Notes: : Story written for the Secret Coconut, a fic exchange promoted by the community Saint Seiya Super Fics Journal. Many thanks to admin Vane for providing the translation of the prompt!

(Edit: Dangit, why do I always forget that this thing takes out my line breaks? They make things flow so much better...)

Characters/Pairings: Petunia and Vernon Dursley
Genre(s): Angst/Tragedy

It was a day much like any other.

Petunia was bustling around the kitchen, trying to finish the cake for tonight's society dinner. There was always some occasion or other, some place where Vernon could meet with the sort of people who could help his ambitions. Little Dudley had been going down for his nap, kicking and screaming the whole way—poor dear, he just hadn't been tired! –so she was having to rush to make up for lost time. Of course, it was well worth it to impress the other attendees.

She was just taking the cake out of the oven when she heard a knock at the door.

"Coming!" she called, suddenly worried that she'd forgotten a caller she was supposed to meet. She hastily took off her apron and brushed at the flour that had escaped it, trying to make herself presentable in case it was someone who mattered.

But when she opened the door, there was no one there.

Petunia looked to the left, and all she saw was the porch light.

And to the right, there was nothing but the empty space where Vernon parked the car.

But when she looked down, she saw something that hadn't been there before—a brown wicker basket covered with a blanket, and, perched on top, a bright red envelope with an old-fashioned wax seal on it.

Petunia stared.

She knew that seal.

It had been her object of longing as a girl, and later an object of loathing. She had seen it all too many times before, but only once had the letter that had borne it been addressed to her.

There was a rush of heat to her face at the audacity of such a message after all this time, but at the same time, a small, bitter ball of cold descended to her stomach and stayed there.

Why would those awful people send a message after all this time?

Hesitantly, she picked up the envelope and turned it over.

Mrs. Petunia Dursley

4 Privet Drive,

Little Whinging,

Surrey.

Petunia snatched up both the basket and the envelope and swept them inside, slamming the door behind her. Whatever happened next, she was pretty sure she didn't want the neighbors to see.

But when she moved the basket, something inside it stirred.

Petunia stopped, staring at the basket as her heart slowly froze.

Oh God…

With trembling fingers, she reached for the slowly shifting blankets.

But before she could touch them, the forgotten red envelope burst to sudden, unnatural life. It rose from the ground, hovering at eye level, the edges of the paper curled into a mockery of lips, and the freakish thing spoke.

"Mrs. Dursley," said the thing in a grave voice that belied its uncanny form. "I do apologize for contacting you in this manner, but circumstances have denied me any other option."

Petunia's mouth opened, but no sound came out. The voice was unquestionably male, and gave the impression of great age, but it was still coming to her from a pair of floating paper lips.

"I wish I could have come in person, for the news I must deliver is of the gravest sort." The paper seemed to droop a little, as if dreading its next unnatural words.

"Petunia…you sister has been murdered."

Petunia slowly set the basket down, walked a few steps forward, and slid to the floor.

She knelt there, hands in front of her, staring at the floor, and only a small part of her mind registered the next words.

"Lily and her husband were killed last night by the most powerful dark wizard our world has ever seen."

The envelope fluttered down, seeming to know where she was. "Petunia…I know I of all people have no business asking you for anything."

Petunia looked up at that, almost imagining that she met the man's eyes behind the paper. She knew now who was speaking, and she wanted to be angry or indignant at the man for daring to contact her after all this time. She wanted to…but right now, she couldn't feel anything.

There was an intake of breath, though the paper didn't rustle.

"Petunia, your sister died protecting her son."

Petunia's eyes slowly traveled to the basket.

The basket with the moving blanket.

"Please, I ask…no, I beg of you: take the child in. He will be safe with you, with his mother's blood."

With that, the envelope seemed to lose its mockery of life and fell to the floor.

Petunia stared at it for a long moment, and then her eyes travelled back again to the basket.

She shook her head.

Vernon was not going to like this.

"You did WHAT?"

Petunia cringed at the vehemence, but stood her ground.

"He's Lily's son, Vernon!"

"He's also the son of the good-for-nothing rascal who married her!"

Vernon clenched his large fists.

"First thing in the morning, we take that boy to St Bernard's Home for Wayward Boys."

"No."

Vernon turned back to see an unfamiliar look on his wife's face.

"He is my sister's son, and I owe her that much."

"What," Vernon sputtered. "Are you planning on giving the boy Dudley's second bedroom or something? Absolutely preposterous!"

For an instant, it looked as though she might actually be considering it.

Then that strange look faded, and Petunia dismissed the notion.

"No, of course not. There's always that old cupboard under the stairs. We can put him in there."

Vernon looked at his wife, and then to the boy who was still sleeping in the basket.

"Fine," he grumbled. "But I will tolerate none of that 'magic' nonsense in my household."

"Agreed," said Petunia. "As far as he'll ever know, his parents died in a car accident."

The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to adjust to this sudden upheaval in her life. Vernon wasn't any help, huffing his way off to bed early to avoid the issue entirely, but Petunia was busy—sending her regrets to the society dinner, clearing out the cupboard, and digging out some of Dudley's old baby clothes, planning and arranging and preparing and trying her best to force things to be normal.

But by the time evening rolled around, Petunia found she couldn't focus on anything anymore. Instead, she found herself sitting in the darkening living room, staring into the face of the sleeping child.

She tried to ignore his features, already bearing such a strong resemblance to the father she had loathed.

Instead, she focused on the shape of his eyes, imagining the bright green she knew lay under those lids. She had seen pictures of him—horrid, unnatural pictures, but they had shown her the strong resemblance of his eyes to his mother's.

Lily…

Petunia's own eyes were suddenly full of tears.

Some dim part of her mind wondered why—she felt nothing at all. But even as she wondered, the tears ran down her face and her body began to shake with sobs that seemed to come from nowhere.

She remembered her sister.

She could see them as children, sometimes rivals, true, but still partners, still on the same side.

And then came the one thing that had separated them forever.

Lily's eyes danced as she made the flower open and close, relishing the power that was blooming inside her.

The pain caught up with her then, and Petunia clutched her arms around her middle as the tears coursed down her face.

There were tears of sorrow for the sister she would never see again, and tears of anger at her for abandoning her yet again. There were tears of loss for the life she never could have had, and a few of guilt for being so self-centered even while mourning her only sister.

Mostly, though, she was too caught up in her grief to understand it.

How long she wept, she didn't know, but when she raised her head from the sofa, she found that she must have fallen asleep. It was morning now, barely, and there was a lot left to be done.

She rose stiffly and rubbed her eyes, tears long since dried.

There was much left to be done.

She looked down at the baby, still sleeping. She shuddered. There was something unnatural about a baby sleeping for so long…though of course she should have known the child would be a freak, like them.

She glared at the child, suddenly angry at him for having something so…

She spun on her heel, heading straight for the cupboard under the stairs. She would take the boy in…she owned her sister that much. But nothing else. The boy was not her son, and she was not compelled to treat him as such. He could live here, he could even have Dudley's hand-me-downs, but he would sleep under the stairs, and he would earn his keep.

And under no circumstances would he ever find out the truth about his parents.