Chapter Text
"Up! Get up! Now!"
I jumped up, startled awake by the loud, obnoxious voice of Aunt Petunia. Her stupid knocking came at the door again as she continued to screech, "Up!"
"I wish I had a motorcycle," I muttered, feeling utterly jealous of my dream as I crouched inside of the small cupboard.
"Wait, you didn't dream about a flying motorcycle, di-" Harry was cut off by Aunt Petunia who was back at the door again, "Are you up yet?"
I let out a small, inaudible huff while Harry replied for the both of us, "Nearly." It was often times he did that. I reckoned Harry was the more even-tempered of the both of us.
"Well, get a move on," she snapped, "I want you two to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."
Harry and I made direct eye contact, releasing the same groan when Aunt Petunia's irritating voice came from the other side of the door again, "What did you say?"
"We're so excited, is all," I replied while rubbing my eyes. Harry gave me a warning look.
Aunt Petunia tutted from the other side of the door, "What did I say about that attitude? I'll have you tending every meal of the day if you keep it up!"
"Yes, of course, very sorry," I mumbled, not caring to apologize properly. Harry shook his head disapprovingly; he was always saying I got into too much trouble. I reckoned none of that was really my fault.
Once we'd made it down the hall and into the kitchen, I couldn't help but develop even worse of a mood. The table might as well have been gone with how many presents Dudley had gotten!
Right as Harry was turning over the bacon, Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen and shouted out his first demand of the day to Harry, "Comb your hair!" Harry's hair was always all over the place, and it bothered Uncle Vernon to no end. I liked it that way. I figured whatever Uncle Vernon hated couldn't possibly be bad.
Harry and I set the table after Dudley had come downstairs with his mum and found himself a seat. For a moment, I even debated saying 'happy birthday' to Dudley, but then I reconsidered. Dudley didn't really deserve a happy birthday, did he?
Harry suddenly nudged me from under the table; it was awfully easy to do that since they'd sat us both so close together. I blinked, coming back to reality to spot Dudley on the brink of a tantrum and Harry quickly shoveling his bacon down his throat. I followed suit; he had the right idea, really. There was no telling what Dudley would do when upset.
Aunt Petunia was always fast on her tiny feet, seeing as she swiftly stepped in to stop her child from screaming until all of our ears bled, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today." So that's what this was about, then? The number of presents? Well, that sounds like Dudley, alright.
It took him a minute to think everything over, "So I'll have thirty. . . thirty. . ." "Thirty-nine, sweetums," Aunt Petunia did the math for him. Dudley never was all that good at math. . . or english. . . or history. . . or really, any school subject that required even the slightest bit of intelligence. I reckoned he didn't have much of that—intelligence. He probably didn't even know what that word meant.
"Oh." He sat down again and grabbed the nearest parcel. The danger seemed to have passed. "Alright then."
Uncle Vernon chuckled, giving this tantrum his full support—as he always did—, "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" Dudley certainly was just like his father, that's for sure.
The phone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Dudley tore open his presents in front of us. It never did stop bothering me how they made us sit and watch him open everything. I never paid any attention. Usually, I just stared at the floor, but lately they'd caught onto that and started yelling at me to look. Now, I stared right over Dudley's shoulder, that way it simply looked like I was watching him.
"Bad news, Vernon," Aunt Petunia reappeared, looking both angry and worried, "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She can't take them." She jerked her head toward me and Harry.
As sweet as Mrs. Figg was, I couldn't help but be overjoyed at the news. That meant she couldn't watch us. That meant they'd have to do something else with us. And besides, Dudley looked horrified.
"Now what," she asked, staring furiously over at me and Harry like it was our fault Mrs. Figg had been injured.
"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested, not really giving it any focus. I loved when he did that; it always bothered Aunt Petunia.
"Don't be silly, Vernon," she huffed with that agitated tone, "She hates the twins." I had to restrain myself from grinning. No Mrs. Figg and no Aunt Marge!
"What about what's-her-name, your friend," Uncle Vernon snapped his fingers as he thought, "Yvonne?" "On vacation in Majorca," snapped Aunt Petunia.
That's how, half an hour later, we found ourselves squished into the back seat of the Dursley's car on our way to the zoo.
It was a really sunny Saturday, and I'd never been to the zoo before. I don't think I'd ever been so excited. Harry and I stuck pretty close together and would occasionally mutter a small comment to one another, but we didn't want to look too happy about anything or talk too loudly—Dudley and his dumb friend, Piers, might just attack us for that.
People often times liked attacking us. Harry and I also reacted to that different ways. He tended to run, but I liked to kick whenever they'd hold my arms back. I found my legs were quite a bit stronger than my arms anyway. Once I kicked Piers so hard in the face, I broke his nose. If they hadn't beat me extra hard after that, it would've been the best day of my life.
It was in the reptile house that everything went sourly. Old habits, I suppose.
Uncle Vernon, at the request of his son, was tapping repeatedly on the glass that stood between us and a large, brown snake. My eyes had been locked on the sign saying not to tap the entire time. That, obviously, hadn't stopped Uncle Vernon. It wasn't until Dudley moved on from the snoozing snake that Harry and I were able to get closer to it.
I reckoned me and the snake were quite alike, only except for a tiny enclosure in a crowded zoo, I had a small cupboard under the stairs to share with my brother.
Suddenly, the snake snapped its eyes open and rose up to the level of our heads, sending a small and subtle wink our way. Of course, I must've imagined it, just like I was imagining the similarly stunned look of Harry's face. Aunt Petunia said I imagined things an awful lot.
"I know. It must be really annoying." I could brush it off no longer; Harry was actually talking to the snake!
And, holy crap, the snake nodded back.
I stared while Harry continued the conversation, "Where do you come from, anyway?" The snake responded by jabbing it's tail at a sign on the glass.
"Boa Constrictor, Brazil."
"Was it nice there?" Another jab was sent at the sign again, and I glanced back at the sign. This snake was bred in the zoo.
"Oh, I see," Harry hummed, "So you've never been to Brazil?" The snake shook its head.
"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE!" There goes Piers. . . "YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!" Way to ruin the moment.
Dudley punched Harry in the ribs to shove him away from the glass, "Out of the way, you." I took a step backward, hoping to avoid what had come to Harry.
Then, as abruptly as Piers had screamed for Dudley, the glass front of the boa constructor's tank was gone—it had vanished into thin air. The snake slithered swiftly out of its tank and onto the floor, sending people running for the exits and screaming in terror.
As the snake passed by me, I could've sworn there was a low whisper coming from it, "Brazil, here I come. . . . Thanksss, amigos." Talk about imagining things. I must've been mental!
I would've excused it all as to just that if, in the car, Piers hadn't managed to collect himself well enough to say, "Harry was talking to it, weren't you, Harry?"
When we all got home and Piers was safely returned to his own, Uncle Vernon had sentenced Harry and I to silence in our cupboard without any meals.
Annoying as it was, I honestly expected worse. I knew a punishment was coming my way, though, because whenever one of us had supposedly done something wrong, it was the both of us who were found guilty. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia called it our penalty for being twins. I don't know how I was meant to stop that, though. I suppose with all this time in our cupboard, I might just figure it out.
I was staring at the gold wristwatch in my hands, watching the time tick by—literally. After a while, once it was dark enough, Harry must've reckoned it was safe to talk because he asked in a whisper, "Where'd you get that?" "Saw it on the table," I shrugged, also speaking in a whisper, "Dudley doesn't notice things going missing. He's got too much stuff."
A small grin worked its way to his face, and we watched the time pass together from then until we figured we could sneak into the kitchen without being caught.