Petunia and the Little Monster

January 1976 (7)

Do what you feel is right.

Petunia didn't know if what she was currently feeling should be classified as 'right'. Confused, yes. Overwhelmed, maybe. Uncomfortable, definitely.

"So, you're wearing these rags because ... anything else would set you free?"

"The gift of clothing is the highest honour."

"So, an honour is something you want to have, right? Do you want clothes then?"

"Only if our master sees fit to bestow them."

"But freedom is something you wish for?"

"Only if our masters wish for it as well."

Petunia swallowed, beating the butter harder, glad to have an excuse to look away from too-big eyes and naked feet on the cold stone floor. The rhythmic rasp of her whisk scraping against the bowl filled the air, lulling a short stop in the conversation while Petunia tried to gather her thoughts.

"So no clothes. But you still do theirs?"

"It's what we are born for," Blim replied. The slim elf was the one Petunia had internally designated as their leader, usually the first one to greet her and the one to delegate tasks to the others.

Her gaze wandered to Pitts, who was as always half hiding behind one of the shelfs, still nervous in her presence. She didn't really have to wonder why when she thought about the scars criss-crossing his arms or the fact that he only had three fingers left to grasp at jars.

By now Petunia was familiar with most of the regular house elves inhabiting the kitchens – or at least the ones who showed themselves to her. There was Filk, curious and bold and even though her face was as wrinkled as the others, Petunia had a feeling she was quite young. Glimkey usually hung around her, quiet and with the biggest, saddest eyes Petunia had ever seen. There was Retch, who was loud and grumpy and hopelessly in love with Vekey, who was clueless but polite.

All of them were wearing those potato sacks, a Hogwarts emblem sewn neatly above their chest as if the fraying, grey cloth was actually some kind of respectable uniform. It only made them look even more shabby.

"Are you sure you don't need any assistance?" Blim asked. "I could make a cake for you – it would only take a moment."

He lifted his spindly fingers and Petunia had seen the gesture enough times by now to know that he really could do anything he wanted, without a wand or fancy incantations, simply with a snap of his fingers.

Which begged the question why these powerful creatures – Petunia would bet, more powerful than the conceited wizards gorging themselves on their labour and throwing their dirty laundry their way – were confined here into these small hidden spaces. They should be the ones living in this magical castle, waving their fingers to fulfil their own needs and wishes instead of being treated like useful vermin.

"Thanks, Blim, but I'll do it myself."

Petunia whisked the sugar into the butter, making sure they mixed well until her shoulder was smarting. The aroma of fat and sweetness teased her nose, the tense muscles in her neck slowly relaxing.

She had never baked a cake for Lily before. Even now she wasn't sure how she felt about it, if the nerves swirling inside her stomach were because of the house elf dilemma she couldn't stop thinking about or the fact that she was baking a stupid birthday cake for her little sister.

But whenever she had almost convinced herself that what she was doing was unnecessary and sentimental and that she was just opening herself up for hurt, she remembered Christmas. She remembered sitting in the kitchen with her mother, she remembered her resentment merging with pity and making her almost sick. And no matter what, Lily would always be her sister. What was one cake in comparison?

And a small, bitter part of her was almost eager for Lily to reject her, so Petunia had no more reason to care about her. Because no matter how often she tried to convince herself otherwise, she did. The whole Order of the Phoenix debacle had only driven that point home.

And hadn't Lily tried to help her with Aspen? Hadn't she sat down with Petunia and asked her friends what to do and listened to her story?

What was one cake ...

"The eggs, Miss Petunia."

"Thanks." Petunia noticed Blim's ears twitch as he poured the already cracked eggs into her mixture. Looking at his face she guessed it must be a sign of happiness or embarrassment.

Probably, he hadn't been thanked a lot in his life.

"My utmost pleasure."

It was only as she tipped the finished cake batter into a form and put it in the oven that she allowed her thoughts to return to the matter at hand.

"Did you like the Quibbler I brought you?"

"Oh yes, I enjoyed it immensely. Thank you for lending it to us."

Petunia nodded, feeling like an elephant in a china store. Everything about this situation appeared so delicate and she wasn't sure how to proceed. "So ... I'm sure there are other things you enjoy. Why not ask for money for your work? Then you can buy whatever you like. And you're still helping the wizards."

Blim was already shaking his head. At least he didn't look offended. "Being a house elf means committing your life to service. There is no need for compensation."

"What if they offered it? Because they appreciate your service."

Blim looked confused for a moment. "But there is no need for them to do so."

"Maybe some of them want to."

This seemed to stump him and Petunia gave Blim all the time he needed, focusing on the dough slowly rising in its baking form. It was a simple butter cake, not one of the Victorian sponge cakes Petunia knew Lily actually favoured.

"If it pleases the Masters ... then it would be good."

Petunia blinked.

"If the Masters wish to reward us and are happy to be doing it, then it would make us happy as well. We'd not be neglecting our duties."

Petunia hummed her agreement, forcing her eyes to remain on the unfinished, not wanting to pressure Blim. His voice sounded less sure than usual.

"Well, I'll get back to the dishes," Blim said, dusting his hands. "Enough dilly-dallying and theoretical nonsense, there's a feast to prepare. If you need me, just call. That oven can be temperamental."

Petunia sat in the kitchen, allowing the sound of bustling activity around her to lull her thoughts until they were less frantic. The sweet, warm scent of baking enveloped her and she felt unusually calm.

She still wasn't sure if this was right. If this feeling currently spreading through her like dye soaking a blank page could be described as that elusive concept she failed to grasp.

But she knew that she felt better. And that was all she could really ask for.

❀