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November 1, 1981
“Vernon!” Petunia calls as she sets the table and smiles ever so slightly at her son. “Dinner’s ready!”
She could hear a bit of grumbling upstairs, and a faint shout of acknowledgement from her husband. Nodding, she plants herself in her seat next to Dudley’s highchair and starts spooning his food into his mouth.
Vernon appeared in the doorway, cut suit rumpled as he gave her a tight smile. “Sorry for the wait, Pet. The business call lasted longer than I expected.”
Petunia gave him a pleasant smile, eyes darting between him and their son. “No worries, dear, food is still fresh as daisies.”
Nodding his approval, Vernon slumped down into the chair across from her and started to shovel food in his mouth. Petunia had the urge to grimace, but it would be rude to do so.
She just prayed Dudley wouldn’t have the same manners.
A loud pattern of knocks at the door startled them both and caused Dudley to squeal and shove his bowl of food plummeting to the floor. Petunia sighed to herself as Vernon stood, “Who in the bloody hell thinks they should be knocking on our door this late? Do they not understand decency?!”
Vernon stormed off towards the door as she stood, grabbing a damp cloth from the counter to wipe up the mess Dudley had made. Her son tugged at her hair, pulling it slightly out of its tightly woven bun as she listened out for the tell-tale sound of Vernon yelling at whoever it was at the door.
There was no point in scolding Vernon’s language around their son, no matter how tempted she was to curb such vile words. He was a man dedicated to their protection, whether that be through profanities or not.
The kitchen door from the hall slammed open as her husband stumbled through in a righteous rage, eyes piercing. “Petunia, there’s a child at our doorstep.”
Petunia paused, rising from her kneel on the floor, rag still covered in spilt food. “A child? What in the devil do you mean there is a child on our doorstep?” Her husband paused, looking uncertain for a moment, before looking at their son.
Vernon tugged a hand through his hair, removing it to wave at the hall. “Check for yourself, Pet, I’ll get Dudley a new bowl.”
She hesitates, hands making an aborted movement to just keep cleaning the spill out of habit but restrains herself.
She is not a maid.
“Of course, dear.” Petunia replies instead of the million and one questions she has, rotating through one ear and out the other. Dropping the rag off into the sink, Petunia makes it over to their front door. It was still open, autumn air flowing through the entryway as a small wicker basket made its way into her view.
Stepping onto their small stoop, Petunia glances down at the baby. Jet black baby hairs, eyes closed, and a blistering and bloody looking scar splattering across a large portion of his face looking scarily like a half-carved lightning bolt.
The sound of a motorcycle nearby jolted her from her trance, eyes sharpening looking up and across their lawn, moving to the dimly lit streets for any sign of life.
No movement. Just pitch darkness.
With a sigh, Petunia picks up the basket with the child and brings it inside, gently closing the door with her foot on her way to the living room. Setting the child down, Petunia makes her way back into the dining room, frown upon her face.
“Not a soul in sight. Might as well call the police come morning, have them take the poor thing in.” Petunia walked to the kitchen cupboard, eyes darting around to look for a clean flannel. “The baby seems injured, so I’ll clean it up and set it up on the couch till morning.”
Vernon huffs, stuffing his mouth once more with his food as he warily watches their son clumsily eat his food. “Seems fine, Pet, as long as it's out by morning.”
She nods, because it was what she was taught to do. Understand the wishes of those around her and comply. “Of course, dear.”
This is your home. Not theirs.
Petunia shakes her head as she wets the flannel, retreating back to the living room.
As she walks up to the baby, its eyes crack open, mouth yawning violently as the babe’s little hands wave about.
She barely gets the flannel up to the babe’s face before her eyes lock onto the boy’s, apparently, and Petunia can feel as her whole body stiffens.
Green eyes. Vivid, overwhelming, unique eyes.
Lily.
On some level, I think I always understood
That these hands of mine were clumsy, not clever
Petunia squishes that thought down hard, hands quickly flying up onto the child’s face to dab away at the blood. Though, she was so lost in thought that she couldn’t see she was doing it too roughly to be of any good.
A piercing wail came from the baby as the flannel rubbed over the large bolt-shaped wound, and Petunia ripped her hand back as if she was burnt.
You hurt the child. You hurt the baby. You’re not better, You’re no better, You’re just like-
“Pet, get that child to shut the hell up! It’s upsetting Dudley!” Vernon yells from the dining room, and Petunia can feel her limbs lock up, ever so slightly.
You didn’t do anything wrong. The child did. The child is being loud, and you need to make him be quiet.
Petunia could do that.
Tossing the flannel aside, Petunia tucked her hands under the little boy’s body and lifted him out of the basket. The small blanket covering him slid off onto the couch as Petunia oriented him into the nook of her arm.
As she bounces the boy, Petunia looks down at the basket when something tan catches her eye.
Parchment. Not paper. Parchment.
Petunia sucked in a breath, eyes darting to the dining room doorway before snatching the letter from the basket. While juggling the baby that reminded her too much of her sister, Petunia slid her finger under the wax seal, pausing for a second as it popped off and landed lightly on the floor.
Sitting on the couch in a huff, Petunia unfolds the letter and begins reading it.
Dear Mrs. Petunia Dursley,
I regret to inform you that your sister, Lily Potter, and her spouse, James Potter, have been killed by Lord Voldemort. This leaves Harry, their son, in your possession, as his godfather and alternative friends of his parents are not currently available. It has been rumored that the Dark Lord’s death has come, and he has perished. I do not believe in the definiteness of these rumors, so Harry must live in your home. Your sister enacted an old spell which will continue on through you, as her last remaining blood relative, to protect Harry should the time comes that he should ever need it.
I apologize that such news is delivered in a letter instead of in person, but as the aftermath unfolds here, I find myself in a difficult position to ask this tremendous favor of you.
Find compassion, and adoration for your nephew, for Lily’s memory lives on in you.
Sincerely, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
Petunia didn’t notice there were tears in her eyes until a little hand hit her face, and she was brought back into the moment of stillness in her living room.
Her sister is dead.
The child is her nephew . Lily’s son.
Bile comes up the back of her throat as Petunia rushes to put the boy, Harry, back into the basket and leaves the letter uncaringly on the couch as she rushes to the downstairs loo.
She barely makes it to the loo before bile spills out of her mouth and hits the edge of the bowl and the water wetly, splashing nauseatingly as Petunia vomits out her dinner into the bowl.
Lily’s dead. Lily’s dead. Lily’s dead.
Her family’s dead.
Petunia grips the edge of the toilet harder as tears spill down her cheeks, and another wave bursts out of her mouth in a burning vengeance. She didn’t know what to think, how to feel.
Should she feel remorseful? Lily’s dead. She’s gone, and Petunia never got to say sorry.
Lily’s the reason you’re this way, the reason you’re damaged goods, that you’re scared all the time, that your parents-
No no no no nononono- LilysdeadLilysdeadLil-
A warm hand lands on her back, Vernon’s soft voice luring her out of her panic. “Pet? What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
His voice seemed confused, but sweet, caring. Not angry, not yelling.
“Lil-” The lump in her throat catches, eyes stinging. She feels pathetic, laying on the tile floor crying over a sister she’s been trying to forget for years. A sister she made fun of with her husband . A sister she never got to apologize to.
“Lily’s dead.” She bites out. Petunia can’t bring herself to look at her husband. She’s such a hypocrite, being pathetic over the death of some- some freak .
You don’t really think that. You wish you were a freak, you wish you could have gone with her-
Vernon huffs, shaking his head. “That woman was an awful sister, Pet. Best to get the shakes out before coming to terms, it's for the best. She did you no good, dear.”
Petunia couldn’t help but think her husband was wrong. Dead wrong.
Lily’s dead, and her son is in their living room.
But she’s the one that told him that her sister was terrible. That Lily was the reason she was so hurt, so scared, and so lonely all the time. Vernon knew nothing more than she would tell him.
Petunia nods regardless, giving her fake agreement to prevent her further embarrassment of her current distress and looks. “I know, dear. I’m sorry it just…took me by surprise.”
It did. It was sudden, too early, too soon, Petunia didn’t have time to-
Taking in a shaky breath, Petunia grabs a few pieces of tissue from the roller next to the toilet, wiping her face off the crud and tears along her cheeks. She needs to put herself together.
“That’s alright, Pet. How’d you figure it out?” Vernon hedges, his voice holding curiosity despite his bitterness against her sister’s husband. Their one and only meeting did leave her husband with quite a distaste for anything with the Potters, and the main reason any last good faith between the two diminished.
She would not side with her sister when that Potter boy was so clearly in the wrong against her husband.
“The boy. He was…crying, so I picked him up, rocked him as I do our Dudders to hush his noisy little mouth, and a letter fell into his basket.” Petunia sucked in a breath, pushing away from the toilet bowl as her husband stood, eyes boring into her. “The letter said that Lily has been murdered. And that the babe is her son.”
Vernon scowled, tongue clicking. “She and her freak of a husband had it coming, Pet. You know that. Their freakishness was bound to get them dead sooner than later. Send their offspring to the orphanage a town away. He’s not our concern. He shouldn’t be your burden.”
Her husband shook his head and Petunia flushed the toilet, grabbing a bar of soap to wash her hands with.
Petunia hesitates for a moment but thinks it best to go ahead and be out with it before he reads the letter himself. “It was that headmaster, the nasty old coot of a man, that sent the letter. Told me my sister had enacted a…that she had wished Harry to be sent into my hands in the face of her death. The laws where they are from strictly prohibit him being…sent away to another location, due to the circumstances of my sister’s death.”
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t tell Vernon that Lily’s son was most likely just as freakish–magical, Petunia– because he would send the child to the curb.
Petunia hated Lily; she hated her sister for leaving. For her taking up all their parents' attention, their kindness, and left her to rot as a second daughter meant for cleaning and washing and scrubbing-
But she loved her. It wasn’t Lily’s fault.
Yes, it was, her brain bit back.
Her husband’s scowl deepens. “That’s ludacris. The things that woman has the audacity to drag you through! Pet, we need to file it with the court, transfer custody to another, we can’t handle a child made from the loins of that oaf! I forbid it!”
Petunia wishes she never shared her false hatred with her husband. She can feel herself cracking, as her years of jealousy overlaps her judgment and gives her a brief lapse back into her narrative. Into the image she’s built for herself of perfectly normal Petunia Dursley.
She wishes she wasn’t normal .
“I’ll call tomorrow. See if there's anything I can do, dear.” Petunia says instead, a strained smile in the face of her husband’s red, furious face. He was looking out for her health, and that would include…not having anything of her sister around.
What else could she do but agree? This is the life she chose after all.
Petunia wishes she chose differently .
And I tried to do the best that I could
But try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to hold you
November 2, 1981
The next morning, Petunia could barely drag herself out of bed. Her heart hurts, her ears are ringing, and her eyes sting to the high heavens.
Her husband’s side of the bed is cold.
Shifting into a sitting position, Petunia drags a hand down her face and wallows a little in her self-pity.
You can’t leave Harry. You can’t leave him like Lily left you. You’d be just like her. You’d be just like th-
The sound of a cry startled her, making Petunia shoot up from her bed and go immediately to her son’s room across the hall. Opening the door, she rushed over to Dudley’s side, hands gentle as she raised him up to rest upon her chest.
As Petunia shushed her son’s tears and cries, she could hear a piercing wail from downstairs.
She hesitates.
Petunia barely shifts a foot in the direction of the door when Dudley cries again, clutching on her hair and reminding her that he must be hungry for breakfast when she feels an ugly feeling bubble up into her chest.
Harry nearly made me forget about my son for a moment.
She almost went to him instead of Dudley.
Petunia’s just like her mother.
Taking in a sharp breath, Petunia turned away from the door and stepped over a few of her son’s toys to fish out a bottle from the fridge they keep stocked with all his baby food in the corner. She pulls out a bottle and sets it to her son’s lips.
Petunia can’t help but feel guilty as she smiles at her son eating happily as she listens to Harry scream downstairs.
It's a secret I keep tucked inside my chest
With this heart of mine that's guilty, not remorseful
When Petunia finally makes her way downstairs, dressed primly with Dudley snug in her arms, she only remembers that Harry is there when she walks through the hall towards the kitchen to make herself breakfast.
She stares into the living room for a moment, eyes scanning her nephew and his tear-stained cheeks. That feeling of guilt festered in her chest again, but she remained by what she did.
Petunia was nothing but a prideful person. Even for things she felt like were mistakes.
She doesn’t regret it. Her son is more important. He is her priority. He is her blood.
Biting her lip, she gently sets Dudley down on the carpet next to a few of his toys as she walks over to the couch where she left Harry.
Petunia lifts him up swiftly, picking up the left-over flannel from the night before and ignoring the crusted blood as she uses it to wipe the tears from the boy’s face. “That’s enough out of you, Harry. You can’t have all the attention in this house, despite me keeping you against my better wishes. You best learn to quieten down.”
The boy looks at her with wide, knowing green eyes, as they bubble full of tears again and his matted hair falls in the view of his eyes.
Lily’s eyes.
That feeling of love, hatred, jealousy, comes coursing through her as she stares at her nephew. Petunia can’t bring herself to name it. To say it.
He is her responsibility to care for, not love.
No matter how much she wishes she could. Petunia Dursley is her carefully crafted facade, her normalcy amidst her guilt, her rock in her doubts, her saving grace in her loneliness.
She’ll do anything to keep it, otherwise she’ll crumble apart in her sorrow of her mistakes. Even if that means keeping her nephew at arms length.
With a flourish, Petunia quickly sets Harry down on the changing table in the corner of their living room and freshens him up, setting him back into his pajamas with disdain.
She needs to get him new clothes. A cot, too. He can’t just sleep like a lug in their living room, it’s uncivilized and the neighbors would talk.
Petunia nods to herself as she goes about her morning routine, cooking and eating breakfast. Washing up, cleaning the house, and all the while avoiding those knowing, green eyes of her sister.
There is love that doesn't have a place to rest
But it would have buried you if it had settled on your shoulders
July 31, 1982
The summer had been a long one, sweltering hot and blistering as Petunia cared for her little garden by the kitchen. The wireless plays music dutifully, and switches over to a commercial ad as she shifts slightly to the next part of the flower bed. Pulling weeds out with vengeance, Petunia glances up as there is a knock on the back kitchen door coming from inside.
Her eyes meet vivid green. Petunia tries her darndest not to look away, to appear weak, as she looks at her nephew standing in the middle of her kitchen doorway.
“Aunt Petunia?” Harry calls to her, his voice soft as it’s always been.
She feels that little bubble of guilt starts up again. She can’t care for him, as she wished her parents did for her.
Lily’s presence in him is too strong, too potent for her to be around for too long.
Petunia looks away, back to the weed she was currently pulling in an air of aloofness. “Yes, Harry?” She clips, eyes boring into the dirt bed to search for more weeds. For a distraction.
“C-Can I help? You always make the flowers look so pretty…” Harry questions, sounding hesitant. The wireless podcast chimes in ever so slightly, muddling her thoughts.
“How are you doing ladies and gents? Last day of July sure is a hot one! Summer’s almost up, so how about bringing the kids out to the poo-”
Harry shuffles out the door, catching her attention again.
It’s his birthday, if she remembers correctly. A letter had been sent to her two years ago today about his birth, but she threw it away.
She regrets that. Maybe she could have talked to Li-
Petunia nods purposely, waving Harry over.
It’s his birthday. She can be nice; she can act like it’s okay.
Petunia didn’t get to celebrate her birthday with her sister after she left for Hogwarts. She couldn’t help but think this is Harry’s first one without her too.
Her throat clogs a little, making her feel a little choked as she gently but efficiently coaxed Harry through the basics of gardening. Losing herself in this little bubble of contentedness as she teaches Lily’s son, her nephew, as she had to Lily herself when they were younger.
The nostalgia hit her hard as they stayed quiet in their workings, the sounds of ripping roots and thumps of knuckles on the soil filling her thoughts as the wireless went back to playing songs, she can vaguely remember listening to with her mother in the living room.
It hurts to think she never got to do it much.
Lily did though. Dancing with a smile and laugh and joy as their parents cheered her on.
As Petunia finishes her part of the flower bed, she looks over to Harry to see how far along he is.
There is dirt smeared on his hands, a little on his face where a few freckles –just like Lily– rested on his nose. His eyes were focused, glasses drooping, and a small smile on his lips as he hums along to the song on the wireless.
Just for a moment, Petunia allows herself to wallow in regret. In bitterness towards herself, because there is a light in her nephew. There is hope, and a smile, and something she never got to know much as a child resting in his features. A childish wonderment for every root he pulled, and a happiness that radiated towards having time with her. As if she had made his day.
He was too kind.
He was just like Lily.
Petunia can’t help but think she doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t deserve to make amends through her nephew. She doesn’t deserve to have anything with him.
Petunia lost Lily.
She doesn’t deserve to gain her nephew.
Petunia closes that little part of her heart up. The one that cares for Harry like her own, that could see the good and the best of him in every action, in every hesitance, and spoken manners.
Petunia keeps it to herself, that she loves him, that she cares for him in her own way.
But she can’t help the bitterness that swells up in her. That she wouldn’t know him without her sister's death. That her sister left her, that she broke up their family, that Petunia was the outcast and the loner and the sad one left behind.
She loves her sister; she loves her nephew.
But Petunia couldn’t face that, because that means she was wrong. She was wrong to ignore him because of her resentment, to ignore her thoughts, to ignore the fact that she doesn’t deserve any of her normalcy and contentedness in her life because she has never been a good person.
And bad people don’t deserve to care for good ones.
And bad people don’t deserve to fix their mistakes, only to lie in them.
On some level, I think I always understood
That a ship could never really love an anchor
October 31, 1982
It was nearing nightfall on Halloween, and Petunia couldn’t help but feel more and more dread leading up to it. Vernon had already agreed to taking their son out trick or treating to some of the richer neighbors, likely to schmooze his way into talking terms with their companies.
And like that, they left.
Leaving her behind with her nephew.
The dread became overwhelming as the house went quiet, and Petunia sat and stewed as she stared at her cooling cup of tea.
Halloween.
Lily’s death day.
How ironic it was that the day her sister was murdered is the day the rest of the world revels in demons, in magic, and the festivities that surround the abnormal.
Her freakish — magical— sister, dead on the day that celebrates her kind’s weirdness, their abnormalities.
And Petunia is once again left on her own because of such things.
Feelings she’s been bottling up for the past year start crashing against the mental walls she’s compacted them in, eyes drifting, unfocused.
Petunia couldn’t handle looking at herself today. She couldn’t handle being a mother, an aunt, she can’t do any of it today.
She feels sick, guilty, and shitty (as Vernon would so eloquently put it).
She could hear the soft sobs of her nephew from where she sits in the living room. Petunia had the strangest urge to stand, to go and comfort, to make the tears go away.
So, she did.
Petunia couldn’t understand the thoughts swirling in her head, maybe it was the sweltering guilt, a mother's instinct, a woman’s weakness, to follow the sound of a weeping child. To comfort, to swaddle, to help.
She’s never been really good at that.
Opening the small cupboard under the stairs, how she wishes Vernon never convinced her to put him here, Petunia coos quietly at the sight of her nephew.
Shivering, teary, and distressed wrapped up in a tatty blanket on his dank little mat staring straight at her with terror. With fear.
Petunia can’t place the resentment she feels towards herself, so she shoves it away.
Harry curls into himself further, leaning away from her hands as she reaches out for him.
She can remember the day she slapped him like a burn in her memory, the day that Harry accidently burned the breakfast as she taught him the basics and her mother’s bitter teachings spread through her being as she swung the pan-
Petunia regretted it from the very moment she did it. But she plastered on a sneer, a mask, and bottled her surprise and fear of herself away because her pride wouldn’t ever let her admit to her mistakes.
Her dying fault.
Harrys flinched from her hand ever since.
She ignored it regardless, gripping onto his arm and tugging him out of his cupboard. Her gangly arms wrapping around his trembling shoulders as he stiffened in her hold.
Petunia let the guilt fester as she held the child she should’ve protected better. But she chose herself instead. She chose to protect her image as normal, brash, Petunia Dursley. The pretentious, toxic, dotting wife of Vernon Dursley and mother of Dudley Dursley.
But there is no one there to see her facade crack.
So, as an aunt, she hushes his cries, as a mother, she regrets that she caused them. That she drove the wedge between her and her sister. That Lily never came to her for protection before she was murdered.
It was all her fault.
Petunia could barely keep it together as she held her nephew out of shame. She understood that she wasn’t holding it to comfort him.
She was holding him to comfort herself.
What a disgrace of a woman she is.
So, I did the only thing that I could
And severed the rope to set you sailing from my harbour
November 13, 1982
Humming along to the songs on the wireless, Petunia could barely hear the front door open before the shouting started. With a sigh, she sets down her spatula and turns off the stove before making her way into the cramped hallway, trepidation creeping under her skin.
Vicious whispering could be heard by the front door, the squeaking and squelching of wet shoes as she approached.
Petunia could barely compute what in the world was happening before Harry seemed to panic, eyes going wide and blabbering away an excuse for the mess that she’s just now registering across the floor.
“Aunt Petunia! It wasn’t Dudley’s fault. A-A car came down the road and splashed us with one of those big puddles! And we got all muddy, but then it started raining and t-there was mud everywhere and it got on our sh-” Harry ranted before Petunia put up a hand to stop him.
Sighing to herself, she looks at her drenched child and nephew before putting her hands on her hip to disguise her amusement.
They were just like her and Lily.
The amusement died.
Dudley had the mind to keep quiet, eyes looking everywhere but her. But Harry seemed to be standing his ground in defense of her son.
Always been so brave.
With a click of her tongue, Petunia nods her head to the downstairs loo. “Go wash yourself up, boy. Then clean up your tracks you’re making on my floors.” She directed to Harry, before turning away from those bright, righteous green eyes to her own son.
She let her face purposely melt into more sympathy. “Come along, Dudders, I’ll get you all cleaned up and warm in no time. How about a cup of coco when we get done?”
As Petunia rushes her son up the stairs to change, she shoves down the temptation to look at the sadness coating her nephew's face. To see his hurt plastered and reflected in her sister's eyes.
It would prevent him from future disappointment.
The boy needs to learn that Dudley is her priority, not him.
Petunia forces herself to believe it.
There are times when I still wonder about you
You are someone I have loved, but never known
December 25, 1982
The smell of cookies flitted through the house, and the sound of pattering feet caught her attention.
Glancing away from the stove where she was making a hearty, Christmas breakfast, she watches as Dudley shoots into the room right into his chair at the table. Petunia gives him an indulging smile before she puts most of her attention back on the food.
Nobody wants to eat burnt breakfast.
“Mommy! Mommy! Did you see how many presents are under the tree? Did you see Father Christmas drop them off? Did you get me that new toy I saw?!” Dudley shouted, excitement lighting up his features.
Petunia gave him a small laugh for his antics, but a sharp look when she heard him bouncing in his chair. “Stop the jumping, Diddy-kins. You’ll run out of energy before you even open your presents, would you really want that?” She replies, keeping it simple in hopes to tone down his exuberance so early in the morning.
She loves her son, but she was up too late last night wrapping the rest of his toys.
Hearing the small patter of feet, the creak of the cupboard in the hall, Petunia sets the fresh food on the plates sitting on the counter.
Harry appears in the kitchen doorway, some of Dudley’s old, slightly too big, pajamas hanging off his thin frame. Petunia tuts at him, waving her hand towards the toaster. “Toast is over there, Boy, best you finish before Vernon makes his way down. He prefers his Christmases be spent with his family .”
As she emphasizes the last word, she can see his brows crease, his shoulders slump.
Petunia turns away before she can feel that nagging feeling of guilt for putting that look on his face. She has her son to feed, after all.
Vernon comes into the kitchen less than a few minutes after Harry left with his two pieces of toast, hair a mess and eyes shrewd. “Morning, Pet.” He starts, slumping into his seat, looking towards Dudley. “How's our little man doing? Are you excited for your presents? I hope you know how expensive all of them are.”
Petunia purses her lips at that last little quip, but quickly gives her son a smile as he starts back up on ranting about all the toys he wanted. “Of course he’ll love them. We only give him the best, after all.”
Vernon nodded approvingly before stuffing his face full of the breakfast she laid out for him.
His manners were still terrible.
Ignoring the disturbing display playing out next to her, Petunia finishes up her breakfast before making her way to the kitchen where she finds Harry standing on his tiptoes with a cookie in hand.
Petunia scowls.
Picking up a discarded hand towel, she rolls it up and pops him on his bum. “What do you think you’re doing, boy?! Get your grubby little hands off those cookies, they’re meant for Dudley. How can you be selfish enough to eat them all yourself without permission?” She whispered furiously, eyes darting over to the dining table only a few yards away.
Vernon doesn’t need to catch a drift of this. He’ll have her nephew’s hide.
She can’t live with the guilt today. No matter how sincere Vernon was in helping her deal with her nephew.
And, quite frankly, Petunia is not in the mood for excessive yelling due to her near sleep-deprived state. She could already feel a headache blooming behind her temples as she swatted at him again.
Harry drops the cookie on the ground, eyes wide and filled with fear as Petunia draws back the towel again.
Her stomach turns.
He is looking at her with fear.
Petunia clenches her jaw shut, tossing the towel on the counter and pointedly looks away.
“Pick that cookie up, boy, and shove it in that greedy little mouth of yours. It’ll be all you get today, you hear me? Dudley won’t eat anything off this floor.” Petunia spits out, gathering her dish and plopping it in the sink.
Harry pauses behind her, and Petunia can hear the moment he shifts and picks up the cookie. The light sound of a crunch, chewing, and the shuffling of little feet fills the silence.
Only when she hears the boy step out of the kitchen does she go back to the table to clean up the rest.
She can’t face the mirror image of her younger self. Of a child scared of their relatives.
It’s not her fault. She was trying to discipline him. Show him that she can’t accept him because she can’t treat Dudley how she was treated. Her son will not be ignored.
Not for a freak.
Petunia nods to herself. She was helping him face reality that not everything is his, not everything he can just take without manners.
She was helping her nephew understand he can’t just waltz into her life and become her priority. That Dudley was her son first, Harry her nephew second.
Because she promised she’d never treat her son like her parents treated her. Dudley wouldn’t be ignored, neglected, and lonely. Petunia would rather cut up her throat than ever say something negative to her son, because he deserves better than she could ever give him.
But Petunia never gave a single thought on how she treated Harry like her parents treated her, because she was too caught up in her lie.
Petunia Dursley was completely and utterly ordinary, with a completely ordinary husband and son.
Maybe that’s why she always hated magic. Why she hated Harry, why she resented her sister so much that she couldn’t face the son of the best friend she lost.
Because she was never extraordinary like them.
When it was time to unwrap presents, Dudley was sprawled out across the floor with bright eyes. Hands tearing into anything he could get in his grip. Petunia could barely bring out her camera before her son ripped into his second present, with Vernon smirking and preening proudly from the couch with every muttered exclamation of their son.
Her camera clicked as a broad smile swept across her son’s face when he was holding the toy he’d been ranting about wanting for the last few months.
She could feel her heart swell up with joy. Petunia could offer her son everything and would give him everything because she got nothing.
As the minutes flew by and Dudley was running around with his toys, Petunia unwrapped her own present from her husband with a smile. Her eyes widened as she pulled out the gold-chain necklace with a simple string of three pearls at the bottom. Nothing extravagant, but something expensive.
So very Dursley.
She loved it. It was thoughtful, and sweet. She’d been staring at it since early October, and just thinking about Vernon’s attentiveness made her feel warm.
Made her feel loved. Wanted. Seen.
Petunia gestured for Vernon to put it around her neck, making herself turn around as he took the clasps and fastened it. As she waited for him to be done, she could catch a glimpse of the staircase from the living room.
Her face went pale.
Dudley was handing Harry one of his presents, a small smile on his face as she saw her nephew light up like never before. A light she had thought left long ago.
He was just like Lily. Oh, sweet sweet Lily, handing me a toy as our parents forgot that I deserved their love too.
Petunia felt like vomiting, she felt disgusting and terrible and wretched.
She forgot to get Harry a toy.
But she didn’t care, of course not, Dudley was more important. Dudley deserved everything, and Harry wasn’t her son. Wasn’t who she had to love and care for. Just an obligation.
Once again, she couldn’t force herself to believe her own words.
Vernon pulled her back around and planted a kiss on her temple. “You deserve only the best, Pet.”
Petunia gave him a smile, albeit strained as her brain racked for where she went wrong. Where she became so terrible as to not even give Lily’s son a simple toy like Lily gave her.
Clearing her throat, Petunia picked up her own present for her husband and handed it to him. The man took it with gentleness and popped it open, eyes flickering between her and back to the box.
A broad grin stretched on his face, and he lifted her up in excitement, eyes glowing with affection.
Petunia felt alive when he looked at her like that.
“Did you really?” Vernon exclaimed, setting her down gently and taking hold of the picture.
It showed a picture of Vernon’s most prized car, fixed from the ugly deep scratches that had been etched into the car by some of his coworkers' children, the nasty little buggers. It cost hundreds to get a new exterior renewal, and he’d been planning on it for months.
Petunia got it done before he could even get the money.
Vernon looked pleased as he rushed to gather his keys from the stand by the door, leaving to go see his car in all its infamous glory as Petunia stayed planted to the spot. Guilt ate away at her stomach as she looked back to the stairs, seeing neither of the boys.
They must be playing upstairs, together. Happily.
Just like her and Lily.
She was going to throw up. The guilt ate away at her stomach as she thought about the first Christmas her parents got her nothing, and the brightness in Lily’s eyes as she gave her the best stuffed animal in her collection as a gift to her.
“They still love you, Tuney! Maybe they just forgot, but no worries, I didn’t! You can have this bear, Tunes, and now we can match!” Lily smiled brightly, eyes observant to Petunia’s distress. She didn’t know how to feel as she took the plush bear from her sister.
Relief, maybe, that someone in her family remembered her.
Cared.
Taking in a breath, Petunia made her way up the steps. Ignoring the way Dudley’s bedroom was closed to prevent noise from escaping, from reaching her . As if she would make them stop playing. As if she was the villain .
Maybe she was.
But she’s just protecting Dudley, that’s all. Nothing more.
The small rope hanging from the attic door was coarse against her fingers as she tugged it carefully. It creaked loudly from disuse and the latter fell down so quickly it nearly sent her toppling over.
Quickly righting herself, Petunia grabbed onto the miniature railings of the latter and made her way up. Eyes adjusting to the dimness with difficulty.
Dust covered everything in a thick coat as her slippers made light scratching noises against the weak wooden floors.
It was quiet.
Petunia coughed a little as she swiped away some dust from one of the furthest boxes from the entrance, eyes staring at the big, bold label “ TOYS (Tuney!)” that have taunted her for years. They sent a dull throb through her chest.
Using her perfectly manicured nail, Petunia cuts the tape with a bit of difficulty. The lid popped open once it was removed, and her heart stopped.
Laying perfectly in view, in the middle of the whole box, was the bear. Mr. Dancer.
Petunia felt choked up, guilty, and heartbroken all in an instant.
She knew what she had to do.
For Lily.
As Harry made his way back into his cupboard as the Dursleys ate dinner, he stopped. Eyes wide as he stared at a bear laying on his little cot.
Whipping his head in either direction, he sucks in a breath and releases it all in astonishment.
A toy.
His own toy!
Harry smiled, rushing into his cupboard and closing the door quietly behind him as he gripped the bear. He flops back onto his dingy cot, ignoring the creaking, as he clutches the stuffed animal tightly.
As he turned it over in his hands, he felt a slip of paper scrape against his palm. Harry stopped, turning it to the back of the bear.
There, in a small, stitched cut on the back of the bear was a slip of paper still tucked inside.
A letter? For him?
Excitement rushed through him as he gently removed the note from the back, unfolding the small slip of yellow-looking paper.
He’s never seen anything like it before.
Reading it over a few times, Harry sits there confused.
For Tuney,
With lots of love,
Lily
Who’s Tuney?
Is that him? Is it a code name? Wasn’t Lily his mother’s name? Was it meant to go to another kid?
Harry didn’t know, but he pretended it said Harry instead of Tuney.
He didn’t care who it was meant for, as selfish as it was.
It was from his mum, and he could just be grateful to have one thing from her.
And you'll never see the reasons I had
For keeping my claws away when they were close enough to hurt you
April 7, 1983
Petunia was woken up in the middle of the night to a piercing sob that cut through the silence of her home. The snores of her husband were a bit too loud, rain hitting the rafters a bit too sharp, and the sobbing still continued.
Worry filled her gut as she removed herself from the covers, shoving her feet into her closest pair of slippers. Dudley must be having a nightmare.
Though, that in itself is confusing. Her son was never known to have any after he got over his fear of something being in his closet.
Petunia trekked her way through the hall, opening her son’s door just a little to peak inside.
Dudley was asleep. Soft snores like his father filled the quiet of his dimly lit room. She frowned.
The sobbing got louder, and Petunia closed the door to Dudley’s room before turning on her heel to walk to the staircase. Lightning struck outside, causing a loud but distant boom from down the street. It lit up a large part of the house as if it was daytime.
Petunia startled, and the sobbing reached a crescendo as she rushed her way down the stairs.
It was coming from their little cupboard.
Harry.
She paused, watching as lightning lit up the hall again. It shone against the little gold lock they had put on the cupboard only a week or so ago, and her heart sank a little in her chest.
He doesn’t like storms.
Frowning, Petunia debated with herself on whether she should hush him or mind her business and make her way back to bed.
The former won.
With a bit of trepidation, Petunia shuffled her way to the cupboard and slid the lock to the side. The crying stopped for a moment, a stark contrast to just seconds before.
“Harry?” Petunia calls softly, hands wringing themselves into knots. She didn’t know how to start this conversation at all, and was even less experienced in getting her nephew to calm without shouting.
Though, that was only when he was throwing a tantrum.
She could hear a small amount of shuffling before the cupboard clicked open. Lightning struck again with a loud boom, lighting up the hallway to the point she could see his face as clear as day.
Bloodshot eyes. Running nose. Tear stained cheeks.
Petunia felt an ache start up in her chest. Her heart constricted to the point it was borderline painful and urged her forward to pull her nephew out of his cupboard.
Sitting on the freezing floor, she pulled Harry to her side and hesitantly wrapped an arm around his shoulders. They were shaking, but stiff as if he didn’t want her touching him.
She didn’t blame him. Petunia is tainted goods. A good-for-nothing daught-
“A-Aunt Petunia?” Harry whimpered, voice horse.
Petunia hummed in acknowledgement, looking everywhere but at the child she was attempting to comfort. At least in some capacity.
Harry moved around a little before his weight settled into her side. Petunia had to stop herself from reveling in the moment. He is not her child. This is her duty, to calm him, to keep him quiet so her family can get sleep.
Nothing personal.
She wishes it could be.
“I-it, er, stormed…that night.” Harry started, and as she glanced at him she saw how his eyes prickled with fresh tears. Petunia furrowed her brows while she tried to figure out what he meant. “When m-mum and dad d-died. It was storming. I-I remember.”
Petunia felt a wash of cold run through her.
Harry remembered her sister’s death.
Harry’s lip trembled as his breath caught, “I remember a…f-flash of green. A loud b-bang. M-Mum was screaming. I d-don't, uhm, remember what for.” He explained.
Turning to face him, Petunia put on the most serious face she could muster as the realization that Harry was in the room where her sister died . “Your parents died in a car accident. Your father was a drunkard, and he wasn’t paying attention when he should be. You must be thinking of the light turning green before the crash, is all.”
Harry bit his lip, “D-Dad was a bad man?”
Petunia pursed her lips. “The worst of them, boy. He took your mother away, whisked her into their own little fantasy. They got carried away, and it got them killed. It got you landed here with me.”
Her nephew didn’t reply, only slumping into her side further.
It was for his own good to think his parents were terrible. To think that Lily wasn’t a great mother, no matter how much Petunia vehemently thinks she’d never hurt a fly on purpose.
It would save Harry the heartache of never knowing loving parents.
It would save Harry from being like her. Knowing their love, but never experiencing it.
Petunia retracted her arm from his shoulders. She was thoroughly finished with this conversation, there was no way she could handle another minute. Her sister’s death is too fresh, her conviction to ignore that whole nest of feelings too strong.
Harry is not her son. He’s Lily’s.
She has to remember that.
When Petunia made her way back to bed in the early morning, she couldn’t help but wonder if she did the right thing.
I am selfish, I am broken, I am cruel
I am all the things they might have said to you
June 23, 1983
Petunia pressed on the icing gently, spinning it around just so that it would spread perfectly. Evenly.
The light blue frosting smoothed out from under her careful end, brows furrowed as she concentrated. Only other sound in the house is her nephew, Harry, mixing a bowl furiously at the kitchen table full of cake mix.
Dudley and Vernon were out as Petunia set up for her son’s birthday. Her son’s friends would be here in the next two hours or so, and she only had herself and the little help Harry could provide in decorating everything on time.
“Boy, slow down. Next thing you’ll know, you’ve made it a running river instead of a mix.” Petunia calls, feeling satisfied as she checks the last little bit for leveled and seeing no unevenness.
Harry pauses, and the constant thudding of the bowl slapping the table in his aggressiveness stops. “Sorry, Aunt Petunia.”
She nods her head sharply towards the space next to her. “Get over here with that bowl and pour it into the pan.”
Petunia doesn’t look at her nephew as she puts frosting into a small plastic bag, rolling it around to make it even with no bubbles. Harry comes around to her left and sets the large bowl he’d been mixing near her elbow.
How annoying. It was in her working space. Did he not have a lick of sense to not put things in someone else’s way?
“Move it, boy. I said pour, not sit and stare.” Petunia bites, glancing at the time. Ten minutes had already passed, and she cursed herself for focusing more on getting her nephew to actually do something correctly than finishing preparations for her son.
How disastrous.
Harry dumps it into the cake pan clumsily, a little of the batter spilling onto the counter in a few large, noticeable splatters. Petunia can feel her temper rise ever so slightly.
Honestly, can he not do anything right?
Can you? Her brain snaps back.
She purses her lips, shutting down that thought immediately. This isn’t about her. It’s about her son and Harry’s screwing it all up.
Once he finished pouring, Petunia took the bowl from his grasp and dumped it into the sink. Her nephew stood gaping at her for a moment. Raising a brow, Petunia brushes past him as his jaw slammed shut with an audible click.
Good. He knows he must’ve done something wrong. Which he did.
“It was an accident Mum, I-I didn’t mean to s-spill it– please!” Petunia tugged against her mother’s grip, eyes wide with fear. “Please please please— I didn’t sabotage it, I swear!”
“Shut that dirty little mouth of yours, Petunia. Your jealousy is unbecoming of you, and it's unflattering how much you try to ruin your sister’s reputation. Little miss ordinary needs to learn she can’t be the focus if she brings nothing to the family name.” Mum remained calm, but her stance was clearly furious. Her mum’s hand raised above her head, and Petunia flinched.
Petunia didn’t respond. Her mother wouldn’t ever believe that it was an accident.
The slap stung, and bitterness lingered.
Petunia looked at Harry sharply. “Come along, boy. Your cooking skills are abominable, so I might as well set you up to clean.”
Her nephew shuffled behind her, guilt plastered across his face. Petunia’s stomach soured, but she didn’t shout. She didn’t scream. She didn’t hurt him.
But she already has.
She is not her mother.
Handing him a broom, she gestures to the hallway and living room with a flippant hand. “Sweep all of this. Take out the trash, and sweep the driveway. We want their entrance into my home to be perfectly presentable. Come back to me when you finish. I want you out of the way of the celebration, and no fooling around.”
With a stern nod, Petunia turns on her heel sharply.
She doesn’t look back at the hurt look on Harry’s face. There’s no point if she already knows what he’s feeling.
She’s been there.
Don’t think about it. Nothing's wrong. You’re just getting Harry to help out, right? Teaching him a little responsibility.
He’s not her son. He’s not her anything. A responsibility, a helper, a child she’s forced to care for.
He is not her priority.
Petunia stays definite in that stance as she goes back to prepping the food for her actual son. Because Dudley deserves her full undivided attention, she promised that her son would get everything.
And Harry’s not her son. He’s Lily’s.
Lily left you. She is not family. Harry is not family. Family stays, family cares.
Lily did not, and neither do you.
The candles were bright, the warm glow lighting up Dudley’s face as he took in his big breath for his candles. Petunia raises up her camera and clicks it in time for the entire thing to explode.
It shook the table. Frosting flying in every direction, splattering along the deep blue table cloth. Clumps of cake stuck themselves to the wall and her son’s face.
Petunia’s camera shuttered, solidifying the moment in time.
Dudley’s scream launched Petunia into action, dropping her camera off onto the table and whipping her head around the room to find the source that caused the cake she worked hours on to spontaneously explode.
Harry.
Petunia darts over to where her nephew is standing in the doorway, eyes blazing with anger but mouth dropped in surprise.
She didn’t even think about it before she took his elbow, grip tight, as she furiously drug him towards his cupboard. Slamming it open, not minding the racket she was making, she tosses him in there.
Petunia slaps him across the face before taking hold of his shoulders and staring directly into startled eyes.
Green, green eyes. Sad eyes, lonely ones.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing you freak ?! Messing up Dudley’s birthday. How dare you! Does your selfishness know no bounds that you have to ruin it all for your own pleasure? Are you so sick that you cannot allow my son to be happy?!” Petunia shouts, only lowering her voice as she hears the door connecting the hall and kitchen together close.
The voice of her husband gathering all the guests together to calm them nullifies her panic, at least a little.
But Petunia can’t get the image out of her head. The cake exploded. There is not a logical explanation in her head that could make it even feasibly possible.
Magic. It had to be Magic.
Oh god, it was magic.
Petunia wanted to hurl. To scream, to kick, to punch, to cry. She couldn’t figure out what she wanted to do, how to handle it. But there was magic in her house.
She had to snuff it out before it hurt Dudley.
Before it hurt her.
Harry looked at her with fear, her handprint burning red across his cheek. His eyes were dotted with tears as his lip trembled. “I-I’m sorry, I-I didn’t–How did I– I didn’t mean to! I-I just was, I just thought about it and it happened! I s-swear I didn’t do it! I didn’t mean it!”
The tears started to fall as sobs made their way out of his mouth. Petunia could barely stand it.
Tugging on the boy’s collar, she brings him close to her face. “You better never ever do that–that freakishness in my house again, do you hear me boy?! You’ll be on the curb faster than you can mutter sorry . I don’t care if your bitch of a mother wished for it. I will kick you out, no thought needed, if you ever dare think of even using it again! You’ll rot on the street like your father should have!”
The boy trembled as sobs and pleads left his lips, apologies spilling out of his mouth. Petunia wouldn’t hear them. Wouldn’t listen.
Magic ruined her childhood. She would not let it be a feature in Dudley’s.
Ordinary is perfect for her. Her son is perfect.
Her nephew is a freak.
Petunia slammed the cupboard shut, locking it with a sense of finality. Harry is a freak, just like his mother.
Just like Petunia’s mother wanted her to be.
A flash of bitterness, anger, and resentment flooded her body. How a child so awful, so selfish and demanding got such a gift she never got. To squander it all to hurt her son, to do nothing but lash out with it.
Petunia hated Harry more than she ever had. He had the gift her sister did, that her parents wanted. That she wanted.
She’ll never forgive him for that.
Petunia walked away from the quiet sobbing of her nephew, because her son was more important. Magic had no place in her life.
She’ll just have to snuff it out.
Do you ever think of me and my two hands, and wonder why?
They never soothed your fevers
January 3, 1984
Petunia wrapped her coat tighter around herself as she traveled the sidewalk, hands going straight back to burrowing in her pockets. It was freezing for mid January and she couldn’t wait to get home, sit in front of her electric fireplace, and warm up.
It sounded heavenly after the obnoxious weekly mothers meeting held at Mrs. Gerund’s house a block away.
Her front door creaked only slightly as she opened it, tugging off her jacket to hang on the hook by the door. It was warm, toasty, and completely free of cold as she shut the door.
Perfect.
With a sigh, Petunia collapsed on the chair closest to the fireplace. She could barely muster up the strength to tap the small button on the side to start it up before her eyes were closing.
Silence.
Vernon had taken the boys out for the day to show them a “man's job”, which was really his excuse to brag about Dudley on bringing your child to work day. But he had to bring along Harry, unfortunately, as he quite emphasized to her, because Petunia didn’t trust that boy alone in their home. He’d destroy and wreck everything like the little delinquent he is.
He already destroyed Dudley’s bedroom in a fit of anger, who’s to say the entire house isn’t next?
She could still remember the look on Harry’s face as his eyes lit up as a wave of something tore through the room ripping up everything from its perch and tossing it into the walls, onto the floor as he screamed at Dudley.
“You–You spoiled, entitled nitwit! H-How could you!” Harry shouted, fist held so tight Petunia thought she could see a dribble of blood peaking through. Dudley shouted back, eyes wild. “I-It was a joke–I didn’t–”
Petunia’s nose flared as she rushed her way through the room, grabbing onto Harry and dragging him back harshly. “You quit this-this freakishness now, boy! Stop it!”
Harry froze, eyes locked on hers.
The magic instantly died out. Apologies spilled from that noisy little mouth and Petunia had the urge to slap him, hit him, to drag him down the stairs and put his smart ass on the curb as she had promised.
Harry hurt her son, and she couldn’t have that.
Petunia tugged her nephew along, marching down the stairs in a righteous fury until she reached the back door. She didn’t mind Harry’s pleads, his begging as she drugged him out back and slapped him so hard he fell to the mud.
She didn’t care as he screamed, as she hit. Petunia saw red. She was scared. Magic hurt her son. Harry is magical. He’s a wizard.
She has to beat it out of him. He won’t hurt no one if he’s compliant. If he’s scared, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. That’s what her mother did for her, and it worked.
Petunia never hurt Lily again after that.
The last slap dug her nails into the boy’s face. His teary eyes and snotty nose looked bruised and swollen as he begged her to stop. Petunia didn’t.
She couldn’t.
Ignoring the familiar ache, she couldn’t place; Petunia leaned her head back. She needed rest, and a lot of it if she was to be as efficient as possible.
Maybe just a quick nap would suffice.
The clock chimed a seventh time before Petunia woke up disoriented. The room was dark, the moon giving a weak shine as she stretched out her weary limbs. Looking around, she finds the fireplace has been turned off and a throw blanket resting on her form.
Vernon must’ve come home ages ago.
Picking herself up, Petunia rushed in folding the throw blanket up and tossing it back on the couch. Trekking her way to the stairs with stiff limbs, she pauses as she hears a violently cough.
A childish one.
Looking up the dark stairs, Petunia frowns. It didn’t sound like it came from Dudley; it was too close.
Harry.
Whipping around, Petunia set her eyes on the small, locked cupboard with disdain. Of course, it was her nephew causing such a ruckus so late in the night. No concern or stifling his sounds like an animal.
Petunia wouldn’t be able to catch a wink with that racket.
With a click of her tongue, Petunia begrudgingly made her way to the kitchen, snatching up a bottle of water from its package and a spare piece of flannel.
The clock only clicked lightly in its freshly-oiled state, but the door itself groaned loudly.
Sitting in the middle of his coat, coated in vomit, sits her nephew. Petunia feels her stomach churn at the smell. Disgusting .
Petunia wasn’t originally going to give the boy more than a bottle and a flannel to clean himself up with, but she cannot, under any circumstances, have her house smell this putrid.
The neighbors would talk.
Harry fell into a fit of coughs as she tugs him out of the cupboard. Frowning, Petunia looks at him for a second. Flushed face. Bile-caked clothes. Piss drenched.
Absolutely vile. Did Vernon not let the boy use the bathroom before nightfall? Doesn’t he know how gross a little boy can get just leaving him there?
They have guests coming tomorrow for pete’s sake! They can’t smell this horrible stench. They’ll turn away in a huff!
Petunia Dursley will not be the laughing stock of her community for her husbands mistake.
She had a little satisfaction at the boys misery, but she tried not to think about that thick, creeping feeling festering it’s way in her heart.
She’d be too much like her mother then.
“Of with you boy. Clean yourself up. I won’t have you stinking up my house.” Petunia points to the downstairs loo, thankful they had two showers instead of one. She wouldn’t want him waking up her family.
Harry gave a meek nod, coughing and sniffling the whole way there until the door closes.
Petunia wrinkles her nose at the mess of the cot, debating on whether she should just toss it completely or clean it. It wasn’t a difficult debate.
She is not touching anything in that cupboard. Petunia is too tried and has much more class than cleaning up the…mess her nephew made.
Nodding to herself, she goes to the kitchen and grabs a few chemicals from under the sink and the roll of paper towels from the counter and sets them outside the cupboard door.
While she won’t clean it, Petunia will not have the boy driving them out of house and home by picking the wrong chemicals and killing them in their sleep.
Petunia left the water and flannel next to the cleaning supplies and made her way upstairs.
She knows she won’t have to worry about it by morning.
Harry knows well enough.
And wonder why
They never tied your shoes
September 2, 1985
Dudley is kicking his feet back and forth on his chair, babbling away in his excitement for his first day of school. Petunia feels a sadness fill her heart just thinking about being separated from her baby for half a day every day.
It’ll be so lonely.
Petunia firmly pushes that thought from her mind as she plates breakfast, heart fluttering happily as Vernon sits himself at the table. He made sure to go in late just to see their son off on his first day of school.
He’s a better father than she could ever hope he’d be.
“Well, son, how do you feel about starting on your journey to being a man?” Vernon asked, brows raised as Petunia put their plates on the table with a flourish.
Petunia gives her husband a smile and a peck on the cheek as she sits. She has the image of a perfect wife and perfect mother to uphold. No weariness or sadness allowed on her son’s big day.
“-and we’ll get to use SO MANY crayons and different pages and I’ll get to learn numbers like you Dad! It’ll be so cool!” Dudley finishes, his chubby little face beaming with pride as Vernon gives him a proud smile.
“That sounds perfectly acceptable. What do you think, Pet? I bet you a tenner that he’ll be ahead of the curb in no time.” Vernon shoves a bit of eggs in his mouth, “And we’ll be getting a call by next week saying he should be put in the excelling program.”
Petunia smiles, “I’ll take your word for it, dear. Our Dudley is the brightest boy on this block, he’ll do brilliant.” Looking at her son, Petunia uses a finger to wipe away a smear of syrup on his cheek. “You’ll do amazing, Diddykins, I know you will.”
Dudley nods determinedly, “Of course I will.”
Shoveling the rest of his food in his mouth, just like his father , he races out of his seat and toward the front door.
Petunia finishes up her own breakfast before wiping her mouth gently with her napkin, glancing towards her husband. “Do you mind putting the dishes in the sink, dear? I need to get our Dudley ready for school. I’ll get to them once you take him.”
Vernon gave a grunt, taking himself, another helping from the middle of the table. “I’ll put them in, Pet. Just get our boy in his best.”
Thanking her husband, Petunia makes her way up the stairs to Dudley’s room.
It was a mess.
Shirts and pants were thrown everywhere, dress shoes in mismatched pairs or on the bed. The entire closet looked as if it had been gutted in the few seconds she didn’t follow her son up. How precious he was to be so worried. Petunia knows he’ll do great.
Petunia shakes her head in amusement as she picks up the outfit she had already laid out the night before and sets the neatly folded stack on the end of Dudley’s messy bed. “Come here, Diddykins, I need to get you dressed. You don’t want to be late, do you?”
Dudley shakes his head vehemently, rushing over and tossing up his arms.
It takes a few minutes to get everything on her son and pull off any bits of light that had clung in the night.
He looked perfect.
Petunia picked up Dudley, spinning him around and listening to his delighted laughter. It was such a sweet sound. As she slowed down, she settled Dudley on her hip. “Let's go take some pictures then you can be on your way to school, how about that?”
Her son scrunches his nose adorably, “Fine. But I won’t like it.”
Petunia ignores that comment and nods. She’d get pictures regardless and plaster them around the house. She is too proud of him to not do so.
Making their way down the stairs, Vernon meets them in the living room with a large smile. “Come here, Duds, I want a picture of us men for my desk at work. My partner is already envious.”
Dudley dutifully falls from her arms and rushes his way over to his father. Petunia doesn’t say a thing about his untied laces, she’ll crop it out of the picture anyway.
Petunia picks up the camera off the coffee table, aiming at the two. “Say cheese!”
“Cheese!”
The light flashes and Petunia smiles. “Perfect! Now come along, let's get those shoes of yours tied. We don’t need you tripping on your big day!”
Petunia gets onto her knees next to her son and immediately starts tying the laces into perfect little loops. Once. Twice. Tighten. Repeat.
“Aunt Petunia?” Harry calls from the entrance once she gets the second one tied. Petunia looks up with annoyance. “Yes, boy?”
Harry hesitates, feet shuffling a little. “Am I going to school too?”
Petunia stares at him for a moment. The boy’s unkempt hair, rumpled clothing, bare feet.
She scoffs. “Of course not. We won’t waste the money on you. You’ll be going to the town school a few blocks out. You start next week.”
Her nephew bites his lip, nodding a little. “Oh. Okay. Sorry, Aunt Petunia.”
Raising a brow, she ignores his apology and looks towards her husband. “You best go Vernon, we don’t want Dudley being late.”
Once her husband and son are gone, Petunia looks towards Harry. She takes in his slumped form, his disappointed frown, and purses her lips.
Pouting will get that boy nowhere. It’s pathetic.
“Go clean up Dudley’s room. It’s a mess.” Petunia says instead. She doesn’t feel like talking about emotions, or even pointing them out. That would be more effort than it’s worth.
Petunia doesn’t look back after she passes her nephew. She needs to get the dishes done.
A week later, Petunia didn’t help Harry get ready for school.
And wonder why
They never held you gently
May 12, 1987
Harry couldn’t breathe. His lungs ached as he ran, the heat that was bearing down on him was nearly unbearable. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he kept running.
He needs to be faster.
“HEY! FREAK! GET BACK HERE!” Dudley screams. Harry could hear his heavy breathing and stomping. They were getting too close.
“Common’ itty bitty Harry! Don’t you wanna play with us?!” Piers Polkiss, newfound bully and resident of Privet Drive, sneers.
His heart dropped more. They were too close. He was too slow. The lack of food and sleep was gaining on him, and his energy was running out–
Oh god oh god oh god they're gonna kill him.
No no no nonononononono–
A hand caught his shoulder that sent Harry slamming into the concrete in front of his house making his head thunk against the ground painfully. His ears started ringing as fear sent his heart plummeting to his stomach. Piers threw a punch at his face, hitting dead center on his nose.
Blood spewed out soaking his shirt and getting all along Polkiss’s hand. Fuck.
Harry struggles for a bit to get his, quite frankly useless, arms on Polkiss’s shoulders to shove him off. He barely got the boy to budge as Dudley finally made his way over with a sneer plastered on his face.
With a lump in his throat, he shook his head violently. “D-Dudley– Common- s-stop it! I-It’s not funny anymore!”
Polkiss sent another jab, this time into his gut as Dudley threw a kick at his head that had Harry seeing stars.
He’s gonna vomit.
“Shut up, you freak!” Dudley yelled, eyes alight with joy as another fist hit him square in the jaw. Harry could taste the flood of iron in his mouth. He thinks a tooth might’ve come loose from that one.
A hand fisted itself into his hair and a slap was delivered to his abused face, making his ears ring and eyes cross. “You’re nothing but a filthy little freak , aren’t you Harry!”
Harry wasn’t there though. No, he was in his cupboard with Uncle Vernon lording over him screeching in his ear as blow after blow after blow was thrown upon his chest. As he could hear Dudley laughing in the kitchen with Aunt Petunia, ignoring his crying.
He wants it to stop. Stop it–stop it–stop–
Another slap from Dudley, “Common, say it! Say you’re a freak!”
Harry snaps.
A wave of something floods through his system as he prays for it all to stop. And it does.
Two distinguished thuds snap Harry out of his fight for consciousness. He probably has a concussion. He read about those in the library once.
Looking over wearily, eyes clouded with blood that was dripping from his forehead. When did that get there? Harry watches as Aunt Petunia comes out, dropping her potted plant and screaming in terror at Dudley’s lip from the car.
A noticeable dent was in the medal in the distinct shape of her son.
Harry doesn’t really remember anything that happened next. Just the sound of shouting and the feeling of someone tugging harshly on his arms. The feeling of hands hurting and pressing into his flesh, bruising and gripping with a strength that made his bones creak.
He woke up in his cupboard a week later, tears already falling down his cheeks as he remembered everything.
Aunt Petunia punished him for hurting Dudley.
But she never did anything to punish Dudley for hurting him.
No. Harry got left with an aching loneliness, bruises, and a starving stomach as Dudley was coddled on the warm couch in the living room. Harry got left with nothing but a craving for a little bit of love, a little bit of warmth, just some semblance of comfort.
He doesn’t remember what it feels like.
Petunia was having a pleasant afternoon. It was warm, quiet, and had perfect clear skies. Trimming the last dead leaf off the plant she bought a few hours ago, she inspected it thoroughly to make sure it was up to her standards before putting it along the footpath out front.
It wouldn’t make it to be ugly. The neighbors would gossip, and she hated to be in the center of it.
A ruckus picked up outside with muffled yelling and Petunia sighed. It must’ve been Mrs. Sullivan and her husband picked a fight again. It’s been the talk of the last few weeks that they’d probably get a divorce.
This was gossip she couldn’t pass up.
Picking up her beloved plant, she made her way to the front door and opened it enough to wedge her foot through, holding the flowers with both hands.
The door barely shuts behind Petunia before her brain catches up with the scene playing out in her yard. She watches as Dudley is flown across the lawn and his back slam into the car in a feat that should be entirely impossible. And that new Polkiss boy being flung himself out into the street.
The pot drops, shattering against the concrete steps.
Petunia screams.
Her heart plummets in her stomach as she sprints over to the car where Dudley was laying, eyes flickering over his frame as her hands cup his face. “Dudley? Sweetheart?” She calls, hands gently patting his face.
He’s out cold.
Taking in a big breath, Petunia quickly gets up and goes back to the door and tosses it open without a care. “VERNON! DUDLEY’S HURT!” She screams up the stairs.
Her husband's booming footsteps could be heard racing down the hall before she could see him at the top of the stairs with wide, terrified eyes. “WHAT?!”
Petunia gives him a rushed hand signal and goes back out the door, her feet barely even hitting the pavement as she skids back to Dudley’s side. There was blood trickling from his brow as Vernon crouched down, brows furrowed.
She barely even registered Polkiss’s parents rushing to the street to their own child.
“Son? Dudley, can you hear me? Open your eyes, bud, would you?” Vernon taps Dudley’s face a few times before his watery blue eyes crack open slightly.
“M-Mum?” Dudley calls weakly, eyes already starting to droop again. Petunia sits up straighter. “Hi, Diddykins, are you alright? What happened?”
Dudley’s head rolls to the side, eyes unfocused as he shifts his arm a little. His pointer finger barely stretches out to the left of them. Petunia looks over to see Harry limp on the sidewalk, blood caked to the side of his face.
It clicks.
Dudley flying limply across the yard, Harry with blood on his temple, Polkiss lax on the road.
Dudley was trying to protect his friend from her nephew. That terrible, terrible boy hurt her son with his freakishness.
Petunia had promised herself years ago that if his magic showed up again, she’d beat it out of him. With the righteous fury flooding through her, Petunia had all the strength to do it.
Getting up from her position next to her son, she glances at Vernon. “Take him inside, dear. I’ll handle the rest.” Her husband started to protest before Dudley groaned again, taking his attention back to his son.
Vernon mutters his agreement as he picks up Dudley and goes back inside.
Once the door closed, Petunia couldn’t stop herself.
Grabbing both of Harry’s arms she yanks him up before getting her hands under his pits before dragging him to the back yard.
Petunia dumps him in a heap once she makes it out of the views of the neighbors and slaps him. “You better wake up you sorry excuse of a freak. You have explaining to do.”
She waits a few seconds until she can see his eyes looking at her dazedly. Just because he’s injured from his own stupidity doesn’t mean he’ll be getting off easy.
“What the hell do you think you were doing?! Hurting my son?! THE NEIGHBORS?? ARE YOU INSANE, BOY?!” Petunia tugs him up by his collar and slaps him across the face. “Listen to me!”
Harry’s vivid green eyes lock onto hers, and she sneers. “You best be hoping Dudley is alright because if there is a single long-lasting injury I—“
“Petunia!” Vernon calls from the door and she snaps her neck into his direction. His brows were furrowed but relief showed in his frame. “Dudley’s awake. Much more coherent. He’s asking for you.”
Petunia hesitated, eyes looking back at her nephew. Anger burned in her very being.
But Harry’s punishment could wait. Her son cannot.
Dropping him where she stood, Petunia rushes past Vernon as worry floods back through her system. Vernon grabs her elbow gently to catch her attention, “I’ll handle the boy. Just make sure Dudley is alright.”
Petunia stares at her husband for a second before glancing back to the lawn to her nephew.
She nods.
Petunia pretends not to notice as Vernon takes off his belt. She focuses solely on her son, because he is her life. He is her joy. And he is hurt.
Petunia ignores the confusion burning in her brain when she sees that her nephew was limp before her son ever was. She ignores her doubt because Dudley always tells the truth.
And she can’t face herself if that isn’t true.
And wonder why
They never had the chance to lose you
July 27, 1997
Harry watched her from the doorway to the living room. Petunia could feel his pressing eyes as she rubbed her handkerchief over her cheeks. The tears wouldn’t abate.
“You don’t know what they are capable of. They’ll come for you soon. Torture, even, if they think you know where I am– You need to be going Aunt Petunia.” Harry starts, voice sounding sturdier than she’s heard it in years. Not filled with hate, or anger, or bitterness.
Just a quiet acceptance.
Petunia folds up her handkerchief and stows it away in her pocket before looking at her nephew. Vivid green eyes stared back at her and all Petunia could think of is what Lily would think of them now. What Lily would think of her.
She could feel the tendrils of regret slithering through her veins, poisoning her sense of self and painting all her memories, all her wrongdoings, in stark construct to her good deeds.
Those were few and far between.
It was as if an invisible hand squeezed her conscience, her mind replaying scenes in that very room she once justified, but now she understands how wrong she was. She felt remorse tugging on the edges of her heart, leaving behind a tender wound that won’t heal for years.
This would be the last time she will see her nephew. See even a resemblance to the sister she adored but hated. This would be her last connection, lost.
Instead of apologizing for everything she’s done, for everything she understands that she did, she says the one thing that has been repeating in her head for years. “I know very well what they’re capable of. You didn’t just lose a mother in Godric’s Hollow that night, you know. I lost a sister.”
Petunia licks her lips slightly, eyes flicking between Harry’s sad eyes and the door behind him. She wants to leave; she doesn’t want to confront what she did. Petunia doesn’t want to face every horrible thing that has ever built up to this moment of tension, of resigned resentment but bitter forgiveness.
Harry didn’t respond how she hoped, just nodding his head slightly, as if he expected that. “Good bye, Petunia.”
It felt like a slap in the face, another harsh reality check. She’s not his aunt. She never was.
Petunia opened her mouth, maybe to utter an apology. To say thank you for saving her son, for putting up with her. For not hating her as much as she wishes he did. She wants him to lash out, to scream, to hit her. She deserves it.
She does not deserve his forgiveness, this acceptance. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it. “Good-bye, Harry.”
Petunia couldn’t understand, couldn’t remember, even, the day she became exactly like her parents. But as she watched Harry’s retreat, a grim look on his face, she understood.
Harry is just like her.
As she tried to protect Dudley from her fate, she never did the same for Harry.
And she can’t think of a moment in the future that she will forgive herself for making that happen.