A Sister's Love

This is a weird idea that came into my head during my history class. There's no plot at all, no beginning, no end, just me waffling on as though I was Petunia writing about Lily. Don't worry, my friends are looking for the chloroform now.

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns all of the characters, plots, and situations in this...whatever it is.

(What is this exactly? Answers on a postcard.) Oh, and I'm not making any money out of it, either. Which is really quite annoying.

When I saw her child on the front step, three weeks ago, with her eyes, her beautiful eyes, I swore that no force on earth would make me let what happened to her happen to her son, if only because she loved him. God knows I hate the boy, but it was the only thing I could do for her, and she would never know how much I loved her. My Lily. My poor, sweet, innocent Lily. They murdered her, those freaks, with their spells and enchantments, lured her in. But, oh, it hurts, seeing her son, day after day, week after week, month after month, so like his blasted father. I'd have him out in an instant, if it wasn't for – what happened to her. I promised her, when I first saw him, that I'd take care of him. And I will. I won't let them take him, and kill him like they did her. I won't let her son, the last thing I have left of her, be murdered. And some day, I'll hurt them, like they hurt me.

I remember the day she got her letter. Everyone was so happy. That was when I was allowed champagne for the first time. But she was so scared. Each night, I would stay awake and listen for the telltale sobs from her bedroom. I would creep across the landing and push open the door, then sit with her, comforting her, reassuring her. She was so scared. Lily was really the only one in our family who took her religion seriously. She was terrified that she was going against God, making a pact with the devil. Poor Lily-my-Lily. That was what I used to call her, you know. My Lily-my-Lily. We had our own little jokes that nobody else understood – once we even made up our own language – and we would giggle at the thought that one day, we wouldn't see each other for months, even years, on end. We made a pact, the night before she left, that we would never grow apart, and that we'd have double wedding, and have daughters that would love each other as much as we loved each other.

Then that awful summer. She came home, but she didn't. She wasn't my Lily-my-Lily anymore. She had other friends, friends that I would never be able to know. She was as kind and as sweet as ever, but somehow, it was as though she was a guest. It was as though her heart was still at that school. I suppose it was, in a way. We would never really be able to live in her world anymore, and I think she realised that sooner than any of us. Maybe that's why she cried, night after night. Maybe she wasn't worried about her soul, but her heart. I think she knew, even then, that one day, she was going to have to let go. So she prepared, and built her defences.

And so did I. I built a wall away from her, from my whole family. I wanted to knock it down, after a while, but I couldn't. I was afraid. The shield I had built for my own protection had turned on me, forcing me to build another, and another, until I had nothing left to give, until I had to start believing in what I had become to everyone else, or crumble under the strain. But I was never very good at crumbling.

Until that night, when the baby came. I read that letter, even read some of it to Vernon. He doesn't know the whole of it, of course. That would never do. So I keep my walls, and strengthen them. Every time I see Lily's eyes, I remember, and I swear that I will hurt them, like they hurt me. They want their darling Harry Potter, but they'll never get him. I'm going to make them hurt, and hurt, and hurt. I'm going to make them pay for every drop of blood in her precious body, every tear she ever shed on those ridiculous robes of hers.

I've still got them, her school ones anyway. And the books. Our parents kept them, and I found them when Mother died. I keep them in the attic. Vernon never goes near them, of course, and neither do I. I want to burn them, rip the pages out, tear the black seams apart. I don't though. It reminds me of what they did to her, and to me. I remember. And I will make them pay.

Petunia Dursley, November 20th 1982