This is just a little short story-thing about Petunia, written for the Flower Challenge at the HPFC forum. I got Coltsfoot, which means motherly love. The title comes from the Romeo and Juliet quote "a rose by any other name…" I think you know the rest. Enjoy.
xxx
just as sweet
i.
When you were eight, you watched your sister come crying with a skinned knee—blood and tears and heavy breaths—and your mother took her into her arms and whispered comfortingly in hushed tones.
And you couldn't quite grasp how she found the ability to love and care for such a dirty, fussy, annoying thing that provided no services in return, so when you traced out your life's plan on invisible paper, you made quite certain that motherhood was not included.
ii.
When you were old enough, and Lily was thrust into your unwilling arms, you became the caretaker of this dirty, fussy thing that you despised yet couldn't understand.
Why did they scold you and shake their heads when you didn't come running to her aid? You didn't understand how it was possible to cater to something so painfully unable to return the favor without resentment or malice.
So you held Lily's hand and combed her hair with your fingers and patted her head, all the while not being able to swallow the feeling of unfairness and fear.
iii.
When you were thirteen and the letter came—with the horrible small man bearing it—it was Lilythis and Lilythat, and their eyes glowed with pride at their freakish daughter who never took a second to think of the horrid things you were enduring.
And she came home with pictures that moved and all sorts of horrible spellbooks—you didn't want them, not ever, just the attention and adoration they seemed to provide—and even worse, that horrible Potter boy all winking and smiling and flirting and being perfect.
You will never, ever admit the way your gaze followed him while he chased after Lily, or the tingle up your spine when he addressed you. And it was only because your parents adored him in a way they seemed never to adore you.
Yes, you tell yourself, that was the only reason. It had nothing to do with his crooked smile or mussed hair or treacherously dreamy hazel eyes.
iv.
When you were twenty, you got your own lazy, arrogant, pushy, moustached version of the Potter boy—who spit when he talked and laughed at his own jokes and whose eyes weren't hazel at all but a dull, muddy brown. But it didn't matter that he was too large, his hair the wrong color; it was all you could afford to have and you took every inch you could get.
You married him with no hope or promises of an exciting life, just the dull existence of a homemaker, tending gardens and spying on neighbors for your lifeline of gossip that was your only reason to keep on going.
But then the Davises had a little girl—a sweet, beautiful little thing that giggled and laughed and drooled on her sundresses—and you stopped watching them because you couldn't bear it.
When you first discovered your pregnancy, the first thing you hoped for was that it wouldn't be a girl. Because then you wouldn't be forced to name it Lily, like your horrid sister had promised to name her child Petunia.
v.
When you had your child—your son, thank goodness—you didn't cry at the sight of him and your heart didn't melt at his pinched, red face, but something invisible inside of you changed. You no longer had to survive on grapevine gossip; you had something else—albeit at a screaming, sobbing, retching else—that forced you to keep going.
Because really, what was a child without a mother to hug them and kiss them and wipe their tears away? You still didn't understand the appeal of motherhood, but now that it had been forced upon you, you had no choice but to embrace it wholeheartedly.
vi.
You thought it was a sick joke when your nephew arrived on your doorstep. You thought someone was playing a very cruel trick. It wasn't possible that both Lily and James were dead—they had an awful sort of magic that could surely have saved them, hadn't they?—but there was no doubting the letter that came attached.
And when the child—Harry bloody James—first opened his eyes, there was no mistaking the familiar emerald green.
At least, you tell yourself, they weren't hazel.
xxx
Well, there's a quick little character sketch on Petunia. I always suspected she might have had feelings for James, just judging by what we know about the situation and what we know about her character. I hope it was an interesting insight. Review!