Mellowing of a Flower
Petunia Dursle- no, Petunia Evans, she reminded herself. Petunia Evans was a pragmatic woman. She had been forced to be, growing up in Cokeworth. When she had received that damnable letter she had abandoned her childish hopes. And along with them, her sister.
She still loved Lily, somewhere in her heart, deep down. Buried beneath it all, she did care for her sister, but she couldn’t bear to see the living reminder of her sheer, unabating mundanity. Her perfect, magical, special sister. So, she forced herself to hate her. Forced herself to cut off one of the only people she had loved. Somewhere down the line, that hate became real, became what she thought of when she remembered Lily. She built a box in her heart, where she shoved that love, and she buried it with her hate.
Then she met Vernon. Vernon Dursley. And she married. Became Petunia Dursley of Privet Drive. She became one part of a hate-fueled feedback loop, Petunia feeding Vernon’s hate, and Vernon feeding hers in turn. Then she had a child. Her darling, dearest Dudley. The shining star of her life. The one person she knew, and would admit, that she would die for.
Then the boy came. Harry.
Oh, how she had hated the child. She had escaped any reminder of her special, unique, pretty, better sister. Only to have a reminder be forced back on her. The note the child came with was hardly any form of explanation. But it did explain something. Lily had died. Died for her son. And suddenly when there had been two Evans’, there was one. And Petunia felt that little box in her heart strain, felt her heart break, just a little bit, as she looked at the child’s eyes. Her sister’s eyes. And suddenly that little box had a neighbor. One not filled with love but with grief.
Later in life, Petunia would look back and hate herself. Despise what she had put her nephew through, the cupboard, the pans, the cooking, the yard work, the cleaning, the verbal attacks, the neglect. But hurt people who don’t let themselves process, don’t let themselves grieve, they can fester, let those negative emotions ferment. Especially when someone else has sugars of hatred for them to feed on.
Looking back, she thought, had she not been with Vernon, things may have been different. Had they not had Dudley, things may have been different. And they would become different, but… well, we’ve seen through that looking glass. They certainly didn’t begin differently.
So, Petunia had a comfortable life. A set routine. If she had to deal with an unwanted nephew, she could put up with that.
And then, her delicate, fragile life she had built was shattered, the delicate strands of that web ripped apart, like clothing coming apart at the seam.
And it all began with a camping trip.
Her darling boy had wanted to go camping. And she, like always, had let him have his way. They had been forced to bring the boy along with them, it would be suspicious not to, especially after Mrs. Anchorage from Number Six had asked. They had made him sleep outside the tent, however. He deserved it, she thought, as she had walked back from the toilets, for being born with those eyes.
But when she had gone in the tent, Vernon wasn’t there. And her dear Dudders wasn’t in his when she had checked. And then she had been taken by that… that thing. And she had seen her darling boy and her darling husband. Had seen the looks of terror on their faces, the stillness of their chests, the paleness of their faces. And she realized something, then. The last bit of family she had, the last bough of her tree, was her nephew. The boy. Harry.
And Petunia Dursley, now Evans once more, was a pragmatic woman.
When she was rescued by some strangely-accented man, brought out of that cave, still alive, still drawing breath, she allowed herself to open those boxes in her heart. To grieve and love her sister. When she and her nephew arrived at Number Four, she gave Du- the room with a bed for a child to Harry. And she went to her room. And opened her jewelry drawer and took out a box. One she hadn’t looked at in seven years.
Because Harry hadn’t come with just a letter. He had also come with a ring.
A ring of silver, with four settings. Jade, Hematite, Lapis Lazuli. Surrounded by entwined vines. And at the back, a pearl.
Lily had loved acrostic jewelry, that you could tell a simple message with something so small. And looking at the ring, Petunia realized what the message was. James, Harry, Lily. And Petunia. Despite everything, or maybe in spite of everything, Lily had died, still bearing her love for her.
Maybe, she thought, she and Lily had been more similar than she had thought.
It was a month later that Harry had found Frank. That Petunia had found someone who she could talk to. And she did. Haltingly, sometimes fueled by wine, but she still spoke. And Frank listened.
Listened to her talk about how close they had been. About Lily’s letter, and her lack of one. Her sending a letter of her own. Of being denied. He listened to her whole, sordid tale, was a shoulder to cry on when she broke down in choking sobs.
Petunia would never be the same woman she was. And she hated that but liked it and sometimes wished that Harry hadn’t been born, wished he hadn’t been the catalyst for her finally opening those boxes. But he had, and she could live with that.
She watched as Harry grew, and became a man, became a killer, turned to Frank for comfort after his first outing with him. And it stung a tiny bit, if she was honest with herself, that he didn’t turn to her. But that was fine because she knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t. Not after what she had done and let happen.
And then, when he was meant to be at school, he was at Privet Drive. And taking his belongings. Saying he was a fugitive and that had to leave, that he was organizing for her safety. And as he was leaving, she gave him his mother’s, her sister’s, Lily’s ring. And he thanked her. For everything, he had said, though not in as many words.
And then he was gone.
And she was alone.
And if Harry could live with what she had done, maybe she could as well.