Chapter 36
Petunia’s eyes fluttered open, the soft morning light filtering through the heavy velvet curtains. Rabastan wasn’t beside her. A familiar coolness settled within her, not of fear, but of expectation. He moved with his own purpose, always. She pushed aside the silken duvet and swung her legs out of bed, the plush rug a comforting embrace beneath her bare feet. A shrug was all she offered his absence before heading to the opulent bathroom.
The bath was drawn perfectly, steaming and fragrant with calming herbs she hadn't requested, yet somehow, were always there. Elves, she mused, were truly remarkable. She sank into the water, letting the heat seep into her bones, washing away the last vestiges of sleep. Thoughts drifted lazily – the arsenic, the families, the planned announcement. Everything was in motion.
Drying off, she reached for the robes laid out for her. Wizarding robes. Pureblood robes. The irony wasn't lost on her. Petunia Evans, once scorned for her Muggle blood, now adorned in the very fabric that symbolized the superiority her sister and her kind so vehemently claimed to despise. She smoothed the rich, dark material, a subtle smile playing on her lips. Let them choke on their hypocrisy.
The Malfoy gardens were a symphony of manicured perfection. Roses, still dewy with morning moisture, bloomed in riotous colors alongside precisely trimmed hedges and ancient, sculpted trees. As she strolled, she noticed a small cluster of young wizards loitering near a stone bench. Goyles, Crabbes, Yaxley – the next generation, eager to prove themselves. They straightened as she approached, nodding with deferential respect. “Madame Lestrange,” they murmured, their voices barely above a whisper. She returned a curt nod, acknowledging their homage without warmth. Respect was a tool, nothing more.
Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around her from behind, startling a small squeak from her lips. “Petunia!” a familiar, breathy voice chirped. It was Yahra Parkinson, her dark eyes sparkling with uncontainable mischief. Petunia knew this woman. A whirlwind of impulsive energy, barely contained by pureblood decorum.
“Lady Parkinson,” Petunia replied, her tone carefully respectful, yet edged with the faintest hint of amusement. Yahra waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, please, darling, call me Yahra. 'Lady Parkinson' makes me sound ancient!”
Just then, a crisper voice cut through the morning air. “Yahra! Really!” Narcissa Malfoy approached, her elegant form radiating aristocratic composure. She fixed Yahra with a cool stare. “Must you always startle our benefactor? You know of her… delicate constitution.” Narcissa’s eyes then softened as they turned to Petunia. “My sincerest apologies, Petunia, for Yahra’s boisterous behaviour. You’d be surprised how her husband’s Parkinson traits have infected her.”
Yahra pouted, releasing Petunia from her grasp. “Aw, come on, Ciccy! I just wanted to get to know the famous Madame Lestrange, Rabi’s wife! Don’t be such a spoilsport.” She leaned closer to Petunia, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Honestly, darling, how did you do it? Charm the Rabastan lestrange, I mean? He’s always swatted away pureblood debutantes and Mudbloods alike as if they were bothersome gnats. And then a Muggle like you… poof!” She snapped her fingers. “completely wrapped around her little fingers!” She chuckled, then her eyes narrowed slightly, a playful glint in them turning sharper.
“And speaking of Mudbloods,” Yahra continued, tilting her head, “I heard there was even a red-haired Mudblood who had her eyes on our precious Rabi back at Hogwarts. But honestly,” Yahra tilted her head, appraising Petunia, “you are far more attractive. All that blonde hair and sapphire eyes, so much more striking than that… Lily Evans.”
Petunia froze. Lily Evans? Her sister. The sister she had loathed, the golden child of the Evans family. The sister who… had a crush on Rabastan? The irony was so bitter, it almost tasted metallic on her tongue."What's the relationship with this Evans girl and Rabastan back at Hogwarts?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral, masking the sudden churning in her stomach.
Yahra laughed, a light, tinkling sound that grated on Petunia’s nerves. “Oh, darling, there was no relationship at all! The Mudblood did every trick in the book to get close to him, batted her eyelashes, even ‘accidentally’ bumped into him in the library, but Rabastan never gave her a second glance. Completely beneath his notice.” Yahra remained blissfully unaware of the storm brewing beneath Petunia’s composed exterior.
Narcissa, ever the diplomat, smoothly interjected. “Perhaps we should take tea in the shade?” she suggested, gesturing towards a small, wrought-iron table nestled beneath a sprawling willow tree. “It’s rather warm out here.”
Both Yahra and Petunia readily agreed. As they settled around the table, Narcissa called out, “Twinkie!”
With a soft pop, a house-elf appeared, its large, doleful eyes fixed on Narcissa. “Yes, Lady Malfoy? What can Twinkie do for Mistress?”
“Bring us tea and scones, Twinkie, please,” Narcissa instructed.
Petunia turned to the elf, a small smile gracing her lips. “Twinkie, I’d like a vanilla latte, please.”
Twinkie’s eyes widened, then beamed. “Right away, Madame Lestrange!” The elf popped away again, clearly delighted to fulfill a request for his mistress.
Yahra tilted her head, curiosity burning in her dark eyes. “Vanilla latte? What’s that, some sort of Muggle tea?”
Petunia chuckled, a genuine, warm sound that surprised even herself. “No, Lady Parkinson. It’s not tea, it’s coffee. Something that we Muggles… well, some of us… now prefer. Something a little stronger.”
“Coffee,” Yahra mused. “I tried that once. It was dreadfully bitter.”
“Ah, you must have had black coffee,” Petunia explained. “There are many different kinds. Cappuccino, white mocha, espresso…”
Just then, Twinkie reappeared with a tray laden with teapots, cups, scones, and a steaming mug emitting the sweet aroma of vanilla and coffee. As they settled in to enjoy their refreshments, a new voice joined them.
“Ciccy! Yahra!” Clare Greengrass approached, her elegant robes rustling softly. She smiled warmly at Narcissa and Yahra, then her gaze landed on Petunia. A flicker of something akin to awe crossed her usually reserved features. “Oh, Madame Lestrange,” Clare said, her voice filled with genuine emotion. “What you did yesterday… alerting us to the arsenic poisoning that has been plaguing our families for centuries… I just wanted to thank you. Truly, thank you for everything.”
Clare continued, her relief palpable. “The healers always mumbled about dark family curses, especially for the Greengrass women and the bone curse disease. To think it was arsenic all along… knowing my future daughters will not have to suffer… it’s… it’s immeasurable.”
Petunia nodded, her gaze steady and serious. “You are most welcome, Lady Greengrass.”
Clare chuckled softly. “Please, darling, call me Clare.” She settled into a chair beside them. “So, what are you ladies gossiping about this lovely morning?”
Yahra, never one to let a juicy tidbit lie, laughed. “Oh, darling, we were just reminiscing about our dear Rabi’s Hogwarts days and a certain red-haired Mudblood.”
Clare’s smile faltered, a frown creasing her brow. “Ah, yes. That insufferable Gryffindor princess. Couldn’t catch Rabastan’s attention, no matter how hard she tried. And worse still, that senile old goat, Dumbledore, did nothing to curb her… attentions.”
Petunia tilted her head, a question forming. “You all seem to dislike Dumbledore. Why is that?”
Narcissa sighed, the sound laced with weariness. “Dislike? It’s far beyond dislike, Petunia. We loath him for so many reasons. His relentless championing of Muggleborns, while simultaneously branding us ‘dark’ and ‘untrustworthy.’ His blatant disregard for our traditions, removing ancient celebrations from Hogwarts with a wave of his hand. We’ve tried to restore them, the Yule Ball as it should be, proper Samhain rituals… but it’s always ‘for the greater good,’ or some other sanctimonious drivel.”
Petunia considered this, a spark of understanding igniting within her. “No wonder. I imagine he’ll be even more furious after we deal with the families responsible for the arsenic, then.”
The women nodded in unison. “Indeed. He’ll undoubtedly try to interfere. But if we announce a blood feud, present the evidence you’ve collected… he won’t be able to stop us,” Narcissa stated, her voice firm. She turned to Petunia, her gaze intense. “Would you be prepared to… to carry out the necessary actions, Petunia?”
Petunia met Narcissa’s gaze unflinchingly. Fear was a foreign concept to her now. She had stared into the abyss and emerged, changed, stronger. Hesitation, however, was a different matter. “Ray, Vice, Chastain, Omale, Walker,” she recited, the names rolling off her tongue like a chilling litany. “They have been poisoning your families, knowingly, for a century. They understood the effects of arsenic – the stillbirths, the Squibs in subsequent generations. They wanted you to suffer slowly, to wither and die. People like that,” Petunia’s voice hardened, “deserve no sympathy.”
Yahra leaned forward, her usual playful demeanor replaced by genuine curiosity. “Darling Petunia, exactly how are you planning to… deal with these blood traitors? With all due respect, dear, you don’t have a wand.”
Petunia chuckled softly, a sound devoid of humor. “I don’t need a wand, Yahra.” She reached for a butter knife lying beside the scones. In one swift, fluid motion, she flicked her wrist, sending the knife hurtling through the air. It struck a small bird perched on a nearby branch, not with a loud thud, but a sickening thwack. The bird plummeted to the ground, lifeless.
The women stared, stunned silence hanging heavy in the air. Petunia turned back to them, her expression innocent, almost childlike. “See?” she said, her voice light. “I don’t need a wand at all. Just the right Muggle weapons to begin the purge.”
Unbeknownst to them, concealed amongst the dense foliage bordering the Malfoy gardens, a pair of eyes were fixed on them through a telescope. Sirius Black lowered the instrument slowly, his face pale. “Bloody hell,” he breathed.
James Potter snatched the telescope from him, peering through it. “I don’t believe it,” he muttered, his voice tight with disbelief. “Your cousin Narcissa Malfoy, the queen of pureblood aristocracy. Yahra Parkinson née Greengrass, the sickly snake we all bet wouldn't live past thirty. And Claire Greengrass, the unlucky one saddled with that cursed family line… all sitting together, having tea… with a Muggle?”
Remus Lupin took the telescope next, his brow furrowed as he studied the scene. “That’s Madame Lestrange. The one who… tormented you guys. She doesn't look particularly dangerous.”
Sirius and James bristled. “Don’t be fooled by appearances, Remus!” Sirius snapped. “All snakes wear an angel’s mask. She's no different. Probably worse.”
Lily, Alice Longbottom, Frank Longbottom, and Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody had gathered behind them, drawn by the hushed urgency in their voices. Moody snatched the telescope from Remus, his magical eye whirring as it focused on the four women. He cursed under his breath. “Madame Lestrange,” he growled. “What are you up to this time?”
Lily stepped forward, her green eyes flashing with anger. “If only Narcissa hadn’t reinforced the wards again! We could have rushed in, done what needed to be done about that Muggle woman.”
Frank shivered at the mere mention of Petunia Lestrange’s name. “I doubt there’s anything we could do, Lily. Not here. Malfoy Manor is swarming with Death Eaters. We wouldn’t even get close, let alone demand answers about her plans.”
Alice gently squeezed Frank’s hand. “She is dangerous, Frank. Marilyn knows it. Something feels… off.”
Lily nodded in agreement. “I agree. First, she threatened Fudge. Then she assaulted Frank. Humiliated Dumbledore. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s planning a full-scale war against us all.”
Alice scoffed. “War? You’re exaggerating, Lily. Planning a war? Do you really think these pureblood, egotistic, dark wizards and witches are going to follow a Muggle lead into a war? It’s ludicrous! And for what reason would they even go to war?”
Peter Pettigrew spoke up hesitantly, his voice barely a squeak. “Then how do you explain… the entire Dark Alliance gathering at Malfoy Manor? There are rumors… something’s brewing.”
Mad-Eye Moody nodded grimly. “Pettigrew is right. They’re planning something, and it’s under Madame Lestrange’s influence. If she’s truly planning to harm innocent people…” He tightened his grip on his wand, the wood creaking faintly. “Then I won’t show her any mercy.”
They all nodded, a grim consensus forming. They were preparing for a fight, unaware that the game Petunia Lestrange was playing was far more complicated than they could possibly imagine. And the ‘Muggle woman’ they so easily dismissed was about to unleash a storm they wouldn’t be able to stop, with a face, and methods, they had never anticipated.