The Root of True Hatred
Petunia Dursley was not a stupid woman, nor a particularly unobservant one. So when her freak of a nephew went missing, she noticed. Oh, she noticed. Her husband, great lout that he was, didn’t. He had never been the most intelligent of men, but he was easily guided and provided for her and her son, so he served his purpose. Had she been more romantically inclined, she might even say she loved him. But Petunia was a bitter woman, and any capacity she had for emotions such as love or pity had long since dried up. She fancied that she loved her son, but her affection for the boy was more out of vanity than anything else, for she believed that any child she produced must surely be better than her freak of a nephew. Part of her knew she was deluding herself, but she did not really care.
She had been a bitter child, always eclipsed by the shining brilliance of her beautiful younger sister, and her bitterness had only increased when it was revealed that Lily was even more special. She was magic, another thing which set Lily apart and above while Petunia had to stand to the side and watch in jealousy. She had loved Lily as a child, all the jealousy in the world wouldn’t have changed that then. But things kept happening that took Lily away from her. First it was that boy, that horrible disgusting skinny boy with the hooked nose and knobby knees and bruises shaped like fingers running up and down his arms. He lived down the street from them and befriended Lily, entranced by her beauty like all that had come before him.
Lily had become fond of him very quickly for some reason, which Petunia now knew to be magic. They spent all their time together, always going off to some hideaway to whisper secret things to each other while Petunia was once again left alone and forgotten. Lily was her little sister; she should have spent time with Petunia, after all she loved her most of all. But no, she lavished that disgusting urchin with her precious time. He didn’t deserve to bask in her brilliance. Everyone always wanted to take her sister away, but he was the worst of them. Severus Snape was the very first person that Petunia ever truly hated. She doesn’t think she’ll ever hate anyone more.
She knows that her hatred of the man was justified, now. She had known it years before, when one summer Lily returned from that boarding school that was just too far away and no longer spoke of secret things with the dark haired boy. And she had known it when her sister had gone into hiding from some sort of dark cult leader. She just knew that the pathetic piece of trash had been the reason for her sister’s sudden seclusion. It was always him, she knew because for all his pathetic chasing of her sister (it was obvious he wanted Lily) he couldn’t hide the darkness from her. She had her own, after all. She had watched his fall from grace with a malicious glee, because he had finally been denied the relationship with her sister that she had always wanted but would never have.
No one had deserved Lily, her beautiful, brilliant Lily. So when she opened her door one morning to see a dark haired child wrapped in a blanket and a basket on her doorstep she knew that her sister was dead. Because that cursed child had her sister’s eyes (they had always been beautiful, like emeralds) large and wide in the child’s still round face. She hates the child almost as much as she hates that freak Snape. Because he’s here, in front of her, a physical reminder that her sister is dead, and she has to look at her sister’s eyes in a face that’s all wrong. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. He doesn’t deserve anything of Lily. So she lies to him. Told him his parents were drunks and layabouts. He doesn’t deserve to even hear about her sister. Those were the parents he deserved, after all he had to be the reason her sister was dead. Why else would that crazy cult man chase her sister with such madness? It was the boy, she believes this fervently even if she doesn’t know the real reason why. He was practically a murderer, he killed her sister but she couldn’t kill him. Death was too kind a punishment for something like him. The letter the old freak had left seemed to imply the boy would serve as some sort of protection against the cult, which was enough to convince Vernon to let her keep the boy. So she locks him away him the cupboard so she won’t have to look at Lily’s eyes, and she whispers poisonous tales of magic into her husband’s ears. He takes care of the rest, and every time she hears Vernon punish the freak she can’t help but feel satisfaction at a job well done.
He’d always drip though, the boy. That filthy blood of his staining the wooden floor of the cupboard, staining her house with Lily’s blood. How dare he, she thinks as she scrubs at the stains she knows will never come out. And he watches her with those eyes. Those horrible, beautiful eyes of his. She’ll never be clean, she knows. She was never as clean or bright as Lily, and the years have only stained her; twisted her like a handkerchief wrung between bloody hands. But she was satisfied to have brought suffering to the instrument of her sister’s destruction. Maybe she made him bitter, as bitter as herself. It would have been the ultimate revenge on the world for letting her sister die, for keeping her from her.
But he’s gone now. She doesn’t know where, and she doesn’t particularly care. She knows she’s left her mark on him, even though it was Vernon who drew his blood. He had always been a strange child, inhumanly sharp and quiet. Her mark is just as deep and ingrained as those qualities, and she knows that it will follow him for the rest of his life. He’ll probably assume its part of himself, think its normal for him. But she’ll have affected him. She feels a vague sense of triumph, at the thought.
There’s no real reason for her to inform Dumbledore of the boy’s escape. It is not her problem if he can’t keep track of his own freaks. There’s little reason for the cultists to hurt her family, and even if they did she doesn’t know if she’d really care. She’s had her vengeance, after all.
“Vernon?” She calls, “Dinner’s ready.”
It has been a few cycles of light and dark since their mastergodFatherCreator had left. He had taken the other bright light with him. They had spoken with the light sometimes, in the limited way that beings with as simple a consciousness as themselves could. They had liked the light. It was warm and reminded them of the sun, and had allowed them to drink of its essence to better serve their creator. Their creator was far away, they knew. But they could feel him through their connection, they were still subject to his will, and they were glad for it; for what purpose did they have without their god?
He was gone now, but they were strong. They were part of him, an extension of his will. Their roots were deep and their minds were strong and saturated with the dark intent he had feed them. If they had tastebuds the thoughts would have tasted like blood. Their creator was gone. But the Horse creature that he had given them memories of was not. They could feel its energy inside the human dwelling. It was weak and dull compared to their creators, and they hated it. It had to be punished for her transgressions against their master.
They had been mere flowers once, before their master saw fit to give them true life. They are so much more now, though, proper servants for their creator. Their collective consciousness shivers in pleasure at serving their god.
The Horse creature had been given their name, their creator had told them. Naming it after them had some sort of significance in human society. They weren’t quite sure what it was, but they knew that humans put their names on things that they owned. So they supposed that made it theirs. It is only proper to claim what is theirs, they decide.
The Horse creature likes to look at them, and show them off to the other female humans who smell like fake flowers. So it is easy enough to send out tendrils of their mental matrix and ensnare her mind when she admires them alone. It starts with her bending down to inhale their fragrance; they have made if so she could not resist. She is ensnared from that moment and it is so terribly easy to dominate her mind, as weak as it was from near madness and festering bitterness. Her darkness is easy to merge with their own, consumed and devoured in mere seconds. If their master had been there he would have agreed that it was a fitting revenge against the woman, for her to become a part of his creations.
Linked as she is to them, she no longer exists as an autonomous being; her body is theirs to use, a marionette to be shared among the hive mind. It is easy enough to fake her personality, her routine and actions are all theirs to peruse among her memories. It fascinates them, to have a body of flesh, and they take great pleasure in dragging sharp knives across her skin and experiencing physical pain for the first time. It is addicting, and they smile darkly with her face.
No one ever notices Petunia Dursleys death, as her body continues living.
No one ever notices Petunia.