Petunia Dursley is a mother.
It is hard for her to remember this when she finds the baby on her doorstep, and the note that says her sister is dead. Her sister and her magic-man and their perfect little life – and Petunia, because she always swore she would be, should be happy, but she's not.
She picks up the bundle, the baby, and holds it in her arms, and shows it to Vernon, who reacts the way she expected. It is easy for her to imitate him in her own thin way, to feed off his fury. He hates the child, its black hair, its green eyes, so like Lily's. He leaves it on the counter-top, fusses with their own son, flesh balled up, arms waving. Petunia, unassuming, catches the child before he falls. Leans his head against her shoulder.
They go to the beach. They take the baby. Dudley is red and bawling the whole time, and the wind whips at them, and Vernon, who suggested the trip, almost bawls too, about the-state-of-this-country and can't you shut that thing up, Petunia? Nodding at the silent, black-haired boy. The baby called Harry, who whinges like a cat that has been kicked, and never, ever produces a tear.
Changing him, Petunia reminds herself that now she is a mother. She is only twenty-two, for god's sake, and thinks of herself, still, as a girl – and she loves her son.
But this.
This is unprecedented. Unusual.She lifts the baby's legs, holds two feet with one hand, pulls the stinking white thing away. She powders and cleans him, she re-clothes him, and despite herself, she hums. She sings. And the baby – he laughs. He says 'Ma', and startled, starting to pick him up, she almost drops him back on the table.
She remembers herself momentarily, looking at his green eyes, but they are still alone together. She takes the child in her arms, leans him against her shoulder, his soft, small eyes closed, smelling of warmth and white and pink. And she breathes in, and remembers her sister, and Harry – Harry, who never cries, burbles as her tears drip onto the back, the nape, of his tiny, downy neck.