The kettles high keen made me jump.

I stirred the tea bag absently whilst pouring the water and stared out the window, my usual pastime of neighbour watching hardly as interesting as it used to be. I was slowly getting used to being home, aware that we were safe again. I placed my mug on the table and sat beside it. My fingers sought the warm ceramic as a coldness washed over me at the memories of the last number of years. Almost suddenly, my body shook and a lone tear wrangled its way from my lids.

Despite what people thought, I never hated my sister, didn't understand her, but certainly didn't hate her. I simply resented everything she was. Her and that terrible boy, practicing what was taboo amongst normal people;

Magic

Yet, even though I had those feelings, I still wanted what she had. That's what spurred me to write that damn letter, the one that haunted my memories to this day. My hand shook as I had put the pen to paper, trying to decide what to say. In the end what I wrote was the truth.

"Dear Professor Dumbledore,

My name is Petunia Evans and I am what your kind calls a muggle. I however, don't wish to be a muggle anymore. I want to be a witch. I want to be like my little sister. More importantly, I would like to attend Hogwarts School next September with her.

It is my wish more than anything to learn Magic, to understand it and to be able to do it. Please, please, please, if you have a heart, let me join your school. It is all I want and need. Please Sir,

Yours Truly,

Petunia"

I could remember each individual letter I had scrawled untidily onto the cold parchment, emptying my heart and soul into those few words. Short and to the point, like the many letters I would write to my sister after that.

The rejection letter had been polite, gentle mannered but crystal clear. I was not like my sister, I was the plain Jane, not talented in anyway. She was beautiful, and she had the Magic. Literally.

More wet droplets slipped through as wound opened fresh, raw at the memory. I pretended I didn't like her when she came back, made snide remarks, became cold. Eventually, I wasn't pretending when I called her horrible things. Soon, she began to retaliate and that made it easier.

But she never knew, or would never know, how many times in the dead of night I'd slip from my bed and take her wand to see if it would work for me. One night sparks erupted from the end, a beautiful swirl of purple and blue that had lit up the room as I frantically muttered one of the incantations from her textbooks. That night, elated, I kissed her forehead before going back to bed.

When she died, I pretended I didn't care, and truth be told, I'd grown so used to pretending, I almost didn't. But the absence of someone to be angry at can be just as potent as the absence of someone you love.

Her son, so like his tosspot father, filled that void for a while. I thought I had finally broken all contacts with the world I'd grown to hate, and suddenly here was another seventeen years of pain served on a platter. I treated him like a slave, worked him to the bone, and never felt any guilt. It was my way of getting back at Lily, my way of hurting her just as much as she had me. But in some ways, I did love him and in the end, he repaid any debt by saving our lives. It didn't mean I still had to like him.

"Petunia? We're home!" My husband's gruff voice came from the front door followed by a shout from my son. My beautiful son. I stood quickly, emptying the now cold untouched tea. I wiped a damp cloth across my cheeks to cool them, make me look as though I had merely been passing time.

A flitting thought crossed my mind as I placed the cup on the draining board after washing it.

I didn't hate my sister. I don't hate her son.

I hated that I couldn't be like either of them.