Work Text:
The blonde-haired woman laid across the lawn chair in her front yard, soaking in the few rays of sunshine she could in the British weather. Her eyes had seen just over forty years, wrinkles just beginning to line her eyes. She had aged well, especially as she compared herself to the other women her age. They’d all begun to go grey, with discoloured splotches on their skin and deep-seated worry lines. She had always been a decidedly pretty person. Not quite in the conventional realms of being undeniably gorgeous, but pretty. She was the pretty one, the safe one. Lily had been the gorgeous one, the fiery one… but no, she reminded herself, she was too old to be envious of such things.
She had sunglasses perched on her nose and a bathing suit on. The weather was precisely at twenty-seven degrees. Her hair was long – past her shoulders. She closed her eyes, absorbing the sounds of nature. She could never quite do this when her husband was home. He always insisted on drilling something, or if he wasn’t, he delighted in talking about drills. But her husband wasn’t at home – he’d be on a business trip for a few days. She was completely alone. At peace.
Until the car pulled up into her driveway.
She opened her eyes and slid her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, looking over the plastic frame at the arrivals. The car was a simple, black Honda Accord. The blonde woman waited, watching for the driver to step out. Much to her surprise, out stepped a boy – no, a man – whom she recognised very well. He was about six feet tall, with almond skin. His hair was parted in the centre into a failed attempt to achieve the curtains hairstyle she'd seen many of the young men sporting these days, however, the sheer messiness of his hair simply didn’t allow it. He wore a simple plain white shirt with a dark denim jacket over the top, paired with matching jeans. On his forehead was a thin, white scar, the shape of a bolt of lightning
Out of the passenger seat stepped a woman. She was shorter than he was by a considerable amount; though she was still easily five-foot-nine. She was the type of gorgeous that the blonde had only ever aspired to be growing up. She was thin, almost porcelain-like. Freckles dotted over her cheeks and jawline, continuing down her neck and across her shoulders. She had the build of an athlete, like the ballet dancers she'd seen perform as a girl. Lithe, coordinated. Her red hair, too, was parted in the centre, however with two small buns holding the top sections of her hair into place, while the rest of her long hair tumbled over her shoulders.
She assessed the two, as the woman interlocks her arm with the man’s. The redhead’s eyes are a light brown, almost hazel. The man’s eyes are that same distinct shade of green she knew so well. A distant memory tugs at the blonde’s memory. She couldn't help but notice the remarkable similarities to another couple she once, and yet they hadn't even spoken a word.
“Aunt Petunia,” the man says as he approaches her.
“Harry,” Petunia replies in acknowledgement.
Harry swallows, looking to the woman beside him for reassurance. She nods her head slightly.
“Uh…” he manages. He pauses, taking a breath. “Aunt Petunia, this is uh, Ginny Weasley.”
Petunia looks up at the girl, almost curious as to what Harry was about to say.
“She’s my fiancée,” he adds, hastily.
A pregnant silence fills the space between them. Harry finds himself reminded of that moment – four years ago, which had felt like a lifetime ago but was really quite recent – when Dudley had been attacked by a dementor, and Harry told the Dursleys that Voldemort was back. Uncle Vernon hadn’t understood, hadn’t wanted to, really. But Aunt Petunia had looked at him with a sudden look of understanding.
“We’d like to invite you to our wedding,” Ginny speaks. Petunia’s brows furrow together in confusion.
“Really? After everything?”
“I know,” Harry cuts over her, regaining some shred of confidence. Somehow, he could face off the darkest wizard of modern times but having a conversation with his aunt about his wedding was the most daunting thing he’d done to date. “But, I… I want you there. I’ve invited Dudley, and I wanted to extend the invitation to you.”
Petunia watches Harry for a moment. He looks so much like James did, when a very excruciatingly similar conversation took place. Petunia blinks, and all she can see before her are James and Lily. Harry, who had Lily’s personality… Petunia had so frequently noticed when Harry would accidentally slip and make a sarcastic retort. She’d always envied Lily’s quick wit as a teenager. She’d always envied Lily as a teenager.
“Tuney, I know you and I haven’t really spoken, but I would really like you to come to our wedding,” Lily’s voice rings in Petunia’s ears. Her sister stands before her… Petunia feels as if she’s twenty again. James nods in encouragement, and once again the twenty-year-old Petunia fumes for Lily has managed to find a supportive, good-looking guy while Petunia’s husband works the day away.
“Aunt Petunia,” Harry says, concerned. Petunia snaps out of her daze. “Hmm?”
“So, would you want to come?” Harry offers a slight smile.
Petunia never went to Lily and James’ wedding. She never asked why they’d married so young – nineteen years old? Married? How abnormal! – but eight months later, she’s received a letter from Lily. Nothing major. A picture, about the size of the palm of her hand, of a baby. He had dark skin and a tuft of already messy black hair on his head. Attached was a note, with the words: Harry James Potter, born 31 July 1980. 3.7kg.
Petunia couldn’t bring herself to throw the picture nor the note away, so she stuffed them in a drawer. She’d carried the guilt with her for six days, as Petunia hadn’t bothered to tell her sister that she, too, had had a child since they’d last spoken. Petunia had watched Dudley, a month old at the time, as he slept in his baby carriage, and in a moment of self-indulgence, or even just weakness, she took a picture, and sent it to the address on Lily’s letters. Some place called Godric’s Hollow.
“I…” she begins, looking up at Harry, “I would like that very much.”
Harry exhales, and his stress levels begin to lower. Ginny rubs her hands soothingly down Harry’s arms. Petunia wonders what would’ve happened if she’d accepted Lily’s request for her to be at her wedding. What would’ve changed?
“Well, I… I guess I’ll be going now,” Harry speaks again. Ginny finally lets go of Harry’s arm.
Ginny offers a polite smile, and a joking salute towards Petunia. Very James.
Harry turns back to look at Petunia a final time. “Oh, and don’t tell Vernon. I don’t want him there.”
“I don’t want Vermin at my wedding, Tuney,” Lily had said, using her rather unflattering nickname for Petunia’s husband, “I want you there very much but I do not want that m-”
“Muggle?”
"Moron. I don’t want that moron there.”
“Fine! Then I won’t go at all!”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
Lily’s auburn hair trailed behind her as she made for the car. “C’mon, James.”
James had saluted too, in very much the same way. Lily slammed the car door, and James quickly got into the passenger seat.
This time, Petunia just nods. She wasn’t going to let that happen again. Harry clambers into his side of the car, and Ginny gets in on the passenger side. The engine roars into life, and Petunia watches as the car backs out of the driveway and back into the street. Petunia suddenly feels as though a weight has been lifted from her chest, and she knows, truly, it’s time for her to let the past go, and to finally start living in the present.