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Interlude– III

the damning mistakes of Petunia Dursley née Evans

oh, don't you find it strange?
only thing we share is one last name

1965

Petunia doesn't really remember her life before Lily was born. After all, she was only about to turn two when her parents brought in a "little bundle of joy." But Petunia knew, even then, that nothing would ever be the same.

By the time Petunia was seven, she had grown used to the way her parents' attention seemed to flow naturally toward Lily. It wasn't that they didn't love Petunia—at least, she didn't think so. But their love for Lily seemed louder, brighter, more insistent, as if they were always on high alert for her every stumble or laugh. It was hard for Petunia to understand. Yes, Lily was younger, and yes, she was more prone to accidents, but so was Petunia. She got bruises and scraped knees too, but those never seemed to warrant the same fuss.

Where Petunia's brown hair hung limp and straight, Lily's red waves caught the light. Where Petunia was practical and orderly, Lily was wild and free, her laughter filling every corner of the house. Lily had an uncanny way of making people notice her without even trying, and though Petunia sometimes felt invisible in comparison, she never let it show.

"You should take a page out of Lily's book," her mother often said. "She's got such a zest for life."

Petunia had no idea what "zest" meant, but she knew it was something her parents valued more than the neat rows of books she painstakingly arranged on her shelf or the way she folded her socks perfectly in half before placing them in her drawer. She would nod politely, then retreat to her room to arrange her doll collection or write in her journal, trying not to let the sting of the words settle too deeply.

Still, Petunia loved Lily with a fierceness that sometimes surprised even herself. For all the ways her parents overlooked her, Lily never did. At five years old, Lily followed Petunia everywhere, her little legs struggling to keep up as she trailed behind. "Tuney, wait for me!" she would call, her voice high and breathless, and Petunia would slow down, rolling her eyes but secretly pleased.

One summer afternoon, they were playing in the small wooded area behind their house. Petunia had brought a book, intending to read while Lily collected wildflowers or hunted for fairies or whatever nonsense she was into that day. But Lily had other plans.

"Let's play explorers!" Lily declared, tugging on Petunia's hand.

Petunia sighed. "I don't want to get dirty."

"You won't!" Lily promised, her green eyes wide with earnestness. "I'll do all the exploring, and you can be the captain who tells me where to go!"

Petunia hesitated, but the adoration in Lily's gaze melted her resolve. "Fine," she said, closing her book. "But if you ruin my shoes, you're in trouble."

For the next hour, they made up fantastical stories about the "uninhabited island" they had landed on, with Petunia issuing commands from her perch on a fallen log and Lily scampering around, pretending to fend off imaginary beasts. The game only ended when Lily tripped over a root and scraped her knee. She burst into tears, and Petunia was at her side in an instant.

"You're okay," Petunia said, brushing the dirt off Lily's leg and inspecting the wound. "It's just a scratch."

"It hurts!" Lily wailed, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

Petunia sighed, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket and wrapping it around Lily's knee. "There. All better."

Lily sniffled, looking up at her sister with watery eyes. "Thanks, Tuney."

Petunia's chest swelled with a protective warmth she didn't entirely understand. She reached out and brushed a strand of fiery hair from Lily's face. "Don't cry," she said softly. "I won't let anything hurt you. Ever."

Lily's face lit up with a smile, and she threw her arms around Petunia's waist. "You're the best sister in the whole world," she declared.

Petunia hugged her back, her resolve hardening into something unshakable. She might not be the sparkling one, the one who drew people in effortlessly, but she could be the one who kept Lily safe. And in that moment, it felt like enough.

1969

Petunia never really thought there was something different about her sister. Sure, weird stuff happened around them sometimes, but didn't that happen with everyone? No, there was nothing different about Lily—at least not until she met Severus Snape.

It was a humid summer afternoon when Lily came running into the house, her face flushed and her green eyes glowing with excitement. "Tuney! Tuney, come outside! There's someone I want you to meet!"

Petunia looked up from the crossword puzzle she was attempting at the kitchen table, mildly annoyed at the interruption. "Who?" she asked, but Lily was already dragging her by the hand toward the front door.

Standing at the edge of their front yard was a boy about Lily's age, thin and sallow with greasy black hair that hung awkwardly around his face. His clothes were ill-fitting and patched in places, and Petunia wrinkled her nose instinctively.

"This is Severus!" Lily announced, beaming. "He lives just down the road! Isn't that cool?"

"Not really," Petunia muttered under her breath, but Lily didn't hear her. She was too busy introducing Severus and talking about the amazing things he had told her.

"He says I'm special, Tuney," Lily said, her voice full of awe. "He says I can do magic!"

Petunia stared at her sister, then at the boy. "Magic?" she repeated, her tone flat. "That's ridiculous. There's no such thing as magic. Next you will say Santa Claus is real."

"There is. Magic is real," Severus said, his voice low and certain. "And Lily can do it. I've seen it."

Petunia crossed her arms, suddenly feeling very small and out of place. "Well, I don't believe you."

Lily's face fell slightly, and for a moment, Petunia almost apologized. But then Severus smirked, a smug, knowing look that made her bristle.

"Come on, Sev," Lily said quickly, tugging on his sleeve. "Let's go practice by the river!"

Petunia hesitated before following them outside. She trailed a few steps behind as they walked toward the small wooded area near their home. She didn't want to go, but curiosity kept her feet moving. "What's this magic you're talking about?" she asked, trying to sound disinterested. "It sounds stupid."

"It's not stupid!" Severus snapped, glaring at her over his shoulder. "It's real. There's a whole world of magic—wizards and witches and places you can't even imagine. And Lily's one of us."

"One of you?" Petunia repeated, incredulous. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means she's special," Severus said with a hint of pride, as if Lily's supposed magic somehow reflected on him. "And when she's eleven, she'll get a letter to go to a school for people like us. Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?" Petunia repeated, her tone dripping with disdain. "What kind of an idiotic name is that?"

"It's the best school of magic there is," Severus said defensively. "You wouldn't understand."

"You're right—I don't," Petunia snapped. "And I don't believe any of this nonsense."

"Tuney, it's real!" Lily insisted, her green eyes wide with excitement. "Sev says I've already done magic—like when I made that flower bloom again after it wilted, remember?"

"That was just luck," Petunia said stubbornly. "It wasn't magic."

"It was!" Lily insisted. She turned to Severus. "Show her, Sev. Show her something!"

Severus glanced around, his dark eyes narrowing as he searched for something to demonstrate. He picked up a small twig from the ground and held it out in front of him. Petunia watched, her skepticism growing by the second.

"Watch this," Severus said, his voice low and serious. He whispered something under his breath, and for a moment, nothing happened. Petunia was about to scoff when the twig twitched in his hand, rising slightly into the air before falling back down.

Lily gasped in delight. "Did you see that, Tuney? Isn't it amazing?"

Petunia took a step back, her heart pounding. She wanted to say it was a trick, that Severus had somehow faked it, but deep down, she knew what she had seen. "That's not... that's not normal," she stammered.

"It's magic," Severus said smugly, clearly enjoying her reaction.

Petunia's fear quickly turned to anger. "You're freaks," she spat, her voice trembling. "Both of you! This is weird and creepy, and I don't want anything to do with it!"

"Tuney!" Lily cried, her face crumpling. "Don't say that!"

But Petunia was already running back toward the house, tears stinging her eyes. She didn't look back, even when she heard Lily calling her name. She slammed the door behind her and ran up to her room, her chest heaving as she tried to make sense of what she had seen.

For the first time, Petunia felt as if the gap between her and Lily was more than just a difference in age or personality. It was something vast and unbridgeable, and it terrified her. She buried her face in her pillow, wishing desperately for things to go back to the way they were—before Severus Snape, before magic, before everything started to change.

Petunia had never thought there was anything different about her Lily—at least not until she met Severus Snape.

1971

When Lily's Hogwarts letter arrived on a sunny morning in July, the Evans household buzzed with excitement. Mr. and Mrs. Evans marveled at the thick parchment envelope, addressed in emerald-green ink to "Miss Lily Evans, Second Bedroom, 17 Birchwood Lane."

"Extraordinary!" Mr. Evans exclaimed, turning the letter over in his hands. "Absolutely extraordinary!"

"Open it, dear!" Mrs. Evans urged, her eyes sparkling. "Let's see what it says!"

Lily tore open the envelope, her hands trembling with excitement. As she read the letter aloud, her parents listened with wide-eyed wonder.

"'Dear Miss Evans,'" Lily began, her voice shaking slightly. "'We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...'"

"Witchcraft and wizardry!" Mrs. Evans repeated, her voice filled with awe. "Our Lily, a witch! Imagine that!"

Petunia sat at the corner of the table, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She felt invisible as her parents fawned over Lily, their pride and amazement filling the room. "It's not that special," she muttered under her breath, but no one seemed to hear her.

The excitement only grew when Professor McGonagall arrived later that day to explain everything in person. She was a tall, stern-looking woman with square glasses and an air of authority that commanded immediate respect. Dressed in emerald-green robes, she looked utterly out of place in the cozy Evans living room.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all," Professor McGonagall said briskly, shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Evans. "I trust the letter explained the basics, but I'm here to answer any questions you might have."

The Evanses bombarded her with questions—about the school, the subjects, the magical world. McGonagall answered each one patiently, her expression softening slightly when Lily asked about what kinds of spells she would learn.

Petunia, meanwhile, stayed silent, her gaze fixed on the professor. She felt a strange mix of resentment and longing as she listened. When McGonagall finally rose to leave, Petunia blurted out, "Wait!"

The room went silent. McGonagall turned to look at her, one eyebrow arched. "Yes, Miss Evans?"

Petunia hesitated, suddenly aware of everyone's eyes on her. She clenched her fists at her sides. "I want to go to Hogwarts too," she said, her voice trembling with determination. "I want to learn magic."

McGonagall's expression softened, but there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "I'm afraid that's not possible," she said gently. "Only those with magical abilities can attend Hogwarts."

"But why not?" Petunia demanded, her voice rising. "I'm her sister! Why can't I be special too?"

"Petunia..." Her mum had began, but McGonagall held up a hand to stop her.

"It's not a matter of fairness," McGonagall said, her tone firm but kind. "Magic is something you're born with. It's not something that can be learned."

Petunia's face burned with humiliation. She felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. Without another word, she turned and fled upstairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

As McGonagall prepared to leave, she turned to Mr. and Mrs. Evans. "She'll need time to adjust," she said quietly. "It's not easy, being the sibling of a witch or wizard. But with your support, she'll manage."

Downstairs, Lily clutched her Hogwarts letter tightly, her excitement dimmed by the sound of her sister's sobs echoing from upstairs.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I hope you don't mind me writing to you, but I think there's been a dreadful mistake! My name is Petunia Evans, and I'm Lily Evans's sister. Lily is going to Hogwarts, and she and Severus have told me all about the magical world. It sounds incredible!

I've been waiting for my letter too. When Lily got hers, I thought maybe mine had just been delayed... by a few years. But I'm almost thirteen now, and it still hasn't come. I'm worried it might have been lost in the mail or something.

I don't know what you have heard about me, but I'm Lily's big sister and we're very close, and I've always looked after her. A tall lady came to our house, I don't remember her name but she said magic is something you're born with, but surely there must be some way to learn it? I've always wanted to do something extraordinary, something that matters.

I'd love to come to Hogwarts, even if it's late. I'd work twice as hard as anyone else, I promise. Please, Professor, can you give me a chance?

Thank you for reading this. I hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,
Petunia Evans

Dear Miss Evans,

Thank you for your recent inquiry about admission to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your enthusiasm for learning and interest in the magical world have not gone unnoticed, and we are grateful that you took the time to reach out to us. It is always heartening to see someone so determined to expand their horizons and seek new possibilities.

However, it is with regret that we must inform you that we are unable to admit you to Hogwarts. While we admire your persistence and hope to address your concerns in detail, there are a few key reasons why this decision is final...

Hogwarts is a secondary school designed to provide a seven-year education for young witches and wizards starting at the age of eleven. This is not merely a logistical decision but a foundational one, as our curriculum builds progressively from a beginner's understanding of magic to advanced and specialized study. At this stage, it would not be feasible to integrate an older student into our program, as the educational experience would not meet your needs or ours.

The most important factor in Hogwarts admissions is the presence of innate magical ability. The school's acceptance process is guided by a magical quill that identifies young witches and wizards from the moment of their birth. Unfortunately, if you were not identified by the quill, it means you were not born with the kind of magic required to perform spells and charms. This decision is not one of merit or effort but simply a reflection of how magic functions in our world.

We understand that these reasons may feel disheartening, and we want to assure you that our response is not meant to diminish your worth or potential. Magic, while extraordinary, is not the only measure of a person's uniqueness or ability to achieve greatness. The world is vast, filled with opportunities for those who possess determination, creativity, and passion. These qualities, which you have already demonstrated in reaching out to us, are powerful in their own right and can lead you to incredible success.

Love, kindness, and the ability to inspire others—these are forms of magic that transcend the boundaries of what wands and spells can achieve. We encourage you to nurture these qualities and to explore paths that align with your talents and dreams.

We also kindly ask that you refrain from further correspondence with the Hogwarts admissions office. As much as we appreciate your interest, the admissions process is final and cannot be appealed or altered. We hope this explanation provides clarity and encourages you to move forward with confidence in your own unique potential.

We wish you every success in your future pursuits and know that you are capable of remarkable things. The world needs people with your determination and heart, and we are certain you will leave your mark in ways you may not yet even imagine.

With warm regards,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

Headmaster
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Lily came home two weeks earlier than Petunia's school holidays, her arrival marking an unusual spark of excitement in the Evans household. She had barely stepped through the door when she was swept into a hug by their mother, followed by an affectionate squeeze from their father. Petunia, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs, forced a smile.

"Tuney!" Lily's voice rang out, her green eyes lighting up. "I've missed you so much!"

Petunia's smile grew a little more genuine as Lily pulled her into a hug. The familiar scent of her sister's floral shampoo, unchanged despite all her magical adventures, tugged at Petunia's heart.

"Missed you too," Petunia mumbled.

The evening was spent gathered in the living room, where Lily regaled them with stories of her first year at Hogwarts. Her voice bubbled with enthusiasm as she described her classes, the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall, and the endless staircases that never seemed to stay in one place. She talked about potions, charms, and the friends she had made, her words painting a vivid picture of a world that felt impossibly far from the cozy normalcy of their home.

"And then this boy called James," Lily said, laughter spilling from her lips, "thought it would be brilliant to charm the broomsticks in flying class to act like wild ponies. Madam Hooch was not impressed."

Their parents chuckled along, hanging on to every word. Petunia sat quietly, her hands clasped in her lap. She didn't dare let her bitterness show, but it bubbled under the surface, sharp and unrelenting.

What about my school stories? she thought. But then, how could stories of essays and lunchtime gossip compete with spells, dueling lessons, and ghosts?

Still, she couldn't stay angry. Not completely. Lily was her sister, and even though she felt as though magic had taken her away, the warmth in Lily's smile reminded Petunia of simpler days—before Hogwarts, before Severus Snape, before everything changed.

"Tell me about the spells," Petunia found herself asking, her voice softer than she intended.

Lily turned to her, delighted by the question. "Oh, Tuney, there are so many! I've learned how to make things levitate, and there's a spell to make light come out of your wand—it's called Lumos! I even brewed a potion that—"

The hours slipped away unnoticed. Petunia, despite her irritation, found herself drawn in by Lily's stories. She laughed when Lily mimicked her professors' eccentricities and leaned closer when Lily described the eerie beauty of the Forbidden Forest.

By the time they realized the late hour, the clock on the mantel chimed eleven.

"Oh no!" Petunia exclaimed, her stomach dropping. She had been so caught up in Lily's tales that she had forgotten entirely about the essay due tomorrow—an essay she hadn't even started.

"What's wrong?" Lily asked, her brows knitting in concern.

"Homework," Petunia groaned, shooting to her feet. "Mum's going to kill me."

Lily winced. "Do you want help? Maybe I can—"

"No!" Petunia snapped, sharper than she intended. "I mean, thanks, but you can't exactly charm it done, can you?"

The next morning, as expected, Petunia's parents were furious. Mr. Evans lectured her over breakfast, his disappointment evident.

"You've been slacking, Petunia," he said sternly. "School comes first. I don't care how exciting it is to have your sister home—there's no excuse for neglecting your responsibilities."

Mrs. Evans chimed in, her voice gentler but no less firm. "We're proud of Lily, but we're proud of you too, love. You're clever and hardworking, but you need to show it."

Petunia nodded miserably, the weight of their words settling on her shoulders. She risked a glance at Lily, who sat quietly at the table, guilt etched across her face.

"I'm sorry, Tuney," Lily whispered later, when their parents weren't around. "I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

"It's not your fault," Petunia muttered, even though part of her wanted to blame Lily anyway. But when she looked at her sister, so earnest and apologetic, she couldn't bring herself to stay angry.

That night, as they lay in their shared bedroom, Petunia listened to Lily's steady breathing and stared at the ceiling. She still felt like an outsider in Lily's magical world, and she hated the resentment that crept into her heart. But no matter how much things changed, Lily was still her sister.

That still meant something.

1974

The holidays were supposed to be a time of warmth and togetherness, but for Petunia Evans, they only seemed to highlight how far apart she and Lily had grown. The house was filled with the sights and smells of Christmas—gingerbread cookies cooling on the counter, a sparkling tree in the corner of the living room—but upstairs in their shared bedroom, the tension was suffocating.

Petunia sat at her desk, reviewing notes for an upcoming test. Her parents had been on her case all term about keeping her grades up, and she was determined not to give them any more reason to compare her to Lily. The sound of rummaging behind her broke her concentration.

"Tuney, do you have my hairbrush?" Lily asked, her voice casual.

Petunia didn't even turn around. "No," she replied flatly, keeping her eyes on her notes.

"Well, it's not in my things," Lily said, the faint edge of irritation creeping into her voice. "Did you take it again?"

"I didn't touch your stupid brush," Petunia snapped, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

There was a pause, and Petunia could feel Lily's eyes on her back.

"What's wrong with you?" Lily asked, her tone sharper now. "You've been acting like this all week."

"Nothing's wrong with me," Petunia said, her voice clipped. She tried to focus on her notes, but the letters swam before her eyes.

"Then why are you so snappy?" Lily demanded. "I haven't done anything to you!"

That was it. Petunia slammed her pen down and spun around in her chair, glaring at her sister. "Oh, you haven't done anything, have you?" she said bitterly. "You just waltz in here with all your magical stories, acting like you're so much better than me!"

"I don't act like that!" Lily protested, her cheeks flushing.

"Yes, you do," Petunia shot back. "You talk about your school and your friends and all the amazing things you can do, and you don't even realize how it makes me feel!"

Lily stared at her, confusion and frustration written all over her face. "How it makes you feel? What about how I feel? I try to talk to you, but it's like you don't even want to hear it! You shut me out the moment I walk through the door!"

"Maybe I wouldn't if you weren't so—so full of yourself!" Petunia's voice was rising now, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

"I'm not full of myself!" Lily snapped, her temper flaring. "You're just bitter because I got into Hogwarts and you didn't! You can barely even talk to me anymore!"

The words hit Petunia like a slap. For a moment, the room was silent except for the pounding of her heart.

"Is that what you think?" she said finally, her voice trembling. "That I'm just bitter? That I'm some pathetic little nobody who's jealous of you?"

Lily opened her mouth as if to respond but hesitated. The hesitation was worse than anything she could have said. Petunia felt the heat rise to her face, her chest tight with humiliation and anger.

Without another word, she grabbed her coat from the back of her chair and stormed out of the room. She heard Lily call after her, "Tuney—" but she didn't stop.

Downstairs, their parents were sitting by the fire, chatting about holiday plans. The sound of the front door slamming made them jump.

"Petunia?" her mother called, but Petunia didn't answer.

She walked briskly down the street, the cold December air biting at her cheeks. She didn't have a destination in mind; she just needed to get away. Her boots crunched against the frosty pavement as tears blurred her vision.

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. Lily got everything—magic, adventure, a whole world Petunia could never be part of. And now she thought Petunia was nothing more than a jealous, bitter girl.

The worst part was, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered, maybe Lily was right.

Petunia shook her head, trying to push the thought away. She loved Lily. She was her sister, her best friend once upon a time. But that bond felt so far away now, buried under years of resentment and misunderstanding.

She wandered for what felt like hours before finally returning home, her hands numb from the cold. Her parents were waiting for her in the living room, concern etched on their faces.

"Petunia," her mother said gently, "what happened?"

"Nothing," Petunia mumbled, brushing past them and heading upstairs.

When she reached their room, Lily was sitting on her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. She looked up when Petunia entered, her green eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Tuney, I didn't mean it," Lily said softly. "I'm sorry."

Petunia didn't respond. She climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin and turning her back on her sister.

Lily sniffled but didn't say anything else. The room fell into a heavy silence, the kind that lingered and settled into the walls.

Petunia stared at the wall, her heart aching. She wanted to forgive Lily, to tell her everything she felt but didn't know how to say. But the words wouldn't come, and the distance between them felt wider than ever.

All the things that meant something once, just... didn't, anymore.

1977

It was a gray, rainy afternoon in April when Petunia first met Vernon, nothing special. She'd always thought the rain had a way of making the world feel heavier, as though the sky itself was pressing down on her. She hurried into the lecture hall, her umbrella dripping onto the floor as she tucked it away.

The room was buzzing with chatter—students filing in, shaking off the rain, and complaining about the weather. Petunia chose a seat near the middle, as she always did, pulling out her notebook and pen. She was early, but she liked to settle in before class began.

She didn't notice him at first.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Petunia looked up to see a man standing beside her, holding a damp notebook and wearing a crooked grin. He wasn't particularly striking—his features were plain, his sandy hair slicked back with a little too much gel. But there was something about the way he carried himself, the confidence in his stance, that caught her off guard.

"Sure," she said after a moment, gesturing to the empty seat.

He sat down with a casualness that bordered on arrogance, dropping his notebook onto the desk with a thud. "Bit of a miserable day, isn't it?" he said, glancing at the rain streaking the windows.

"Could be worse," Petunia replied curtly, not looking up from her notes.

"You're optimistic," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I like that."

Petunia glanced at him sideways. "If you're trying to flirt, you'll have to do better than that."

He laughed, a deep, unpolished sound that made her cheeks flush despite herself. "Fair enough."

Petunia gave him a sideways glance, unimpressed. She'd heard about him—Vernon Dursley. He had a reputation around campus, the kind of boy who always seemed to be at the center of attention, for better or worse. He wasn't exactly her type. Or anyone's type, really, if looks were the deciding factor. But he had charm, a smoothness in the way he spoke that seemed to draw people in.

"You're Petunia Evans, right?" he said suddenly, catching her off guard.

She blinked. "How do you know that?"

He grinned, leaning slightly closer. "You're in my literature seminar. You made that point about Austen and morality last week. It stuck with me."

Petunia felt her cheeks flush despite herself. "Oh. Well. That's... nice of you to say."

He laughed—a low, easy sound that made her simultaneously irritated and intrigued. "I've got an eye for the smart ones," he said with a wink.

Petunia rolled her eyes. "If that's another line, it still needs work."

"Noted," Vernon said, unbothered. "So, what's your deal? Are you always this charming, or is it just the weather?"

"Maybe it's you," Petunia shot back before she could stop herself.

Vernon laughed again, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Touché. I'll take that as a yes."

The professor entered the room then, calling the class to order. Petunia focused on her notes, trying to ignore the way Vernon occasionally glanced her way throughout the lecture.

When class ended, she gathered her things quickly, eager to escape the awkward tension. But Vernon was faster.

"Wait up," he called, catching her at the door.

"What now?" Petunia asked, turning to face him.

"Let me walk you out," he said, gesturing to the rain still pouring outside.

Petunia hesitated. She didn't particularly want company, but something in his tone made it hard to say no. "Fine," she said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

They walked in silence at first, the rain pattering against their umbrellas. Petunia kept her eyes on the ground, wondering why he was bothering with her.

"You know," Vernon said eventually, "you're not like most people around here."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"I mean you've got this... edge," he said, searching for the right word. "You're sharp. Not afraid to say what you think."

Petunia frowned. "That's just a nice way of saying I'm difficult, isn't it?"

Vernon chuckled. "Maybe. But I like difficult."

She didn't respond, unsure of what to make of him. He was cocky, yes, but there was a surprising warmth to his words, a sincerity she hadn't expected.

When they reached the main road, Vernon stopped and turned to her. "Listen, Petunia," he said, his tone softer now. "I don't usually do this, but... would you want to grab a coffee sometime? Just to talk."

Petunia raised an eyebrow. "Just to talk?"

He grinned. "For now."

She considered him for a moment, the rain dripping from the edge of her umbrella. She wasn't sure what compelled her to say yes, but something about Vernon—his easy confidence, his unexpected interest in her—made her curious.

"Alright," she said finally. "But don't make me regret it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Vernon said, his grin widening.

Years later, Petunia still thought about that day. Maybe she could have found a better man to settle down with. Maybe she would have still been unmarried if Vernon hadn't taken an interest in her. She didn't know. Vernon wasn't exactly a good person, but he wasn't necessarily bad either.

Petunia was okay with that. She had to be okay with that. She wasn't really special enough to deserve something better anyway.

1977

When Lily announced that she'd be bringing James Potter home for the Christmas holidays, Petunia braced herself for the worst. She'd heard countless stories about him over the years—how he was an arrogant, self-absorbed show-off who never took anything seriously. Lily had complained about him incessantly, only for those complaints to morph into dreamy smiles and wistful sighs during her sixth year. Now, apparently, in their seventh year, they were dating.

"He's different now, Tuney," Lily had said defensively when Petunia raised an eyebrow at the news. "He's grown up."

Petunia didn't understand it, but then again, there was a lot about Lily's life she didn't understand anymore.

James arrived on Christmas Eve, and it didn't take long for him to make an impression. He strolled into their home with a cocky grin, his dark hair artfully messy, and a lopsided pair of glasses perched on his nose. He greeted their parents with an exuberant "Mr. and Mrs. Evans, it's such an honor to meet you!" and charmed them within seconds.

"Oh, what a polite young man!" Mrs. Evans exclaimed, beaming as she took his coat.

"Always nice to see a firm handshake in a young lad," Mr. Evans added, clearly impressed.

Petunia stood back, arms crossed, as her parents fawned over James. He seemed utterly at ease, laughing and joking as if he'd been a part of their family for years. But when he turned to her, his confidence faltered.

"You must be Petunia," James said, offering a slightly awkward smile. 

Petunia stared at it for a moment before shaking it briefly. "So you're James," she said coolly.

"Guilty as charged," James replied with a nervous chuckle. "Lily's told me a lot about you."

"Has she?" Petunia replied, raising an eyebrow.

James scratched the back of his neck, looking a bit sheepish. "Er, yeah. All good things, of course."

Lily snorted from the other side of the room. "Sure, James."

It wasn't long before Petunia's suspicions about James's cluelessness regarding the non-magical world were confirmed. Over dinner, he asked the kind of questions that made Petunia bite her tongue to keep from laughing outright.

"So... how does this, er, television thing work?" James asked, gesturing to the set in the corner of the living room.

"It's not that complicated," Petunia said, unable to keep the edge of condescension out of her voice. "You press a button, and it turns on."

"Right," James said, nodding as if she'd explained something groundbreaking. "No magic involved, then?"

Petunia couldn't stop the bitter laugh that escaped her. "No. No magic involved."

"And then so, this, uh, 'car' of yours," he said to Mr. Evans as they passed the potatoes. "How does it work without magic?"

Mr. Evans laughed, clearly amused. "It's all mechanics and engineering. Pistons, fuel combustion—complicated stuff, but no magic required."

James nodded as if this were the most fascinating thing he'd ever heard. "Incredible. So it's like... a flying broomstick, but grounded?"

Petunia let out a short, bitter laugh before she could stop herself. Everyone turned to look at her, and she shrugged. "Flying broomsticks. Right."

James didn't seem to notice her sarcasm. "You'd love it, Mr. Evans," he said enthusiastically. "You should try one sometime."

"Oh, I'd love to see that!" Mrs. Evans said, clapping her hands.

Her parents, of course, thought James's questions were charming.

"Mum," Petunia shook her head, "Don't feed on to this ridiculousness."

"Oh, he's just curious, Tuney," Mrs. Evans said, patting her arm. "Not everyone grows up with the same things."

"I'd say it's refreshing," Mr. Evans added, grinning. "Nice to see someone taking an interest."

The evening only got worse from there. As the family gathered in the living room after dinner, Mrs. Evans leaned over to James and said, "You know, I hope Petunia finds a nice boy like you someday. Someone polite and hardworking."

"Uh, thank you, Mrs. Evans," James said, looking a bit startled.

"Mum!" Petunia snapped, her voice sharp.

"What?" Mrs. Evans said innocently. "I'm just saying. It would be nice if you settled down too, dear. You're not getting any younger."

Petunia's jaw dropped. "I'm turning twenty, Mum, not fifty!"

"But I do worry about her," Mrs. Evans continued, dismissing her agitated daughter, her voice taking on a concerned tone. "She's so disinterested in dating, you know. I've told her before—at this rate, she'll still be living with us when she's thirty."

"Stop, please!" Petunia snapped, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"What? I'm just saying!" Mrs. Evans replied, oblivious to her daughter's growing anger.

"She has a point, love," Mr. Evans chimed in, his tone teasing. "You can't spend your whole life buried in schoolwork. It wouldn't hurt to get out there a bit more."

"Maybe if you stopped being so picky," Mrs. Evans added.

Petunia clenched her fists, her anger bubbling over. "For your information, I am dating someone!" she blurted out.

The room fell silent. James, caught in the middle of the family drama, looked as though he wished he could do that weird thing wizards did where they disappeared into thin air.

"Oh?" Mrs. Evans said, her eyebrows shooting up. "Well, you never mentioned anyone before. What's his name?"

"Vernon," Petunia said sharply. "His name is Vernon, and he's very nice."

Her parents exchanged a glance, clearly taken aback.

"Well, that's wonderful, dear," Mrs. Evans said after a moment, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced.

"What does he do?" Mr. Evans asked, trying to sound casual.

"He is in my economics class," Petunia said, lifting her chin. "He's very smart."

James, perhaps sensing that now was not the time for a cheeky comment, kept his mouth firmly shut.

"Well, we'd love to meet him," Mrs. Evans said brightly, though the tension in the room was palpable.

"Maybe someday," Petunia muttered, turning away. She refused to meet anyone's eyes as she picked up the dessert plates and carried them into the kitchen.

As she stacked the dishes in the sink, she heard the faint murmur of conversation from the living room. Her parents were probably already talking about how unexpected this Vernon was, or how odd it was that she hadn't mentioned him before.

She stormed out of the room, her heart pounding. She could hear her parents murmuring behind her, likely dissecting every word she'd just said.

Petunia leaned against the kitchen counter, gripping its edge as she tried to calm herself. She hated this—hated how easily Lily and her magical world overshadowed her. And now James, with his messy hair and awkward charm, had waltzed in and stolen the show.

"Tuney?"

She turned to see Lily standing hesitantly in the doorway.

"What do you want?" Petunia snapped.

"I just... I didn't know you were seeing someone," Lily said softly.

"Well, now you do," Petunia replied curtly.

Lily hesitated. "I didn't mean for them to go on like that, you know. They're just excited."

"Excited about you," Petunia said bitterly. "It's always about you, Lily."

"That's not fair," Lily said, frowning.

"Isn't it?" Petunia shot back. "They think James is perfect. Meanwhile, I can't even mention Vernon without them acting like it's some kind of joke."

"James isn't perfect," Lily muttered, though there was no conviction in her voice.

"Could've fooled me," Petunia said, brushing past her. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to call Vernon. At least he doesn't think my life is some kind of comedy show."

Lily didn't stop her as she left, and Petunia didn't look back.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. It didn't matter what they thought. Vernon was solid and dependable, and he didn't belong to some strange, magical world that made her feel like an outsider in her own family. He was her choice, and that was enough.

Or so she told herself.

1978

It happened during a cold December evening, one of those nights when the sky seemed perpetually gray, and the air carried a bitter chill. The Evans household was unusually quiet, save for the sound of the rain pattering against the windows. Petunia was seated at the kitchen table with Vernon, who had insisted on coming over to deliver the news in person. He sat beside her, his bulky frame nearly dwarfing the chair, his voice grating and overly cheerful as he attempted to make small talk with her parents.

Vernon wasn't particularly charming—he was too loud, too brash, with a tendency to interrupt and talk over others. Petunia knew he wasn't exactly the kind of man her parents had envisioned for her. She knew he didn't have the refined manners or polite demeanor they would have preferred. But he was here, and he was hers, and that was enough.

"Well," Vernon said, puffing out his chest and flashing a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, "Petunia and I have an announcement. We're engaged!"

There was a beat of silence, the kind that seemed to stretch endlessly. Mrs. Evans's eyes widened as she set her teacup down with an audible clink. Mr. Evans, halfway through reaching for a biscuit, paused, his expression frozen in mild surprise.

"Oh!" Mrs. Evans finally exclaimed, her voice too bright, too forced. "That's... lovely, dear."

"Yes, congratulations," Mr. Evans added after a moment, though his tone held more surprise than enthusiasm. He glanced briefly at Vernon, his brow furrowing ever so slightly before smoothing out again.

Petunia felt her stomach tighten. This wasn't the reaction she'd imagined. She'd hoped for more—hoped for her mother to pull her into a hug, for her father to shake Vernon's hand and welcome him into the family with genuine warmth. Instead, they looked startled, as though the idea of Petunia getting engaged had never even crossed their minds.

Lily, who was sitting in the corner of the room with a steaming mug of tea cradled between her hands, looked up sharply at Vernon's announcement. She'd been quiet for most of the evening, her face pale and her green eyes shadowed with exhaustion. She'd just spent the better part of an hour talking to their parents about the latest developments in the wizarding war—about attacks and disappearances and the growing danger. Her voice had been tight with worry, her words laced with fear for James, who was away on a mission with Sirius.

Now, she was staring at Vernon, her brows knitting together in an expression that was part confusion, part disapproval. Her gaze then flicked to Petunia, sharp and assessing, as though she were trying to piece together how this had happened.

"That's... wonderful, Tuney," Lily said hesitantly, her voice quiet and laced with something Petunia couldn't quite place.

"Thank you," Petunia replied stiffly, her hand tightening on Vernon's arm. She forced a smile, though it felt brittle and strained.

Vernon, oblivious to the tension in the room, chuckled and gave Petunia's shoulder a firm squeeze. "I've already got the date in mind," he announced. "In february. It's going to be a grand affair—lots of friends, family, all the proper trimmings. It's soon because we don't want nothing too fancy, of course. We're simple folk, aren't we, Pet?"

Petunia nodded, though her heart wasn't in it. Her mother and father exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable.

"That sounds... nice," Mrs. Evans said, her smile faltering slightly as she glanced at her daughter. "Really, dear, we're happy for you."

Petunia could see through the thin veneer of politeness, and it stung. She wanted to scream at them, to demand why they couldn't just be genuinely happy for her. Why did it always feel like she was falling short, like she could never quite measure up?

Lily remained silent, her hands tightening around her mug. Petunia could feel her sister's disapproval radiating across the room, unspoken but palpable. She wanted to ignore it, wanted to pretend it didn't matter what Lily thought. But it did.

After dinner, when Vernon had gone outside to fetch something from the car, Petunia lingered in the living room, staring at the engagement ring on her finger. It wasn't the ring she'd dreamed of as a girl—it was simple, modest, the diamond small and slightly off-center. But it was hers.

Lily appeared in the doorway, her face drawn and serious. "Tuney," she began, her voice soft.

Petunia stiffened. "What do you want, Lily?"

Lily stepped into the room, hesitating as though she were unsure how to proceed. "I just... I need to talk to you about Vernon."

"What about him?" Petunia asked, her tone defensive.

Lily sighed, sitting down on the edge of the armchair across from her sister. "I don't think you should marry him," she said bluntly.

Petunia's eyes snapped to her sister, anger flaring in her chest. "Excuse me?"

"I'm saying you deserve better," Lily said, her voice steady but tinged with frustration. "Tuney, I've seen the way he treats you. He's dismissive, rude, and he... he doesn't make you happy."

"You don't know anything about my relationship," Petunia snapped, her hands clenching into fists.

"I know enough," Lily shot back. "I've been around him, Petunia. I've seen how he talks over you, how he brushes off your opinions in front of other people. And let's not forget the way he's treated me."

"Oh, this is about you, isn't it?" Petunia spat. "You just can't stand that he doesn't fall at your feet like everyone else!"

"That's not what this is about, and you know it," Lily said, her voice rising. "This is about you settling for a man who doesn't respect you. You're better than that, Tuney."

Petunia laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and hollow. "Better? Since when have I ever been better, Lily? You're the special one, remember? The witch, the one with the magical life and the perfect boyfriend!"

"This isn't about me," Lily insisted, her voice shaking now. "It's about you. And I'm trying to help you, Tuney, because I love you."

"Well, don't," Petunia snapped, standing abruptly. "I don't need your help, and I don't need your pity."

"Tuney, please—"

"No!" Petunia's voice was loud and sharp, echoing in the quiet room. "You think you're so much better than me, don't you? With your perfect life and your perfect little world. But guess what, Lily? Not everyone gets to be special. Some of us have to make do with what we have."

"Making do shouldn't mean marrying someone who treats you like an accessory!" Lily shouted, tears brimming in her eyes.

Petunia's hands were trembling, her heart pounding in her chest. "You're not invited to the wedding," she said suddenly, her voice cold and final.

Lily stared at her, stunned. "What?"

"You heard me," Petunia said, crossing her arms. "If you can't be happy for me, then I don't want you there."

"Tuney, you don't mean that," Lily said, her voice breaking.

"I do," Petunia said firmly. "Now get out."

Lily lingered for a moment, her expression a mix of anger, hurt, and something Petunia couldn't quite place. Then, without another word, she turned and walked out of the room. 

As the sound of her sister's retreating footsteps faded, Petunia sank back onto the couch, her chest tight with a mixture of triumph and regret. She looked down at her engagement ring, the small diamond catching the dim light. Maybe Lily was right. Maybe she deserved better.

But that didn't matter. This was her life, her choice. She wouldn't let anyone—especially Lily—take that away from her.

1979

The room smelled of roses and lavender, the faint aroma wafting from the bouquet resting on a nearby table. Petunia sat in front of a gilded mirror, her white gown spilling around her like a pool of silk. Her hair was styled in soft waves, her makeup flawless, every detail carefully attended to. She looked like the bride she'd always dreamed of being—or at least, the bride she'd convinced herself she wanted to be. 

Her mother stood behind her, adjusting the veil with trembling fingers. "Oh, Tuney," Mrs. Evans said, her voice filled with emotion. "You look absolutely gorgeous. Vernon's a lucky man."

Petunia smiled faintly, though the expression didn't quite reach her eyes. She stared at her reflection, trying to focus on the woman she was about to become: Mrs. Dursley, a proper, respectable wife with a proper, respectable life.

But her mother wasn't done. She hesitated for a moment, then added gently, "Are you sure you don't want Lily here? She's your sister, darling. She could be here in minutes—you know she could."

Petunia's jaw tightened, her carefully applied lipstick threatening to smudge as her lips pressed into a thin line. "I already told you, Mum. I don't want her here."

"She'd want to be here," Mrs. Evans continued, undeterred. "You two may fight, but she loves you. And you love her too, I know you do."

Petunia whirled around in her chair, the fabric of her dress rustling loudly. "Can't you stop talking about Lily for once, Mum? It's my day. My day. For once, can't it just be about me?"

Her mother flinched, clearly taken aback by the outburst, but she quickly recovered, smoothing her hands over her skirt. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to upset you. I just... I want you two to get along. I want my daughters to be happy. Is that so wrong?"

Petunia's throat tightened. She looked away, her gaze fixed on the mirror once more. "It's not about being wrong," she muttered. "It's about you always picking her. Always fawning over her. Lily this, Lily that. I'm your daughter too, Mum."

Mrs. Evans moved closer, resting a hand on Petunia's shoulder. "I love you as much as I love Lily. I always have, and I always will. You're my Tuney, my firstborn. That will never change."

Petunia swallowed hard, her hands twisting together in her lap. She didn't believe her, not really. How could she? For years, Lily had been the golden child, the special one, the one everyone seemed to love just a little more. And Petunia had been the one left behind, the one who had to be ordinary, who had to make do.

But this wasn't the time for old grievances. Not today. Not on her day. She straightened her shoulders, forcing a tight smile onto her face. "I appreciate that, Mum," she said, her voice clipped but polite. "But this is my wedding day. I don't want to talk about Lily. Please."

Mrs. Evans sighed, her face etched with worry and sadness, but she nodded. "Of course, love. I just want you to be happy."

"I will be," Petunia said firmly. "I'm marrying Vernon today. I'll be Mrs. Dursley, not Miss Evans anymore. And thank god for that."

Her mother's eyes softened, but she said nothing, merely stepping back to adjust the train of Petunia's gown. Petunia stared at her reflection, her heart a strange, tangled knot of nerves and resentment and determination.

Today was her day, and she wouldn't let anyone ruin it. Not Lily. Not her mother's well-meaning meddling. Not even the small, nagging voice in the back of her mind that whispered doubts she refused to acknowledge.

She was going to walk down that aisle, take Vernon's hand, and step into the life she'd chosen for herself. And she was going to smile while doing it.

1980

The church was silent except for the occasional rustle of fabric or a stifled cough. Petunia stood at the podium, gripping the edges tightly. She looked out at the faces of family and friends, her eyes catching Lily's for a brief moment before darting away. She could feel her baby shift inside her, a small, unspoken reminder of life continuing even in the face of grief. Taking a deep breath, she began.

"My mother, Anne Evans, was the kind of person who could light up a room without trying. She didn't do it with loud laughter or grand gestures—no, she did it with kindness, with warmth. She had this way of making you feel seen, like you mattered, even when the world around you felt impossibly big and indifferent.

"Growing up, she was always there. Always... even when I didn't see it– and I really didn't see it at all, but she was there. She was the one who taught me how to bake, even though I burned the first three cakes we tried. She was the one who sat up with me late at night when I was nervous about exams or when I felt like the world was too much. She had this way of making me feel safe, like no matter what, I had a place where I belonged.

"As I got older, I didn't spend as much time with her as I should have. I let life get in the way, and I thought... I thought there would always be more time. More moments to share, more conversations to have. But life isn't always that generous."

Her voice cracked, and she paused, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

"This past year, we had started to reconnect. I told her about my pregnancy, and she was so excited. She would call every day, asking how I was feeling, what I was eating, if the baby was kicking yet. She would come over with these little gifts—tiny socks, soft blankets—and she'd always say, 'I can't wait to meet my grandchild.'" Petunia's voice broke again, and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

"But she won't get to meet them. And that... that's something I'll carry with me for the rest of my life. I'll tell my child about her, though. I'll tell them about the woman who made the best apple pie, who could sew anything without a pattern, and who loved so deeply and so unconditionally that it was impossible not to love her back."

She looked down at her hands, trembling slightly as they gripped the podium. "I wish I'd had more time with her. I wish I'd told her more often how much she meant to me, I wish I could take back all the stupid arguments I had, tell her how much I loved her. If she were here now, I'd tell her all those things and more. But she's not, and all I can do is carry her with me in my heart and try to be the kind of mother she wanted me to be.

"Goodbye, Mum. I'll miss you every day. And I promise to do my best to make you proud."

She stepped away from the podium, her chest heaving with restrained sobs. Vernon was there to guide her back to her seat, his hand firm on her arm, but she barely felt it. Her eyes strayed to Lily, who was sitting with James a few rows back, her swollen belly a silent echo of Petunia's own.

The house hummed with subdued conversation, the quiet murmur of condolences blending with the clinking of teacups and the occasional scrape of a chair. Petunia wandered from room to room, her heels clicking softly on the floor, a tray of untouched tea and sandwiches abandoned in her wake. People offered her smiles, sad and understanding, but she avoided their eyes. She hated the pity. She didn't deserve it. Her mother deserved it.

She found herself in the living room, the one place where things felt normal, or at least familiar. The old floral curtains her mother had refused to replace hung by the window, filtering the gray light of the rainstorm outside. Petunia stood there, one hand on her swollen belly, watching the droplets streak down the glass.

"Tuney."

The voice, so familiar and yet distant, startled her. She turned slowly, and there was Lily, standing in the doorway. She was wearing a simple black dress, her hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. Even now, even grieving, Lily managed to look radiant. Petunia hated how small she felt in comparison, standing there in her maternity dress that didn't quite fit right, her hair frizzed from the damp weather.

"Lily," she said, her voice neutral.

"I wanted to say your eulogy was beautiful," Lily began, stepping into the room. Her voice was soft, tentative.

Petunia shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest. "I just said what needed to be said."

"You said more than that," Lily replied. She moved closer, glancing at the window before looking back at her sister. "Mum would have been proud of you."

Something sharp and bitter twisted in Petunia's chest. "Would she?" she asked, her tone harsher than she intended. "She always seemed to have more to say about you, didn't she? Her brilliant, magical daughter."

Lily flinched, and for a moment, Petunia almost felt guilty. But then Lily said, "That's not true, Tuney. She loved us both—equally."

Petunia let out a humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the quiet of the room. "She had a funny way of showing it, didn't she? It was always Lily this, Lily that. Even at the end, all she could talk about was you. You, and your war, and your James. Never me. Never my child." Her voice cracked, and she turned back to the window, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

"That's not fair," Lily said, her voice trembling. "You didn't hear what she said to me. She was worried about you, Tuney. She wanted us to make things right."

"Well, that's convenient, isn't it?" Petunia shot back, spinning around to face her. "Now that she's gone, we're supposed to pretend everything's fine? Just sweep the past under the rug and act like none of it happened?"

"I'm not saying that," Lily said, stepping closer. "I'm saying we could try. Once this war is over, once things are safer... we could talk. We could—" She hesitated, her green eyes softening. "We could be sisters again."

Petunia stared at her, torn between the anger simmering in her chest and the faint, painful flicker of hope. "It's not that easy, Lily," she said finally, her voice quieter. "There's so much... between us."

"I know," Lily said. "But I want to try. And our children—they'll be so close in age. Don't you want them to know each other?"

Petunia opened her mouth, but before she could reply, Vernon's voice cut through the air.

"There you are."

He stepped into the room, his broad frame filling the doorway. His expression was tight, his mouth set in a thin line. He glanced at Lily, his eyes narrowing in open disdain. "I've been looking for you," he said to Petunia, ignoring her sister entirely. "You shouldn't be on your feet so much. It's not good for the baby."

"I'm fine," Petunia said quickly, wiping at her eyes.

"Still, we should be heading home soon," Vernon continued, his tone brusque. He glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the odd assortment of guests who had come for the wake. "Not really our crowd, is it?" he muttered under his breath, though loud enough for Lily to hear.

Lily's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Petunia felt her face flush with embarrassment.

"Can we stay a little longer?" she asked quietly, avoiding Vernon's gaze.

"You don't need to be around... this any longer than necessary," Vernon said, his hand settling firmly on her arm. He glanced at Lily again, his expression making it clear he wanted her gone. "Let's go."

Petunia hesitated, her heart sinking as she met Lily's eyes. For a moment, she thought about pulling away, about staying, about saying something—anything—to hold onto the fragile thread of connection they'd managed to find. But the moment passed, and she let Vernon guide her toward the door.

As they walked away, Lily called softly after her, "Goodbye, Tuney."

Petunia didn't turn around. She couldn't. Instead, she let Vernon lead her out into the cold, her mind replaying Lily's words over and over.

"Once the war is over... we could be sisters again."

But deep down, Petunia wasn't sure if that was even possible. Too much had been said, too much had been left unsaid. And now, with Vernon by her side, she wasn't sure if she'd ever have the courage to find out.

Dear Tuney,

I hope this letter reaches you well. I know it's not been a long time since we last spoke, and I'm not even sure you'll want to hear from me. But I've been thinking about you a lot lately—about everything, really—and I felt I had to write.

First of all, congratulations on Dudley's birth. Dad told me when I visited him last month, and I can't tell you how happy I was to hear the news. He said you and the baby are both doing well, and that Vernon has been over the moon. I'm so glad everything went smoothly, and I hope you're settling into motherhood. It's exhausting but wonderful, isn't it?

I wanted to tell you that James and I had our baby too. Harry was born on the 31st of July, and he's... well, he's perfect. I know every mother says that, but he really is, Tuney. He has James's messy hair—it sticks up no matter what I do—and he already has my green eyes. He's so curious, always looking around and reaching for things. I think he's going to be a handful when he gets older.

I can't help but think how close in age Harry and Dudley are. Just a couple of weeks apart! Can you imagine them playing together one day? I know things are complicated between us, but I like to picture that—our boys growing up as friends, maybe even feeling like brothers.

Dad seemed tired when I saw him. He's still got that spark of humor, but you can see he's not as strong as he used to be. He spoke about you a lot, you know. He told me how proud he is of you, and how excited he is to have two grandchildren now. He even joked about how much trouble Dudley and Harry would cause if they were ever in the same room. But... I could tell he was worried too.

Tuney, I think about Mum and Dad all the time, especially now that I'm a mother myself. I wish I could call Mum and ask her questions, or have her here to hold Harry. I'm sure you feel the same way with Dudley. It's so strange, isn't it? Becoming the people who are supposed to have all the answers, when you still feel like you need them yourself.

I know things are strained between us. I know I've hurt you, and you've hurt me. I don't want to pretend that everything is fine, but I do want to say this: I miss you, Tuney. I miss my sister. I think about the times we played together as kids, and how much I looked up to you. I still do, in some ways. You've built a life for yourself, and now you're a mother. That's amazing, and I'm proud of you, even if I've never said it.

I hope one day we can talk properly again. Maybe when things calm down on my end. I can't tell you much, but there's... a lot going on in our world. It's dangerous, and James is often away, helping with things I wish he didn't have to. But we're safe, for now, and I'm holding onto that.

Take care of yourself, Tuney. And take care of Dudley. Please give him a kiss from his Aunt Lily, even if he doesn't know who I am yet. Maybe one day, he will.

With love,
Lily

ORIGINAL UNIVERSE

1981

It was a chilly November night, first day of the month, and the wind howled outside, rattling the windows of the neat house on Privet Drive. Petunia Dursley stirred in her sleep, half-dreaming about the baby crying in the next room. Dudley had been particularly fussy that day, and she was certain he'd wake again before sunrise. She rolled over, pulling the covers tighter, when a soft knock echoed through the quiet house.

Her eyes flew open. For a moment, she wondered if she'd imagined it, but then it came again—a tentative tap, barely audible over the wind.

Petunia sighed, slipping out of bed as quietly as she could so as not to wake Vernon. He hated being disturbed, especially at this hour. She pulled her dressing gown around her and tiptoed downstairs, her irritation growing with each step.

"Who in their right mind—" she muttered under her breath, unlocking the front door.

The sight that greeted her stopped her heart.

A basket sat on the doorstep, bundled in blankets. Her breath caught as she noticed a tuft of dark, messy hair sticking out from the fabric. A baby.

Her hand trembled as she pushed the door open wider, the cold night air biting at her face. There was a letter perched on top of the basket, sealed with an unfamiliar wax emblem. Petunia's fingers hovered over it, hesitating.

"What in the world–?" she whispered, crouching down. She reached for the letter first, pulling it free and unfolding the thick parchment.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley,

It is with the heaviest of hearts that we inform you of the passing of your sister, Lily Potter, and her husband, James Potter. They were killed on the evening of October 31st in an attack by Lord Voldemort, a dark wizard who has long threatened our world.

Their son, Harry James Potter, miraculously survived this attack. He is now the only known person to have ever survived the Killing Curse, an act that has left him marked with a scar on his forehead.

We have placed Harry into your care for his safety. The protection he receives from his mother's bloodline is the strongest magic we can provide. As her sister, you are his only remaining family, and your home is now the safest place for him.

We understand this will be a great responsibility, and we do not make this request lightly. Harry is a very special child, and though he may not yet understand the weight of his survival, he carries the hopes of our world on his small shoulders.

Please treat him as your own. He has lost everything.

With deepest sympathy and gratitude,
Albus Dumbledore

Petunia stared at the letter, her mind racing. Lily was... gone? No, it couldn't be true. Her vibrant, stubborn, infuriating little sister couldn't just be gone.

Her eyes darted back to the basket. The baby—Harry. Slowly, she pulled the blankets back to reveal a tiny, sleeping face. He had Lily's nose, Lily's mouth... and James's wild, untamable hair.

But it was the scar that drew her attention. A jagged lightning bolt etched into his forehead, stark against his pale skin. It felt like proof of everything the letter said, a cruel mark of the impossible.

The air seemed to rush out of her lungs. Lily was really gone.

"Petunia?" Vernon's voice boomed from the top of the stairs, startling her. "What are you doing down there?"

Petunia stiffened. She stood, clutching the letter in one hand and trying to block Vernon's view of the basket with her body. "Nothing!" she called back, her voice shaky. "Go back to bed!"

But Vernon wasn't one to be ignored. His heavy footsteps thudded down the stairs, and he appeared in the hallway, his face already twisted in irritation. "What's all this—?" He stopped short when he saw the basket.

"What is that?" he demanded, pointing a thick finger at the baby. "What's going on?"

Petunia couldn't find the words. She handed him the letter, watching as his expression darkened with each line he read.

"No," Vernon said firmly, tossing the letter onto the table. "Absolutely not. This is their problem, not ours. We are not taking in that."

"He's my nephew, Vernon," Petunia said quietly, her voice trembling.

"He's her son," Vernon snapped, his face red. "Your freak of a sister's child. You want that—" he gestured angrily at Harry, "—in our house? Around Dudley?"

Petunia's jaw tightened. She wanted to shout at him, to defend Lily, but the words wouldn't come. The old bitterness was still there, tangled with fresh grief she didn't know how to process.

"He has nowhere else to go," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

"And that's not our problem," Vernon insisted. "Send him back to... to them, whoever dropped him off."

"They're gone," Petunia said, her voice breaking. "Lily's gone, Vernon. She's dead."

The words felt foreign in her mouth, as though saying them made them real. Tears she hadn't realized she was holding back spilled over, and she turned away, clutching the edge of the doorframe for support.

Vernon's mouth opened and closed, as though searching for an argument, but for once, he said nothing.

Petunia looked back at the baby, now stirring in his sleep, his tiny fists curling and uncurling. She thought of Lily as a child, dragging her along to see some flower she'd magically made bloom. She thought of their last argument, the things they'd said to each other.

She thought of the sister she'd never have the chance to make things right with.

"We're keeping him," she said suddenly, her voice steadier than she felt.

"What?" Vernon spluttered.

"I said we're keeping him," she repeated, turning to face him. "He's family. And that's the end of it."

Vernon glared at her, but something in her expression must have stopped him. With a huff, he stormed back up the stairs, muttering under his breath.

Petunia turned back to Harry. She crouched down and gently lifted the basket, cradling it in her arms. 

"Hello, Harry," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I am your Aunt Petunia."

He woke as she did, his bright green eyes blinking up at her.

He had Lily's eyes.

The graveyard was quiet, save for the whisper of the wind weaving through the headstones. It was a cold, gray afternoon, the kind that seeped into your bones no matter how tightly you wrapped your coat around you. Petunia stood stiffly before the grave, her gloved hands clutching the handle of her handbag as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.

Lily Potter, the stone read. Beloved wife, mother, and sister. The dates carved beneath it were a cruel reminder of how short her sister’s life had been.

Petunia let out a shaky breath, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Beloved sister,” she muttered bitterly. “Who decided that, Lily? Because it wasn’t me, was it?”

Her words disappeared into the emptiness of the cemetery. She glanced around to make sure she was alone before continuing.

“You’re not here to answer for yourself. Typical. You always left me to deal with the mess, didn’t you? And now this—this child of yours.”

She looked down at the small bouquet of wilting lilies in her hand, gripping them tightly before tossing them onto the grave with an unceremonious thud. “There. Flowers for you, Lily. Because that’s what a good sister would do, isn’t it?”

The tears she hadn’t wanted to cry began to blur her vision, but she didn’t bother wiping them away. Instead, she let her anger bubble to the surface, spilling out in a low, bitter hiss.

“Do you know what my life is now, Lily? Vernon’s drinking again. Did you know that? He comes home every night smelling like a distillery, yelling about things that don’t matter. And me? I’m the one left to pick up the pieces. I’m the one who has to make sure Dudley doesn’t see too much, doesn’t hear too much.” Her voice cracked, but she pressed on, her words sharp and venomous.

“And then there’s him—your boy. Harry. The special one. The one everyone’s so keen to remind me isn’t really mine. They left him on my doorstep, Lily. Did you know that? Did you agree to it? Did you think I’d want this?”

"I woke up to a letter, Lily. A letter and a sleeping child on my doorstep."

Her voice trembled, and she clenched her fists, as though trying to keep control. "They didn’t even have the decency to tell me in person. Just a few scribbled lines. 'Your sister is dead. Here’s her son. Take care of him.' That’s how I found out you were gone. That’s all they gave me."

Her breath hitched, and she shook her head bitterly. "I deserved better than that. We both did."

She took a step closer to the grave, her hands trembling. “I can keep him. I can feed him, and I can give him a home, but I can’t love him. Do you hear me? I can’t. He’s one of your kind, Lily. Your folk. And I hate them. I hate the lot of them.”

Her voice rose, the raw emotion tearing through her chest. “Is this you punishing me? For freezing you out? For not being a better sister? Is this your revenge? To leave your son behind knowing I couldn’t possibly love him? He has your eyes, Lily. Did you do that on purpose? Is that your final joke? To make me see you every time I look at him?”

She broke off, her shoulders heaving with the effort of holding back sobs. For a long moment, she stood there, staring down at the grave, her fists clenched at her sides.

“I won’t let Dudley grow up the way I did,” she said finally, her voice low but steady. “I won’t let him feel second-best. I won’t let him wonder if he’s loved as much. I won’t do it.”

Her words wavered, and for a brief moment, the mask cracked. “But do you know the worst part?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “The worst part is I loved you. I loved you so much, Lily. Even when I hated you, I loved you. And I love him too.” She pressed her hand to her chest as if the confession physically hurt.

“But how can I love him, knowing that the very thing I wanted my whole life—the magic, the wonder, everything that made you so special—is the same thing that killed you? The same thing that brought him to my doorstep in the first place? How can I love something that reminds me every day of what I’ll never have and what it cost me to lose you?”

Petunia closed her eyes, the image of Harry’s green gaze flashing in her mind. Your eyes. Always your eyes.

“I hate you for this,” she whispered. “And I hate myself more for not being strong enough to walk away.”

The wind picked up, swirling leaves around her feet. She turned abruptly, her heels clicking against the stone pathway as she walked away.

By the time she reached the gate, she was composed again. Her mask of cold indifference was firmly in place, and her tears were dry.

From that day forward, Petunia resolved to bury her pain beneath layers of resentment and duty. She would care for Harry because it was expected, because it was what a proper woman would do. But she would never let herself love him—not openly, not truly.

That decision would haunt her every day, but it was the only way she knew how to survive.

And so, the Petunia Dursley that Harry would come to know was born—not a cruel woman by nature, but a deeply wounded one, carrying the weight of unspoken regrets and the bitterness of a life that hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped.

BONUS SCENE: 1995

Petunia stood in the kitchen, wiping down the already-spotless counter when she heard Dudley at the door. His voice carried a note of excitement that made her curious enough to peek through the doorway.

"Who is it, Dudleykins?" she called, making her way to him. As she stepped into the foyer, she spotted a young girl standing on the doorstep, her pale hair gleaming like silver in the afternoon light. Petunia's eyes narrowed.

Dudley turned, his face red, and stammered, "Mum, this is–"

Petunia's smile was automatic, an expression honed through years of pretending politeness. She stepped closer, her tone dripping with false cheer. "Well, is this your girlfriend? Invite her in!"

The boy flushed deeper, flustered, but the girl—confidence radiating off her, judging by her introduction—spoke up before he could.

"No," she said smoothly, her voice polite but firm. "I am here for Harry. I am Lyra Malfoy."

Petunia's stomach tightened, her smile dropping instantly. A Malfoy... a witch, then? What does one of them want with Harry in the middle of summer vacation?

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you want with him?"

Before the girl could respond, Harry appeared in the hallway, looking startled to see her. "Lyra? Is that you?" he asked, his brow furrowing. "What are you doing here?"

Petunia watched as the girl’s demeanor softened at the sight of Harry. Her voice lost its edge, taking on an almost affectionate lilt. "Came to see you, obviously. Fancy a day out?"

Petunia's mouth set in a thin line. She was about to interrupt, but Harry answered first, "Uh, yes?" he said, still looking confused.

She caught it then—the look Harry gave the girl. A mixture of surprise and warmth, an almost childlike wonder that she hadn’t seen on his face in years.

"I told my mum I’m with Blaise," the girl continued, brushing off Harry’s concerns about her parents. "I wanted to spend the day with you."

Petunia’s chest tightened. That look...

Harry smiled at her, tentative but genuine. "I—I’d like that." He turned to Petunia, and his voice grew firmer, more determined. "Aunt Petunia, I’ll be back later."

"Boy!" she snapped, the sharpness in her voice reflexive. "Where do you think you’re going?"

But Harry was already grabbing the girl’s hand. "On a date with my girlfriend. Bye!"

And just like that, he tugged her out the door, leaving Petunia standing there, frozen.

She stood there, staring at the space they’d just vacated. The way Harry had looked at her—at Lyra—flooded her with a wave of memories she hadn’t summoned in years.

For a moment, it wasn’t Harry standing there, but Lily. Her fiery-haired, seventeen-year-old sister, standing at the door with James Potter. She could see it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. The way Lily had looked at James—brimming with defiance and adoration all at once.

"I am so excited you're meeting James!" Lily had said, her voice almost daring her older sister to comment. "You're going to love him."

James had stood there, all cocky smiles and easy charm, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Petunia had been unimpressed, scoffing at his confidence and turning her nose up at his awkward attempts to win her over.

And yet, Lily had been smitten. Petunia had hated yet loved that look in her sister’s eyes—the look that said she’d found something, someone, who made the rest of the world fall away. The same look Harry had just given that girl.

The memory twisted like a knife. She shook her head sharply, banishing it, but the ache lingered. Harry wasn’t Lily, and this Lyra Malfoy wasn’t James Potter. But for that brief moment, they might as well have been, and it hurt in a way she hadn’t been prepared for.

Her hand gripped the edge of the doorframe, her knuckles whitening. How did we end up here, Lily? she thought bitterly. How did everything go so wrong?

Harry didn’t turn back.

Neither had Lily, all those years ago.