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Petunia noticed immediately that the boy's behaviour was off. Her nephew would usually try to keep his presence small, meek and nervous in a room where he is unwanted. He had a temper on him, she wants to blame that father of his, but she knows nature vs nurture, and she knows the way she brought him up did not help. Probably the reason for it. The tension was building: furrowed eyebrow, clenched teeth, veins more obvious than normal in his skin. He was small, too small; when he was under their care 365 with the sight of his bones was a usual sight. Since going to that school he built some stock, some muscle. Was healthy, she mused.
She observed as her husband made unrelenting quips towards the boy. He never understood the line, often ignoring it as he stepped right over and insulting the very core of a person. She’s so used to them that she doesn’t notice the words fly out of his mouth, doesn’t hear the grating insults that hurt the boy.
She doesn’t care, of course. Why would she care about the boy? She only observed him. She studied psychology, back in school. Her three A’s at A-level are a repressed pride of hers, she was always best at behavioural psychology, and observing those around her allowed her to use that part of her brain she often ignored.
And that boy was waiting to snap.
She won’t deny that the comment Vernon makes about the boys’ “bloodline being tainted”, the very blood running through him being “poisoned” hurts slightly. He was her blood nephew. They shared blood. Vernon seemed to forget that by insulting his blood he was insulting his wife. His sister too, Marge, often claimed it was the “bitch that ruined the pack” but it is through his mother is her sister. His mothers blood is Petunia’s blood.
As Dudley walked in, he ignored his cousin. Petunia noticed this as of late, but could not understand why. She would ask him what his cousin had done but Dudley was in his “parents aren’t cool” phase and he will snap at her, unless it’s something he wants.
When she first had Dudley, people told her that having a son would remove the temperamental hormones that come with a daughter but those people clearly never had a teenage son who is definitely worse than her at that age.
That might not be true. She was a spiteful bitch. She still is.
“Don’t say a word against my father.” Petunia was so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t been paying attention to her husband’s words, instead being brought back by the growl of her nephew, the bubbling over of anger as he finally gets sick of the teasing, the insults, the bullying.
“Don’t you dare speak to me that way boy-“ her husband rose, going red in his fat face. She hates kissing that face. He pointed a chubby finger at him, wagging it up and down. The boy’s eyes flick down, fingers flexing like he wants to grab something- namely Vernon’s finger. He opens his mouth to speak, eyes narrowed behind them stupid glasses that she knows has too weak a perception for him..
“Go to your room.” His anger waves as his eyes meet hers. She shrugs her head in the direction of the door and he deflates, anger momentarily paused. He says nothing as he pulls himself upstairs, the slamming of the door an indication he made it to his room.
Vernon’s grubby hands snake their way around her waist, disrupting the placement of her clothes and creasing them. His fingers dig into her, not meant to be uncomfortable but as years have gone by and his size has continued to increase she doesn’t find herself attracted to him anymore. He presses his grubby face against her cheek, his lips poking out to give her a kiss on the cheek and taking her to the living room, sitting her down.
That evening the boy is washing dishes. She left rather more than usual on her plate, the greasy chips doused in more oil than necessary, the burger meat fatty and slathered in cheap ketchup that knocked her sick. It had been Dudley’s choice, of course. The boy would look around then eat her leftovers, he himself didn’t seem to like the taste either. She stood, going to fill up her gin and tonic.
She walked over, working in silence around him, measuring a double then adding an extra splash. She walked to the fridge, opening and picking out the tonic.
“Why do you always jump to your father’s defence before your mothers?”
The word slip out before she can stop them. She didn’t know she was actively thinking about it. Her eyes widen as the words hang in the air. The boy turns his head slowly to look at her, looking as if she grew seventeen eyes and five extra heads. He splutters, not having an answer immediately.
Petunia looks away, wishing she could suck the words back in, hoping he would ignore her lapse in control. She goes to leave, abandoning the extra tonic on the counter, not wanting to linger as she faces away.
“No one talks to me about mum.” His voice is low. She barely catches it. She pauses, not wanting to look at him but curiosity winning out and she needs to hear him speak. “I mean, people tell me all about my father, his friends are still alive to tell me. Nobody I’ve met claims to have been close with mum. All I know is I have her eyes.”
Petunia hesitates. In the letter from that fucking night where he was left on the doorstep, it was specifically stated that that it was Lily’s ma- Lily that saved her son. Lily was the one to stop him being killed. All he knows is he has her eyes? She knows she had not been the most forthcoming with information, rejecting any information from being told to him, but she thought at that place, that school filled to the brim with freaks someone could have said something.
“She was smart.” She doesn’t know why she supplies that information. The first thing she’s ever dared tell her sisters son about his mother is that she’s smart. She walks back before he can process what she told him.
She’s not wrong. Lily came back with O’s in everything but history. Petunia still doesn’t understand the grading system but her sister seemed pleased and she was a perfectionist so she assumed it was high. When Lily got her equivalent of O-levels, Petunia got her A-level grade back with three A’s. History, English literature and psychology at an A, she’d been proud. Her father gave her a half arsed “well done” and her mother attempted a pleased smile. The weeks earlier when Lily received her results, it was grins, pleased hugs and going out for a celebratory meal. Petunia had moved out by the time Lily finished her 7th year and she cut contact.
As she sits, the end of University Challenge is on. Her son groans in disgust, Vernon telling him it’s only ten minutes then his show is on. Petunia paid no mind, enjoying watching the few minutes of University Challenge she could. She answers all but one correctly on the history round, getting caught out by the ancient Romans. She scores better than the university students did. Petunia wanted to go to university, when she was in school she planned to go to the University of York for a joint degree in history and psychology. She planned to go into academia and research the psychology around historical figures of the 14th century.
She met Vernon in a pub. He was thinner then, never thin, but thinner. He was older, had a sort of charm around him. He fell for her first and harder, but she liked him. When she told him her results he was happy for her, took her out for a meal unlike her parents. She felt seen, appreciated, loved, for the first time since she was 13 and her sister got that stupid letter.
A day later he asked her to marry him.
It hadn’t been two months, he’d only just met her parents. She said yes instantly. They moved from Cokeworth to Surrey, she made her accent posh and Vernon got a job at the drill factory. She stayed at home. All day, every day. The plans of university were stopped the second she said yes to him, non-existent by the time she said “I do”. He believed heavily in the male breadwinner and the housewife at home.
After Dudley’s mind-numbing show, he got himself another bar of chocolate and headed to bed. Vernon went to bed himself not long after, expecting Petunia to follow. She took her time, packing up downstairs and ensuring she was taking her time.
Once she made it upstairs, she looked at the door to her room, the lack of light suggesting Vernon to be in bed. She didn’t want to fuck him tonight. She never wanted to fuck him, but usually she gave in and felt his crushing weight over her, restricting her breathing. Tonight she didn’t think she could handle it— she’d start crying. She lingered at the top of the stairs, long fingers digging into the banister. She moved forward, past her room to the boys room. He never slept so she presumed he’d be up and opened the door.
“What-“ beside him was a razor, his alarmed expression attempting to hide it, but she saw it. She also saw the blood pouring from littering cuts on his wrists.
The wrists. How obvious, I mean he had always wore long sleeves. He must watch the blood. When she did it it was on her thighs, at least no one saw then. She did it to feel the pain and hide it, he must have a mental thing.
She didn’t comment on the cuts.
“Have you heard of Severus Snape?”
She watched as the boy's alarm turn to shock. Recognition filled his eyes but it was overwhelming confusion that flooded his features. He was so easy to read.
“How do you know Snape?” He asked accusingly, attempting to mask his shock with accusation. God he looked like his mother when he did that.
“He was a fr- he and your mother were friends. They Went to school together. The were close. I think something happened because she suddenly stopped talking to him one year but, they were close.” What the ever loving fuck was she doing? Why was she telling him that? Why did she supply him information that she wished she didn’t remember?.
“My mother was friends with Snape?” She was somewhat surprised at the shock and disgust that was in the boy’s voice.
She gave a sharp nod, expression schooled then she left, shutting the door.
The next morning he tried to be subtle as he stood beside her in the kitchen. He looked embarrassed yet determined. He didn’t want to be asking but he clearly wanted the answer. He looked younger. Curious. She’d attempted to end his curiosity early, never talking about his parents, never allowing him to do well in school. That place he’s at now must encourage it.
“I won’t say anything more.” Petunia attempted to say neutrally but her usual venom stuck to the words like glue. She didn’t need to look at him to see his gaze drop, a numb nod and his movements become more jerky as he fries the stupid bacon which has never tasted good.
Petunia didn’t eat a lot. She often had an average plate, leaving half for Harry as leftovers. It looked nothing in comparison to her fat husband and fat kids massive plates. They spend so much on food it was ridiculous. When Harry had misbehaved, Vernon made sure to not allow him left overs, often leading to her actually having to finish her plate which made her feel sick. Occasionally, depending on the food, she throws it back up. She looked good because of it. She could walk out the house and feel comfortable in her body; she was ashamed when her husband or son joined her, the fat lumps ruining her image. And her image was all she had.
Today was one of the days she didn’t leave leftovers. Not because Vernon told her not to, but because she felt he didn’t deserve food. She supplied information on his mother, her freak sister, bringing up memories she had buried for a reason. Was it her choice? Yes. Did she blame that stupid nephew of hers anyway? Yes.
She hates the woman she has become. She’s a spiteful bitch. She always was a spiteful bitch, she jus has fewer people to hate on so it all flows into her nephew. The boy who’s only crime is to survive.
It was two days later when Vernon made another comment about him. This time it was due to the boy arriving home slightly late (not even ten minutes) so the food was not ready exactly when Vernon wished it to be.
Petunia was distracted. She was looking through the jobs column in the local paper, a habit of hers. She wishes she worked. There is nothing she hates more than staring at the walls of her fuking house. She could have done anything. She still mourns her dream of academia. They’re hiring a psychology teacher in the local secondary school. She could that.
(No she couldn’t).
Her reading was interrupted by her husband’s exclamation of “You boy, you’re made of bad blood. You’re filled with the worst type of blood.”
The boy snapped and his response was sarcastic “Same blood that flows through your wife?”
The room went silent. If it weren’t for the frying of onion sizzling loudly, you could have heard a pin drop. Vernon was so shocked his mouth froze and eyes bore into the boy. Petunia lowered the paper and got to her feet. Her house heels clicked loudly against the tiled floor as she walked over to the boy, fury filling her pale eyes.
She grabbed the boys hair roughly, long fingers gripping and she was certain she could pull hair out if she decided to tug. She neglected to, instead she moved the onions from the hob and forced his face down. Holding him as his arms tried desperately to push himself up, legs kicking the drawers beneath. She relented finally and his face was charred, skin becoming a white leather. He looked at her with fear and confusion, not understanding the ferocity of her actions.
She is just as confused. She doesn’t know what possessed her.
“Get your things and get out of my house.”
“Aunt Petunia-“
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” She screams it, she can feel the eyes of her son and husband looking at her incredulously, the fear of her nephew as he looks at her for an explanation. She supplied none and the boy ran to grab his belongings. She stayed exactly where she was until she heard him carry that too heavy trunk down the stairs, hitting each step with a thump.
The slamming of the front door acted as her cue and she moved again, placing the onions back on the stove. She finishes dinner in silence, makes it and plates it for her family. She makes herself a plate but doesn’t eat, instead she looks at the two men who she should love. Her husband, the man she chose to spend the rest of her life with, and her son, the boy she birthed and cared for. Neither said a word, for once they sensed the atmosphere in the room.
Petunia stood up suddenly, chair scraping backwards. “I need to get some air.” She supplied before she made her way to the front door, grabbing the keys to the car and stepping outside. It was raining, but the heat was stifling, the lack of wind causing the air to sweat. Harry would have been in pain out here, she mused.
She barely knew what she was doing as she got in the car. She completed the motions: unlock the car, get in, pull the seat forward, foot on clutch, turn the key, move to first gear, lift the handbrake, push the accelerator and lift the clutch as she edges forward, look left and right, pull out.
Going 40 in a 20, she exited Privet Drive, entering the main road, not looking as she turned. She drove, god she fucking hates her life. She felt tears well in her eyes. She didn’t notice when they started to fall, despite the blurred vision they created.
She half had it in her to not drive home, just keep driving. She knew she would drive home, she’s a coward of course she’d drive home. She would act like nothing happened until it finally felt like nothing happened.
She was too busy imagining her arrival home she forgot to look as she pulled out. She ran a red light. She couldn’t stop before the Tesco Lorry slammed right into her going 50mph. The airbags were turned off and she never put her seatbelt on.
She was dead on impact.
Hell was probably a welcome sight for her compared to going home.