I already know what you think of me. I'm the personification of the wicked step-mother, the woman who mistreated and abused your hero. I do not write this to beg your forgiveness but, after what has happened to me, you owe it to me to read my side of the story before making your final judgement.
Not that I care what you think. What have you ever done for me? There are only two people in my life I care about, who matter to me. The same two people you have tried to destroy, with your monsters and wars.
There was a third but you've already taken her away from me, haven't you? To you she is a saint and a martyr. To me she was my little sister, and it was my job to look after her because I was older. But you split us apart, luring her away with tricks until you destroyed her, too. So, no, do not expect me to come crawling to you. It is not you who needs to find forgiveness. But I'll start at the beginning because all fairy stories have a beginning, as well as a dark side.
Once upon a time there were two sisters. They lived happily with their loving parents in a small house in an old mill town and everything was perfect. Except it wasn't.
The older sister wasn't happy, because she wanted her family to be like everybody else, and they weren't. She would watch the men go off to work and then call in at the pub on the way home. She would watch them go to football on a Saturday afternoon. She would watch the women hanging out washing on a Monday. She would smell the meals they would cook for their men folk to come home to. They were good honest smells; of stews and pies and roasting meat. She would listen to them gossiping to each other over the fence.
A lot of the time they were gossiping about us, the "odd family" who lived amongst them but were not like them.
My parents didn't work; they were "artists". My father was a disciple of Lowry. He would paint pictures of terraced houses and factory chimneys, of women queuing outside the butcher's shop and of men on their way to football matches wearing their red and white scarves.
My mother collected wool shed by the sheep on the moors above our town and spun it, dyeing it with wild plants. Then she would knit jumpers. To me they looked awful; shapeless and mud coloured. Why would anyone want to wear them when the shops were full of brightly coloured clothes made from new materials like polyester? But some people did; people like them, who were trapped in the past rather than looking forward to a future where plastic and space ships and nuclear energy would sweep away everything old fashioned.
Even their tastes in music had to be different to everyone else. Not for them the brass bands or the ballads heard on the radio, that everyone else in our street listened to. No, they liked jazz and we would be taken along to listen and hopefully acquire a taste for it. I never did; a discordant jangling that made no sense. Then there were the people we met there. Men who wore polo neck jumpers and odd, foreign looking hats on their heads; berets, they were called. What was wrong with the flat caps normal people wore around our town?
The women were even worse, either wearing the kind of clothes my mother made or slacks. They even smoked in public. They thought they were so wonderful they made up special words for themselves. They were "cool" or "hip" and they called each other "daddy-o". They never considered how ridiculous they looked or sounded as they tried so hard to be different.
But I wanted my parents to be like everyone else. I wanted to fit in, for them to fit in, so we wouldn't be talked about, or given odd looks in the street. I wanted us to be normal, anonymous people who got on with their lives. I didn't want to be the one sat on my own at school because the other children avoided me. I wanted friends who would come and play, but they never did, so I learnt to ignore them and turned my back on them.
Lily liked jazz, and the people we met in the clubs. She thought they were exciting and exotic; peacocks compared to sparrows. She never really liked our town, blackened by the smoke from the factory chimneys; good, honest smoke from industry and hard work. She liked the countryside, and loved going with our mother to collect wool. I had to go along as well. The only part I enjoyed was looking down from afar and seeing the work being done and the money being made. That is how things should be. Produce as efficiently as possible and sell for as much as possible. That is how people become rich and happy, not trailing around a wet moor picking discarded wool from bramble bushes and barbed wire fences.
It had been so different when we were younger. We were devoted to each other and spent all our time together. I would tell her stories and help her with games and puzzles. It was me who taught her how to skip and play hopscotch. I remember the day I started school; I'd never seen her so miserable. She held my hand all the way and cried when we had to part at the gates. I can still remember the hug she gave me when I came out. She held my hand all the way home as well.
It started to change when she began school herself and made her own friends. For some reason I can't work out she'd found it easier than me. Maybe it's because Lily was the pretty one, who could sing and dance and make people smile. She was much more independent, too. I think it happens a lot, but parents are more relaxed about second children. I had been the practise, and they'd probably worried more. On the rare occasions I did go to someone's house to play I'd be walked there and back by one of them; Lily was allowed to go on her own. As she grew up, she started to grow away from me but I was still the one she came to if she'd hurt herself or had an argument with one of her little friends and I'd cuddle her until she felt better.
Then the "happenings" started. She could jump off a swing without hurting herself, and make flowers bloom just by holding them. I tried to tell her to stop doing it, that it wasn't natural and she was drawing attention to herself, but she never listened. What I didn't know at the time was that it was magic. I've never found out how she managed to catch it. Harry - yes, I am still in contact with him; he is family - says it's genetics, but I don't know whether to believe him or not. Perhaps it is, which is how he got it, but it doesn't explain Lily. I'm not affected and nor were our parents. Maybe it skips generations and she was a throwback. I worry about that but my grandchildren have shown no signs of anything abnormal, so perhaps I've been lucky in that respect.
When she met that dreadful boy, the poor one from the slum houses down by the river, he encouraged her to think that being different was something special. There was nothing special about him, or his family, I can tell you. His father was a well known drunkard with no self control or decency about him. They used to say he drank because his wife was an evil old witch who ruled him with a rod of iron. Little did they know that at least part of it was true.
Then Lily got her letter from that place and I tried so hard to stop her going, but I was a lone voice fighting a losing battle. My parents thought it was wonderful, of course. She was even more different than them and they saw it as a triumph for their way of life. In a last desperate attempt to save Lily from herself I wrote to the school, to see if I could go with her. They thought I was begging for a place there, that I wanted to be like her. Absolute rubbish. I wanted to go with her to keep her safe, to remind her there was still a world with normal people in it she could come back to. Even she couldn't see it. My little sister started to patronise me, saying she would try to get me in as well and we could both be different together. That was when I called her a freak. I'm not proud of that; it was cruel of me and I hurt her, and she still went.
Everything she did after that was paraded in front of me as if she'd done something wonderfully clever and I was a nobody. She could turn a matchstick into a needle and my parents crowed over it for hours, telling me how marvellous she was. When I went to Woolworths and bought a whole pack of needles for threepence nothing was said. Of course not; I'd bought them with money I'd earned by working, instead of using a conjuring trick.
I moved out, eventually. My parents and I had become too different from each other and their world could no longer be mine. It is something I still regret. Lily had some exams coming up and she had wanted to stay for the whole year to study, not even coming home for the holidays. As I wasn't living there any more my parents decided to travel to Morocco to seek inspiration for their art. They bought an old camper van and drove off. The last card I received from them informed me they had reached Toulouse in southern France, and were making for Spain via Andorra. Somewhere in the Pyrenean Mountains the brakes on the van failed and neither of them survived the crash.
I tried not to blame anyone for what had happened but if Lily hadn't gone away, if she'd stayed at the local school like I did, they would have had to remain at home and it wouldn't have happened. She stayed with friends during the holidays after that, only coming to visit me occasionally.
By that time I was working as a secretary at a local company and that was where I met Vernon. He was a young man, doing well. He had received some promotions and was moving up the ladder but what really attracted me to him was that he was honest and decent. He had no strange views of the world. He wanted to fit in and I was honoured when he asked me out. Here, at last, was a man who knew how the world was run, and was happy to be a part of it.
He would have stayed at that company all his life and we would have had a nice house, eventually, but then he got turned down for a promotion. He was the best candidate by far, but the job went to somebody who was the son of the owner's friend and had gone to an expensive school.. Vernon was devastated and we agreed he couldn't stay there after that, so he asked me to marry him and come with him to a new job he had down south, near London. I said yes immediately; it was my dream come true.
Lily came to the wedding but I didn't have her as a bridesmaid as it was a very quiet affair and we didn't want any fuss. She bought her boyfriend with her. The best I can say about him is that it wasn't the one who lived near us when we were children.
Instead she bought James Potter. I knew he was rich as soon as he walked in to the room. He had that look about him that spoke of unearned money. Still, he was my sister's boyfriend, and she seemed quite besotted by him, so we tried to be pleasant. I'll never forget the answer he gave Vernon when asked what he was going to do for a living. He said he would do something, eventually, but money and a career weren't the most important thing at the moment. I will admit we took it the wrong way. We assumed he meant he would be living off his parent's wealth and I thought he was just like the stuck-up fool who had been handed the job Vernon had worked so hard for and deserved.
I lost touch with Lily a little after that. We moved to Surrey and there was so much to do. Vernon had to establish himself in a new job, so worked very hard getting his feet under the table, and I had the house to set up. It was different here, as well. We'd moved to a new housing estate in a well off area, and the culture was different. People were far more stand-offish than I was used to; nobody gossiped over the back fence. Instead, you were invited to coffee mornings. I didn't get asked at first and didn't know why; it took me a while to realise.
We were the outsiders, the incomers. We were the Northerners who had moved up to London and I was being judged. I'm sure some people probably thought we kept coal in the bath or were waiting for us to build a pigeon loft in the back garden and dig up the front lawn to grow vegetables.
If I was going to be accepted here I needed to learn how to fit in, and I had to learn fast, even if it meant talking what was effectively a new language. So, I dropped all the expressions I'd been using since childhood and replaced them with the ones people around us used. I stopped asking Vernon if he "fancied a brew", and started enquiring if he would like a cup of tea instead. I began buying bread rolls at the baker's, because they weren't called "barm cakes" here, and would remember to close a door instead of "put wood in hole".
Slowly, things began to change and Vernon found it quite funny when I started to say "barth" and "glarss". He said I sounded like the Queen, but that was what I needed to be like everyone else. Oddly, he found that keeping his accent was an advantage. It made him sound down-to-Earth and no-nonsense.
Vernon was doing well at his job, and getting on. Then I fell pregnant and I think that was the happiest time of our lives. I know, we were a happy couple. We've only ever had one row, which I will tell you about shortly, because we agree with each other on virtually everything, but we didn't just rub along. We were happy together. Vernon loved his job and loved coming back to his wife and house. He never went to the pub or football with the others, or even learnt to play golf. He came home to me instead. I loved being his wife, the woman behind the successful man. My job was to make it as easy as possible for him to get on. It was a true partnership and we had everything we needed in each other. Dudley made it complete. Now we were a family and could live our lives together, and be content watching Dudley grow and make his way in the world, with a brother or sister coming along behind maybe. Then, one day, we would be grandparents. We never wanted fame or fortune; we certainly didn't want the flimsy veil of celebrity. We wanted an ordinary life, a real life.
It didn't happen. My poor Lily was murdered. She didn't belong in that world, it wasn't hers and she shouldn't have gone. Everything I'd tried to tell her had come to pass. Now only her son remained and I was left to raise him.
I don't hate Harry, I want you to know that, but I do resent him.
It isn't because of what happened to Lily. I resent him because of what he did to us. He ruined the life we could have had and we'll never get the chance again.
When the boys were about three years old I wanted another child. I wanted another baby to cuddle and, if truth be told, I wanted a daughter I could play with and teach games to as I'd done with Lily all those years before. Vernon disagreed with me. That was the row we had. He said that two children was were enough to bring up. It didn't help endear me to Harry, but the real problem started before that.
He is my flesh and blood, and I wouldn't have turned him away, but I was never given the choice. I was never given a choice on taking him in, even if there was no choice to be made. He was left on the doorstep with a letter. Nobody called, nobody was there to give their condolences for what had happened to my sister, or explain what had happened. I was told that I had to take the boy in and give him houseroom until he reached seventeen because my blood was his blood and it would give him protection.
They never made it clear what I was protecting him from; I was left to work that out for myself.
Lily had been killed by a madman who had tried to murder her baby, and now he'd gone but nobody knew where. I had to protect Harry, but who was protecting us? Who was going to protect my husband and my son if this madman came back?
I spent years with that on my mind. Every time I looked at him I wondered when it was all going to start again. Would we end up like Lily; would I have to watch my husband and son die before I, too, was killed? Harry would be safe, because I was protecting him with my blood. He would survive. People tend to forget that, so I thought I'd remind you.
We gave him houseroom, we gave him clothes, we gave him food. What did we get in return?
I'm not talking about money. I don't need, or want, anyone's money. Harry is supposedly a very rich man yet he's never tried to pay us. Like I said, I wouldn't take it, but he's never offered. After that last lot was over he came to see us, you know. He came to check that we were alright. That was good of him, but he didn't even bring a bottle of wine and he didn't apologise for what he'd put us through.
Until he got the letters we'd never seen anybody; there had been no contact from your lot. They didn't check on him, or us. He was never taken off our hands, even for a day, to give us a break. He was just there, like something dumped at the side of the road and forgotten about until he was needed again. Until he could be useful to you once more.
You know the stories. You know how Harry "saved" the Philosopher's Stone when he was eleven. That was not coincidence. They were both used as bait by Dumbledore to lure Voldemort out of hiding.
Has that sentence surprised you? I know more about your world than you think, and it takes a lot more than a Wingardium Leviosa to impress me.
That was the start of seven years of hell for me. I knew what was going on, you see. I was never told anything but the signs were there, and odd snippets that Harry let slip - or I remembered Lily saying - gave me enough information to know another war was coming. Every time I looked at him I could see Lily dead, along with my family.
I send another surprise your way. I know about Boggarts; Lily told me about them. My Boggart would be Harry. He represented the nightmare that had come back in to my life and had never left anything but death and pain and I was proved right. My son was attacked by Dementors, we were forced from our home and in to hiding. This is not the place to tell you about that year, save to say I knew if we were found we would be killed. Have that hanging over you for a year and see what it does to you, especially when your protectors hate you for what (they think) you've done to "The Chosen One".
I suppose I should get to the heart of it, shouldn't I? The reason you think so badly of me.
Yes, he slept in the cupboard under the stairs. It makes it sound like he was forced to sleep in the coal hole. It was no such thing. It was clean and warm, and not that much smaller than the box room. It kept him out of the way, at arm's length from my family. I tried to keep a distance between us, even if it was only symbolic. I locked him in there at night because I didn't want him sneaking around the house, breaking things or taking what wasn't his. Vernon backed me all the way. He would anyway because the house is my domain, but he agreed that Harry needed to learn what he was, and wasn't.
Was I really so terrible to him? I've already told you I resented him, but that wasn't why I did what I did. I didn't want him to be like Lily, that was the crux of it.
Finding out she was different affected her and not for the better. She started to think she was something she wasn't. We are ordinary people and she forgot that. She thought her magic made her special and it drove her away from her roots. Once she'd gone off to that school she never kept in touch with her childhood friends. She was too different, too special. Ordinary people, like us, do not get on in the world by being special. Ordinary people get on by working hard. I wanted Harry to grow up knowing he was nothing special. I didn't want him going out and believing he was anything other than ordinary and if he wanted to get on he had to work for it.
I used Dudley as the example. Some people say I spoilt him. No I didn't. He grew up knowing the benefits of working hard. People who work hard make money and people who make money can spend it on buying whatever they want. Dudley got the benefits of that hard work but he knew it would never last forever. Vernon used to joke to him that, if he judged it right, Dudley's inheritance would be just enough to buy a newspaper to read on the way to our funerals.
Yes Dudley had an easy life as a child but he knows now that anything he wants as an adult he has to work for. When he went to University we paid his accommodation and fees, and gave him a little extra for food but that was it. He worked for the rest; barman, shop assistant, anything he could get and if he didn't then he had no money. It was his choice. That was what I tried to teach Harry. You have to work for what you want and don't expect other people to foot the bill and give you a free ride.
Then there was the danger. I don't know everything about Voldemort, but he sounds like your version of Hitler. Racial purity and parentage were what counted. He wanted the right sort to rule and was willing to destroy anything and anyone who stood in his way. Harry was in his way, and so were we by extension.
I tried to crush the magic out of him, I don't deny that. Why should I? If Harry's right, and you are born with it, then it was an impossible task, but nobody ever told me that. I thought I could make him grow up normal. I wanted him to grow up as a Muggle, I think it is, and live like a normal person so that if you went to war again we would all be out of it. I wanted him to be ordinary. I wanted him to be safe because that would keep us safe. We would put up with him until he finished school and then leave, never to bother us again. That was my plan.
So, like I said at the start, I don't care what you think because I did what I believed was the right thing for my family. My only regret is that I failed. I failed, as a wife and a mother, to keep MY family safe from danger, but at least you know why I tried.
AN
The Lowry mentioned at the start of this story is L.S. Lowry (1887-1976), an English artist best know for his stylised industrial landscapes of Lancashire, the area where I imagine Petunia growing up.
As always, I must thank Euclidian for his comments and suggestions which are always helpful and insightful.
Finally, thanks to the two writers who inspired this. Swallow B for showing us that every character , even an unpopular one, has a tale to tell and beeabeeon49 who's story "I Have No Clue What's Going On" was the spark to write this particular chapter.