A Little Child to Lead Them
He was only a baby, then, just a tiny, scrawny child: a vulnerable little runt of a boy with nothing to live for and nothing to scare him and nothing to endanger his life.
He was a very small boy when it first happened.
The surge of energy shooting through his body was unmistakable. The levitating bear told no lies.
Petunia had never felt so utterly doomed at a time screaming celebration. The baby's eyes widened, his mouth formed an "o;" he stared at his hands in amazement.
She remembers the horror that flooded through her veins; she remembers the faint sob of defeat. She waited for the answer to seize her, too dumbstruck at such an unfamiliar act, too alarmed to respond. She wants to save him from the life he is destined to live, the monster he is destined to face. Never before has maternal instinct shaken her so, and, for him, she desperately wishes they were alive.
Now, this cursed boy sees her pitiful efforts of locking him away from the world as malevolent and hateful. He thinks she trying to tear apart his soul, when, really, she's desperately scrambling to collect the shattered pieces.
She never was any good at playing the hero.
She sighs wistfully and reflects on her mistakes. She had danced around his destiny for so long, that, even now, it seems only a dream. She had prayed and prayed it would not be so, prayed until the boy proved it's certainty, until he sentenced himself to death. She is so very afraid for him, so very fearful for what's left of her sister. Her world a blur, she clenches her fists and closes her eyes and holds this boy to her chest, praying he lives the life his mother never did. Memories of her sister waltz across her mind, and she clings them, to this magic, searching for his redemption.
His eyes light up with laughter, and with a shout of glee, he sends the bear soaring into the air. His innocent smile brings tears to her eyes; she buries her face in his dark locks.
As she glimpses that charming facade of something evil and hurtful and murderous, those carefully constructed walls crumble all around her. She holds him tighter, reality painful. Still, her nightmare creeps closer. She doesn't understand—this is the fate of a sinner, this is a rebel's reward—Harry, he's just a boy, a child who has done no wrong!
Petunia fears she will never understand, and the bleak feeling of hopelessness wraps her in its arms.
This baby is going to die one day, a martyr and a hero.