Work Text:
Petunia hadn't wanted that child from the start.
That child who looked like the ghost of a stranger. That child who was the reason her sister had got herself killed. That child who was going to be the death of her family, too.
Petunia had always thought her sister shouldn't have got involved with those - those freaks. But she'd been so enamoured with her little magic tricks - her frog-spawn soap, turning tableware into pests. And oh, how their parents had simply doted on her for every vile thing she did. And what was plain old Petunia compared to the wonderful witch Lily?
She was the only one who'd thought nothing good would come from it, and she'd been right. Because where had it got her sister? Blown up, buried under the rubble of a crumpled house, without even a body to bury.
Some days, Petunia had barely been able to touch that child, feeling as if his abnormality would infect her. Her skin would crawl, her insides quiver with disgust. Petunia had thought about sending him away - and Marge, too, had always insisted on putting that child up in an orphanage.
But when she'd almost gathered the nerve to do it, the second letter had come, reminding her what would happen if she didn't keep the child in her house. How she'd resented him - for her family, for her sister, for the danger he represented.
There was nothing to it, though. And she'd thought the least she could do was stamp the thing out of that boy. The less magic he did, the less he knew about that world, the less chance there was he'd drag her husband and son into danger.
But all her efforts were futile.
As it turned out, blood was thicker than water - and you couldn't eradicate a sickness in the blood.