All Petunia Dursley can think about is what the neighbours will think with their twenty-two year old neighbour discussing something with a strange boy in her back garden at eleven o'clock at night, when she knows she should be focusing on the question he just asked. "Are you going to Lily's wedding?" he had queried, and it had been so hard not to say "I am desperate to but I know I won't fit in because I've spent the last eight years telling her how much I despise her." The boy shifts his weight, an unlit cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth, and she wonders if he thinks he looks cool.
"Well?" He demands, snapping her out of her reverie. "Are you going to go or not?"
"Did she put you up to this?" Petunia replies scornfully. She knows the answer already, but it will help to have it confirmed.
"Of course not," The boy – Sirius – retorts. "Have you met Lily? If I'd told her I was planning on turning up here she'd have begged me not to go. Did she ever, in the last nineteen years, strike you as the sort to pussyfoot around something she wanted?"
No, a small voice in her head whispers. "If memory serves me correctly," Petunia snaps, "Yes."
Sirius just looks at her in a disbelieving way, like he can't believe she could be so blasé – so spiteful – towards her sister. He raises an eyebrow. "Did you ever even know her at all?" He asks, and with a crack he's gone, and she's stood in her garden shivering and trying not to cry, because she has asked herself the same question over and over again, and the answer scares her.
In all honesty, she's not sure if she ever did.