Aunt Petunia had taken the comments as the neighbours thinking they were too poor to afford proper clothing and had been spurred into outfitting Heri in clothes that hadn't belong to Dudley before.
Dressed in a blue pinafore dress over a grey button front and leggings, Heri could scarcely believe that the Privet Drive grapevine had actually done her a favour for one. It had increased the fervour of her admirers, true, but at least now no one thought she was a juvenile delinquent on sight.
On top of getting her new clothes, Aunt Petunia had nagged Uncle Vernon into letting her have Dudley's second bedroom since she didn't want Heri's new clothes to get ruined from staying in the cupboard under the stairs. Her relative's stinginess finally worked toward Heri's benefit.
Heri dug out her odd pocket watch and checked the time. It was ten minutes after school and she was only a third of the way back to the house. She had another twenty minutes before she absolutely needed to be back so she would have enough time to make prepare the veritable feast she was responsible for. Aunt Marge was arriving later that evening and the corpulent woman wasn't one to sit quietly if her food wasn't in front of her when she wanted it.
She muttered a prayer for the speed of Mercury or Hermes or whatever his name was (for some reason she preferred to think of them by their Greek names) and ran as fast as her legs could take her. Dodging other children and weaving through cars stopped at the traffic signs, Heri all but flew to her destination. If her legs had glowed briefly as she took her first running steps, she didn't notice.
Mrs. Figg was the only person Heri knew of that was nut-house strange while still being a perfectly average human being. Every time Heri was sent over to be babysat, she felt as if the woman was on the edge of snapping and going postal. Heri always had her best behaviour on when she was Mrs. Figg, her paranoia wouldn't allow any less of her.
Maybe it was the cats, Heri thought, dodging a white-furred menace by the name of Snowy. Mrs. Figg was the stereotypical cat-lady with a dash of crazy thrown in. There was always at least one cat in the room no matter what room Heri entered. They were like a hive of horrific bees, always wandering about, ready to sink their pointy-parts into you at the slight provocation. And they were always watching. Those bloody cats watched with eyes far too intelligent for normal animals.
If it hadn't been for the fact that neither Mrs. Figg nor the cats had ever done her any harm beyond the occasional scratch, Heri would have been brandishing her monster-slaying box-cutter at the beasts and be cutting them down before they could get a mew in.
Heri sat down gingerly on the sofa, sighing with resignation when another cat, Tibbles, leaped up and settled itself on her lap. There was no escape from them. She began to stroke its fur in the way she had seen Mrs. Figg do many times before. Apparently, she was doing it correctly since the little beast started purring. She hoped it fell asleep soon as that was the only way she'd be able to remove it from her lap without it digging its claws into her clothes and ruining them.
Heri felt a tingle in her hands and she prayed for the cat to fall asleep. The purring became deeper before it slowly tapered off, Tibbles no longer awake. She gently lifted the cat from her lap and got up, looking at the hand that had been petting the animal. Putting animals to sleep just by petting them? Hell, yes.
Heri sized up the cats still wandering the house. Wasn't this a golden opportunity to practice something new?
It was Harry's tenth birthday and she was grounded until next week. She hadn't been expecting anything considering how her relatives were, but being stuck inside without even chores to do was murder on her need to move.
Heri fiddled with her bronze box-cutter, sliding the blade in and out of its casing. She was in her room for the rest of the day for giving Aunt Marge's wretched dog a kick it well deserved. There had been a show of scolding her and ordering her to go away, but Heri was pretty certain that Aunt Petunia had sent her to her room to free her of Marge's presence, a reward for giving Ripper the sharp punt her aunt had been dreaming of giving it for years.
She was now sat on her bed, back to the wall, and staring out the window. It was such a lovely day out, shame that it was polluted with Marge's boorish presence. The blade slipped out with a schlick at the thought.
Thoughts of Uncle Vernon's repellent sister brought forth thoughts on that monster dog Heri had wasted earlier that week. The thing had been the size of an Irish Wolfhound and had two heads! The only reason she hadn't died was sheer dumb luck; the thing had landed awkwardly as it pounced on her and ended up busting its paw. At the moment it had been whining in pain, Heri had slashed it at the base where the two heads met. It had exploded in a shower of dust, leaving behind fangs the size of her fingers.
Heri lifted her hand to stroke the chain of the necklace she had made with the fangs. She didn't know what else to do with them. She figured they could stay on her person as a reminder that life was fragile.
With a sigh, Heri flung her box-cutter at the dartboard Dudley had dumped in the room years ago when he lost all the darts. The blade struck on the outer ring. Heri frowned. Her aim wasn't nearly as good as she would have liked.