It was early on the morning of the second of November when Lily Evanna Potter first showed up at Number Four, Privet Drive. Petunia Dursley opened the front door, intending to put out the empty milk bottles for the milkman, but got as far as opening the door and glancing carelessly at the front step before she dropped the bottles with a shrill shriek.

There was a sleeping baby in a wickerwork basket on the step, clutching a letter in one chubby fist, a red, curiously-shaped scar on its forehead. When Petunia's startled scream reached its ears, the baby's eyes opened and looked unblinkingly up at Petunia, who recognised them with a thrill of foreboding.

They were green ... a green Petunia would never forget ... could never forget. How many times had she seen those eyes looking out at her from behind the dancing curtains of her sister Lily's red hair? She knew with a grim certainty that this was the child that Lily had sent a joyful letter to her older sister last year concerning. But what was her name? And what was she doing here? Petunia quickly swept up the remains of the milk bottles before she brought the baby into the quiet house (somehow neither her husband, Vernon, nor their small son, Dudley, had been awakened by her scream just moments before), plucked the envelope from the child's grasp and slit it open, completely baffled as to what the contents might be. Was this some sick sort of joke? But Lily didn't play practical jokes.

The thin, slanted handwriting was not Lily's, yet it seemed distantly familiar.

Dear Mrs Dursley,
I know this will come as a great shock to you, but ...

Petunia remained frozen, her eyes slowly moving from left to right, reading the words marching like soldiers across the thick parchment. Lily had been murdered … along with her husband, James Potter … by the greatest Dark wizard of all time? Petunia didn't know much about the wizarding world, but she did know that there was an evil wizard known as Lord Voldemort who was currently at large. He, along with his followers (called 'Death Eaters'), was highly dangerous, and Lily had been so concerned for her sister's family's safety that she had persuaded some of her kind to put magical protections around Number Four, Privet Drive. And now Lily was dead, having been presumably lax in maintaining her own security.

But what was this – Petunia's eyes travelled further down the page hungrily. The person writing the letter was telling her that her niece, Lily Evanna Potter, a baby only just over a year old, had somehow managed to defeat this Lord Voldemort – her eyes roved over to the blonde, innocent-looking baby in the basket, who was watching her intently, and then found the lighting-bolt scar on the baby's small forehead, and was astonished.

But there was more. Her niece now had to stay with Petunia and her family, the reason being that there was no other family to go to. This – this person ... though Petunia had a pretty good idea who it was by now ... was telling her that baby Lily had to stay at Number Four, Privet Drive, there were absolutely no other options, because of some blood magic – Petunia winced at the words – that meant baby Lily had to stay with her until she turned seventeen, at least. Petunia felt her disbelief give way, and she found herself shaking – not just from shock, but from anger and indignation as well. The tall, narrow signature seemed to mock her status as a Muggle as it read, in (it seemed to Petunia) cool, insolent letters:

With best wishes for the future and for your family,
Albus Dumbledore
Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards, and current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

The pompous title seemed to her a direct poke at her Muggleness. As if she would know what half the titles meant anyway. (The only one she understood was the last, and it was the unkindest cut of all – a painful reminder of a letter she'd written long ago, and the horribly condescending reply she had received in return ...) How dare he? How dare he just deposit a baby, a baby, albeit her niece, on the front step like she was just another burden Lily unwittingly inflicted on her older, plainer, Muggle sister? No ... she mustn't believe that ... she had never really believed that ... it had simply been a product of the jealous upfront she had built to hide her secret desire to be a witch too.

This was just ... wrong. Who knew how long baby Lily had been left alone on that front step? Why couldn't they have at least rung the doorbell like normal people? Vernon might not have taken kindly to being awakened in the middle of the night, or Dudley either, but she ... she would have understood.

I hope, perhaps, that when your niece is old enough to understand, you will inform her of her true heritage, and tell her of her unique position straddling the wizarding world and your own.

How was that possible? How could she, Petunia Dursley, explain everything to her niece, a child that she had never seen before in real life, didn't know anything about? Just like it wasn't possible to explain everything in a letter, the way Dumbledore seemed to think. How could she tell young Lily that she belonged to a world from which the rest of her family would be forever barred, a world in which her parents had lost their lives?

But she would try. She, Petunia Dursley, would make it up to the sister she had shunned ever since the latter had received a letter addressed in green ink, by taking care of Lily's child. Petunia had always wanted a daughter, and now she had one. If only the wish had not come at such a great price!

Eight years later

Lily Evanna Potter was now nine years old. She was, however, never called Lily; no, Petunia had decided that it was too painful to call this emerald-eyed damsel by her mother's name, and hence everybody referred to her by her middle name, Evanna, instead. She was a pretty child, with her aunt's blonde hair, her mother's brilliant green eyes and her father's penchant for trouble, in addition to a knack for getting herself in and out of impossible circumstances with unfeigned ease.

The first had happened the year before, at school. She had been on the swing set in the school playground, going higher and higher with every swing, and it would have been a perfectly ordinary afternoon if Evanna had not felt the urge to let go at the very height of her swing and go sailing over the heads of the other children to land safely near the large front doors of the school. After that Evanna had gained another name, Cat, because as Clarice Parker, the most popular girl in Evanna's class stated, she always had a knack of landing on her feet ... just like a cat. She hadn't even gotten a detention for it, as nobody had been able figure out how she'd done it. Aunt Petunia had given her an odd look when the topic cropped up on the way home from school (care of Dudley), but Evanna had put it down to simple puzzlement.

The next instance had occurred only a few weeks later. Evanna (now referred to almost exclusively as 'Cat' at school) had been sitting alone on one of the benches in the schoolyard, eating her lunch when Clarice Parker and a bunch of her friends came over, laughing and jostling Evanna off the bench so that she was sprawled on the rough ground. The next moment, the bench was upturned and Clarice and the others were lying in a messy heap beside it. Evanna hadn't moved, but Clarice (and the others along with her) avowed that she had pushed the bench over on purpose. One of the girls sprained her ankle and another came off with a broken wrist, and Evanna would have been suspended if Aunt Petunia hadn't intervened. In no time at all, there were rumours all around the school that that weird kid, Cat Potter, had actually attacked five other girls and had practically been expelled, and would have been if her aunt hadn't stuck up for her. Clarice Parker, especially, seemed to harbour a heavy dislike towards the class loner and wasted no time in saying that there was something really off about that Cat Potter. She didn't have any friends, and didn't seem to want them, either, and weird things always happened when she was around. Before long, nobody at school save the teachers and Dudley would talk to Evanna at all.

Surprisingly, Evanna didn't seem to mind all the enmity directed towards her, though she was by no means ignorant of it. She never let what anyone said about her bother her ... no, that was just another way they could have power over her. If she ignored all the harsh, brutal things they said, they would likely grow tired of their silly game and find another outsider to taunt.

Aunt Petunia, however, unnoticed by her usually observant niece, was worried. She wasn't very involved in Evanna's school life as a rule; the first and only time she'd intervened had been over the incident with the school bench. Though Petunia would never has admitted it to anyone, that incident had scared her deeply. She knew Evanna too well to even dare to presume that her niece would intentionally hurt five girls, so there was only one explanation. Lily Evanna Potter was a witch.

Quickly, Petunia thought back to her own childhood, and that of Lily's. Lily had always been a cheerful, bubbly child, who changed everybody who met her. In Evanna, however, Petunia couldn't see a shade of her sister's personality. Lily had been bright and joyous; Evanna was quiet and rarely spoke or volunteered information without being asked to. Lily had had a quick, fiery temper; Evanna had never been known to lose visible control of her emotions, except for the time when she had come home from school, walked straight through the house and up to her bedroom without talking to Petunia (who was the only one home at that point), and appeared calm and collected – that is, until she reached the safety of a closed door. Then she threw herself onto her bed and dissolved into a fit of stormy weeping.

Petunia, naturally, had been greatly disturbed by this sudden torrent of emotions; getting up from the kitchen chair at which she had been sitting on, she hurried up the stairs and knocked on Evanna's bedroom door.

'Are you all right, Evanna?' she called hesitantly, one hand resting on the doorknob.

After a moment, a shaky voice replied, in an entirely unconvincing tone, 'I'm fine, thank you, Aunt Petunia.'

Liar. It didn't take a genius to guess that something was seriously wrong. Petunia opened the door and took in the sight of the normally neat girl lying facedown on top of the covers, and moved over to sit on the edge of the bed.

'Evanna, tell me what's wrong.'

No answer.

'Evanna ...' There was a warning tone in Petunia's voice that not even Evanna, in her distraught state, could miss.

Silence. Then –

The girl lifted her head from the pillow and turned to look at Petunia, her bottle-green eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and hurt. 'They called me a freak.'