Just a short one-shot idea that would not leave me in peace.
Oh, by the way, I own nothing. All recognizable characters and details belong to the Lovely J.K. Rowling.
Gone. She was gone from this world; her feet would never grace the world again. Her fiery attitude had burnt out; her piercing emerald stare now lifeless. Gone. She was gone.
Petunia Dursley acknowledged that perhaps she had no right to be upset about her sister's murder. After all, the last time she had seen Lily was four years ago. Petunia had even neglected to invite her youngest sister to her wedding, as Lily had been quite adamant that Vernon was "a good for nothing prat." Petunia had ignored her, and tossed Lily and her foul husband's wedding invitation in the trash the next morning.
Regret, Petunia noted, stung worse than the hornets from the park she and her sister played in in their youth. Petunia felt like she was suffocating. She had ignored Lily's desperate attempt at reconciliation months prior. Petunia had no idea that Lily, James, and young Harry were being sought out by a sociopathic murderer. She had no idea that just four short months later, when she would open the door November 1, 1981 to fetch the paper, she would find a black haired child swaddled in a blanket, grasping a letter in his tiny fist.
Reading about her sister's passing from the very man she had begged to give her admittance to Hogwarts ripped Petunia's heart open. He had been able to provide support and guidance to Petunia's sister when she was in dire need. Petunia had thrown away Lily's letter. Guilt and regret made way into her heart, and her entire being felt as if it had been plunged into ice.
Gone. Her sister was dead, and Petunia had turned her back on Lily in her most desperate time. There would be no chance to apologize, no chance to correct her mistake. Lily was dead, her body growing even colder than Petunia's currently felt.
Petunia drew Lily's child into her arms and held him close to her chest. The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains in the spotless kitchen, yet Petunia's world still seemed dark. The child stirred in her arms. Petunia's eyes met with those of a familiar, vibrant green. Her heart clenched and she felt moisture on her cheeks. Hugging Harry to her chest, her entire body shook with silent sobs.
Her sister was gone. Petunia wouldn't have any more unread letters to toss in the bin. Lily would miss her son's first day of school; she would never hang one of Harry's hand drawn pictures on her refrigerator. Lily would never dance with her son at his wedding; she would no longer be there to hold him after a nightmare. How would Petunia deal with Harry when he cried in search of his mother or father? How could she possibly let a one-year-old boy know that his mom and dad were gone? Dead. Murdered. Regret washed over Petunia once more, and she wasn't sure she would ever resurface.
Instead of making her way upstairs to share the news with her husband and check on her child, Petunia Dursley sat at kitchen table and sobbed into her nephew's messy hair. In turn, Harry snuggled himself in Petunia's arms, falling asleep to the steady shaking of Petunia's grief stricken body.
In years to come, neither the boy nor the wayward sister would ever be able to find comfort in one another. Harry would grow up resenting Petunia's denial of his heritage and lies surrounding his parents' deaths. Petunia would slowly begin to begrudge Harry's piercing emerald stare, that endlessly taunted Petunia with reminders of every unfixable mistake she had ever made. He would claim she was evil; she would claim he was a freak.
The remaining branches of the Evans family tree would live on to prove that, perhaps, there were some deaths that one just couldn't cope with no matter how much time has passed.