Dear Lily,
I don't hate you.
I know what I said, when you first left, and I stewed it over for so long. In all honesty, I'm jealous of you beyond measure. You always have been the lucky one, the sociable one, the one who befriends all, the one who loves and is loved. More than anything I'm jealous because – and I'm full aware of how petty this will sound – I was born first, and some illogical part of me thinks that by birth right I should be special. I want to write so much more, but the truth is I know I won't be able to convey how sorry I am through this letter which I know I'll never send you. I'll keep them locked away and maybe one day I'll show you them.
Watch out for that Snape boy. He'll only hurt you. Everyone does in the end.
All my love,
Petunia xxx
Dear Lily,
I hate to say it, but I told you so.
You're sixteen now, soon to be seventeen, and I know that Snape hurt you, but I warned you, I told you he wasn't to be trusted. It's your fault for seeing the best in people.
I'll never admit it, but I want you to be my maid of honour. It's six years of resentment that's holding me back, and I hate it.
All my love,
Petunia
Dear Lily,
You have no idea how badly I want to come to your wedding; I know I owe you for you stoically sitting through my own exchanging of vows, and enduring the best man's speech (Lord, he was dull), and of relatives coming up to you and informing you so cheerily that 'you're next'. Your friend – Sirius, I think his name was – turned up on my doorstep demanding to be let in, and I was undeniably foul to him, which I'm sure you've heard about already. He asked me if I ever knew you at all, and all I could think was no, no, no, I guess I never did.
I haven't written you one of these letters in years. They come sporadically; one minute I will want nothing to do with you, nothing at all, and the next I'll be trying so hard not to cry because the loss is overwhelming. I feel as though you're dead, sometimes, even though I know you're not.
Regardless, I miss you.
All my love,
Petunia
Dear Lily,
I'll admit, I feel somewhat ridiculous; you've only been dead a week and already I'm writing letters I will not, under any circumstances, allow anyone to read. I'm going to be honest here, Lily – I miss you, more than I honestly thought possible. I know that everything I said about you was hateful and hurtful and so absolutely awful that you were – are – well within your rights to despise me, but I want you to know that I never have, and never will, despise you.
Oh, there were times I was so jealous that I convinced myself I did; when your friendship that Snape boy overtook our friendship; when you got your letter to Hog- to that school; when you came home every summer with new stories to tell about your wonderful friends and your wonderful boyfriend and your wonderful life. I thought that I hated you, but I didn't, and the day I refused to come to your wedding was the penultimate nail in the metaphorical coffin. Penultimate, because the day you died I told myself that I hated you more than ever, because you had chosen your way of life over mine (don't say you didn't have a choice – you could have lived as a whatever-it-was that you called me so ungraciously) and all it had done was get you killed.
I want my sister back, Lily. I don't want painful memories and a child that looks like your dead husband in every way but one. Vernon despises Harry, but I can't bring myself to. I resent his presence because he reminds me so acutely of everything I've lost, but I don't hate him.
The day I found out you died I just… collapsed. Vernon was trying to tell me that I shouldn't miss you, that if the roles were reversed you wouldn't miss me, but all I could think of was that stupid T. S. Eliot poem you became obsessed with when you were fifteen: this is the way the world ends; not with a bang but a whimper.
All my love,
Petunia
Dear Lily,
A year ago today you died and it breaks my heart. I'm writing this sitting in the living room, staring out of the window at the children passing by in their silly costumes and I can't help but think how ridiculous it all is. For everyone else, life goes on. Vernon cannot understand why I miss you – I'm going to be brutally honest with you, Lily, the man hated you in life and he hates you just as much in death. If you're watching down from whatever heaven you've gone to – if your sort can go to (or even believe in) an afterlife – it was Vernon who put your son under the stairs. "Out of sight is out of mind" he said, as if he was no more than a rodent or some such creature. I disagreed but he scares me sometimes, and you got the beauty while I was left with a horsey face and a too-long neck and I've already got one son of my own – if I dare to argue with him he may leave me, and if he did… I'm not as strong as you ever were, and the thought of abandonment terrifies me.
Besides, if any of your lot (or those who killed you) come looking for him then surely he's safer there.
Of course, all these words are painfully insufficient. I can't tear myself away from my clichéd house in my clichéd cul-de-sac in my clichéd suburb in my clichéd town. Vernon grew up here and wanted to be close to his work. Personally, I wanted to live somewhere in the country because I despise city life. We managed to reach a mildly uncomfortable compromise, but it's not my dream.
I told Vernon I was going to Mum and Dad's graves yesterday, and I intended on doing so, but some unconscious part of me started driving in completely the opposite direction and I found myself in Godric's Hollow. I can see what drew you – it's pretty and quiet and there's an air of something tangibly (dare I say it?) magical. I parked that thoroughly middle-class car I so loathe and walked to the graveyard, and I went to find your grave. When I did, you already had a mourner; a tall man wearing dark robes. He stood and turned and it was him, that Snape boy who lived down at Spinner's End, and just seeing him brought back a flood of painful memories. He made you happy, for a time, which was more than could be said for me. He nodded briskly to me as he passed and I placed those stupid flowers on your grave that seemed so inadequate because no matter how much I wish, £5 worth of roses from the florists won't resurrect you from the dead so I can make my stupid amends that I should have rectified years ago.
I was blind, and I was ridiculous, and heaven knows I'm miserable now.
All my love,
Petunia
Dear Lily,
Yesterday marked the fourth anniversary of your demise. With each passing year it gets a little easier, the guilt a little less. I doubt it will ever truly leave.
Harry asked me today what happened on that night, and I just froze. How do you explain to a five-year-old boy that the reason he can't see Mummy and Daddy is because of an entirely new, wholly strange world? I'm not even sure of the details myself – so I lied, and I despise myself for it. Vernon agrees it was for the best but I'm not so sure. I had planned on telling him a story about a beautiful witch and a handsome wizard who died protecting their son, but it was always you who had a way with words, Lily, not I.
I regret so many things in life. I am a weak excuse for a woman. Vernon loves me, I don't doubt it, but he controls me somewhat, and I hate it. But no matter what, I don't hate him. He has blessed me with a child and I love Dudley so much.
Regardless, I wish you were still here to badmouth my husband for me.
All my love,
Petunia
Dear Lily,
I haven't written to you in so, so long. I miss you. Harry turns eleven in two weeks, and age has embittered him. He is convinced I loathe him with every fibre of my being, but it's untrue. Strange things keep happening and I know precisely what's going on, but I pray that I'm wrong. He may be obnoxious to me, but I'm not exactly wonderful back. Truth is I'm scared that he'll be doomed to live the same sort of life as you; dying hideously early and leaving behind nothing but grief. I keep being reminded day-to-day that the reason he came to live with us is because you're dead. It seems like such a pathetically obvious epiphany, but I keep catching myself wishing that the phone will ring and it will be you, and everything will be okay. Vernon told me once that maybe we could quash the magic out of him, and at the time it made sense, so I allowed myself to slip into the routine of being foul to him. You know as well as I do that I'm a miserable creature of habit.
It's odd, Lily, that I keep feeling nothing short of murderous towards whoever betrayed you. Your old headmaster explained that a confidant gave you away to the monster that killed you, and even now, after all these years, I still find it hard to believe that they incarcerated the actual traitor. I remember him well – what was his name? Sirius? – and if my memory serves me correctly he was… nice. Charming and witty and loyal to a fault, it seems. I remember insulting you and he leapt in to defend your honour like some noble prince out of those stories I used to read to you. He never seemed like a turncoat.
This letter is pointless, like all of those that came before it; my theory is that it's not just because I miss you, but because I'm looking for some form of salvation.
All my love,
Petunia
A/N: Hi! This is my first fic, so please be kind. Review and I'll be forever in your debt.