Petunia and the Little Monster

June 1973

Petunia glanced at the shimmering, round egg that sat beside Aspen on his blanket. It caught the light from a hazy golden ray that had creeped through the slit between two boards of the shed, motes of dust dancing through the beam. It looked precious and beautiful, but the scene failed to make Petunia feel good. Instead a nagging anxiety slowly tightened her muscles.

Petunia was fairly certain she knew what creature would hatch from the egg: an Occamy. At least that was what the book would make her assume. But the knowledge didn't really help: would a snake with wings be considered a reptile or a bird? Should she keep the egg warm or just leave it alone?

If she still had contact with him, she could simply ask ...

No, don't think about it.

Ignoring the sting that pierced her chest, she quickly started stroking Aspen's neck, the feel of his cool, smooth skin a balm for her nerves. He was dozing against her side, his head cushioned by her thighs. It felt heavier than Petunia remembered and usually this would have made her happy; it meant that he was steadily growing.

But today all her concerns were solely focused on the egg.

"What should I do?" Petunia's whisper felt empty in the still, murky air of the shed, no-one around to answer her. "I don't want to make a mistake ..."

Aspen huffed and nudged his head closer, maybe so she could better reach the place behind his ears. Petunia complied absentmindedly.

Despite herself, a faint idea ghosted through her head, a thought that had haunted her repeatedly and had been banished just as many times.

Petunia bit her teeth and lowered her gaze. Ever since it happened, she had done her best to erase all her memories of that dreadful winter evening at the Weasley's, stuffing them deep down into the dark recesses of her mind. Petunia didn't want to be reminded of his fed up voice, his condemning words ...

I must not give a damn then ...

But there was another aspect of the evening that refused to fade into oblivion just as stubbornly. It creeped out of her subconsciousness whenever she glanced at the egg and felt lost. Something that happened before she found Eugene, something different and strange. In her mind she saw a pheasant feather bobbing in front of the bleak night sky.

Xenophilius Lovegood. The pale-haired boy in the ugly clothing.

Petunia knew his name. She could contact him. Just like she'd done before, first with Lily's headmaster and then ...

Stop it.

Xenophilius had known about a lot of creatures. Creatures that weren't even mentioned in the book, not one of them. And he'd known how to handle that talking ferret. There was a possibility that he would know what she was supposed to do with a silver egg as well.

But the experience with Eugene had burned her. Petunia had thought she could trust him. She had told him about Aspen. She felt like they were ... friends. She'd even allowed him to worm inside her heart like a blood-sucking parasite, eating her up from the inside.

Aspen nuzzled her knee and she resumed lightly rasping her short nails across his smooth skin. He was the only one who deserved a place in her heart, Petunia had long decided.

Petunia couldn't find it in herself to trust another wizard, to ask for help from someone who belonged to a world that considered her less simply because of her birth.

Maybe Xenophilius would help her. Maybe he would mock her.

Maybe he would report her to his ministry, and she would be locked away in a strange, magical prison, never to see Aspen or her family again.

Her eyes once more sought the egg, as if it had a magnetic pull on her. It remained unchanged, bathing in the sun and looking like a precious ornament more than anything truly alive or organic.

She'd had it for just over a week now. In that time she often tried to listen to it, but no matter how tightly Petunia pressed her ear against the warm silver, she could never make out a heartbeat - or anything really. It could be that the shell was too thick to allow any noise through.

It could also be that there was no longer anything to hear.

The last possibility made her swallow against the sickness washing up her throat. Petunia had wanted to save it, not damn it.

Should she write to Xenophilius after all? She didn't know anything about him, but she hadn't really known anything about Eugene either.

And how had that turned out?

The egg twitched. Petunia paused in her ministrations of Aspen, relief washing through her body in a clean stream flooding away the dark thoughts clogging her mind like poisonous sewage. It's still alive.

The egg didn't move often, but every time it did Petunia felt as if the sky had cleared of all heavy clouds. It was a sign of hope, a confirmation that she was doing fine. It had twitched a total of three times that she had observed, always just a minimal tick to the side and never more than once a day. But it was enough.

And then, just when Petunia heaved a deep sigh of relief, the egg twitched again.

Petunia froze mid-breath. It had never done it twice in succession before.

Was something wrong?

Before she could really comprehend what happened, it twitched a third time, so hard it almost rolled out of the blanket-nest. Petunia prodded Aspen's heavy head aside and quickly crawled over to it, her fingers uselessly hovering above the shell without touching it.

"Is this ... is it ready?" she asked ... no-one. Aspen.

Her answer was not silence but a crystalline splintering sound. Hairline cracks were spreading over one part of the shell as if Petunia had dropped it.

Aspen joined her side, his slit nostrils vibrating while he sniffed the egg.

"Don't you dare eat whatever comes out of it," Petunia warned him, but her voice was barely more than a hush.

While she was almost sure it would be an Occamy, she also knew that the book wasn't all-knowing. Maybe there was more than one creature out there that laid silver eggs, as ridiculous as that sounded to her.

Petunia hoped it would be an Occamy. At least then she'd know what to expect.

The cracks widened, small pieces of the shell breaking off. Petunia lowered her head and held her breath, peering through the gap. Darkness. And then, just for a second, a whisper of iridescent scales.

Wow.

Before she could get another look, a piece of shell almost took her eye out. Leaning back Petunia watched with a fluttering stomach as a tiny, pale beak reached through the hole, widening it.

When it chirped, high-pitched and soft, Aspen huffed in answer.

And despite feeling like a lunatic Petunia couldn't stop herself from joining in: "Hello."

The hole widened enough to allow one gleaming, amber eye to peer into the world beyond its shell.

And the first thing it ever saw was Petunia.

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