Chapter Text
Petunia Dursley, once Petunia Evans, wanted what many of us want: she wanted to do better for her children than her parents did for her. She wanted to raise her children without the sort of favoritism that had her resenting her sister throughout her youth and into her adult years. She could do without the magic that Lily had, but she couldn’t stand not having their love the way that Lily did.
When Petunia Dursley ends up with a surprise second infant on her doorstep, one with familiar green eyes and a scarred forehead, she doesn’t see her sister’s ghost in him. But, for a moment that stretches into eternity, she does think about her.
Petunia remembers a childhood spent in Cokeworth, she remembers her little sister and the boy that spied from the bushes. She feels her face heat as she snatches up the letter tucked in between the baby and the basket. A second later, she deflates, letter still clutched in desperate fingers.
This is how Vernon finds his wife when he comes down for breakfast with his son cradled in his arms. Petunia is wilted on their porch, curled forward over a basket which upon getting closer, he sees contains an infant. Vernon quickly sets his son in his playpen before kneeling at his wife’s side, gently gripping her shoulder.
“Pet, darling, what is it?” In lieu of response, Petunia hands him the letter which is now stained with the tears flowing down her face. Vernon holds the letter in one hand while he reads, keeping the other spread across the expanse of Petunia’s shoulder blade for fear that should he remove it, she’d fall apart.
Vernon remembers how his Petunia spoke of her sister, of her freakishness, of the fallout that tore them apart. Vernon looks at his nephew and sees the reminder of all that pain made flesh. Vernon sees a problem, one that he believes he can solve.
“We’ve no obligation to take him in, Petunia. We could take him to the orphanage; they’ll find a suitable home for him, with people who can handle any freakishness that comes about.” Vernon isn’t trying to be cruel to his nephew who stares up at his mustache and makes grabby hands. No, Vernon Dursley is trying to be kind to his wife.
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Petunia remembers a moment from a warm summer’s day in Cokeworth before the magic came to make everything worse.
Lily is twirling in a circle with a teddy bear held tight in her outstretched hands and sunlight turning her hair into stained glass. She is laughing.
The teddy, Petunia recalls, was Lily’s baby.
That day, Lily turned to her and gave her that hundred-watt smile.
“You’re his aunt!” She said, pushing the teddy into Petunia’s arms. “You love him don’t you, Tuney?”
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“Petunia?”
She’s back in the present and fresh grief washes over her. She gazes into those beautifully familiar eyes and wishes for the impossible. When her wish isn’t granted, she turns her red eyes on her husband. “We have to keep him, Vernon. We’re his family.”
“Your sister left you out of her life for years, Pet. I doubt anyone would blame you for taking care of your own family.” Vernon said, trying to free her from whatever obligation was taking root. He didn’t want her to feel like she had to do her sister this favor just because she’d died.
But Petunia shook her head, “We have to love him, Vernon.” And that will have to be enough, she thought, begging whatever scrap of her sister still existed. “I’m his aunt. He’s our nephew.”
And just like that, the decision was made. Petunia made herself pick up the little boy and his basket and bring him inside where it was warm. Vernon went to pick up Dudley, who held his arms up to be held.
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All things considered, Harry was a happy baby and it was easier to love him than Petunia expected. She remembered the baby announcement that she’d received just after he was born, the bitterness that had surged up in her; she’d never really know the boy, not with all of the bad blood that remained between her sister and herself.
Harry babbled and sat next to Dudley in the playpen, waving a plastic ring of keys under the watchful eye of Mrs. Figg. Petunia and Vernon weren’t all too keen on leaving the kids alone with Mrs. Figg when Harry had just arrived, but there was business to attend to that would be easier done without the boys there.
They drove out to the charred remains of the Potter House in Godric’s Hollow and Petunia choked on a sob at the sight of the place. What had Lily gone through before she died?
It wasn’t quite so bad once they got inside, the living room had an impressive hole blasted through the wall and the kitchen looked as if a bomb had gone off, but the living quarters were more or less intact. They tackled Harry’s room first, packing up clothes and toys and some bedding, before moving on to the master bedroom in hopes of securing important documents and heirlooms.
Vernon carried Lily’s cedar chest out to the car while Petunia poured over the contents of the closet and cried; Lily had kept so many pictures from their childhoods, ones that Petunia hadn’t seen since she lived with their parents. Lily smiling radiant into the camera from where she was crouching in the back garden, Petunia grinning just behind her, a hand on her shoulder. The two of them dressed up for parties, sometimes ridiculously dressed for their tea parties. Eventually though, the pictures began to reflect the growing distance that appeared once Lily’s school years began. It wasn’t just that pictures of Lily became rarer, but also that Petunia looked less and less content in all of them, even in the pictures of her with their parents.
A dry sob broke past her lips and she wasn’t sure which of the many possibilities it was for.