A sad gurgle from her stomach put an end to her reflections.
Petunia rubbed her aching belly and decided she wouldn’t do anything until she got some food.
Too bad Mr.
Cory hadn’t at least sent a loaf of bread.
Or a dozen eggs.
After all, didn’t he have any pickles or preserves left from the time he himself lived on the farm?
As if he didn’t need to eat… Then she remembered his impenetrable black eyes and reluctantly thought that it was quite possible that he, in fact, didn’t need food.
And in the letter, he wrote as if he saw no difference between himself and Petunia.
Speaking of the letter… She unfolded it again and read the short list of four points: “The pantry is enchanted…” Petunia paused and, in a tone that Archimedes must have used when he shouted “Eureka!” running through the streets of Syracuse in an indecent state, said, “Enchanted!
In it you will be able to find everything you need, but nothing beyond that.” Petunia tore her eyes from the letter.
Her eyes were sparkling.
It was true, after all.
It was absolutely true that she had found everything she needed there.
A bucket — to carry water.
A mop and broom with a dustpan — to clean up.
The wooden bathing tub and the magic toilet need not even be mentioned.
“I wonder,” she thought aloud, “which category does food fall into?
The ‘everything you need’ or the ‘beyond that’?” Eager to test her hunch, she abandoned her plans to go into town and ran into the house.
She tossed the letter and the seed bag onto the table, stood in front of the pantry door, concentrated, pictured as vividly as she could a loaf of bread, a pack of butter, some sausage and cheese, and then pulled the door open.
It was dark in the pantry.
The little magic lantern’s light illuminated the ever-present toilet and tub, the mop and bucket, and the broom.
And something else.
Against the wall, where there had been nothing before, stood a chest.
Petunia swallowed the lump of excitement stuck in her throat, pulled the lid open, and… …cursed.
Inside were a saucepan and a frying pan, a cutting board and a couple of plates, a fork, spoon, and knife.
Not a hint of food.
She stirred her hand around in the chest just in case, but the result was the same.
Just kitchen utensils.
So necessary, but absolutely useless if there was no food in the house.
To be honest, she hadn’t felt such disappointment since that strange Professor Dumbledore had politely but firmly written back that people like Petunia weren’t accepted at Hogwarts.
Disappointment was followed by anger.
Petunia stamped her foot, making the kitchenware in the chest jump, walked out, and slammed the pantry door with a bang, shouting into it as a parting shot: “I can’t even make a fire!” Having vented her feelings with that cry, she fell silent and began to think intensely about what to do next.
The hunch had been good, but Mr.
Cory definitely categorized food as “beyond that.” Fair enough, of course — what farmer wouldn’t have food?
And she answered herself: a beginning one.
But at Hogwarts, she thought gloomily, food just appeared on the tables by itself… Petunia’s stomach croaked plaintively, backing up her grievance.
In the silence, ringing with hunger and anger, a short pop came from the pantry, like a balloon bursting.
Petunia flinched and glanced at the locked door.
There had never been any sounds from the pantry before.
What had happened?
She carefully pulled the door open, almost expecting to see the empty little room, but no, everything was the same as before.
Only on the lid of the toilet chair lay a small bundle tied with twine, under which was tucked a scrap of paper.
“You will need this.
Yours, M.K.” that’s what was written there.
Petunia quickly unwrapped the bundle, and in her palm lay two vaguely familiar items: a shard of black stone, with edges so sharp they could cut, and a flat metal loop with two additional rings on the side, into which Petunia’s fingers fit perfectly.
She looked at the items in her hands.
In her left, comfortably nestled between her fingers, lay the stone.
In her right — with her fingers slipped through the ring-holders — she held the metal piece.
And this sight reminded her of something.
“Why, it’s a fire striker!” When she was a child, her parents had given her and Lily a big book of Andersen’s fairy tales.
It had wonderful illustrations that they used to love looking at together and dreaming about what magical abilities or items they would like to have.
The book had been abandoned when it turned out that magic and sorcery existed, but not for everyone, but Petunia still remembered those amazing drawings.
Right now, she was remembering the fairy tale about the cunning soldier who got his hands on a magic tinderbox, and with its help not only got rid of the evil witch and got rich, but also married the princess and became king.
In the illustration, he had exactly such a thing: a piece of flint and an iron striker.
Well, then.
Petunia took aim and, as a test, struck her right hand against the stone in her left.
There was a dry crackle, somewhat like striking a match against the sulfur strip of a matchbox.
Petunia repeated the experiment, striking a little harder and faster, and for a moment she even thought that fiery sparks sprayed from the stone in all directions.
They sprayed — and went out.
Encouraged by the ghost of success, Petunia struck the iron against the stone a third time, only even harder and faster, and — oh, miracle!
— sparkling fiery sparks sprayed in all directions.
They went out before they even hit the ground, not having time to do anything terrible, but Petunia was overjoyed anyway.
“I really will need this!” She pressed the fire striker to her chest and whispered like a prayer, “Thank you, Mr.
Cory!
Thank you!” She hurried to the fireplace.
Her hands were trembling with excitement, and she couldn’t land the striker properly on the flint.
After several futile attempts, Petunia forced herself to calm down, took a deep breath, and struck one more time, a decisive, quick, and hard blow.
This time, it wasn’t sparks.
The strike ignited real flames.
After burning herself slightly, Petunia shook the flamelet into the fireplace, then was afraid it would go out, but immediately heard a weak crackling, growing stronger with each moment.
The tiny flame quickly ate its way through the branches and tufts of dry grass, and Petunia heard a quiet, contented humming.
She sat on the floor for a long time, mesmerized by the dance of the flames in the hearth, enjoying the warmth that radiated from it.
Even her hungry stomach fell silent for a while, but eventually it reminded her of itself.
“Oh,” Petunia pressed her hands to her stomach as it demanded attention again from within.
She got up awkwardly, because her legs had fallen asleep, and, grabbing the pot from the pantry, ran to the pond for water.
The thought that the pond water probably wasn’t suitable for cooking was dismissed immediately.
She’d boil it — and it would be fine.
Yesterday, Petunia had noticed a hook sticking out in the fireplace hearth, and today she hung the pot of water on it.
Anxious, she nervously paced the tiny room, waiting for the water to boil.
She went over her meager food supplies ten times over.
The oatmeal should last a week, the flour about as long if she decided to make flour soup.
True, she’d need at least an onion for that, but she’d figure something out.
She also had sugar and salt, and those she’d have to conserve very carefully.
The water boiled.
Petunia poured most of the boiling water into an empty pot — let it cool, it would be drinking water for the day — and into the remaining water, carefully measuring the precious ingredients, she poured the oatmeal and added a frugal pinch of salt.
Too bad she had no milk or butter to enrich the porridge, but even so, the plain oatmeal with water, which Petunia ate greedily and unceremoniously right out of the pot, was surprisingly tasty.
“Now I can get to work,” Petunia said, pushing the empty pot away from her with regret.
She’d gotten carried away by hunger and eaten all the porridge she’d cooked, barely stopping herself from licking the sides.
Now that she had a rough idea of how the pantry worked, she simply walked up to it and said loudly: “I need tools for work.
A hoe, a shovel, a watering can.” She listed the necessities, waited a moment, and opened the door.
And this time, she got not quite what she asked for.
Even more.
In the corner by the door stood a hoe, a shovel, a rake, and a scythe; Petunia spotted a simple bamboo fishing rod among them.
Stepping inside, she tripped over a large tin watering can, which wobbled from the kick and fell with a clatter onto the axe and pickaxe lying behind it.
“What do I need a pickaxe for?” Petunia asked rhetorically, picking up the tools one by one to try them out.
They looked battered and had probably served not only her, but the handles fit comfortably in her hand, and the weight was manageable.
She changed clothes and, properly armed, set off to dig the garden.
Fortunately, caring for the home flower garden — something she had always loved and her sister had always neglected — had taught her the basic methods.
Even yesterday, while walking around the house, Petunia had spotted the spot.
Not far from the house, within reach of the pond.
It was a relatively small area, sunny and free not only from the ubiquitous shrubs and trees, but also — most importantly — from grass.
Her mother, teaching little Petunia to plant flowers, had repeated again and again that seeds and seedlings could only be planted in clean, weed-free soil.
And if the soil hadn’t been tended and was all overgrown with grass, then there was nothing to do but dig it all up, turn the soil over, and just wait until the next winter for the weeds to freeze and die.
Driving the shovel into the ground again and again, Petunia praised herself for her cleverness.
The digging came easily to her, even though it wasn’t a familiar task.
The earth on the shovel was black, rich, promising a good harvest.
Apparently, this was where Mr.
Cory had set up his vegetable garden.
After digging up a few feet, she loosened the soil with a rake, marking out the beds, and then, armed with the hoe, planted the seeds.
First she planted the radishes, then the carrots and parsnips; the last, farthest bed went to the turnips.
Between them, she planted dill and parsley — they seemed to sprout quickly, and soon she’d have at least some seasoning for her food.
When the planting was done, Petunia ran for water.
She had to fill the watering can twice — one watering wasn’t enough for everything she’d planted, because Petunia poured generously, without sparing the water.
Watching the water pour beautifully from the sprinkler head, and the fine drops, like rain, irrigating the black, pleasantly smelling earth, Petunia suddenly began to sing a little children’s song: “I planted my own little garden, I’ll water it myself…” she hummed under her breath, moving the watering can over the beds, and suddenly caught herself realizing that right now, at this very moment, for the first time since the day she left home, she felt truly happy.
Stunned to the depths of her soul by this discovery, she broke off the song and slapped her cheeks, saying: “Stupid girl!
Stupid!
Stupid!” but she couldn’t dispel that feeling of happiness.