with such a plan. Similarly were the ideas of giving the child to another neighbor or simply leaving him on the street. The last idea had never even crossed into conscious thought, for while Vernon was extremely prejudiced, heavy-handed, and rather stuck in his ways, he was not by nature a cruel man.
"There's nothing else for it," he muttered finally. "We'll have to keep him." His wife stared at him slack-jawed, as though she couldn't believe her own ears.
"Vernon!" she protested loudly. "I can't believe you're complying with this utter farce!"
"We have no choice, Pet." His voice carried a tone of finality. "If we get rid of him, thosepeople might find out and just bring him back. And who knows what they'd do to make sure we'd never do it again. I won't run the risk! Who know, they could even be watching the house as we speak!"
The both of them peered suspiciously out of the kitchen windows, eyes narrowed in an effort to see out of the tiny gap the curtains made. Petunia sniffed disdainfully and attempted fruitlessly to draw the curtains fully closed. When they failed to comply to her wishes, she gave them a nasty glare, threw the crumpled letter in the trash, and stomped her way to the ice box to continue with breakfast. Vernon was left peering warily into the basket left on the table.
Aside from the rather nasty cut on the child's forehead, the boy looked rather normal, like any other fifteen-month-old child. However, he knew well how appearances could be deceptive, especially when it came to his kind, so he was determined to not let himself underestimate the babe swaddled in the thick baby blue blanket. It was as he eyed the child with extreme hesitance that the boy began to move and scrunch his face as though he were about to wake up. Vernon hastily made his way back up the stairs on the pretence that he needed to finish getting ready for work – despite the fact that it was Sunday.
As said before, Vernon could be rather sharp minded if he wanted to be, and he knew, instinctively, that the meeting between aunt and nephew would be rather explosive. And that was one disaster he wanted to be as far away from as possible.
000
One hundred and seventy-eight miles away, in the small village of Coffinswell located in the south of Devon, Marjorie Elizabeth Dursley woke to pales skies that hinted snow. This put her in a rather cheerful mood, for while she absolutely detested the cold, she did love to see the hills glistening with freshly fallen powder. Of course, it also meant that she would have to make sure the kennel was suitably warm and that the dogs' access to the outside pens were cut off, but this put nary a dent in her mood.
She took her time enjoying her breakfast and making sure her prize bulldog Ripper enjoyed his. When she was done, and the dishes washed, she bundled up in a heavy coat, told Ripper that, "Mummy will be back in just a moment, sweetums," and made her way out the doors. A mere one hundred feet away sat her pride and joy – the kennel.
After her parents died, with her younger brother Vernon away at college earning his way towards a business degree, Marge was absolutely torn about what to do with the house and farmland it sat on. Her brother was too busy attempting to woo her now sister-in-law at the time to help her, so she did the only thing she could and continued to see to the general care and feeding of her father's prized animals.
At this time, she was still in the process of training her beloved Ripper to be champion material. It wasn't until half a year later, when Ripper won first prize in the obedience category in the regional dog show and was asked if she would consider using him for breeding that she discovered her true passion. It was only reinforced with the arrival of his first litter, four perfect, gorgeous puppies that quickly found homes as soon as they were weaned.
She decided to be a dog breeder. As much as she loved the accolades that came with winning competitions, the people were absolutely hell to deal with. She rather preferred dogs.
Slowly over the next few years, she sold off her father's farm animals and used the money to fund her business venture, which was growing rather quickly and more and more popular as the years went by. She continued to do shows in order to build up the reputation of her dogs, but her reputation quickly began to precede her and she quit the shows altogether to focus on her kennel. The barn house was completely renovated and her canine population growing until she had no less than six litters available each year.
Yes, she was extremely proud of her dogs, and now that she thought about it, rather thankful that her little brother decided to stay in the hustle and bustle of the city. Thinking of her brother got her thinking of his son, her darling, beloved nephew Dudley. This reminded her that she had not spoken to her brother or his family in several weeks and it was with a decisive nod that she decided to give him a call later that night.
True to her prediction, a light snowfall began just after lunch and by the time she had set the stew to simmer to go feed her precious pups their dinner, a shallow layer of white slush had completely covered the ground outside. She made sure the dogs had plenty of food and water, that the outside pens were locked and barred, and the thermostat set at just the right temperature before taking a quick peek at the newest litter, born just the week before; they would be properly weaned just in time for Christmas, which was good, as she had homes already lined up for them.
Chores finished, she fed herself and Ripper, poured herself a healthy serving of brandy, and dialed her brother.
000
Chapter Two
"Honestly, Marge, I'm at my wits end." Vernon rubbed a weary hand down his face. He felt far too old for his twenty-six years of age, almost as though he had aged twenty years in the hours since breakfast. "It's not that the boy cries all the time, or makes a fuss, or is unruly. If it weren't her child I'd say he's rather pleasant. But his being here has made Petunia ever so upset. She even snapped at Dudley, today. Our Dudley." Vernon heaved a world-weary sigh and scowled fiercely. "If only his dratted parents hadn't decided to get drunk behind the wheel."
The last was, of course, a rather large, and cruel, lie. However, Petunia had decided it was the only way she would be willing to explain the sudden appearance of her sister's son in her home, and really, it wasn't like she could explain that the boy and his parents were freaks that went against the very laws of nature, now could they? Why, what would the neighbors think? No, no, it was better this way. Who cares if they supposedly helped saved the world? Their world had nothing to do with them, and they'd rather keep it that way.
His sister clucked her tongue on the other end of the line, one of the few sounds she had made in the last hour of his ranting aside from gasps and murmurs of condolence. "Blood aside, Vernon, perhaps it would be best if you took the brat to an orphanage. With parents like that, who knows what kind of ruffian the boy will turn into. There's no need to raise Dudders with that kind of influence."
"No, no," Vernon said hastily, mind working furiously to come up with some sort of excuse. "I'd rather not give the neighbors something to gossip about. Who knows what kind of rumors they'll come up with if they find out? No, best not to light the kinder, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, that does make sense, brother." Vernon deflated in relief and gave himself a smug mental pat on the back. He paled a moment later as she began to speak again."You know, Vernon, one of my clients mentioned something interesting to me the other day. She said that a kennel up in Somerset was becoming pretty well known for breeding and raising dogs that get along well with children. They breed Whipspans, of course, not bulldogs, however perhaps they have the right idea. Why don't you send the child to me, Vernon. Raising the puppies around him will help to ease them to children, and I could put him to work as soon as he's old enough. Yes, I think a good dose of hard labor and moral values is just what that boy will need. It'll knock any hooligan tendencies right out of him, is what I say." Vernon gaped in silent horror."And it'll ease Petunia's mind greatly, I think, that she won't have to deal with the boy. She'll be able to focus all her attention on Dudley, where it rightly belongs. Yes, it's a splendid idea. What do you say, Vernon?"
"N-now, Marge," Vernon stuttered, pulling at his collar as it grew suddenly warm. "I don't know if that is such a good idea. After all, you have your hands full with the kennel and the business. Having to raise a child will just distract from that, don't you think?"
"Nonsense." Vernon winced at her tone. "Let me take the boy off your hands, Vernon. Start making arrangements, and call me when they're finalized."
"Y-yes, Marge. Thank you. It will ease Petunia's mind greatly, I agree." And that was that.
Vernon sagged in his chair half an hour later, staring blankly at the now cradled phone. If giving the boy to an orphanage would alert those… people to their unwillingness to take the child in, surely sending him over two hundred miles away would do the same thing? After all, the letter did say that once they took the child in there would be some kind of freakish alarm system set on the house. Who knows what they would do then?
On the other hand, they would be rid of the boy. Petunia would be much happier, and there would be no more burden upon their shoulders. But what of when the boy grew and his freakishness began to show? And of when the boy was old enough to go to freak school? What then?
Vernon huffed angrily. Who cared? Perhaps all that hard labor and teaching of values Marge mentioned would knock all that nonsense right out of him, just as Marge said. No, this was a good thing. A very good thing. As soon as the boy was gone, he could wipe the brat from his mind and forget the whole thing. After all, he'd only have to deal with the brat once or twice a year. Perhaps less, if Marge left him with a sitter. Yes, this was the absolute best choice!
Vernon brightened considerably and went to tell Petunia the good news.
As it just so happened, Petunia's friend Yvonne Wilkinson, a rather no-nonsense hard working woman of whom Vernon had always approved of, had been planning to visit her mother within the week. Quite conveniently, her mother happened to live less than ten minutes away from Marge in Kingskerswell. Once Petunia had explained to them about her nephew and her sister-in-law's offer ("Quite sensible of that Marge. You certainly don't need that child underfoot while you're tending to Dudley," Yvonne had nodded primly), she had agreed to take him with her. After all, it would not be much of a hassle to take a short stop in Coffinswell on the way to visit her mother, not much of a hassle at all.
On November the fifth, a mere four days after little Harry Potter arrived on his relative's doorsteps, he was dressed in a pair of Dudley's outgrown jumpers, bundled up in the blanket he arrived in, strapped into the car seat Dudley had grown too big for, and swept off for the long three and a half hour drive to the south of Devon. Before they left, Petunia thanked Yvonne for her assistance while wishing her a safe trip, sniffed a silent "good riddance" in her nephew's direction, and turned back into the house without a backward glance and no regrets.
Vernon watched them drive off, worry curdling in his gut at the thought of what the freaks might do if they ever found out. But as the car disappeared around the bend, he let the matter slide from his mind and fetched some coffee. He had better things to do than worry about freaks in dresses with their silly sticks and funny words.
It was their own fault, after all, for not making sure the child was actually wanted.
000
Chapter Three
Marge kept busy in the days before the boy's arrival. She paid a couple of local boys she usually hired during the summers for yard work fifteen pounds apiece to help her convert the spare room next to hers into a nursery. They were kept busy as well, moving furniture and setting up a crib given to her by a neighbor whose children had grown well past childhood. She made sure to have enough formula on hand to last her through winter, so she would not have to make too many trips to the store in the cold, but put off buying most of the clothing as she did not know the correct size for the child, although the same woman had also passed to her several sets she no longer needed as well as a few toys.
She wondered, for a moment, if perhaps she was more excited at the prospect of having a child in her home than she ought to be, considering the boy's parentage. Then again, he was young yet and she had never believed in condemning a child not yet old enough to have absorbed his parent's uselessness. Bad blood will out, she always said, however she was sure that with her guidance the boy would grow into a better young man than his parents had been.
And if she was perfectly honest with herself, she was a bit lonesome for human comfort. Her dogs were her children, of course, but she wondered now if they could truly replace a flesh and blood child. She had always wanted to have a child to raise, though her poor departed Matthew had died before they could ever get that far.
It was with a start that she realized she had not thought of her deceased husband in quite a while. She had met the handsome and enigmatic Matthew Wallace in college, and they'd married just after she graduated. They had been so very much in love. His horrible and untimely death at the hands of an absent-minded trucker had devastated her completely, so much so that she retook her maiden name and moved as far from their home in Scotland as she could. She'd moved back home with her parents, who passed from age and sickness a few years later, and rebuilt her life there in her childhood home.
Well, enough of that, she decided. The past was the past, and she was taking the boy in as a favor to her brother, nothing more. And if she couldn't quite bring herself to believe that, well, that was her dilemma and no one else's.
It was coming upon eleven thirty when she heard the car pull up in her drive. Marge quickly washed her hands of her lunch preparations and went out to greet her sister-in-law's friend. The woman herself was leaning into the backseat of her car, no doubt to fetch the boy and the child seat. Marge could just barely see wisps of dark black hair peeking out from the blue blanket the child was swaddled in when Yvonne turned around, the boy himself seemingly fast asleep.
"He slept nearly the whole ride," the woman greeted her. "I have a small bag for him in the boot, as well as an envelope containing the paperwork you'll need to sign the custody over, and his birth certificate." Marge retrieved the bag and the two women went into the house.
"Would you care for a cup of tea?" Marge asked politely. So far she was not impressed with the woman Petunia had raved about, but she had been raised to keep such opinions to herself.
"No thank you," Yvonne answered. She handled the child over carefully, so he wouldn't wake. "Mother is expecting me for lunch, I really must be going." The woman peered down at the child held in Marge's arms and sniffed. "Good luck with him. If his parents were half as bad as Petunia said, you're going to need it." She soon left without so much as a by-your-leave.
Marge sat carefully down on the couch, staring curiously at the child who'd been given to her. She moved the cloth aside to get a good look at him. From beneath the black fringe of his hair she could see the ugly red scar on his forehead, a result from the car accident that had taken his parents life her brother had said. He was a rather small, scrawny little thing, roughly half the size of her nephew. That would change as he grew, she decided, already planning to bulk him up. She had to admit, grudgingly, that he was a rather cute infant.
He woke as she stood to take him to the nursery, blinking open sleepy eyes. Marge gasped as she got a good look at them, sitting down again almost instantly. She stared, haunted, into his curious emerald green eyes, seeing not him but another face before her eyes.
"Matthew," she breathed. Almost at once, a forgotten pain welled up in her as she stared at the eyes that were a mere shade brighter than her beloved deceased husband's. Matthews eyes had been what had first drawn her to him, his smile and laughter second. It was those eyes she had stared into as she said her vows; those eyes that had been the last thing she saw before she fell asleep at night and the first thing she had seen upon waking up. Those eyes that she had thought she would never see again. And here they were, on the child of her brother's sister-in-law, a child whom had been orphaned by their carelessness and left upon his family's doorstep in the night.
Something within her shattered, and she knew, without a doubt, that this boy was now hers and hers alone. Hers to raise, hers to protect, hers to love. There was no way this child could ever grow into the worthless drunk his father had been – not with those eyes.
She thanked every providence she could think of for giving her back a piece of her husband. She would cherish this gift, regardless of her past intentions. It was the least she could do. After all, they had given her a son with her husband's eyes.
A strangled sound escaped her. She clutched the boy to her breast and sobbed.
000
Chapter Four
April, 1985
"Momma!" A red and brown blur with shaggy black hair toppled into her legs, one small arm clutching tightly around her waist, the other holding something fast to his chest. Marge peered down into excited green eyes and raised a brow.
"What have a said about running in the house?" The boy blushed and looked down at the floor, chastened.
"No running 'cause I could fall an' get hurt."
"Good boy. Now, what's got you so excited?"
He looked up again, smiling brightly as he remembered why he had come running to her in the first place.
"Look at what Kerny Fubser gave me! See, see?" He thrust his small parcel into the air, nearly hopping up and down in his exuberance.
Marge smiled in amusement at the picture book about dogs he held in his hands. Colonel Jack Fubster had moved to Coffinswell the year before, freshly retired from Her Majesty's Army. He had bought the house nearest hers from a rather prickly old woman whom had oft complained about her dogs and later her son – and before that her father's animals. She wasn't sorry to see her go.
Harry and the Colonel had hit it off like peas in a pod. As strange as the friendship sounded, it seemed to work well for the retired widower and her son, whom had very little children his own age to play with. It seemed only a bonus that the Colonel seemed as enthused about dogs as the boy was.
"Colonel Fubster, Harry. Did you say 'thank you'?"
"Yes, Momma," the boy replied. "Can I go read it? Please, please, please?" She smoothed his hair down in a futile attempt to make it lay flat and kissed his forehead.
"You can read until supper."
"Yay!" The boy hugged her tightly around the waist and took off down the hall as fast as he could without actually running. Marge watched him go, a fond smile on her face.
Harry had been exactly what she hadn't known she'd needed. If she wasn't so upset with her brother, she would call and thank him every day for sending him her way. As it was, it was rare if they talked at all. In fact, she could count their conversations of the past two years on one hand. Ever since The Incident, there had not been a single conversation between them that had not been less than five tense minutes long.
Nearly two years ago, Marge took Harry with her on the long trip to Surrey for Dudley's birthday. It had been tense almost from the start due to Vernon and Petunia's clear dismissal of the boy she adopted as her own. Having then seen the hostility in their eyes as they looked at her child, she began to wonder at their severe reaction. She let it slide for the moment, but continued to keep a close eye on their interaction.
It built during dinner with the way Vernon's hand tightened around his fork as she sat Harry next to her at the table, and the way Petunia sneered when Marge added more food to his paltry first serving. The tension grew thicker with dessert and the thinnest sliver of cake Petunia could manage to cut, only compounded with Dudley's tantrum that he didn't want to share his dessert with his cousin.
It was during the opening of presents that it all came to a head. Dudley had bulldozed his way through the mountain he had acquired, tossing each new toy aside after mere glances to grab the next one in greedy hands. After they were all open and the living room had been littered with the wrappings, Dudley had cast his gaze around to look for escapees when he'd set his sights on Harry.
To keep him entertained while Dudley opened his presents, Marge had given Harry a small stuffed dog to play with. From one moment to the next, Dudley had crossed the room and snatched the toy roughly from Harry's hands and pushed him to the ground.
"It's my birthday!" Dudley said haughtily, glaring at the significantly smaller boy. "You can't have any toys!"
"Dudley!" Marge chastened, shaking a finger at her nephew. Dudley looked at her in surprise, as though it was the first time someone had ever scolded him. And, she though ruefully, it probably was. "You give Harry back his toy right now. It does not belong to you. You have plenty of toys over there to play with."
"No!" Dudley stomped his feet, his face turning red. "It's mine! It's my birthday, so it's mine!"
It was at this point that Harry began to cry. He reached out his arms for his toy, tears falling down his cheeks. "Roopa!"
And then it happened. Under the astonished gaze of everyone in the room, the toy dislodged itself from Dudley's hold and floated gently over to Harry. Petunia shrieked, pulling Dudley swiftly away and smacking Harry's hand harshly, causing Harry to pull away in shock and the toy to fall to the ground.
"Don't you dare use that freakishness in my house!" Petunia yelled shrilly. "You unnatural little beast!"
"Petunia!" Marge gasped. Petunia glared at her as well, pointing a shaking hand at the child who was now staring at her and shivering in fear.
"No! I won't have it! He's just as unnatural as his parents! I had thought that maybe he wouldn't end up like my freak of a sister when you never called to tell us he'd done something unnatural. But he's just like them! I won't have it!"
"So you knew about it, then," Marge said calmly, suddenly understanding their behavior since that fateful November day.
She had, in fact, noticed that Harry was different from other children. How could she not, after the first time he'd floated his pacifier into his hands from where it had fallen on the floor to where he sat in his crib. She'd been shocked, surely, but for some reason could not find it in herself to be afraid. As it happened more and more often, she'd gotten used to it and just set it aside as one of those things that just were. And now she was learning that perhaps there had been an ulterior reason why her brother and his wife had not wanted her son when he'd first shown up on their doorstep.
It all came out that night. Petunia ranted and raved for over an hour about her witch sister and her wizard husband. About how there was an entire society hiding in plain sight from the rest of the world, a society of magic users and magical creatures. How his parents had not been drunkards who'd killed themselves in a car wreck, but magic users who'd been murdered during a war. Petunia had even told her the contents of a letter that had been seared into her memory since that day.
"The boy is a worthless freak," Petunia hissed finally, winding down from her rant. "I'll thank you to leave him somewhere next time you come up. I won't have his unnaturalness taint my son."
"And I'll thank you," Marge said coldly, "not to speak of my son in such a manner."
Marge and Harry left early the next morning after a tense breakfast. Although she sent cards and gifts on birthdays and holidays, she refused to return there or talk to them unless strictly necessary. She didn't think she could ever forgive them for the way they treated her son, and until they apologized she wanted little to do with them. Especially since Harry still couldn't hear mention of them without crying.
Marge sighed and shook herself from her memories. What was done was done. All she could hope for now was to help teach Harry some restraint with his gift and hope that perhaps her brother would someday come around. She doubted it – Vernon had always been foolishly pigheaded – but she could hope.
Humming softly, she ambled into the kitchen to begin supper.
000
Chapter Five
September 1985
"No, Harry." Marge frowned sternly at her son, gently taking the beagle puppy from his grasp. "You cannot take Jackson to school with you."
"Aww, but Momma!" Harry whined. "He's never been alone before, he'll miss me!"
"You'll only be gone for four hours, dear. He'll be just fine until you get back from school."
"Fine," he grumbled, dragging his feet as he walked down the drive. He looked back a few times at his puppy before finally climbing into Mrs. Herche's van to go to school, staring back at the house the whole time.
Marge wasn't surprised he felt that way. He and Jackson had been inseparable since the day they brought him and his entire litter home from the pet store in London. They'd gone to celebrate his birthday that year and when they had come upon the pet shop Harry almost immediately fell in love with the litter of beagles in the window. Marge had actually been planning to branch out from bulldogs for a while, to add another breed to her kennel, though she could not decide which one. Seeing the way Harry's eyes lit up as he watched the tri-coloured puppies decided her.
She bought the entire litter.
Jackson had been the runt of the litter, a tiny little thing she knew would never reach champion standards. Luckily, that was the one Harry had fallen in love with, so Jackson moved out of the kennel into the house. He'd never left Harry's side since. Well, until today at least, but today was the day Harry started his first year in primary school. She doubted the teacher would be very enthused to have a puppy running around her classroom.
"And don't you go letting him sneak you out," she told the puppy sternly. Jackson whined, giving her a doleful look with his big, brown eyes. Her lips twitched into a smile and she put him down. Jackson whined again and pawed at the door Harry had left through. After a few moments he seemed to realize Harry wasn't coming right back, and he sat next to the door with a huff, staring mournfully at is as it stayed closed.
"I know exactly how you feel," Marge murmured.