Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Vespertine	By : BrownRecluse Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 3610 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: All characters and elements that comprise the wonderful world of Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling. I’m just borrowing them for a bit of non-profit fun. Also, I used to be known as BrownRecluse, but a name change was long overdue. ;D

Chapter List
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Petunia Dursley’s pink Playtex gloves were wrist deep in dishwater when the telephone rang. “Sweetheart, could you be a dear and get that,” she began out of habit, but then stopped. He and Dudders were downtown, enjoying a night out: a James Bond marathon at the Surrey Cineplex. They wouldn’t be home until after midnight. She glanced over her shoulder at the clock. A quarter to nine? Who on earth could be calling at this hour?

As it rang again, another thought crept like a shadow into her mind. Nothing good ever comes of phone calls late at night. Harry said we’d be safe here again, but what if he were wrong? What if he lied... What if something terrible has happened to them! I don’t know what I’d do if anything—

The third ring shrilled through the silent house, startling Petunia so badly, she dropped the glass she’d been washing. It shattered on the edge of her stainless steel sink, spraying her apron and the floor with soapsuds and shards. “Bother! That was my favorite iced tea glass!” she wailed.

She pulled her gloves off by the end of the fourth ring. Now wishing she’d learned how to use the new answering machine, she sighed, wiped her hands on her apron, and headed to the hallway. Glass crunched with every step—Ugh! she thought, now I’ll have to scrub the entire floor before my boys come home!

She snatched the hall phone from its cradle between the sixth and seventh ring. “Dursley residence, Mrs. Petunia Dursley speaking,” she said rather breathlessly, adding to herself, and whoever you are, for all the trouble you’ve already caused, this better be a matter of life and death!

A long silence greeted her.

“Hello? Hel-lo—is someone there?” Phone in hand, she scowled.

This time, heavy breathing answered.

“Hello? Who is this, please?”

The breathing quickened to a pant. The hairs on Petunia’s nape prickled and her heart began beating in time with the unknown caller’s breathing—Because nothing good ever comes of calls late at night. Petunia white-knuckled the receiver and said in the sternest voice she could muster, “Dudders? Dudders, is that you ? It’s not nice to play such tricks, especially on your own, dear Mummy! You know, pranks like this could give someone a heart attack—is that what you want, to give Mummy a heart attack?—and how would you feel then, young man! You wouldn’t be so funny anymore, would you!”

A burst of static followed the telltale ‘click.’

“Of all the juvenile, inconsiderate things!” She slammed the receiver back in its cradle. “After all we’ve been through—it’s just not fair!” Behind her, something hit the window screen. “Who’s there?” Petunia shrieked. The curtains shuddered. The screen toppled into the sink with a loud splash. “That’s it, I’m calling the police!” She snatched up the phone and punched three buttons.

Static crackled. “They can’t help you,” a voice intoned on the other end. “No one can...”

Death Eaters. It had to be; she could think of no other explanation. They said this might happen, the wizards at the safe house. They’d lost the war but would never stop hating, never stop plotting, never stop being Death Eaters. Cloth snapped. She dropped the phone, turning just in time to see a small, dark shape dive through the curtains and careen over the table.

Emboldened by righteous indignation, Petunia ripped off her frilly pink apron and stormed into the kitchen. “Get out! Get out! Get out of my house, you horrid thing!” she roared, flapping her apron at it. “You disgusting, disease-ridden, rat with wings! Oh, where’s Vernon when I need him? Where’s my squash racquet? Oh, blast it, I don’t even own a squash racquet!” She snatched up a frying pan and began swinging at it. That owl of Harry’s had been bad enough, but this was just too much. What if it had fleas—or rabies? Brandishing the pan like a tennis racket, she set her stance, pulled back, and then, as it wheeled past, swung with all her might.

Contact! A thud Petunia felt in the pit of her stomach sent the bat reeling. Hoping she’d sent it back outside, she tossed the pan on the table, flew to the sink and slammed the window down tight. “And stay out!”

Shaking, nerves utterly unraveled by her night visitor, Petunia braced herself against the sink. She didn’t want to think about the broken screen, the broken glass, and the bat germs she knew must be everywhere. As she rubbed her arms, she could feel them, millions of invisible squirmy things seething over her skin. All she wanted was a bath. A nice, hot bath would set her to rights, but before that, she had to deal with the curtains and floor, the walls and ceiling—they’d all have to be sterilized. She’d be up all night!

Turning, stifling a sniffle, she found herself staring into the coldest, most penetrating black eyes she’d ever seen.

“Hello, Tuney. Remember me?”

His voice turned her spine to jelly. And his teeth! There was something terribly wrong, terribly long about his teeth.

Petunia Dursley’s scream died in her throat as he fell on her.
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