0.
The announcement came in the mail, between the bills and the newspaper. She glanced at it. Dudley, barely a month old, was screaming in the bassinet in the living room.
So, she thought, they have a son.
And she threw it out.
1.
"Doesn't he have any other family? What about his father's parents? Brothers? Sisters? Surely someone from his lot could take him!"
His face was mottled and his nostrils flared. She realized her hand was clenched in a tight fist, her shoulders raised. She held her breath, listening, but she didn't hear crying.
"I don't want this either!" she said, trying to keep her anger under control. How could she be left with this mess? "But there's no one. His parents are dead. He needs our help. Professor Dumbledore…"
"I read the bloody note!" Vernon snapped. "All the more reason to get rid of the boy! We can't put ourselves in danger for him!"
This time his voice reached a new pitch of rage, and Petunia did hear a little cry from upstairs.
"Vernon, quietly, the boys…"
"I WILL NOT HAVE ONE OF THEM UNDER MY ROOF!"
Now the crying was in earnest, and it was soon turned into a harmony: the two little boys, Dudley in his crib in the nursery, Harry locked in the second bedroom.
"He's…family," said Petunia.
"He's not my family," said Vernon.
Petunia drew in a breath, her insides cold. "It could mean his death."
He collapsed, breathing heavily, into the couch. "He's not our son," he said. There was a pause, and the wailing of the two boys upstairs reached a more intense pitch. "And there can be no question of that in the boy's mind."
She let the breath go, nodding. "Of course." She waited until the furor in him seemed to die a little. Rising slowly and tiptoeing around the couch, she took the steps two at a time, came to the little landing, and looked at the two closed bedroom doors. She hesitated a mere instance, then opened Dudley's door and pulled him out of his crib.
"Mummy's here,'' she murmured, and held her son close to her and listened to her nephew scream himself into exhaustion and finally fall asleep in the room next door.
2.
He screamed and screamed, all through the night sometimes. She thought he must be having nightmares, the way he twitched even when he wasn't crying.
"Can't you get him to shut up?" Vernon complained one night. "Dudley never cries like this."
One night she accidentally left the window open, and he slept soundly the whole night long.
"Don't know why that should make a difference," muttered Vernon in the morning, "what with the car noise from the street."
"And worse, those motorcycle engines," added Petunia.
3.
"There must be a solution," Vernon said, eyebrows knitted together in concentration.
"I've tried," Petunia answered. "But there's no way around it. The room is simply too small for his toys."
Dudley, the subject of their conversation, sat unaware on the rug in his bedroom, trying to fit differently shaped blocks into a box. Petunia bent down and showed him how to do it, matching up the shape of the block to its corresponding hole, but Dudley swatted her hand away in frustration.
"Strong-willed little boy, isn't he?" Vernon said proudly.
A small, dark haired child toddled into the room, reaching for a yellow rubber ball. Petunia picked the boy up and deposited him back in the room from whence he came.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Harry. Leave Dudders alone while he's playing!" She stood, turning back to Vernon. "What about the cupboard under the stairs? Maybe we could put some of his things in there?"
"Dudley's things?"
Petunia shrugged. "Well, Harry doesn't have any things."
But Vernon was grinning. "The cupboard! Of course!"
Her eyes narrowed, confused. "Then…"
Vernon shrugged. "We'll just put Harry in the cupboard under the stairs!"
4.
It was a nice summer's day, and they wandered about London, past department stores and restaurants, enjoying the sunshine.
Dudley was dead bored, and would rather have been home with his telly, Petunia knew, but Harry looked pleased to be out and about. He stared around with wide eyes and a half smile. Petunia, with uncharacteristic generosity, bought both boys a soda. They sat at a park bench in front of a dilapidated department store to rest for a moment. That's when she started to notice the stares, the way children tugged on their parents' hands.
"Mum, isn't that…"
"Look, Daddy, at his scar!"
One very eccentric-looking father holding the hand of a small girl with long blond hair pointed them out. "That's him all right, the Boy Who Lived, but you must always treat him as a normal boy. No one likes to be singled out."
At this, Petunia's head whipped around. She quickly picked up their purchases and led the boys down the street in the opposite direction, vowing that next time she would find a neighbor to leave Harry with. Her worst fear: that strange people would be drawn to them.
Harry walked on, oblivious.
5.
"Aunt Petunia?" His voice was small, soft.
"Yes, Harry?" she said without looking up from the evening news.
"When is my birthday?"
What a question, she thought. "In the summer."
"What day?"
Now she did look up, took in shaggy hair and baggy clothes and one cracked lens in his glasses. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
Bright green eyes dropped. "It's for school. My teacher says we all will celebrate our birthdays and we must know when they are to put them on the calendar."
She looked back down at the evening news. "Your birthday is in the summer. There will be no celebration."
Even though she wasn't looking, she could see, from the corner of her eye, bony shoulders drop, and then the little boy was gone.
6.
Of course, there had been signs before, but Petunia had tried to explain those away. There was always a chance little Harry would not inherit his parents'…eccentricities.
This, she could not explain away.
The drive home from the school was silent, as Petunia worked to control her emotions. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Harry, staring at his hands and looking as if he were trying to disappear.
Maybe he was trying to disappear.
"Harry."
He looked up, and she saw his piercing eyes behind the glasses, just like Lily, and she felt a wave of envy unlike any she had experienced in years. She clenched her jaw to push it down.
"I will give you one last opportunity to explain this," she said, her voice tight.
Harry bit his lip. She turned the car onto Privet Drive, pulled into the driveway, put the car in park, and turned in her seat.
"How…how did you turn Mrs. Haversham's wig blue?"
"I didn't touch her wig," Harry said. His voice was quiet but defiant.
She waited a second longer—she wasn't sure what for—and then opened her door, stepped out, and slammed it shut.
Harry's door opened too, and he followed her into the house, his head hanging. The second the front door had closed behind her, she grabbed his arm hard. He winced but did not speak as she dragged him down the hall and shoved him into his cupboard a bit harder than she'd intended. She stood there trembling for a moment, and then, for good measure, locked the door before storming into the kitchen.
The rag she had left on the countertop in her haste to get to the school was still damp. She grabbed it and furiously began mopping the breakfast mess. From the cupboard she could hear a muffled little voice shouting, "I didn't do it! I didn't!"
She was far too incensed to explain to him that it wasn't just this incident that was the problem. It was that she knew exactly what would come next—years of strange occurrences and funny questions from teachers and neighbors, until finally the letter would come. And it would ruin everything.
7.
They were supposed to draw their favorite animal, Dudley explained. He'd hewn out of crayons a small, furry four-legged thing.
"A bulldog!" exclaimed Vernon, in fits to tell Marge about it.
"I drew a picture too," said Harry, showing his own drawing. Petunia cocked her head, trying to identify the childish drawing.
Vernon said, "Quite poorly drawn horses if you ask me."
Harry looked at his drawing, then back at Vernon, plainly annoyed. "Look closer. Horses don't have antlers, Uncle Vernon."
8.
Petunia examined the angles, then photographed a side view of her flower garden while Vernon inspected the lawn. Dudley had disappeared, off playing, no doubt.
Harry lay sprawled on the grass, looking even skinnier than he actually was in a plaid button up of Dudley's.
"Wouldn't it be wonderful," Harry breathed, very much to himself, Petunia thought, "to fly?"
Vernon's head flipped around. "What did you say?"
"Hmm?" Harry said.
Petunia's head whipped from side to side, looking for eavesdropping neighbors.
"IN your cupboard! One week!" Vernon hissed.
Surprised, Harry leapt to his feet. "What did I—"
"NOW!" Vernon yelped.
Harry stared, chin trembling. Then he went.
9.
The bulldog was the most disgusting little creature Petunia had ever seen, and she loathed Marge's visits just for that reason. But she decided to forgive the horrible brute just this once when Dudley appeared in the kitchen, red-faced, shouting, "Mum, mum! Come and see what Ripper's done!"
Leaving the plates in the sink to soak, Petunia followed her son into the backyard, where she could hear Ripper barking like mad, dancing around the roots of their little tree. Vernon and Marge stood hunched over, staring up into the trees, tears of mirth running down their faces.
"Petunia!" Vernon gasped, trying to catch his breath. "Ripper's got the right idea!"
She picked her way across the grass, and then hunched over so she, too, could see up the tree. Her lips curled into an elated grin when she saw untidy hair and broken glasses staring down at her, as Harry's worn tennis shoes tried to find purchase in the tree's branches.
Marge turned to her, wiping her eyes, and said, "I never saw a child scurry up a tree so fast!"
"Aunt Marge!" Harry called. His shoe slipped and he almost fell, but he caught himself in time, pulling himself up with his arms. "Please call him off!"
"I think not, boy! You quite deserve it, what with all your aunt and uncle do for you!"
Ha, Petunia thought to herself, grinning up at the boy. In future he would thank her for this. He ought to learn at some point that magic didn't automatically get you everything you wanted.
10.
The rest of the house was dead asleep, but Petunia sat on the back porch and stared up at the stars. Inside, the clock sounded midnight, and she felt her stomach drop. It was July 31, and Harry was ten. How had the time gone so fast? Starting now, she knew, she had one year left, and then that piece of parchment would come, and life as she knew it would be over.
11.
"What's this?"
Petunia did not look down at Harry when he asked this question, but felt her lips tighten as she did her best to maintain her patience. Such an ungrateful child… "It's your new school uniform," she said, as she carefully stirred the water.
"Oh. I didn't realize it had to be so wet."
It was comments like these that sent Petunia's patience flying. Here she was, up to her elbows in smelly dye, going out of her way to provide for this boy that she never wanted anyway, and he had the gall to be cheeky with her. "Don't be stupid," she snapped at him. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I'm finished."
He raised an eyebrow, but had the good sense to walk away. Petunia lost track of the conversation over the sound of the water as she dumped the gray water and rinsed the tub in the sink, careful not to get the dye everywhere. She surveyed her handiwork and thought she had done quite well for herself.
"That's mine!" she heard Harry shout, and she turned, ready to tell him off for treating her son this way.
"Who'd be writing to you?" Vernon said, taking from Harry a thick envelope. Seeing that Vernon had the situation under control, Petunia turned back to the sink, until a flustered voice called, "Petunia!"
Coming around the kitchen island, Petunia took the paper from Vernon. For a second, she stared at it. Then her heart dropped, and she felt the blood leave her face, and her hand trembled, and she thought to herself, No, it's early, it's too early! And she said, "Vernon! Oh my goodness, Vernon!"
She stared at him and he stared back at her. They had planned this. They were going to stop the mail at Harry's birthday, go pick it up separately, throw out the letter before he had a chance to see it. She had intended to write to Professor Dumbledore, tell him they had considered the matter and decided not to allow Harry to pursue a magical education. They were going to avoid this whole thing. They were his guardians after all, and had rights!
Suddenly she realized that both Harry and Dudley were shouting, and Vernon shouted, "OUT!" and both boys obeyed, the door slamming shut behind them.
For a moment, everything was silent as blood rushed in her ears. She didn't know where to start. The envelope was still in her hand, and she flipped it over, horrified at what she saw. "Vernon, look at the address. How could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?" And she felt a tiny twinge of fear.
"Watching—spying—might be following us," Vernon muttered.
"But what should we do? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want—?"
There was a silence. Then Vernon said, "No. No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer…yes, that's best…we won't do anything…"
Petunia couldn't see how this approach would work. Vernon didn't know these people like she did. They did not give up so easily, and they were so arrogant, so sure they were right.
"But—"
"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia!" Vernon roared. "Didn't we swear when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"
12.
It was nearly September, and she felt that it was finally safe to assume that Harry would not be coming back before school started. She waited til Vernon was off to work and Dudley had gone to tea with one of his friends, then cracked the door open.
The room was littered with sweet wrappers, dirty socks, and bits of Dudley's hand-me-downs (ungrateful little boy, she thought); the bed was unmade, the furniture dusty, everything scattered about because of Harry's hasty escape in that dreadful flying car.
She pulled the bed apart, noticing several black ink spots staining the sheets, and collected everything to take to the laundry. As she crossed the room, she trod on a part of the floor that gave an odd squeak. Retracing her steps, she found the spot and tested her weight several times, hearing the scrunch of the wood.
Dropping the sheets, she fell to her knees and shimmied her fingers around the boards until she found the loose one, pulled it up, looked down, and gasped. Besides an old feather quill and a small vial of ink, she saw…a book. She took it out and turned the cover to the light: Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. So Harry had been stashing his things here, hiding them, after they had shown him nothing but generosity and…
"Petunia!" she heard Vernon call from downstairs. "Would you believe, I've forgotten my beeper!"
She jammed the loose board back into place, collected the sheets, and emerged from the room just as he came up the stairs.
"What were you doing in there?" he asked, eyebrows knitted.
She held up the sheets. "Cleaning. Boy left the room a mess."
He nodded, and she let out a sigh.
No need to upset Vernon, about the books, she thought.
13.
It almost didn't faze her when Harry, all swagger and pride, announced that his godfather was a mass murdering psychopath still on the run. It just sort of made sense that Harry and James and Lily and the magical community in general would have found every possible way to ruin her life.
14.
The pecking started on the 20th of December. The Dursleys were seated at the dinner table, having just begun dessert, and they all looked around at each other, then, in unison, their eyes all went to the staircase.
"Not this year," said Vernon. "If we don't open the window, it can't come in."
Petunia exchanged a glance with her son, whose left eyebrow was raised.
It continued pecking through the night, and the next morning. Petunia began to hope that it would get overexcited and break through the glass in Dudley's second bedroom—Harry's room.
"Vernon," Petunia started, but he shook his head forcefully.
"I will not."
And it continued. All day, and all through the night, until Dudley took to wrapping a thick scarf around his head and turning the television up much too loudly, desperate to block out the sound.
"Dad," he finally whined on the morning of the 23rd.
"Absolutely not!" Vernon shouted.
They took measures, when leaving or entering the house, counting to three and making a run to the car, but the snow-white owl followed them everywhere.
On Christmas Eve morning, Vernon sat bleary-eyed over cooling coffee. For an instant, the pecking stopped. All three of them looked up hopefully. Dudley hesitantly raised the scarf a quarter inch off his ear.
Vernon sighed in relief, took a sip of his coffee, and then dumped the whole thing down his front as the owl began again.
Spluttering and swearing, he stood and shook his fist at the ceiling. "You win, you horrible creature!"
With a violent gesture, he ripped a single tissue from the box on the coffee table in the living room, jammed it into an empty checkbook box and shoved the lot into Dudley's hands.
"Should we…write him a note?" Petunia asked.
"He'll know it's from us," Vernon said, and fell back into the chair at the table. As Dudley disappeared up the stairs and into Harry's room, Petunia could hear Vernon continue to mutter.
"Effing owl—every single year—doesn't give up—a menace!"
15.
Petunia glanced left and right all the way to the car park on the way back from King's Cross. There were always such strange people crowded on the platform when they went to get Harry, and this time, with the oddly scarred man and others of their kind daring to threaten her family, she felt an added responsibility to ensure that no one they knew spotted them.
She did not breathe a sigh of relief until they Vernon pulled out onto the highway. No one spoke, but she looked in the rearview mirror at the two boys and found herself narrowing her eyes.
Harry sat with his forehead against the window, staring out at passing cars. His shoulders were tense, and he seemed thin and pale, almost sickly. He did not gloat over what his fellows had said on the platform.
Dudley stared out the other window, though she caught him glancing at his cousin.
Something has happened, she thought. All these absurd adults had known Harry for years now. They had never taken the time to threaten them. There had always been subtle intimidations—Harry's criminal godfather, for example—but never something like this.
An unnamable weight settled on her shoulders, and not for the first time, she wondered what she'd gotten her family into when they'd agreed to take Harry.
16.
She did all right in the daytime. Then, it was easier to rationalize away the pit in her stomach that she had felt for the better part of the year. But once darkness fell, every tiny noise sent her heart pounding, and she had to remind herself that they were safe until Harry turned seventeen next week.
She got up, careful not to wake Vernon, and padded down the hall in her third excursion of the night. She inched Dudley's door open: he was deeply asleep, snoring loudly, and she sighed.
Petunia stepped in front of Harry's door, turned the knob gently, and silently stepped into the room, avoiding moving boxes as she went.
He looked younger, more innocent in sleep. Here, he was not the quiet, determined, older, more mature Harry who had returned from Hogwarts this year. He was not the young general making preparations for his aunt and uncle and cousin's safety. He was a smallish, skinny teenage boy.
She crossed the floor, staring down at his sleeping face, realizing only now that it lacked lines of tension that she had seen in him today. Next to discarded glasses, a notebook lay open on his desk; she peered at it in the moonlight, and saw strange words and phrases that did not make sense, all written in nearly illegible teenage handwriting:
The Locket
-Ask Hermione if some famous Slytherin was called RAB, or search lists of old DE
-Research magical methods of searching for lost items
-How do I destroy it? How did Dumbledore destroy the ring? Not the basilisk fang, surely? How do I do it? How do I destroy it?
The last had been underlined three times, and with such fury that the quill had ripped right through the paper and the ink had blotted. Petunia looked away from the notebook, back at her sleeping nephew. She bent slightly, and pushed back a lock of his dark hair, showing the thin lightning scar that had always horrified her.
Soon, they would part ways, maybe forever. Harry had not given them any details of where he was going, or what he would be doing, but Petunia could feel the tension in the atmosphere. He could die. Voldemort could finally achieve his goal. And while Petunia had never attempted to hide her disdain at the way her perfect life had been interrupted by the arrival of Lily's infant son, she had also never wanted Harry dead. Had given up her perfect life, in fact, to ensure his safety.
The moonlight fell across his face, and he looked pale and small and young, and she felt a sudden stab of something in her gut. Sorrow? Worry? Fear?
Regret, she realized. It was regret.
"Harry?" she breathed into the blue darkness.
He shifted but did not wake. What would she say, anyway? She lowered her eyes and looked away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
17.
Almost the instant that Vernon left the house, Dudley appeared in the doorway of the kitchen where Petunia stood, chopping onions.
"Mum, I know Dad doesn't like to hear about this stuff and I know you say you don't either, but…this was important."
The knife paused and she looked up, her heart sinking. "Yes?"
Dudley shifted his weight and jammed his hands in his pockets. "It's just, I've heard from that bloke Shacklebolt's assistant. Harry's all right. Sounds like there was rather a large battle at Harry's school. Quite a few casualties. But Harry's all right and he's killed…well, You-Know-Who is dead."
Petunia thought for a moment she might actually faint with the relief of this statement. She gripped the countertop and her eyes filled with tears. It was as if all the fear and tension and worry of the last year—and the two or three before that—melted.
"So we're safe now," Dudley finished. "He won't be coming after us."
"And Harry's safe now," she said. She had intended to make it a question.
Dudley's lips quirked in a way she couldn't quite read. "Yes. Harry's safe now."