Title: When I Awake, the World Will Be Born Anew

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Petunia/Bellatrix

Rating: PG-13

Summary: War. Bellatrix survives and is found by a caring Petunia.

Note: The title is taken from a Wolves in the Throne Room song. I'm not a native English speaker. This text also shows that I have synesthesia.

Chapter One

War was starting to decrease. The frequency of lightning in the absent clouded sky started to diminish. People were dying. Petunia could feel it in the atmosphere. Knowing the presence of death never required magic from anyone. It's everywhere in the air, it smells, it's about thickness and texture. Distant thunders. Just like that night when Lily died. The warm wind in the dark night. The never complete silence. It was a physical emotion, a cold chill crawling down the spine.

Vernon and Dudley are not bothered by the war or the deaths occurring in the bordering world. But Petunia can't act as if nothing is happening. Staring outside the window of the acceptable house they were forced to move in, Petunia let out a sigh. Little by little, her connections to the magical world were abandoning her. Deep inside of her, she didn't want to lose that. But Potter might be dead by now, such as his friends, his supporters, his protectors. Green flashes, red marks, Petunia's concerned figure was illuminated by these far-away fireworks. She felt broken and she felt lost. Nothing is missing, her husband and child are safe, but everything is wrong. Incapacity and weakness are filling her.

A sudden bright white light explodes in front of her. Taken away, she holds on to the window frame, trembling by the shock. A silhouette collapsed on the cold grass, in front of the house. With the war signs withdrawing, the moonlight isn't sufficient for Petunia to be able to identify the person. The stranger lies on the ground, showing little indication of life. Looking back at her family, Petunia notices the men were both asleep in the living room, in front of the television. She looks back at the corpse, and heads outside.

As soon as she opens the front door, Petunia feels it again. Death and its caressing breath. Instantly, she stops moving as she approaches the obviously injured person. A woman. Face to the ground, the woman's strong curls of hair are everywhere around her body, covering her face and her back. One of her legs is curled to the side, the other extended. Both of her hands lie under her, as if trying to protect something hidden on her chest. The woman didn't try to protect her head when landing. Petunia's eyes open by fear. This witch escaped war, apparated in the nearest place that came to her mind. Here. Why? She must be injured.

A sob. Petunia leans forward, trying not to approach too quickly. A sob again, followed by shoulders rhythmically starting to move. A cry. The dense curly hair dance by the movement, captured by the warm wind. The witch is crying, slowly regaining strength. Petunia can't hold on any longer, she places her hand on the shoulder.

A scream. Pushed aside, Petunia withdraws her hand, falling on her knees. Hitting the ground with her feet, the woman shakes her head from side to side, as her screams worsens.

"…A..are…are you injured?"

Her question remains unheard. As the witch regain vigor, she pulls out her hands from underneath her and holds out a broken piece of wood. It does not calm her screams, as tears are travelling all over her mad face. A strong jaw and intense, hurting eyes. The witch keeps holding out the broken wood – Petunia can identify it as a wand – and she stares directly at it, coughing her cries. In pain, she does not seem exhausted, but defeated. The presence of death doesn't leave Petunia. The image of her dead sister comes to mind.

"Are you hurt? Pl…please, are you hurt?"

She does not know what she is doing. Helping another witch will never justify her sibling's death and will never excuse her discriminatory, jealous behavior. However, the woman in front of her is crushed and she cannot ignore her.

"Please, let me help… I… I know where you come from. I know what you are…"

The witch quickly gets up, tripping a little on her black dress, her eyes huge and lacking of life. She is wounded, bleeding. Trying to keep her balance even with the fury traveling into her, she throws the broken wand straightforwardly to Petunia and runs towards her.

Petunia's breath leaves her, terrified by the insane person holding on her shoulders. Her grip is fierce. It is possible for her to entirely observe her visage, since the witch is peculiarly staring back at her. Her pupils are constantly twitching, revealing the madness of her mind. Her mouth is opened, letting hot breath escape her red lips and landing on Petunia's cold face. The woman is quivering all over, so it's perfectly understandable that Petunia's hand naturally starts to cup the burning and wet cheek, her soft fingers caressing the injured skin. Fear slowly disappears as the deadly gaze into the woman's eye fades. Again, and again. Petunia draws small strokes, maternal circles on the cheekbone and on the crowfeet, calming the ferocity of the stranger.

The witch collapses into her, holding on her neck and shoulders.