Chapter Text
(cover made by me...✨)
00
PROLOGUE
1995
One year later...
THE OLD ELEVATOR groaned and screeched sharply before coming to a halt on the sixth and final floor with a sudden, noisy lurch, sounding like metal wires sliding over the smooth surface of steel blades.
As the rusty doors opened, Petunia Dursley stepped quickly out of the metallic cubicle, which exhaled a strong, caustic odor of vomit and urine. She cursed herself for not taking the stairs—though they probably weren't in any better shape.
She proceeded down the dimly lit hallway, the dry sound of her heels clicking against the worn floor, echoing alongside the laughter and muffled shouting from the peeling walls like a hollow prelude to a dark omen.
Stopping in front of the familiar number 30, she felt the weight and exhaustion of the day double in size, manifesting in the sharp slouch of her shoulders as she stared briefly at that door. Each day, it was harder to return.
Taking a deep breath, Petunia pulled the key from her coat pocket and inserted it into the lock; however, she remained there, motionless, hesitating to turn it. Like every night, an selfish desire whispered with a sweet, appealing voice to simply not go in, to turn around and try to live as far away as possible from all of it.
But she couldn't. As much as she wanted to, as many reasons and motives as she had… she couldn't give up, she couldn't leave them…
Amidst her profuse daydreams, her senses caught the nauseating scent of tobacco. Glancing quickly to the left, Petunia encountered a tall man in idle clothes, leaning against the wall near the neighboring door, which was ajar.
She narrowed her eyes at the fellow, who was drawing on a cigarette laconically, a lazy and indolent gaze fixed on her, while the smoke leaving his mouth created a gray mist between them.
"Lost something?" he asked in a raspy voice, arching an eyebrow.
Petunia remained silent, one hand clutching the key in the lock and the other pressing her purse against her chest.
The man tilted his head, his lips curling into a mocking, harsh smile. He inhaled from his cigarette again before dropping it on the floor and crushing it with the tip of his shoe, then taking deliberate steps toward her.
The hair on the back of Petunia’s neck stood up and her heart fell into an arrhythmia at the fleeting thought that she was alone in this decrepit hallway with this shady and suspicious individual.
"It’s rude to stare at people..." the man whispered in a languid tone. Petunia bit the inside of her cheek. The nerve! He was the one staring at her brazenly! Not the other way around!
Petunia pulled her purse closer. The movement was followed by the man’s auspicious eyes, his lips sketching a malicious smile.
"Don't want to tell me what you've got in your bag, hmm?"
Her eyes widened briefly for a fraction of a second before a scowl took over her expression, intensifying her look of contempt.
"It's none of your business!" she replied sharply.
She then quickly turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped inside, closing it with a dull thud.
Feeling partially safe inside, Petunia leaned back against the door, eyes closed, breathing deeply with her hand pressed to her chest. God, how she hated this place...
Minutes passed in that position—not enough of them—but her short silence was disturbed by the hesitant voice of her son.
"Mum..."
Opening her eyes slowly, Petunia looked at the blond-haired teenager—just like her own—standing in the doorway of the tiny kitchen, holding a tray with a teapot and steaming cups.
Her gaze drifted past the boy's robust figure, noticing that the kitchen was lit by candles. She sighed. She had forgotten again to buy a new lightbulb on the way home.
"Good evening, dear," she greeted in a tired voice, while removing her coat and placing her purse on the hook beside the door. "How was everything today?"
A faint smile crossed her lips when she finally stopped to give her full attention to her son, who didn't even try to return his mother’s weary greeting.
Instead, Dudley Dursley remained standing at the entrance of the tiny kitchen, his face pale and anxious, instantly putting Petunia on alert.
She looked at the tray in the boy's hands, noticing he was using the special tea set, the one reserved for guests—they never had guests.
"Is someone her—"
"My boy! Is that your mother?" A cheerful voice coming from the living room interrupted her. "Petunia, my dear! How wonderful that you could finally join us. Come, we were waiting for you."
The air caught in her lungs and the color drained from her face. Petunia Dursley hurried her pace to the small living room but paralyzed upon encountering none other than Albus Dumbledore, sitting comfortably on her old, tattered sofa.
He wore those strange clothes of his people—a vibrant red robe with silver star embroidery, an offense to anyone's eyes—still keeping that unnaturally long white beard that matched his unusually long white hair, which resembled the decrepit veil of a bride.
His expression was calm and friendly, contrasting completely with the nauseating horror that took over Petunia's face.
"Wh..." Petunia swallowed hard. "What are you doing here?..." she managed to ask between stumbles, her throat suddenly very dry.
She frantically scanned the room, searching and fearing. But, aside from the unwanted wizard, there was no other intruder. It was only him, and the distant bulk of her husband sitting with his back turned in a wheelchair, squeezed into the corner facing the wall.
"Vernon..." Petunia whispered.
He was shaking profusely like a sheet of aluminum foil shaken in the air, likely terrified just by looking at the man who felt so at home in his living room.
Petunia clenched her fists.
"Your son was about to serve us tea," Dumbledore said placidly, appearing very amused by the fact. "Please, sit down. We have much to talk about." He indicated the spot in front of him.
She blinked, stunned, before a scowl tinged with red and pungent threads dominated her features. She crossed her arms and took hesitant steps forward but stopped at a safe distance from the wizard.
"We have nothing to talk about," she replied coldly.
The initial fear and surprise dissipated quickly into a profuse and bitter anger, while a trembling and clumsy Dudley passed between them to place the tea tray on the coffee table before quickly fleeing the room.
He would likely hide in the kitchen instead of staying to defend her. He was right to do so.
"Now, now, of course we do, my dear!" Dumbledore gestured toward the tray. "Take a cup and..."
That was the breaking point.
"How dare you come here?!" Petunia hissed, uncrossing her arms. Her fists clenched so tightly she might well have driven her nails into her palms. But she didn't care.
"HOW DARE YOU?!" she screamed furiously, taking more steps toward the man, ignoring how her husband groaned and cringed. "Isn't what you've done enough? Isn't everything enough already?! You still dare to bother us? What else do you want?! What else do YOU WANT?!"
What did they want?! Hadn't they already taken everything from her! Thanks to them she was here! Confined to this tiny, decrepit apartment where she didn't feel safe. Depending on a low-paying job as a maid. A MAID! The indignity. She had had everything; she was an important and respected woman. Now look at her, she had nothing left!
"You dare to come into my home..." she spat through clenched teeth, her limbs trembling. "Offer me tea and invite me to sit as if I were a guest? In my own HOUSE?!"
Dumbledore only blinked, not appearing the least bit shaken by her sudden explosion. In fact, it seemed he had expected it. He just continued staring at her with an indulgent look over his half-moon glasses, before his expression shifted to an apparent solemn sadness and compassion.
"These are difficult times, my dear," he murmured. "Believe me, I wouldn't be here if there were any other option, nor would I think of bothering you. If we can calm ourselves, if you can listen to me for a minute, I am sure you will understand..."
"I have nothing to hear from you!" Petunia spat with a shrill voice and flashing eyes. "Get out! NOW!" She pointed to the door, waiting.
But he didn't move. He remained there, seated. She wanted to scream.
"I told you to get out of my house. I'll call the police! Get out of my hou—"
"Petunia." Dumbledore called, and she fell silent. He didn't shout; in fact, he used a deceptively cordial and quiet tone, but she was shaken nonetheless.
"As I know you are aware, our world has been under a terrible threat for a long time." His countenance became strangely dark. "We neglected the situation, we relaxed and took the battle as won. But now, now that the moment is critical, Voldemort has returned."
Petunia shuddered internally. She hadn't lived through the horrors that man caused, but from her sister's accounts back when they still spoke, and as much as she tried to ignore it, she knew the man was dangerous.
However, that had nothing to do with her before, and it certainly didn't now.
She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at the old man.
"I don't see how that's my problem," she mocked, and Dumbledore sighed.
"As I said before, I wouldn't come here if there were another solution..." He paused and looked at her, as if trying to see reason in her face. "But given the urgency of the current situation, I am asking for your help, Petunia. Help to find your niece, to end this war... she is our last hope..."
Petunia’s blood ran cold. Her arms fell limp at her sides, her face a mask of expressionlessness.
"Is... is this a joke? Isn't it?" she asked with a voice devoid of any emotion.
"I understand how this might be complicated for you, but she is your family and..."
"No." She shook her head, letting out a bitter laugh. "No, she isn't! 'Take care of Lily's disgusting freak,' you said. 'Do it for your sister, she's just an innocent child...' Look where I am now! Look at him!" She pointed to her husband, who was shaking and mumbling incoherent things in the corner. "She did this! It's all HER fault!"
No, she wouldn't do anything. She'd rather be dead!
"I don't have to do anything; your problems with this 'Lord-whatever-his-name-is' don't interest me."
"She is our only salvation..." Dumbledore insisted with an appealing and pleading look. Petunia laughed.
"That thing you call 'salvation' is the devil!" she vociferated. "I don't know where that useless monstrosity is, and I don't want to know! For all I care, she can be dead—isn't that what they said? She is DEAD! And I hope she's burning in the hell she came from—where I hope all of you end up too!"
Yes, that was it. She didn't know how someone like her could help, but she wasn't interested in finding out, because she wouldn't do a thing!
Dumbledore, without a doubt, finally seemed disconcerted. His mask of benevolence and infinite tranquility slipped into a severe and cold expression.
"She is not dead..." he said blankly.
"Well, then she should be," Petunia retorted, hugging herself. "I've already told your people everything I knew; I can't help you. Please, just go away."
She waited, and waited, and nothing.
Again, Dumbledore did not heed her request. He simply stared at her for silent minutes before leaning over the coffee table and picking up one of the teacups. It should have been cold by now, but at his touch, a faint steam began to rise from it.
"Your son makes an excellent tea," he praised after taking a sip of the drink, returning to a benevolent expression. "A bit strong for me, yet good, very good indeed..."
Petunia just stood there, half-stunned, looking at him, no longer knowing what to say to send him away.
"You know, I really hoped we could talk calmly." Another sip. "Reach a practical consensus on... other matters I would like to discuss with you. However, my time is quite limited now, so I have no choice but to move on to more... practical approaches."
He quietly set the empty cup on the table, stood up, and pulled a short piece of wood with elaborate carvings from the sleeve of his robe.
Petunia's eyes widened, and her heart raced. She took two trembling steps back.
"I'm going to call the police..." she tried to say, her voice shaking like a cold wave of despair that hit her like a chilly draft early in the morning. "Stop right now!..."
Dumbledore only gave her one last look of what seemed to be veiled regret.
"I deeply regret it, but time is a precious resource we unfortunately no longer have... I hope that in the future you can forgive me..."
Then, with a firm and determined look, Albus Dumbledore pointed his wand at the chest of Petunia Dursley, who, moved by desperation, turned her back to run for the exit, calling for help in the process.
Petunia didn't reach the door. A silent scream died in her throat as a light electric current hit her, numbing her limbs and plunging her mind into the darkness of unconsciousness.