Chapter 1: A Boy in The Bushes

Right now, Petunia Evans wasn’t snooping. She was waiting patiently on the staircase. 

Mummy was standing in the corridor on the floor below on the telephone. Petunia was waiting for the chance to ask if she and Lily could go to the playground, but she didn’t want to interrupt Mummy’s conversation, which she couldn’t help overhear because whenever Mummy was on the phone, she was loud. 

“Catherine? Hello, it’s Rosie. I’ve been trying to reach you for ages! Pet’s been accepted into Tuft Grammar! Not that we ever doubted—”

Petunia glowed. Mummy and Daddy might never have doubted her eleven-plus results. They always spoke of her progression into Tuft Grammar School for Girls with the certainty of Friday following Thursday or summer following spring, but Petunia had been racked with nerves ever since she sat her exams. After one too many nightmares of missing the pass mark, she decided she was going to throw herself into the river if she failed and disappear beneath the black water so no one could see her face again. As it was, she passed with flying colors. The weeks had been filled with Mummy’s phone calls praising Petunia to the skies. She never realized Mummy had so many wonderful things to say about her and couldn’t resist catching the delightful halves of conversations whenever she was fortunate enough to stumble over them. 

“Ned and I are so happy. Pet’s happy too, and it’ll be easier for Lily when it’s her turn. They look at siblings for admissions.”

Mummy was temporarily silent as Catherine said something on the other end of the line. 

“Yes, we’re obviously over the moon!” Rosie crowed into the receiver. There was a long pause. 

“Hmm…” Mummy’s tone had changed completely. Had the conversation abruptly switched topics? Petunia leaned forward to hear better. 

“No, no I haven’t.”

There was a longer pause, which Petunia found more disquieting.

“Strange, so strange.” 

Petunia was struck by the foreboding sense that it was she Mummy spoke about with such displeasure. She was on tiptoes, straining to catch every word, and if Mummy could see her, she’d tell Petunia to get away from the bannister at once, before she tumbles over the railing. Of course, Petunia knew better than to lean over the railing, but she was desperate to confirm it wasn’t she who was strange.

“Yes, I do,” Mummy said gravely after another agonizing pause. 

“It’s Eileen. Eileen Snape.”

Petunia hopped down from the bannister in relief. It was that Mrs. Snape again, causing trouble. Mummy didn’t like her, though if you asked Rosie Evans, she would say she didn’t hate Eileen Snape. Feeling hatred towards another human being was something that people as kind as Rosie Evans didn’t do. Rather, she pitied Eileen Snape. From her strange clothes to her poor home to her thuggish husband, there was so much about Mrs. Snape to pity. It was another kindness of Mrs. Evans—her heart was full of pity for the less fortunate.

Petunia, the poor girl, didn’t understand her mother and operated out of a misconception. If you asked her, she could tell you the exact moment Rosie Evans began her dislike of Mrs. Snape because she imagined that she watched it unfold. She stood next to Mummy the day she met Mrs. Snape at a church Christmas charity drive three years ago. Mummy was an event organizer, not one of the poor people on the donation line, and she looked the picture of a blonde-haired, green-eyed Christmas angel, shining through the drabness of Cokeworth as the most beautiful, the most generous, the most well-spoken. She had a heart bleeding for the line of less fortunate until Mrs. Snape appeared before her, as though materialized from the smoke that permeated the city; a gray woman, wispy and dark.

Mummy greeted her as kindly as anyone else, but imagine her surprise when Mrs. Snape replied to her in the poshest Received Pronunciation accent north of London. Petunia had never heard anyone speak that way off the telly or the wireless. Mummy believed it reeked of foul play. What business did a woman with an upper-class voice have taking donations for the needy?

For a spell, Rosie Evans had been struck dumb, unable to process the rich voice she heard coming out of the thin mouth of this plain, oddly dressed woman. Petunia wasn’t sure that Mummy had actually listened to the words Mrs. Snape spoke.

“I’m sorry,” Mummy had said unapologetically. Her almond-shaped eyes were dual daggers. “I don’t think anyone here can help you.” 

Mrs. Snape caught the hidden message and left the church, turning her back on Mummy’s warm sunshine and surrendering herself to the cold, biting air of the dreary street. From that day onwards, Mrs. Snape had stayed on her side of the river except on occasions like today when her name traversed the corridors or front rooms of homes far too nice for the likes of someone like her. 

“Just a minute, Catherine. Lily? Pet?” Mummy called, her hand over the receiver. She had heard noise on the steps when Petunia pushed away from the railing and her voice broke Petunia out of her reverie.

“It’s me,” Petunia said timidly, coming down the stairs. “I was waiting to ask you if I could take Lily to the playground.”

She was rewarded with one of Mummy’s radiant smiles.

“How sweet. Where is Lily?”

“Waiting outside.”

Mummy handed Petunia the phone, who at once covered the mouthpiece in imitation of Rosie, and opened the front door. Lily was attempting a handstand in the street. Mummy winced but waited patiently for Lily to notice her in her own time because ladies didn’t shout. When Lily approached, Mummy ran her fingers through the ends of Lily’s hair.

“Lily, love, you don’t want your beautiful hair touching the asphalt. Maybe Pet can tie it in a bun for you.” Her exasperation melted into fondness. “Have a nice time at the playground, but no jumping off the swings.”

Lily nodded her head.

“I mean it.”

“I know,” Lily answered, running off again. The chances of Lily sitting still long enough for Petunia to tie her sister’s hair were nil. Daddy called her a floaty airy fairy, never in any one place for long. 

Mummy closed the door and turned around. 

“Pet, make sure Lily doesn’t jump off the swings.” 

“Yes, Mummy.” But Mummy looked at Petunia with the same skepticism she directed at Lily when trying to extract a promise from her sister. 

“If Lily jumps, you bring her straight home.” She held out her hand for the phone, which Petunia gave her before heading out the door and into the sunlight. Her sister was a flash of red down the pavement.

“Tuney!” Lily yelled. “Hurry up!” Lily was passing the row of houses and Petunia had to rush to catch her.

Only Lily called her Tuney. Everyone else called her Petunia or Pet, but it was Lily’s nature to be different. When Petunia confessed she didn’t like the nickname, her sister had explained that she chose it because Petunia’s high voice sounded like music when she spoke, the same way birds’ voices were made for speaking in song. Who would decline being called Tuney for such a reason? 

So Tuney caught up to Lily before they reached the street corner and the sisters turned left onto Bush Gardens together, towards the direction of the playground. Their path put them at odds with the puffing chimney of the cotton mill, which loomed over the city as a colossal eyesore, polluting every patch of sky that stretched before them. Although everyone in Cokeworth was subjected to the mill’s smoke, staying on the street in front of their home usually sheltered the Evanses from the ugly view of the city skyline if they chose to not look at the things they didn’t want to see. 

The sisters shuffled to one side of the pavement as a packed Midland Red drove down the road, gray faces frowning behind its gray windows. Petunia craned her neck to follow it until it disappeared around the corner she and Lily had come from. She would be riding that bus to school come September. It must have taken a detour because its route never came so close to their house. That was highly unusual!

The Evanses lived on Highcourt Street, the coveted address of the neighborhood, but not because it was the finest street in all of Cokeworth. That distinction belonged to Acacia Close with its beautiful homes so far from the mill that the giant smokestack looked like a little speck from their tall windows. No, Highcourt won its admiration from the misfortune of its neighbors. It was adjoined by Allcock Drive and Bush Gardens—a private joke, Daddy said, by a nameless, bored, irresponsible worker from the Midlands Streets and Planning Committee. As enough people in the area were fond of parroting, “You could take Allcock or Bush Gardens all the way up to Highcourt.”

Daddy says he wouldn’t have minded living on Allcock Drive. He liked to laugh about it now, but when he was buying the house, right after he got married at 23, he had been quite proud of the home he had picked out on Allcock. He brought Mummy to see it, but when she saw the street name, she refused to leave the car. Daddy had to apologize to the conveyancer alone. Mummy insisted they look the street over, on Highcourt, where the homes were exactly the same in size and layout, but marked up in value in proportion to the desirability of the street’s name. The price difference was more than young Ned Evans could afford, but he was so smitten with his great love, Rosie, he borrowed money for the sale from her parents, something he says he is still paying for today. 

For all of Daddy’s joking, everyone in the neighborhood knew the residents of Highcourt Street could afford to pay more money for the privilege of living there than the neighbors who filed into the houses on the next streets over. The very name conveyed respectability and status, something which the city of Cokeworth lacked on the whole. Neither Lily nor Petunia doubted they had a future brighter than the gray, smoke-filled sky, and Tuft Grammar was the first step on a path to much nicer pastures.

The two girls chatted about the grammar school as they walked. Petunia was giving her sister an overture of everything she had put together from the stories of other people. Lily was her rapt audience. 

“—and the French teacher had an affair with the principal’s son, which is why he was replaced,” she finished. 

“Does Ms. Sterner really hit people with rulers,” Lily asked, her eyes wide. She looked ready to burst from holding in the question for so long.

“Jill’s sister Becky says so,” Petunia answered authoritatively. Then she grimaced. “I’ll find out myself in September.”

Petunia didn’t have to worry that much about being whacked with a ruler. She followed the rules—well, she did like to talk and pass notes. Maybe Ms. Sterner wasn’t as mean as Becky said? Or Petunia would have to take pains to behave herself in Latin class. Lily had skipped ahead of her and turned around so she was facing Petunia and walking backwards. 

“Can I go with you and Mummy tomorrow? Please,” her sister wheedled. 

Pet bit her lip, like she was thinking it over. Mummy was taking her school shopping since Petunia would need a new uniform on top of her other supplies. Clothes shopping wasn’t generally something Lily enjoyed, unlike Petunia, but the excursion would offer a break from the dull routine of summer in Cokeworth. 

“Yes, you can come,” Petunia said loftily, but both sisters knew there wasn’t a chance of Tuney disagreeing. She was a major pushover wherever Lily was concerned, which was why Lily found her so appealing a companion. Everyone let Lily do as she pleased—eventually—but no one was more guilty of yielding to her charms than Petunia.

“That’s the playground!” Lily cheered, zooming towards the rusted iron gate. “Race you there!” 

Petunia wanted to tell her that there was no need to run, but ladies didn’t shout so she had no choice but to chase after her sister. They reached the swing set at the same time. Despite Lily’s head start, she was disadvantaged in two ways: she lost time opening the gate and Petunia had much longer legs. 

They must have looked very silly, sprinting to the swings as though their spots could be snatched away when they were the only two people around. The playground had fallen out of favor ever since the park began renting out paddle boats for the summer. Why anyone would risk falling into the dirty river for fun was beyond Petunia’s guess, but many of the children who would have otherwise hogged the slide or the roundabout now played in the park, which was separated from the playground by a row of large hydrangea bushes. The way the asphalt had sunken in by their border gave you the impression you could soar straight over them if you swung high enough and the swing chains gave way.

“Could you show me how to do a handstand again?” Lily asked, starting to swing. “I was really close this time. Did you watch me?”

Petunia hadn’t. Mummy was blocking the doorway. 

“I can’t show you now,” Petunia said, gesturing to her skirt. Lily harrumphed and made a cross expression, like the most inconvenienced girl on the planet.

“It’ll be for a second. You can tie your skirt and no one’s here.”

“Lily, you don’t do hand stands in skirts. Ever,” Petunia said matter-of-factly, retying her hair in case it had gotten disheveled by the mad dash to the swing set.

“This is why you need me to come shopping with you tomorrow,” Lily replied slyly, kicking her legs through the air by way of illustration. “I’ll remind you to buy sensible trousers.” Trousers didn’t seem very sensible in this heat; Lily had hers rolled up at the hems. It was too hot a summer for handstands or trousers. Worse, the playground didn’t offer any shade. Petunia had started to swing at a slower, gentler pace, and Lily raised her voice because the sisters crested heights and dipped into valleys out of rhythm. “I want to do something more exciting!”

The swing chains groaned. Petunia had the dreadful feeling that Lily was going to suggest sneaking into the park to the paddleboat rental. Desperate to stop such a misadventure, Petunia cut in, “What about tonight’s broadcast of the moon landing? You can’t get more exciting than flying to the moon. There’s no gravity on the moon and walking there feels just like flying!”

“I can fly!” Lily declared.

Lily could be so silly sometimes. She was convinced she could do anything she pleased, and Petunia wasn’t sure if her sister meant to say she wanted to be an astronaut, the same way she talked about being an explorer last week, or if her sister intended to pull a stunt. Mummy told her not to, so Petunia guessed the former. 

“You can’t fly without a rocket ship. Not to the moon.”

Lily seemed to have taken her words as a challenge. She swung higher and higher, and Petunia could predict what was coming next.

"Lily, don't do it!” she shrieked, but it was no use. As the swing reached its peak, Lily cast herself off of the metal seat and into the air. Any other child would have found themselves splat face-first on the asphalt, bloodied and broken in more places than they could count, but Lily was a miracle girl. She flew through the air, soaring like a slow-motion trapeze artist. 

The first time Lily had done it, landing safely, Mummy had joked through her hysteria that they should sign Lily up for gymnastics to take an Olympic gold for England. Then Lily did it a second time, staying in the air far too long and touching the ground far too lightly to be natural, just like today. From then on, Mummy wanted to pretend it never happened. She forbade Lily from jumping off the swings, before she cracks her skull, and gave Petunia the Herculean task of making sure Lily followed that rule. So far Lily was working more miracles than Petunia.

“Mummy told you not to!”

Petunia leapt off her own swing—after bringing it to a firm stop—and put her hands on her hips. Her sister was laughing when she landed and wasn’t paying any attention to what Petunia was saying. Lily’s red hair had finally caught up with the rest of her, falling around her shoulders long after her feet had reached the Earth, as if it wanted to defy gravity for a moment longer.

“Mummy said you weren't allowed, Lily!”

“But I'm fine,” Lily protested, still giggling. “Tuney, look at this. Watch what I can do.”

Petunia glanced around. The playground was theirs, as empty now as it had been when they arrived. Lily was firmly on the ground. Whatever her sister wanted to show her next wouldn’t involve jumping off of anything. She was half of the mind to refuse Lily and insist they go home. At least one of them would follow Mummy’s rules! But they hadn’t been at the playground for more than a few minutes and her sister was standing near the row of hydrangea bushes, which were flowering beautifully. They formed a pretty picture with clusters of pale blue flowers like globes suspended in the greenery. Torn, and perhaps the teeniest bit curious, she walked to where Lily stood holding a fallen flower.

As she came close, Lily held it out to her, but she didn’t dare touch it. It was moving! There in Lily’s open palm, the little blue flower opened and closed its petals, like some bizarre, many-lipped oyster ready to munch on her fingers. It was grotesque. 

“Stop it!” she yelled fearfully.

“It's not hurting you,” said Lily, but she closed her hand on the blossom and threw it back to the ground all the same. Petunia watched its tragic flight and crash landing. It was normal now, back to its pretty, regular self. It was a shame Lily had thrown it away, yet Petunia couldn’t bring herself to rescue it lest it start moving again.

“It's not right,” she said, her eyes lingering on the motionless flower. It had scared her, moving as it had, like a creature in Lily’s palm, but it looked sad now, lifeless. She wasn’t sure this was better. Part of Petunia wanted the little flower to come alive for her. She looked back at Lily. “How do you do it?” she asked, unmistakable longing in her voice.

Lily opened her lips to answer but another voice rang out at Petunia’s left, hidden behind the leaves.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Someone dirty jumped out of the bushes and she shrieked, running away from the figure, whom she thought was a drugged-up tramp, the kind Mummy and Daddy swore lurked about the park with needles. She ran as far as the swing-set when she realized Lily was nowhere near her and turned back, fearing the worst for her younger sister. 

Petunia could see Lily standing there, not moving but thankfully not held in place, and a child-sized hobo standing a yard away. She was going to yell to her, but at that moment, Lily turned on her heel and marched over to Petunia of her own accord. Petunia couldn’t hear the full exchange, but she did hear Lily’s final shout, “That’s not very nice,” before stomping away. It was clear something very rude was just said to her sister.

Lily reached her in no time at all, indignation charging her strides, but that grubby figure chased after them. They watched him warily instead of speaking, mirrors of one another, clutching at the swing poles. On closer inspection, Petunia could see that it wasn’t a child-sized hobo approaching as she thought, but a child dressed in a grown man’s jacket and tripping over himself in shoes too large for his feet. He stopped a good distance away from the swings, red-faced, huffing and puffing, his long, dirty hair clinging to his neck and forehead with sweat. It was as though the sight of the sisters, sentinel guards at the swing poles, stopped him in his tracks. Petunia hadn’t seen this boy before, but she felt like she should know him.

Why would she feel like she should know him? He looked as though he were born in the bushes.

He gave Lily an unwavering, forceful look as he said, “You are. You are a witch. I’ve been watching you for a while. But there’s nothing wrong with that. My mum’s one, and I’m a wizard.”

A wizard? Of all the strangest things…! It clicked. Now she knew who this boy must be.

Petunia’s laugh was like cold water. 

“A wizard?” she repeated in humorless disbelief. “I know who you are. You’re that Snape boy.” She didn’t wait for him to confirm or deny it. She knew he was full of lies and tall tales. She turned to Lily to fill her in. “They live down Spinners End by the river,” which told Lily all she needed to know. Petunia crossed her arms and addressed Snape once more. 

“Why have you been spying on us?”

“Haven’t been spying,” he denied. It was hard to tell if he was uncomfortable from the heat or the accusation. 

Well, the denial of spying was an obvious lie because, a moment ago, he had said himself he had been watching them for a while—or watching Lily—the distinction was meaningless: she and Lily always went to the playground together. Just how many of those trips had they been watched without their knowledge and went home none the wiser? What did Snape know about them? Had he been listening to their conversations beyond the one he had butted into? Her eyes narrowed.

“Wouldn’t spy on you anyway,” Snape said spitefully. “You’re a Muggle.” 

Though Petunia didn’t understand the word, there was no mistaking the tone. She gave Snape one last, cold look. She could think of her own reasons he had been watching Lily. Her sister wasn’t the only person strange things happened around. There were rumors about him, of people who said things which upset him and eerie, unnatural ramifications. In light of those whispers, she let the mysterious insult hang in the air and directed her next words to her sister. 

“Lily, come on, we’re leaving!” 

Lily followed her at once, giving Snape a final glare as they marched out the playground in tandem. They let the heavy iron gate slam shut behind them, a final note to conclude the spoiled excursion. That was the end of Snape! The Evans girls would go back to Highcourt Street and he could scuttle back to Spinner’s End.

Lily kicked a wayward rock down the pavement, and Petunia was so angry she almost kicked it herself. Scuffing up her Mary Janes would only make the day worse. What a rude and awful boy! How dare he leap out at people from behind the bushes and insult them? Why, Lily was no more a witch than Petunia a…whatever Snape had called her.

By the time they passed the halfway point between the playground and their home, Petunia’s cold fury had morphed into an agitated, restless paranoia while Lily’s anger had given way to a dangerous curiosity. They were a curious sort, the Evans family. Perhaps it was a by-product of hiding things: you assume everyone else must be doing the same.

Petunia normally took great pains to reign in the Evans family vice. For all their curiosity, at least three of the four members of the Evans household knew there was seldom a good opportunity to appear curious. Daddy was fond of repeating, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat, and the cat doesn’t want you curious about any of them,” which always made the girls shudder. For her part, Mummy smartly pointed out being curious often left you vulnerable to all sorts of risks. There was the mild risk of appearing rude or unlearned, and the more sinister possibility of having your whole world flipped upside down behind it. Petunia tried to live by those lessons, but right now her sister was making that near impossible.

Lily glanced back in the direction of the park so frequently that Petunia was compelled to turn around herself.

“He’s not following us, is he?” she asked, whirling about so quickly she startled Lily. Her hands were balled into fists but there was a panicked edge to her voice. She gave one scrutinizing look down the road behind them, eyeing the bushes suspiciously as if expecting them to part for a boy with lank, dark hair, before whirling back around and continuing her brisk walk.  

“No,” Lily answered, running to catch up to Tuney who showed no sign of slowing her strides. “Who was that boy?”

“I told you, Snape from Spinner’s End by the river.” Petunia sounded more exasperated than she meant to. “He was so rude, calling you that nasty name.” 

But Petunia couldn’t help but feel as if she had been the one called a bad word. Snape had called her something, and there was no mistaking his tone. What was it? Muggle? She didn’t know its meaning, but it had to be one of those swears the mill workers would say. It had an ugly sound, and if Snape had called her darling sister a witch, muggle couldn’t have meant anything good.

It tore Petunia up. How dare someone as grubby as Snape sneer down his nose at respectable people like the Evanses? As if he had any room to call anyone a witch with a mother like his. And clearly he was the no-good sort who’d call his own mother a witch. Who would insult their own mum? He must be doing it for attention because no one with working eyeballs would compare charming Lily to creepy Eileen Snape. Mummy once said the Snapes were desperate people like it was a bad thing, and Petunia finally understood what she meant. Desperation meant you’d do anything to get what you want—even insult your own mother! 

“No wonder there are all those rumors about him.”

“What rumors?” Lily asked. Petunia finally slowed down so her sister could have an easier time walking alongside her.

“All sorts!” Petunia sputtered. “Like the time Francis Sowell saw him walking up to a dead animal and—staring at it!”

“That doesn’t sounds so bad,” Lily reasoned, tucking a wild lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s not like he killed it.”

“It’s not like he was there to pay his respects either,” Petunia exclaimed scathingly. “Face it, Lily, that sort of behavior is—” she paused, looking for the worst censure she could find “—not normal.”

Petunia shuddered despite the summer heat and Lily skipped ahead, glancing up at the swirling smoke blotting out the sky. She appeared to be mulling over her sister’s words. Petunia considered telling Lily the other rumors too, how that Snape boy was pulled out of school one day and never went back or the mysterious colored lights on Spinner’s End, but Lily seemed to reach a conclusion of her own. She was stepping on outsoles of her trainers and Petunia wanted to tell her to stop before she ruins them, but it was good to have something to distract herself with.

“Maybe…maybe he thought he could do something? About the animal?”

Petunia’s mouth had gone dry. They had both stopped walking.

“If I could make the flower move,” her sister began cautiously, “maybe he thought he could bring the animal back?”

“Lily, you didn’t make the flower move,” she said in a very quiet and concerned voice. She could see the misgivings in Lily’s eyes and a shiver ran down her spine. Flowers didn’t flex their petals and dead animals didn’t come back to life. The last thing anyone needed was for Lily to invent a connection between herself and that awful boy. Petunia searched helplessly for anything she could say to stop her sister, but it was like Lily was jumping off the swing all over again. 

This was partly her fault. She was too curious. She should have told Lily to stop her flower trick from the beginning instead of encouraging her game by asking her how she did it. If Petunia had demanded they leave the playground the second her sister jumped off the swing, like Mummy told her to do, then they never would have met that boy.

Lily going anywhere near Snape was a disaster waiting to happen. Petunia thought of Francis Sowell snickering that Snape must’ve been collecting frog legs for his family to eat. What snide remarks would Lily and their family overhear about themselves if anyone believed Lily and Snape shared something in common? Petunia rested both her hands on Lily’s shoulders and chose her next words very carefully so they would weigh down the girl itching to fly over a cliff’s edge. The swing was a spoof. This was real life, and Lily’s stunts were bound to put her in real danger soon.

“If that Snape boy was trying to bring a dead frog back to life, that would make him a freak.” 

The rest of the way home, Petunia tried to engage her sister in the same topics they were discussing before the playground incident—tonight’s broadcast of the moon landing or what the grammar school is supposed to be like—but her words would sooner move the little flower or Snape’s dead frog. Nothing sparked Lily’s interest. Lily would glance back in the direction of the park, a regretful look plain on her face, which Petunia heroically ignored the first hundred times it happened. Then it happened again and a sharp jab escaped from her lips before she could stop herself.

“You can walk backwards if you like—save your neck the trouble of twisting.” 

Lily did just that, crossing her arms spitefully. She might have continued in that fashion until they reached the house if Petunia’s look of surprised delight hadn’t prompted her to turn round.

Ned Evans was walking up the path to the front door.

“Daddy!”

Lily torpedoed into him, wrapping her arms around his middle with such force he staggered backwards. Daddy handed Petunia his hat to hold for safekeeping, smoothing down his brown hair with his free hand.

“Back so soon?” Mummy asked from the doorway. The phone in the corridor behind her was still off its hook. “Lily, did you jump off the swings?”

Petunia spared her sister from answering. 

“There was a boy at the playground who was very rude to us.” With a start, she loosened her digging grip on Daddy’s hat. She hadn’t realized she was wrinkling the brim.

Mummy shrugged sympathetically, and Petunia started to feel better already. Her parents usually had a lot to say about rude people. Mummy was back on the telephone uttering a brief goodbye and holding up her finger for silence so the family would sound well-behaved in the background. Petunia waited for the phone to click.

“That’s how boys are until they grow up.”

Petunia frowned. Daddy was a polite and proper gentleman, as she was about to remind Mummy, but her father hung his hat on the coatrack and mutinously nodded along. 

“He called me a witch,” Lily declared, but her words were drowned out by Daddy’s outburst.

“He didn’t flash his willy at you, did he?” 

“Ned!” 

“It’s a legitimate question,” Daddy balked. “There are all kinds of shady characters near the park—flashers, drug dealers, tramps.”

“Park services keeps them away from the playground,” Mummy said dismissively. “They’re talking about a boy.”

“What did the boy do, poppet?” Daddy asked, crouching down to Lily’s height.

“He called me a witch,” Lily repeated, but the force behind her words was gone. If Petunia didn’t know better, her sister almost sounded intrigued.

“I bet it was that Sullivan boy,” Mummy clamored. Petunia wanted to tell her it was that Snape boy, but there was no way to get a word in over Mummy without being rude. “He says the most inappropriate things. Patty and Bill aren’t raising him right. You wouldn’t believe what he said to the grocer last week." She clutched at her pearl necklace and let the scandal run wild through her family's imaginations. "Aren’t you glad that we have two girls?” Mummy asked Daddy pointedly.

“Johnny’s a good lad at heart. Boys are just more trouble,” Daddy replied good-naturedly, but he dropped his cheeky grin when he noticed the stony looks his daughters were shooting him. He was walking a fine line. He played cricket with Mr. Sullivan, who wasn’t present to appreciate his comments, and had three ladies in front of him to appease. “They always feel bad about it a few years later when they notice how pretty the girls are.” He winked. Neither Petunia nor Lily were impressed.

“I hope they feel bad forever,” Petunia muttered spitefully, her arms pinioned at her sides and her hands clenched. 

At almost the same time, Lily crossed her arms and bitingly asked, “What happens when the girls aren’t pretty?” 

Mummy and Daddy only laughed at their comments with a humor the girls didn’t share. Then the discussion changed to the far more serious subject of the dreadful road blocks caused by protesting mill workers. Lily retreated upstairs. Mummy and Daddy’s voices grew distant as they made their way into the kitchen.

“Ridiculous, if you ask me. They protest if it’s open. They protest if it’s closed.”

“I only wish they could keep it off the roads,” Daddy moaned. “What do they accomplish by inconveniencing everyone else?” 

Petunia wondered if the mill protest was where Snape had picked up that unfamiliar insult. What in the world did muggle mean? Perhaps a boy who fancied himself a wizard hadn’t intended to insult someone he called a witch, but he had absolutely intended to insult Petunia. She shouldn’t care, finding out could only make her twice as upset.

She retied her blonde hair into a ponytail and bent down to brush imaginary dirt from her shoes. 

Behind his strange clothes, Snape was an ordinary, dumb boy. She knew exactly what his game was. He was trying to fake a connection between himself and Lily, lying that he was a wizard and she was a witch like his Mum. Wasn’t that special? It couldn’t change the fact that Petunia was Lily’s sister. They shared a real connection, the sort you didn’t have to make up. With relish, she mused his big revelation hadn’t gone at all like he imagined it would. He must not have planned for the Evans girls to stick together. What had he expected, he would tell Lily that the two of them had magic powers, and Lily would cast aside Petunia like yesterday’s lunch meat? 

Some spy. No one watching Lily with Petunia or listening to their conversations would conclude Lily would abandon her sister to hang around the likes of Snape. She started towards the kitchen to ask Mummy if Lily could join tomorrow’s shopping trip like she had promised.

A wizard… She scoffed. They made sad and unimpressive figures behind their curtains.