Chapter Text
Petunia’s hands were steady as she steered her red Volvo around the corner and onto Privet Drive. She had almost protested at the extravagance when Vernon bought the hatchback for her birthday, but her arguments had died in her throat when he opened the back door.
There, bolted into the chassis with industrial-grade steel fittings, was a new safety seat.
For weeks, she had been complaining idly over dinner about the way mothers on the bus let their infants bounce around on their laps like loose groceries. As a Junior House Officer, she saw far too many people who had been injured in vehicle accidents. (As a shiny new medical student, she had been in A&E when a mother arrived with her tiny baby clutched in her arms, his little head bleeding profusely and his little breaths far too shallow. She never spoke of it, but when she first had to go to the store with Dudley, she walked two miles each way.)
And though she could not excuse the extravagance for herself, if it was for Dudley, she could make an exception. Instead of complaining, she hugged him tightly and smiled sweetly when he bragged about his generosity to all the neighbors.
As she pulled into the driveway, Petunia parked her car and stopped for a moment to peer around the suspiciously dark street. Perhaps the power had gone out? But it was a clear Halloween night, and the lamps on other streets had been brightly lit. Vernon was working late–his firm was hosting a reception in honor of his new promotion to director–and her new car might make her a target. She clutched her keys in her fist, tips facing out through her fingers, as she rushed towards the front door, and as she did, she encountered a little bundle of blankets on her welcome mat.
Petunia froze. The bundle moved a little, and a tiny, pudgy arm emerged from the fabric. When it encountered the crisp autumn air, it was quickly pulled back.
Petunia knelt beside the bundle and pulled off the top blanket to reveal a mop of black hair and two tiny green eyes, already so strikingly like those of her sister. His little head bore a great gash, shaped like a lightning bolt. And there, tucked into the blanket like a death warrant, was a letter. Parchment. Heavy, archaic, and sealed with the same wax that had taken her sister away a decade ago.
Petunia peered across the street, but she saw only a swish of movement that could have been a stray cat.
"You reckless idiots," she hissed at the empty street. And yes, it was a cat, watching her appraisingly.
Petunia didn't scream. She didn't cry. She checked the baby's pulse (steady) and temperature (a little cold, but not yet dangerous). Carefully, she lifted the bundle and carried the boy inside, slamming and locking the door behind her.
"Katya!" she called out, her voice sharp.
The young German au pair stuck her head out of the kitchen, a notebook still clutched in her hand. The cover was stained with grease from an old roast. “Dr. Dursley? You’re home–” Katya froze, her eyes catching upon the bundle in Petunia’s arms.
"Katya, fetch the first aid kit please,” Petunia said, walking into the living room. "This is my nephew. He has been left outside for an unknown amount of time. Once you’re done, please order a takeaway. Don’t worry about what it costs. Then I need you to hold him while I start making calls."
Katya, to her credit, didn't ask questions. She set her notes on a side table and got to work. Once Petunia had cleaned and bandaged her nephew’s cut and had been assured that Katya was happy to watch both boys for the night, Petunia went to the rotary phone on the wall.
"Rogers? It's Dursley. I need you to cover my rounds tomorrow. Yes, family emergency. I'll take your weekend shifts next month. Thank you." She hung up. "Davis? It's Dursley. I need Tuesday..."
By the time Vernon’s key turned in the lock an hour later, Petunia had three precious days free, though she wouldn’t have a weekend off for months.
Vernon found his wife sat at the dining room table, the letter torn open in front of her. Petunia’s eyeliner had smeared across her face.
"Pet?" Vernon asked, freezing in the doorway. "Katya said–"
"They're dead, Vernon," Petunia said, staring at the parchment. "Lily and James. Gas explosion, according to the official report. Murder, according to this... this rubbish."
Vernon didn't bluster. He saw the shaking of her hands–hands that needed to be steady to operate. He checked the oven–Katya had prepared a plate and kept it heated–and shifted the letter aside to make room for it in front of his wife.
"Eat," he said gently. "Your blood sugar is low."
He sat down opposite her, listening to two babies giggling in the living room.
"We can't do this alone, Pet," he said, his voice low. "Between your work and mine… You’ve worked too hard to give up now, but without my job, we’ll lose the house."
"I know," Petunia whispered. "But we can't send him away. Did you see the cut on his head? They didn't even stitch it, Vernon. They just left it open."
Vernon nodded slowly. He stood up and walked to the phone.
"I'm calling Marge."
Petunia looked up, alarmed. "Marge hates... oddness. And we both know that with his parents, the boy will be complicated to raise."
"Marge breeds bulldogs," Vernon said, dialing the number. "She knows how to handle a litter. She’s coming to stay. We’ll pay her. We’ll get a night nurse. We’ll get a bigger car if we have to, a second car seat, two of everything we’ll need to raise two boys."
He looked at his wife, then at the baby who had the same green eyes as the woman in the picture on the mantelpiece.
"We’re keeping him, Petunia. But we’re doing it our way. Properly. With genes like his, he’s going to need stability at home. Order. We can give him that."
Petunia nodded as Dudley began to cry in the living room. Soon, Harry had joined him. She rose, and together, they went to take care of their boys.