Petunia Evans

Petunia was up early.

The house was still, the kind of hush that only existed before the sun had fully risen and the rest of the world remembered to be loud. She'd found the note under her door when she went back upstairs last night, her mother's tight handwriting informing her that her punishment for making a scene at dinner was to clean the entire downstairs so it would be ready for Lily and her precious magical friends.

She was used to these "punishments" by now. They always came cloaked in civility, chores, expectations, consequences. It never seemed to matter who had actually started the argument.

She didn't really mind, though. Hoovering gave her something to do. It was repetitive, numbing in a way that kept her brain from spinning too fast. Plus, if she positioned herself just right, she could watch the sunrise from the living room window. Gold spilled over the trees and painted the quiet street in soft amber, and for a moment, it almost felt like peace.

She turned to start another section, moving the hoover around the corner, and yelped, almost falling over. A boy was standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, watching her with wide eyes.

"Shit—sorry! Didn't mean to scare you."

Petunia clutched her chest, eyes narrowing. "Do you normally stand and watch people clean?"

"Well, uh, I do watch my mum sometimes so..." He gave a sheepish grin, running a hand through his already-messy dark hair.

She shook her head, exhaling slowly. "Why are you even awake?"

He shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. Why are you cleaning?"

"Oh. It's my punishment for what happened at dinner last night," she muttered, trying not to sound as bitter as she felt.

His eyes nearly popped out of his head. "You're joking." Petunia flushed scarlet, suddenly far too aware of the hoover still running. She clicked it off.

The boy stepped into the room, more carefully now. He was tall and gangly, with glasses slightly too big for his face and an energy that seemed just barely contained under his skin. His hair was thick and impossibly messy, like it fought every attempt at order. There was something sunny about him, despite the hour.

"I can help you, if you like," he offered.

"You don't have to, really—"

"I want to," he said, already reaching for a duster. "If you're offering, I need to dust something."

She raised an eyebrow, he just grinned declaring, "Have no fear, James is here!"

And just like that, they started cleaning together.

For the next few hours, they worked in tandem, James knocking over a lamp at one point, apologizing profusely, Petunia showing him where the polish was, both of them getting into a short argument about the proper way to fold the throws on the sofa. By the time the sun was fully up and the house gleamed like something out of Better Homes and Gardens, they both flopped down onto the living room carpet, breathless.

"Thanks," Petunia said, turning her head to look at him.

He turned his head too, mirroring her. "I actually had fun." She laughed, surprised.

"What?"

"You're the first person I've ever met who enjoys cleaning." This time, he was the one who blushed.

"What's your name, by the way?" he asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

She laughed harder. "Petunia."

He grinned. "You know what that reminds me of?"

"No, James, I don't."

"Poisson. It means fish in French."

She side-eyed him. "You're comparing my name to fish?"

"Hey, it's knowledge like that that could save me if I get stranded in France."

"How would you even get stranded in France?"

James smirked. "You've opened Pandora's box now, Petunia."

Petunia stood, brushing off her skirt.

"Where are you going?" James asked, still sprawled across the carpet like a starfish.

"On a walk."

"Can I come?"

She froze.

Nobody had asked to do anything with her, not since before her parents had decided that school was no place for normal girls with abnormal sisters. Not since Lily's letter had arrived and her life had quietly rerouted, alone.

"I suppose," she said carefully.

James pumped his fist in victory. "Sublime!"

Petunia burst out laughing, loud and sudden and real.

"What?" He followed her out the front door, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She blinked at him. "Sublime?" she echoed, shaking her head.

"That moment called for a sublime."

"Did it, really?"

"Yep." He said, popping the "p" at the end like it made it more official.

They wandered through the quiet morning streets of the small town. Gardens glistened with dew, and the pavement was still cool under their shoes. The houses all looked a little too still, like everyone inside was still holding onto their dreams.

James watched her from the corner of his eye as they walked. She looked nothing like Lily.

Petunia had thick, wild blonde curls tied messily back with a bit of ribbon, and big blue eyes that reminded him of a doe, quiet and watchful. There was something naturally elegant about the way she moved, like she'd taught herself how to disappear into the background but couldn't help but draw the eye anyway.

She was... pretty. Really pretty, actually. But not in the bright, golden way Lily was. Petunia's prettiness was like a pressed flower, soft, preserved in quietness, hidden under years of being told not to be too much.

The Petunia Lily had ranted about at dinner, all bitter words and exasperation, didn't seem to match the girl walking beside him now. This Petunia was sharp, yes, but funny. Shy, in a dry way. She reminded him, strangely, of Sirius, if Sirius had been raised in a house with less yelling and more subtle, simmering disappointment.

Her home life seemed worryingly familiar.

He should believe Lily. He was pretty sure he was in love with her, after all. But the version of Petunia he'd been warned about seemed more like a shadow than a truth.

As they passed a sleepy little row of shops, Petunia pulled a cigarette from her coat pocket and lit it with practiced fingers. She noticed James staring.

"Do you want one?"

His eyebrows, previously bunched up in judgment of the cigarette in her hand, relaxed in to horror. "Petunia, those are very bad for you!"

She blew out a lazy stream of smoke. "Most nice things are, James."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Do you want to die young?"

She looked straight ahead, eyes fixed on the road. The question, meant to be half-playful, settled like a stone in her chest.

Did she?

A part of her had. For years. Quietly. In that strange, secret way that lonely people sometimes do, not with any plan, but just... the absence of wanting anything else. The longing for stillness. The tragic ache of not quite wanting to be here, but not knowing where else to go.

She didn't answer.

James noticed. His eyebrows knit again, this time not in mockery but concern. He slowed his steps just slightly, walking closer, like his presence alone might anchor her to the moment.

She took another drag.

They reached the cliffs just as the morning sun finished its slow rise, stretching gold across the sea. Wind danced through the grass, tugging at their clothes, tousling their hair.

James turned in a slow circle, arms open wide, a bright smile painting his face like it belonged there. The wind caught his laughter and flung it out over the ocean.

Petunia watched him with an expression she didn't quite recognize on herself. Something tender. Quietly startled.

His joy was so unfiltered, so bright, it made something ache in her chest. His soul, she thought, a little dazed, might actually be the sun.

"I don't live anywhere near the sea," James said, spinning to face her again, eyes wide like a child's. "It amazes me every time."

Petunia sat down at the edge of the cliff, swinging her legs over like she'd done a hundred times before. "I come here quite a bit. When I'm in need of peace and quiet."

James flung himself down beside her with zero grace and far too much momentum.

"James, be careful! We are literally on the edge of a cliff!"

He looked at her with mock offense. "Aww, you care about me."

"Do not."

"So do."

"Definitely don't."

He clutched his chest, collapsing onto his back with dramatic flair. "My heart! It'll never recover!" Then he heard it, her laugh. He smiled up at the sky.

Petunia shook her head and pulled her coat tighter around her, cigarette resting between two fingers. They sat like that for a while, side by side, the world quiet except for the wind and waves.

Then James sat up suddenly, a look of wild determination lighting up his face.

"Throw your cigarette into the sea, Petunia."

"What?"

"This is it. The perfect moment to free yourself from the chains of nicotine. Symbolic and everything. Throw it."

She looked at him, unimpressed. Then she patted him gently on the shoulder. "I appreciate the effort, but I quite like nicotine, James."

"Petunia!"

"James."

"You're very stubborn."

"Mhm."

He sighed, flopping back again, but not without a grin. And beside him, Petunia smiled, just a little, as she blew another lazy curl of smoke out toward the sea.

They sat in easy quiet again, the kind that wasn't awkward, just full of space to breathe. Petunia finished her cigarette and flicked the end into the grass behind them, ignoring James's pointed look.

The sea roared far below, endless and indifferent.

"Hey," James said after a moment, turning to look at her properly. "Do you ever think about leaving?"

Petunia tilted her head. "This town?"

He nodded. "Your house. Your parents. This whole... life."

She stared out at the ocean. Her legs were still swinging over the edge, heels brushing the air.

"All the time," she said. "But it's not as easy for me."

James leaned on his elbows. "Because you're not magic?"

She laughed, cold and without humour. "Because I'm me."

He was quiet for a second too long.

"You know," he said finally, "you don't talk like someone who's just bitter. You talk like someone who's been told to be quiet so many times, she started believing she had nothing to say."

That startled something in her. She looked at him.

His face was still open, still that warm, slightly crooked James Potter grin, but there was something thoughtful behind it now, something gentler than she'd expected from a boy like him.

"My sister doesn't like me much," she said eventually.

"She doesn't know you," James replied. "Not like this."

Petunia picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "She used to. We were close when we were little. Before the letter came. Before everything changed."

James didn't say anything.

"She's brilliant," Petunia said, softer now. "Everyone loves her. They should. But when she looks at me, all she sees is the part of her life that isn't magic. And I guess I became the thing she had to outgrow."

James leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "You're not just her sister. You're your own person."

"Am I?" she asked, not bitter this time, just... tired. "Feels like everyone's already decided who I am."

"Well, that's their loss," James said, without hesitation. She turned to look at him again. His eyes were so sincere it made her heart twist.

He bumped his shoulder against hers, playful again. "But, for the record, I think you're clever and cool and just the right amount of terrifying."

Petunia laughed, really laughed this time, and the sound echoed out over the cliffs. "Thanks, I think," she said.

"You're welcome."

They sat like that a little longer, the morning sun warming their backs, the sea wild below. And for the first time in years, Petunia didn't feel like the background character in someone else's story. Just for a moment, she felt like herself.