Love Him?

Petunia Evans was a good mother in every sense of the phrase.

Vernon had sobbed when she waved a positive pregnancy test at him, and she immediately demanded that his construction firm would build a second floor upon their little house, because children needed space, goddamnit. They decided that that the hallway would be carpeted and three extra bedrooms were perfect, because even though she was long gone from her childhood, her childhood was not yet gone from her. They painted the nursery yellow with green butterflies because butterflies were lovely, and decided that the room next to the nursery didn’t look too bad for a master bedroom. So they moved their bedroom upstairs and converted their old room into an art studio, because Petunia had to do something with all the free time maternity leave gave her. 

The wonderful couple next door let them sleep in the loft above their garage while the renovations took place, and Petunia grew to love the women like sisters. 

Mary Marco could make a mean brownie and loved talking shit about the crotchety old man who ran the local bakery, and Brianna Marco owned birds named after famous artists and ran her own mechanic store. Vernon helped them with their rock garden on his free afternoons, and Petunia introduced them to a cockatoo at the shelter that responded to Mikey.

By the time she was waddling around, feet and belly swollen, the renovations were complete, and a sulphur-crested cockatoo named Michelangelo was the newest member of the Marco household. 

Two months of pregnancy was the only thing between Petunia and meeting her child, and she was barely starting to regret placing her bedroom upstairs. The view was wonderful, but her feet disagreed. She made the best of it, though, and that was good enough. Lily was probably sitting pretty somewhere in a rich partner’s manor, but Petunia was here, in her little home-grown house and happier than ever.

Childbirth was the worst. Petunia swore mid-contraction that she would have no more kids. The next contraction was even worse, but Vernon said nothing about the possible fracture in the hand she was holding and whispered about which little outfit they’d put their baby in when it arrived until it was over. (Petunia almost took her vow back when she was handed her son - she had a son - but her later attempt to pee curbed that urge entirely. Vernon laughed and kissed her and understood.)

Dudley cried a lot. Petunia cried too, when he opened his eyes and stared at her with a carbon copy of her own watery blue. He had a lot of hair, for a baby, but the nurse told them that it would probably fall out within the week. Petunia brushed the black hair into a tuft on his head and decided that it was the softest thing she had ever felt. Vernon took a picture of Dudley’s squished and screaming face, and the pair got it framed.

Dudley Evans-Dursley was going to be happy; Petunia swore it to herself the night she got home from the hospital and watched him fall asleep in his yellow bassinet in a room twice as large as hers ever was. She eyed the plush dinosaur that sat in the corner of the room. Lily had one; Petunia had always wanted it; but the thought of her sister was quickly replaced with an older Dudley screaming around the house dragging it along behind him, and she smiled.

Dudley grew startlingly quickly. Petunia knew that babies grew fast, but no words would match trying to change him into a onesie and finding it didn’t fit. She cried from joy once she got over the denial stage of her baby growing up.

He was six months old, and Petunia had never been happier. Vernon finally quit football to be home more often, but he simply couldn’t resist getting a weights set that sat in the garage. It was so he could play with his son when he was older, he had said, and Petunia laughed and rolled her eyes. Still, the weights were used every day, and Petunia eventually decided that exercise would do her some good. A tiny thought that Lily might not be able to throw her laughing child in the air made Petunia smile, because she could.

But for all the happiness around her, Lily just had to find a way to ruin it, the way she always did. A child’s cries caused Petunia to sprint down from her bedroom into the darkness at a ridiculous hour of the morning, because it was snowing, a child should be inside where it was warm and safe! She threw open the front door, expecting to see a toddler curled up in the street, but her eyes instead landed on a basket at her doorstep, a child swaddled in a little blue blanket with a letter and screaming his tiny lungs out. She panicked for a fateful second, until her brain shrieked HE MUST BE FREEZING, and she gathered up the basket and hurried it into the living room. Vernon, thankfully now awake and downstairs, quickly lit a fire in the fireplace and shoved extra blankets into Petunia’s shaking hands.

And then the child opened his eyes, and all Petunia could see was Lily. She didn’t scream, but it was a close thing as she bundled him into her arms, rocking him until his sobs subsided. A massive cut on his forehead was dripping blood down his face and into his blanket, the blanket Lily would cling to as a child, and Petunia was crying now, too.

Vernon rushed the pair to the ER, who gave the baby three stitches, Vernon a tube of antiseptic cream, and Petunia a recommendation to call the police. She was sorely tempted but decided to hold off until they were home.

Home was when the pair finally looked back at the basket that had delivered them a hypothermic, bleeding child, and, hidden in the folds of the child’s blanket, there sat a letter.

It was Vernon that opened the letter, rubbing Petunia’s back. His mutter of pretentious bastards as he popped the wax seal made her chuckle from where she was bent over the toilet, a location she was glad she chose as Vernon read the letter out. Petunia didn’t take much of it in, what with the amount of throwing up she did over those few minutes, but she knew the gist. 

Lily was dead. Her nameless husband was, too. Their injured and orphaned son was dumped on her doorstep in a basket.

His name was Harry. 

Vernon called the police as Petunia sobbed into the toilet.

The constable that responded called back to their house an hour later, telling them there was no record of Lily Evans after she turned seventeen, and legally, Harry didn’t exist. Were they sure that Harry was who the letter told them he was?

It was six in the morning on the first of November, and the young family carted themselves down to the police station for a DNA test. Petunia swabbed her mouth and a young officer swabbed Harry’s, and then came a confirmation that they were related. The constable in charge of the case noted it down and ordered a search for a birth certificate of one Harry Potter.

The letter was taken in as evidence, with photocopies taken and given to Petunia and the lawyer Vernon had called. Petunia scoured her contacts for anyone who could possibly know what had happened to Lily and her still-nameless husband, but came up empty. The police station did, too, and established a missing-person’s report for the pair, as well as a warrant for their arrest for child abandonment and neglect.

A case worker was called at nine in the morning and arrived at the station at nine-thirty. Petunia, tears shed dry, answered his every question, as did Vernon. At eleven in the morning, temporary custody of Harry was awarded to Petunia and the case worker told them he would come by to see how they were doing within the week.

By midday, the family was home. Harry Potter was a temporary ward of Petunia Evans-Dursley, Vernon was still talking to the constable and the lawyer, and Petunia was fast asleep on the couch with both children on her chest.

Two PM gave way to a phone call from the station. A harried Vernon picked up.

Harry’s birth certificate had been located.

Petunia was roused from her sleep and the family raced back to the station. Harry’s name was Harrison James Potter, he was born on the thirty-first of July, 1980, to Lily Jane Potter and James Fleumont Potter. Lily and James’s death certificates were dated at the thirty-first of October, 1981. One Albus Dumbledore was awarded temporary custody of Harry.

Petunia stared down at the sleeping child in her arms. The constable sighed. “We cannot contact this Mister Dumbledore, but he signed the letter you were given. Legally, this can be taken as a signing over of custody.”

Vernon understood what the man wasn’t saying. “Legally, can we adopt him?”

Vernon’s lawyer nodded, grimacing slightly. “As of now. If Mister Dumbledore surfaces and demands custody of young Master Potter, he legally has more claim, but seeing as he signed what can be reasonably understood as a change of custody document, this can be contested. At this point, I would suggest sticking with the temporary custody, at least for the next few weeks.”

Petunia wiped away an errant tear.

“If Mister Dumbledore is still not contacted by then, I suggest filing for official custody,” concluded the lawyer.

A few more signatures and some shaken hands and the family was home again. Petunia couldn’t bring herself to look at the child. Dudley had already made friends with him, but the boy wasn’t talking. He barely cried. Vernon told her quietly that taking him to therapy would be the best idea.

Petunia didn’t want to think about how much that would cost, and changed the subject.

Harry. What a simple name, Petunia thought. She would have pegged her sister as a lover for pretentious names. Vernon agreed, bouncing the little green-eyed boy on his hip and pulling funny faces until he squealed a giggle.

“So, what do we do now?”

Vernon looked over at his wife and considered that for a moment. “He’s magical.”

It wasn’t a question, but Petunia nodded anyway. He made a thoughtful noise and lifted Harry until they were nose-to-nose. “What do we do with you, huh?” Harry batted his face until Vernon propped him back on his hip. “Doesn’t her kind have a way to– I don’t know, magically adopt kids?”

Petunia whipped around and stared at her husband. “If you’re asking me to go back into that world, it’s a hard no.”

“Our world already considers him our adopted son, seeing as this Dumbledore guy isn’t showing up,” Vernon said cautiously. “And we both know her world isn’t going to let us raise him normally.”

Petunia felt a little hysterical as she watched him bounce a green-eyed child on his hip, the same way he would bounce Dudley, their son. “She’s– even in death she manages to mess everything up! I don’t even know how her kind got our damn address, I just want everything to go back to NORMAL!” Her voice raised into a shriek as she gestured wildly around herself. Vernon shot her a sharp look. 

“Take a breath, honey.” He lifted the boy with her sister’s eyes and ruffled his hair. “Look, Dudley was born with hair this colour.”

“He’s not our son!”

“I never said he was!” 

Petunia took a step back and turned to face the wall, breathing heavily. They had argued before, all couples do, but this was about her sister, why couldn’t he just understand–

And then she realised that he did. He did understand. He just didn’t agree.

Those were different things.

She took another breath and let it out slowly, imagining her rage flooding out of her with it. Finally, she turned back to him, meeting his wary eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand, darling.” And he did, so Petunia hugged him awkwardly around the child (Harry, Harry, not the child) and sighed into his hair.

“It’s just so hard.” She sniffled. When did she start crying? Vernon rubbed her back in small circles and guided her down onto the couch, which she collapsed into, wiping her eyes. “Vernon, it’s her eyes. He has her exact eyes.”

Vernon lifted Harry to look at his face and raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite the green, there. Pretty rare, huh?”

Petunia shrugged, face in her hands. “Granny had them, just a little darker. Lily’s eyes seemed to glow.” She smiled bitterly; just another thing that was better than her; another thing her parents fawned over while she and her dull blue eyes hid in her room.

“Do we wanna talk about this later?”

Petunia wiped her face and patted the couch, watching Vernon readjust Harry to sit down next to her. “We’ll need to talk about it eventually, won’t we?”

“Mm. Probably.” Vernon gazed down at Harry, who was blinking sleepily around the room. “That cut wasn’t made by something normal, was it?”

“Knowing Lily, no.”

“We should at least take him to a doctor of her kind.” The cut was red and angry beneath the bandage, swelled skin peeking out from underneath it and puffing around his eyes. “It looks infected.”

“N-” Petunia fought the knee-jerk reaction and she felt something in her jaw pop. “Vern.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Pet, he is a child.” 

She felt her stomach twist with guilt, but when she looked at the green-eyed child in Vernon’s lap she felt bile rise in her throat. Petunia stared resolutely at the fireplace, long extinguished, and tried not to cry. “I know.”

“I don’t think you do.” Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Vernon place Harry on the seat beside him and lean towards her. “I think you look at him and see Lily.”

Petunia let out a little sob.

“Listen, Pet. You’re allowed to grieve, I’m proud of you for confronting your grief, but her death isn’t his fault.” He picked Harry up again and let him grasp one of his fingers in his chubby fist. “He’s a little kid. A little kid whose parents just died.”

Tears were streaming down Petunia’s cheeks as she gasped into her hands. “I’m-”

“It’s not fair on him to see him as his mother, sweetheart.”

“I know,” she sobbed. “I know, but I look- I look at him and-” Petunia coughed- “I see Lily. All I see is LILY!” She collapsed into Vernon, wailing, “My s-stupid sister! She went to WAR! And D-DIED!”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss into her hair, rubbing circles into her back. “I know, sweetheart. I know. I’m going to come back to that last bit later because right now you need comfort and to vent about your stupid sister, so I know.”

She gave a wet giggle into his side, feeling his low chuckle. “Oh, Vern, I’m so- so sorry.”

Vernon shrugged, patting her shoulder gently. “I understand, darling.”

She sat up, wiping her puffy face and taking Harry’s tiny hands in her own. The boy blinked up at her and she felt a tear leak out of her eye. “Sweetie, I’m sorry. You’re not your mum. You’re you. You’re a beautiful, s-sweet child-” she sobbed a little- “who lost his parents yesterday. I’m sorry.”

Harry gave a little noise and stuck her fingers in his mouth. Petunia couldn’t really care less about the baby slobber all over her hands, though, and she placed a tender kiss on his forehead. “Vern, I need to tell you something.”

Vernon nodded. “Go ahead, dear.”

“When-” she sniffled, wiping her eyes awkwardly on her shoulder to avoid her baby-spit hands. “The day we were leaving, Severus came into my room.”

“Severus? Lily’s friend?” Vernon asked, eyebrows raised. “Sweetheart, how bad is this going to be?”

Petunia choked a little on a laugh. “Bad. He, um- he told me there was a war brewing.”

“And he knew this… how?” His expression told her he already knew the answer, but she told him anyway.

“I think he was part of it. On the other side to Lily.” She stared numbly down at her hands. “I asked him if it was just a magical war, and he said ‘hopefully’.”

“Oh.”

Petunia snorted. “Yeah, oh. He told me to-” she broke off with a sniff as a tear rolled unbidden down her cheek- “to leave. And not come back.”

Vernon gaped at her, then down at Harry, then at her again. “Wow. He was that scared for you?”

It was all Petunia could do to nod.

He sighed, playing with Harry’s little hands in a way that told her he was thinking hard. “Was that all he said?”

She sniffled a little more, tears flowing in earnest now. “He told me- told me that h-he’d send me a let-letter when the war was o-over. If he s-survived.”

“If he survived,” Vernon whispered. “That-”

Petunia slumped into his side and sobbed, “I don’t want to h-hear about more d-death, Vern.”

“Let’s send him a letter.”

She cracked a puffy eye up at him. “A letter?” she croaked.

“A letter.” He ran his free hand through her hair. “That way you’ll be able to get at least some closure.”

“A letter,” Petunia repeated. “A letter. Okay.”

“Okay.”

It took her an hour to get the motivation to get up off the couch and amble into the study, placing Dudley in his bassinet and Harry in his makeshift crib on the way. It took a further forty minutes and three crumpled sheets of paper before she was happy with the letter she had written. It wasn’t so much a letter than six lines of begging, but it was as good as it was going to get. Vernon read it over her shoulder.

“How are you going to send it?”

Petunia let her head fall onto her hands, washed out. “Owl.”

“Owl. Right.” Vernon sighed. “Of course.” 

“Wizards,” she mumbled.

He made an understanding noise and shuffled across the room in his tell-tale pacing. Petunia closed her eyes and listened to her husband’s soft muttering and the gentle scrape of socks on carpet. Then, she heard him grumble to himself, open the window beside her, and call, “If there’s any owl willing to take a letter for us, make yourself known!”

Petunia just sighed and turned her head to the other side. The neighbours wouldn’t judge them, they probably didn’t even hear, but the thought of her husband talking to owls that may or may not exist made her cringe. Then, a clatter made her sit up, and to her unending surprise there was an owl sitting on the windowsill. Vernon looked very pleased with himself.

“One owl, my love.”

Petunia turned in her chair. The owl was small and brown and blinked at her, ruffling its feathers. She grimaced and grabbed the letter, folding it up and handing it to the owl awkwardly. The owl clamped it in its beak and stared expectantly at her. She sighed. “Could you take that to Severus Snape, please? I don’t know where he lives or if he’s even alive, I’m sorry.”

The owl gave a muffled hoot, bobbing its head, then hopped around and took off back through the window. Petunia watched it disappear. That was probably a good sign that Severus wasn’t dead, at least.

“Huh.”

Petunia raised an eyebrow at her husband. “What?”

Vernon shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets and leaning against the window frame. “I wasn’t expecting an owl to be so wicked smart, is all.”

“Oh.” Petunia shrugged, leaning back. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure they’re magical, the ones those people use. I don’t think normal owls could do that.”

Vernon gave the window a contemplative look. “Dead useful, that.”

“We are not getting an owl.”

“Not yet.”

“Not ever.”

Then Petunia heard a babble from the kids’ room and the conversation was over, the letter forgotten.