Chapter 3: Professor Frothmore

“Pet, could you get the door,” Mum shouted from the kitchen. Petunia peeled herself from the sofa, where the fan was running idly, and made her way to the front door. It was a scorcher, unusual for this time in August.

She had never seen the likes of the gentleman that stood on their front stoop. Petunia knew he was a strange man, not only because he wore the nicest three piece suit you’d see in all of Cokeworth, but because there was no car, nice or otherwise, parked behind him. 

“Hi,” she said, full of distrust. He wasn’t that much taller than she was at thirteen, already the tallest girl in her class, but she was squinting up to look at him through the bright rays of the midday sun that dominated the skyline behind him. Despite being overdressed for the weather and the town, the stranger seemed immune to the heat and unaware that he was making quite the spectacle of himself.  

“Ah. And you are,” he asked superciliously. It was a funny sort of greeting, all backwards, as if Petunia had been the one knocking and he the one opening a door. 

“Pet, who are you talking to,” Mum called, taking off her apron as she came through the  corridor. Taking stock of the man’s expensive looking blazer and hat, the silk tie around his neck and smart pocket square folded at his breast, Mum nudged Petunia aside and opened the door widely. 

“Come in, come in,” she greeted, bustling him into the sitting room. “Have yourself a seat. Could I get you a cuppa? Or a lemonade?”

“I take it you are Mrs. Evans,” the man said, and without waiting for her confirmation, he announced, “I’m here for your daughter, Lily.” 

The whole family had gathered in the sitting room. Petunia had run to get Daddy from the garden, unwilling to be alone with the strange man who remained standing despite Mum’s offer to sit. Ned had taken one look at the gentleman’s suit and peered out the window in search of a matching luxury car, which he was disappointed not to find. Lily was the last person to arrive, cajoled and prodded by Mum’s ox-driving fingers. The stranger nodded once when she came into the room, like the waitstaff brought out the dish matching his order. There was no recognition of this man in Lily’s eyes. She barely spared him a bored glance before standing alongside everyone else. 

Although Petunia had singled this man out as someone highly unusual, he looked exactly the kind of person Mr. and Mrs. Evans would admire, and so it was both strange and not to have him in their front room. Petunia eyed his gold wire glasses and receding salt and pepper hairline with distaste. He was too finely dressed to call suspicious, but he had some nerve knocking on the door and demanding Lily without telling them who he was. 

“You should all sit down,” the strange man instructed them. Mum and Dad placidly did as they were told, impressed by the authority dripping from this gentleman’s checked suit and gold-buttoned waistcoat. Lily was apathetic about the whole affair. Only Petunia felt on edge. The noisy fan wasn’t running. She wondered if the stranger had turned it off when he was alone, but  somehow the room had chilled by several degrees. Goosebumps were forming on her arms. None of this seemed real. It felt like the start of a nightmare and she pinched herself to wake up. They all sat quietly on their own sofa as this stranger ordered them about in their own home, all the trappings of a robbery with no weapon.

“My name is Professor Vindictus Frothmore, and I have come here to offer an invitation to the prestigious institution where I teach,” He withdrew an envelope from the inside of his blazer. Upon seeing it, Lily leapt to her feet, all traces of boredom gone. “This news may shock you, but Miss Lily Evans is—”

“A witch!” Lily exclaimed, bouncing on her toes in pure excitement. “I know! I know all about Hogwarts School and potions and fairies and Gringotts and Azkaban!” 

Professor Frothmore looked gobsmacked at her announcement.

“My friend told me!” 

At this, Professor Frothmore’s eyes narrowed. The three other Evanses stilled like a painting, too shocked to do damage control. Lily had never blurted out her imaginative fantasies in public before.

“He saw me do magic, and then he told me I’m a witch like his mum and he’s a wizard,” Lily chattered on. Professor Frothmore seemed to recover and whatever disapproving expression had been there before was quickly replaced with one far more indulgent. 

“Well, it has made my job much easier,” he said, resuming his pompous tone. “You have a much better reaction than most families. They normally take ages to understand.” He rolled his eyes and Petunia felt a visceral hatred towards him. His words should have solidified this as a dream, but she could anchor him to a very real memory. Under his fancy clothes and posh accent, he and that awful Snape boy were no different.As if to cement the comparison, the professor drew himself up and with tremendous self-importance announced, “I am a wizard.” Petunia was as unimpressed as the first time she heard those words. Frothmore seemed unaware a grubby child had stolen his gravitas. Between the two of them, Petunia was certain she didn’t care for wizards at all.

“See? It’s all true,” Lily said to her bewildered parents, who wordlessly opened and closed their mouths like fish. They had sat strangely motionless from the start of the conversation. Petunia thought her sister looked a fair bit like Mr. Frothmore just then, proud and self-satisfied.

“Let me tell you, you are a fair head and shoulders above your peers, Miss Evans. I am confident you will excel in Hogwarts.” Lily beamed.

“What subject do you teach, sir?” Lily asked respectfully. She had calmed down enough to remember that she had been speaking to a professor. Upon hearing the question, Mum and Dad looked slightly less dazed, as if the topic of teaching brought them back to earth.

“Muggle Studies,” Professor Frothmore answered with no small amount of contempt. “I would be delighted to have a student as sharp as you. Alas! You have no need for my course. You already know all there is to know about Muggles.” Professor Frothmore looked around the room with disdain. His frown drifted over their photographs, their record player, the television set Daddy was so proud of. Petunia flinched, wondering how much nicer a record player and television set this man could afford. 

“Oh,” Lily said, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice. Clearly she hadn’t expected a course like Muggle studies to be taught at Hogwarts and felt let down to meet a professor who taught such a boring and distinctly non-magical subject. “Could you still show me magic?”

“Of course. I intended to perform such a demonstration.” He motioned for the three family members still on the sofa to stand up. They did so awkwardly, Petunia last of all and only with prompting from her mother. The professor drew out a long stick from the inside of his blazer, holding it like a conductor’s baton—or a magic wand. She wondered what he was going to do. With a sinking feeling, she realized there was no stopping this magic demonstration beyond covering her eyes. Professor Frothmore looked around and finally squared himself towards the coffee table, his little stick dramatically extended. Lily and her parents leaned forward in anticipation. Petunia alone stepped back. 

“Reducto!” he shouted, waving his wand at their coffee table, which immediately splintered into hundreds of wooden fragments and dust. 

Petunia screamed, throwing her arms around Mum, who hugged her back tightly with a similarly frightened expression. Lily and Dad gasped, though their emotions were octaves apart, Lily, elated, quickly clapping her hands and Dad slowly joining in, looking bewildered more than anything.

The wizard turned to the sound of Lily’s applause, inclining his head in what could have passed for a slight bow, but he was staring down Petunia and her mum in condescension. “A perfectly normal reaction,” Professor Frothmore said with an uppity twitch to his lips. Petunia scowled at him, though the wizard had already turned around. It wasn’t normal to have your heart leap out of your throat. Who went around exploding people’s furniture and scaring them half to death normally?

Mum seemed embarrassed, as if she failed a test. In her heart, she wanted to display an extraordinary reaction. Letting go of Petunia she meekly said, “It was very impressive,” as if she were making up for a prior deficiency, but she couldn’t keep her eyes from nervously scanning over the splinters of her furniture piece. She looked torn whether to ask about it or not.

Professor Frothmore sniffed. He pointed his wand at the dust and splinters on the floor and muttered, “Reparo.” The table reformed itself before their very eyes. This time Mum clapped in delight and Dad grinned broadly. Petunia merely rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. 

“Brilliant!” Lily cheered. 

Professor Frothmore inflated with self importance, pocketing his wand and buttoning his blazer. “These are spells you will learn during the course of your studies at Hogwarts.”

He supplied the family with a few more details about Lily’s future at magical school, the importance of her attending and fulfilling her magical birthright, how she would shop for her school supplies, and where she would board the train. It was amazing Lily sat still for all of it; her feet were twitching as if she’d dance out of the room. Despite her shock, Petunia tried to memorize every word the man said, like some word held the key to secrets beyond all she could fathom. The stranger the phrase, the stronger an image seared into her mind, the magical barrier that hid the wizarding train and Albus Dumbledore, the Hogwarts Headmaster, connecting themselves to Azkaban and Dementors like an abstract mosaic.Finally, Professor Frothmore concluded his lecture with a passionate explanation of the Statue of Secrecy, which forbade anyone in their house from mentioning anything about magic or the Wizarding World to anyone presently outside of their house. 

“Not even to other family members?” Mum asked.

“I cannot overstate enough that the consequences of breaking our most important law are severe,” he said slowly. The words hung ominously over Petunia, though she wasn’t sure why. She hadn’t planned on telling anybody about Lily being a witch anyway. She’d sound like a loon. Mum looked a little bit put out but seemed to understand.

“Keeping our world separate from Muggles is essential to our civilization.” 

Petunia’s ears pricked. There was that word again, muggle, the name that Petunia mistook for a swear from the mill when Snape first called her one. 

“And muggles are…” Dad prompted.

“That would be you three and people like you,” Professor Frothmore answered with exaggerated patience. Dad looked faintly embarrassed he hadn’t concluded the meaning himself from the context it kept being used in. Petunia flushed for an entirely different set of reasons. 

Professor Frothmore had taken Lily’s envelope from her hands and shuffled through the assorted pieces of parchment until he found what he was looking for. Passing it to Lily he instructed, “Read through this material and let me know if you have any questions. I am on a tight schedule.” Lily, the eager student, took them at once to the opposite corner of the room, reading them intently. He turned back to the remaining Evanses, and cleared his throat to signal the start of a long lecture.

“Although our laws and governments are separate, you are still bound to Secrecy by wizarding law despite being Muggles.” Here the Professor looked all three Evanses in the eyes, including Petunia. “Oblivious compliance with Secrecy is the natural state of Muggles; however, as the immediate family of a witch, you are uniquely privileged to know of the existence of the magical world.” 

At this, Mum’s eyes turned to Lily in awe and reverence, immersed as she was in the corner with her book list. Lily’s two years of deaf-ear preaching had transformed her into a veritable  prophet before her parents’ very eyes. Both Mum and Dad looked extremely proud of their youngest daughter and it was a good thing everyone was ignoring Petunia; otherwise, they would notice her sulking. 

Though Petunia would’ve thought it impossible, Professor Frothmore grew more pompous and more serious with his next words. 

“Now, should you threaten Secrecy, such privileges can be revoked. As Muggles, your position in our world is tenuous at best and entirely conditional upon our goodwill.” 

Petunia felt she should be more concerned about Professor Frothmore’s statement, but she was distracted. Snape had told Lily she had loads of magic. Maybe there was a chance she had a little bit. Less than her sister, but enough to get into Hogwarts too. Everything seemed to be moving too quickly. The whole world felt turned on its axis, and Petunia struggled to make sense of what all this meant fast enough. She wasn’t really sure she wanted to be a witch, but she did want to soar through the air and make things happen and leave Cokeworth behind. All she really knew was that she didn’t want to be a boring, plain Muggle. The sound of her dad’s laughter brought her back to the conversation at hand. By the time she tuned back in, she felt she might have missed a good chunk of it.

“How many wizards and witches are there in Britain,” Dad chortled. Petunia wasn’t sure whether or not he meant is as a joke. Professor Frothmore, however, took the question seriously.

“It is quite understandable to be curious about magic and magical people.” The professor smiled thinly. “I can only imagine how exciting our world must be for a Muggle. Things you can only dream of are our mundane. Nevertheless, it’s best not to be too curious. I encourage you not to ask too many questions unless they pertain specifically to your daughter’s wellbeing. Our world is not yours to know.”  

Mum and Dad exchanged looks of alarm, but if either had planned to comment, the opportunity was lost to them with Lily’s reappearance. She was grinning broadly and holding fast to the stack of papers Frothmore sent her off with.

“Any questions?” Professor Frothmore asked Lily.

“So I have to be in front of the fireplace—”

“—at exactly 10:04 AM Saturday, August 28,” Professor Frothmore supplied. “Yes, we have a 3 minute window and I urge to not to dawdle lest forfeit your trip.”

“We’re traveling by FLOO,” Lily enthused. Petunia couldn’t make heads or tails of what they were talking about. Neither could her parents for that matter. Flu? The fireplace? What were they going on about? Professor Frothmore didn’t bother to explain a word of it, not even to Petunia’s parents, but dealt with Lily as if she were the only other adult in the room, nodding his head as he spoke to her, his back to the rest of the family. Petunia only caught a single word he said—special—and it was enough to spoil her interest in their private conversation.

She thought of Mr. Clement, a geologist who once gave a presentation when she was in primary school. He talked about rocks with more enthusiasm than Professor Frothmore could muster for Muggles. Mr. Clement hadn’t convinced a single kid that rocks were special or worth anyone’s time, but he had been able to persuade the whole school that he was weird enough to believe rocks held the secrets of the Earth and time and all of creation. She wasn’t sure why she remembered him now. There was nothing in Frothmore’s demeanor to call him to mind.

Her parents busied themselves reading over Lily’s supply list and information packet. Petunia stared at the coffee table, which looked no different from this morning. The magazines and doilies were underneath it, so she knew her imagination hadn’t fooled her. It had really blown up and reformed, the same way that tree branch over her head had snapped off at the park and hit her in the shoulder or the flowers in Lily’s hands would sway their petals. Lily really was a witch and Severus Snape was really a wizard. It was magic. Magic was real.

“Mum! Dad! Can I go tell Sev?” Lily asked breathlessly. “I bet he got his letter too.”

Petunia rolled her eyes. Now her sister and Snape would discuss this visit ad nauseam for the foreseeable future. But Snape hadn’t known that Muggle Studies was a subject at Hogwarts, or if he had known, he hadn’t thought to mention it to Lily given her surprise. Maybe some classes at Hogwarts School didn’t require magic? Hadn’t Professor Frothmore told Lily she would learn how to blast the coffee table into dust and magically reform it by studying and practice?  Perhaps Petunia could learn too. This was her last chance to find out. Petunia had already formulated a plan in her mind. She raced towards the loathsome Professor Frothmore while no one else was paying attention. He had discreetly made his way towards the door; either he had seen no reason to say goodbye to anyone or he had bid farewell to Lily alone.

“Excuse me, sir. I have a question.” 

The veneer of patience on Professor Frothmore’s face crumbled once he saw who was speaking.

“Then you should have paid more attention. My lecture was quite thorough,” he sniffed testily. He was looking at his timepiece. “I do have places to be. Perhaps you could ask your sister’s friend to humor you.” 

“You’re the muggle studies professor. How would a muggle contact Albus Dumbledore?” Petunia didn’t dignify his suggestion with a response. She planned to take her petition straight to Frothmore’s boss and not deal with a middleman.

“What a foolish question. A Muggle? Contact Albus Dumbledore? Good heavens, why?” 

“What if there was an emergency? We—we don’t have an owl.” Petunia hoped she had gotten that part right. Professor Frothmore had mentioned wizards and witches communicating by owls, like carrier pigeons. It lined up with some of the wild tales Lily used to bring home from Snape, but it all sounded incredibly strange. Owls delivering the post? 

“Headmaster Dumbledore is a very busy man. Not to mention that in non-emergencies it would be a huge break to the spirit of Secrecy.” 

“If he’s too busy to get a letter, perhaps he should get a secretary,” Petunia replied, trying to sound like her sister. Adults liked when Lily was cheeky. It never seemed to work the same way for Petunia, but today the gamble paid off.

Frothmore looked torn. He glanced back down at his wrist, then to Petunia, and then to his wrist again. In the end, time made his decision for him. He pulled a gold colored pen from his pocket.

“Send a letter to Albus Dumbledore to this address,” he instructed, motioning for Petunia to extend her hand where he wrote the address down on her palm. It was a funny sort of thing to do, a gesture Petunia would expect from her thirteen year-old classmates and not a middle-aged man in a three piece suit. “You have my word that your letter will reach Albus Dumbledore,” he promised, capping the pen, “and be sure to clear that information.” He mimed scrubbing off dirt on his own hand with his pen as a figurative eraser or soap bar. 

“Thank you. My name is Petunia,” she added, trying to sound polite so the professor would put in a good word for her at the school. She couldn’t read the expression that passed over the man’s face. Petunia was an uncommon name; she assumed he might have been surprised by it. 

With an inclination of his head, the professor pivoted his feet as though he would walk out the door, but as he spun there was a loud crack and he disappeared into thin air. 

That was real magic! 

Petunia was left staring after him. There was no scorch mark on the floor or on the ceiling, no smoke or sign that a man had been in front of her a mere second ago, no trace of a man left behind. Lily couldn’t do that. As if to prove it, her sister came careening out of the sitting room and raced out of the door in a perfectly ordinary way, Frothmore nowhere to be seen on the walkway or street.

Ink marks. That was the proof that Professor Frothmore wasn’t a hallucination produced by a fever dream. He had signed her hand. She glanced at the sloppy ink scrawl he left behind, legible despite a smudge. It was very unlike his tidy, impeccable suit. Those letters stood for much more than an address. There was a world of the ordinary and something else out there, something Petunia didn’t understand at all, but she sensed it disappearing in front of her as quickly and inexplicably as the professor had.

Slowly cradling her hand and making her way up the stairs to her bedroom, she resolved to write a letter. Not just any letter, but a compelling argument to be admitted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! She’d need a copy of her transcript to prove she has good grades and she’d use her best penmanship. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to go to a school full of people like Severus Snape and Professor Frothmore, but the professor hadn’t been so bad in the end. He did give her the address, and if he was arrogant and stringent, so was Mrs. Templeton awaiting her at sixth form. Surely there would be nice wizards and witches too? She’d write and see what Headmaster Dumbledore was like.

The first thing Petunia did when she reached her bedroom was carefully copy the address scribbled on her hand onto an envelope.

Albus Dumbledore

10 Pattern Street

London

NW1 7TJ

Then she went to the washroom to scrub the ink from her hand. It was puzzling. Professor Frothmore had neglected to mention what criteria Lily had met to be invited to a school she didn’t apply for. The professor had said she was a witch, but he hadn’t explained how that could be—or how Petunia or Mum couldn’t be. Why was Lily the only member of the family with magical powers? 

That wasn’t the only odd thing. Petunia had watched Lily do magic, but there was no way someone from Hogwarts School had seen her. There hadn’t been an entrance exam. With a scowl, she recalled Snape’s introduction, spying from behind the bushes he leapt out of. But he couldn’t have reported Lily to anyone because the professor hadn’t expected Lily to know anything about Hogwarts when he appeared. So how did they know? How did they know Lily was magic and why had they expected to inform her of that news themselves? What kind of school was this?

Sitting at her desk with a stack of her finest stationery at her disposal, Petunia considered what she should write in her letter. There was no official essay question, “Why should Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry grant you admissions?” but Petunia could imagine it easily enough. What she couldn’t imagine was her answer. She had no idea what witchcraft or wizardry entailed. How could she guess what criteria the admissions board would be looking for? 

She couldn’t even sneak a look at Lily’s supply list for clues because her sister had taken it with her to show Snape. The irony was not lost on her that the person best capable of answering her questions was Snape himself, but Petunia wouldn’t go to him for help if she were on fire. She didn’t need Snape. She could figure this out on her own.

She knew of exactly one subject taught at Hogwarts, Muggle Studies. Professor Frothmore said Lily knew all she needed to know for that class at eleven, so Petunia should be even better prepared at thirteen. She had two years of grammar school under her belt; that should count for something. 

Maybe there’s a tree-cutting class? she thought savagely. Snape would excel in that one. 

But wizards were likely sensible people. They had respectable jobs, like teachers and headmasters, and necessary institutions, like schools and prisons, and proper addresses in North West London. As alarming as the magical world seemed on the surface, Petunia was certain she would find something recognizable at its base, much like how Professor Frothmore had arrived on their doorstep packaged in a finely tailored suit.

There wouldn’t be a tree-cutting class, but what sort of subject would teach students how to explode and reform a table? Home maintenance? Historical conservation? She twirled her pen between her fingers. What did she know about magic?

According to Lily’s conversations with Snape, spells were meant to be taught in Latin, but she had seen more magic performed without Latin than with it. She had only heard spells performed in Latin twice—by Professor Frothmore, who hadn’t used words to disappear from the house. Reducto could be from reductus, “reduce” in the dative case. Reparo, which repaired the table, was not from the Latin reficere, but its meaning was self-explanatory. Re + parare as a verb, perhaps? Although Petunia had plenty of experience speaking Latin without magic occurring, she didn’t consider it a death knell for her application. After all, she had never tried speaking Latin with a magic wand in hand. She pulled out her old Latin notebook from her desk drawer and leafed through it, glancing at the ordinary words in tidy script like they were latent magic spells full of wild possibilities. For all she knew, she had a spell book in her hands right here! 

She flipped through the pages of inconspicuous grammar conjugations, copied out painstakingly for rote memorization, until she reached an early homework assignment at the back of her book. After their first Latin class, the girls had been made to collect and translate fifty popular Latin phrases. They sounded impressive and weighty and…nebulously magical. Petunia found what she was looking for in the middle of the page. 

Audentes fortuna iuvat. Fortune favors the bold. 

She traced the letters on her blank piece of stationery with her finger, chanting the words seven times. She wasn’t sure how spells worked, but that seemed like a good one. 

If Hogwarts used Latin for magic, perhaps there was a Latin class. If so, she was in excellent luck. Everyone in Tuft Grammar had high proficiency in Latin under Ms. Sterner’s demanding lessons. Even if there wasn’t an official Latin class, she figured two years of studying the language of magic would put her at an advantage over the kids without any. Finally her Latin would go towards something useful. And she had two years of French. There must be languages at Hogwarts, that was basic. And maths! Everyone used mathematics. She excelled in history. As for the sciences, it seemed as though science and magic contradicted one another. She couldn’t imagine wizards caring much for the laws of gravity when none applied to them. She couldn’t imagine anything she learned in Domestic Sciences applying either. Not unless witches ironed wizards’ shirts. She wouldn’t be missing that subject! 

Assured she possessed enough skills that would transfer over to any school, Petunia decided she’d conclude with a pledge to work hard in her studies and note two teachers Hogwarts could contact for character references. Schools liked those sort of cliché, meaningless character statements. The brochure for Tuft Grammar had a statement containing the school’s mission to form young ladies’ minds for civic service. Poppy often joked that the brochure failed to credit the humble wooden ruler for its star role in mind-forming, and Jill would say that Tuft if still collecting important data on the link between striking palms and increasing brain size. For a fleeting instant, Petunia wondered what sort of civic service wizards paid to the Crown, but she dismissed that thought as quickly as it came. Wizards and witches were still English. No doubt it was something hush-hush.  

She drafted her letter on scrap paper, proofread it, edited it, and recopied it extra neatly. By the time she had read her completed letter over, she had convinced herself she had a worthy chance of admittance into Hogwarts. It only required one final addition.

Please inform me of your decision by 10:04 AM, August 28th so I may accompany my sister to purchase school supplies if I am accepted. Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Petunia Evans

There. She sealed her letter in an envelope along with a copy of her grades. All she was missing was a stamp. The booklet was downstairs in Mummy’s purse.

If either parent noticed Petunia come into the room, they didn’t acknowledge it. The pair were still affected by the revelations of the afternoon and tottered about the sitting room like sleepwalkers entranced by a shared dream. Not even the flood of lamplight woke them from their trance. Petunia noiselessly walked over to Mummy’s purse and took out the brand new stamp booklet. 

“Can you really believe it? Our Lily is a witch,” Dad said in awe. He seemed transported somehow, as if he were watching the sun and moon rise together in the sky or the grass turn blue. In contrast, Mum was a buzz of excitement but very grounded.

“I don’t like that word,” she announced, wrinkling her nose. “I prefer magic. Oh, Lily’s magic!” She shook her husband’s arm, but there was no need to proselytize to a believer. “I knew it! I always knew! Ever since I held her in the hospital, I knew she was special.”

Petunia had to agree with Mummy. Magic was a much nicer word than witch. Petunia wanted to be magic. It was like out of a fairytale, stories of people with special powers like healing people with their tears or breathing underwater. Anyone would want to be magic. But being a witch was a different story. It made Petunia uneasy. There were numerous tales about witches—ugly, evil women who hurt other people, especially beautiful young girls or handsome princes. They lived alone in scary homes in the woods and usually died in ovens. There weren’t many good stories about witches. On the other hand, there weren’t many stories where witches were girls like Lily. If only Petunia could get a better picture of things. Aside from Lily, there was only one other witch she knew…

“Isn’t Mrs. Snape a witch?” Petunia asked. “She went to that school too.” 

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Petunia realized this was the wrong thing to say. It was as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. Mum and Dad drew silent, turning to look at her with crestfallen faces. Petunia had popped their bubble. All their beautiful golden dreams for their golden daughter disintegrated at the name of a woman from the other side of the river whose bony figure cut so sharp she had burst the dream by the touch of her ghostly finger. Their soaring plans for Lily were crash-landing towards Spinner’s End at an alarming pace with no parachute in sight. For a single moment, the three Evanses were silent, contemplating a notion more surprising than the news that Lily was magic: Mrs. Snape of Spinner’s End was a witch.

“Well, she can’t be a very good one.” 

Rosie Evans recovered first and spoke with absolute confidence. A serene little smile shone on her face. If she had been affronted that Eileen Snape, whom she would have never allowed enter her home, had somehow made her presence felt beyond the threshold from such a distance, no one would ever guess from her winning smirk.

“She married a brute and made all the wrong choices.” 

“That’s right,” Dad added, catching onto the idea quickly since it fit a pre-existing philosophy of his. “You see, Pet, that’s what happens when someone doesn’t do well at school.” He cleared his throat importantly. “If you don’t learn math, you’ll never learn how to manage your money and if you don’t learn—” he stopped here, awkwardly, like someone had lifted the needle off the record playing his voice. “Well, you have to do your schoolwork in magic school too,” he blustered with confidence. 

Petunia gave a dutiful nod. 

The pair of clueless midlanders who sat dumbly in front of Professor Frothmore were gone. Mum and Dad were back in their rightful places, holding all the answers again.

“Look at that dapper Professor Frothmore,” Mum began dreamily. “He looks like he teaches at Oxford College. Did you see his suit? Straight out of Dege & Skinner.”

Mum’s attempt to ward off one bad name with two or three distinguished others almost worked. 

“Yes, handsome suit,” Dad mumbled with no real feeling. He couldn’t sweep the Snape issue under the rug as easily, and Petunia could guess why. There was a hole in his schoolwork theory. Daddy always said students who get bad grades don’t graduate, so how could a Spinner’s End castoff ever survive seven years in the same institution that would accept the likes of Professor Frothmore? If his suit spoke for his school, Hogwarts was as fancy and prestigious a pedigree as Eton. No one finished Eton and found themselves stranded in mill housing in the Midlands. The disparity between Professor Frothmore and Mrs. Snape was clear as day, but the Evanses struggled to account for the difference. “Maybe Eileen Snape didn’t finish school,” he posited, stroking his mustache. 

Mum jumped on the idea eagerly. “Maybe there was some scandal, and that’s why she had to marry a millworker.”

“Maybe she broke the law.”

“She could be a convict!” Mum’s almond-shaped eyes were sparkling. Here was her justification that Eileen Snape proved as dark a character as she dressed. She clapped her hands together once. “Lily’s nothing like that. She’ll have a bright future, like that Professor.” Mysteries solved and fears put to rest, Mum and Dad smiled at one another winsomely. 

Petunia thought of the wizard prison, Azkaban, and the last time she had seen Mrs. Snape. She did look like a woman with no happiness left in the world. She fidgeted with the letter in her hand. Was going to Hogwarts really as wonderful as it sounded? She wanted to be magic, but not at the price of meeting those monstrous Dementors. She had gone so pale her parents forgot she was still in the room. 

Ned shut off the lamp so he and Rosie could move to the kitchen, and Petunia was temporarily left in a darkened corner until he flicked it back on again with a last minute realization.

“Maybe Lily ought to stop spending so much time with that Snape boy.”

“Don’t worry, Ned. It’s temporary. Lily will make better friends at her new school.” Dad fidgeted so much, Mum compulsively straightened her purse, which sat on the armchair. Worrying about Lily’s time with Snape was an old hat for Mum, who had spent the last two years thoroughly convinced that Snape’s days were numbered.

“As long as she doesn’t venture towards the river,” he said, his voice reverting to its natural shrill pitch instead of the deeper tone he postured for work. “I don’t like the idea of her going near the mill housing. Consorting with criminals! That boy has that aura to him already.”

Mum was staring intently at her stamp booklet, which was one queen short, and her eyes lighted on Petunia.

“What’s that, Pet?” Mummy nodded to her envelope.

“A letter,” she said, her throat dry.

She was nervous they’d see Albus Dumbledore written across the front and she would have to explain herself, but neither of them looked. Dad put the letter in his briefcase with the bills he would drop off on his way to work and that was it.