A/N - Written for Round 7 of the QLFC. This was the Horcrux round and my prompt was Harry's scar. Thank you to Nexie and Mary for looking this over and making suggestions. :)
She remembers when she used to stare at it. She couldn't look in his eyes, not after that first day she found him on their doorstep and read the letter. So she focused instead on the scar on his forehead. It matched her mood for a time, angry and red. But soon that too became too much. Because every time she saw it she would remember. Remember the jagged slice of pain; unexpected and unwanted, that had ripped through her when she read the letter. And so she stopped looking at his face all together.
She remembers the first time that he saw it. He was standing on a small step stool in the bathroom to wash his hands, barely even three. His hair was messier than usual, sticking up all over his head, and he caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. She saw him lean forward for a closer look even as he put his hands under the water to rinse them. His eyes had darted towards her in the mirror. At first she thought that he was afraid she was going to reprimand him, but then she realized he was studying her forehead. She averted her gaze, as she always did when he looked at her.
"Hurry up!" she had snapped, to forestall any questions from him. There was certainly no way she was going to speak about that.
She remembers the first time that he finally asked about it. He was no more than four. She had already begun to have him help her in the kitchen. He could stir cake batter and add ingredients that she had premeasured. She was chopping vegetables when he questioned her.
"Aunt Petunia, what's this?" He had turned slightly on the chair he stood on to look at her and pointed to his forehead. Her knife had stilled for a brief moment, but she was positive that he noticed.
"Dudley says it's a," he screwed up his face as if trying to remember, "Scar."
"Well, of course it's a scar," she had retorted and then resumed chopping, much quicker than before. She had felt his eyes on her for some time afterward, but he didn't ask anything else and she refused to look at him. She couldn't see those eyes, not right now.
She remembers when he must have found out what having a scar meant. He had just turned five. He was serving Vernon and Dudley their dinner and she had decided that she would start teaching him to cook breakfast soon.
"Aunt Petunia?" he said as he returned to the kitchen for Dudley's plate.
"What?" she had returned irritably.
"How did I get my scar?" There was silence from the kitchen table as Vernon stopped cutting his meat. He met his wife's eyes over the boy's head and there was warning there. Petunia had looked down and scowled at her nephew before shoving Dudley's plate at him.
"In the car crash of course," she replied angrily. "Now take this to Dudley before it gets cold."
She remembers the day he screwed up enough courage to ask her about his parents again. She was always cold and rebuked him every time he mentioned anything about them, for it was the last thing she ever wanted to talk about. Vernon was much harsher about it, cuffing the boy on the back of the head and locking him in his cupboard if he spoke of them, so he waited until his uncle was at work and Dudley was playing with his friends. He was older, nearly eight and he was cleaning the lounge while she sipped tea and watched a program on the telly, the one hour a day she allowed herself such a luxury.
"Aunt Petunia, how did my parents die?" he had asked.
"I've told you, it was a car crash," she snapped.
"Yes, but how?" he had pressed. She flicked her eyes in his direction, but didn't look at his face. She tried to avoid that as much as possible, lest she accidentally have to look into those eyes.
"Your father was drunk," she finally said. "He ran you off the road and into a tree. The windshield shattered and cut you." She had no idea why she was giving so many details. "Now be quiet and stop bothering me." She had seen the slump of his shoulders and the slow swipe of the rag across the table instead of the usual steady pace he worked at and she had yelled at him to work faster. The satisfaction she expected to feel when he jumped at her voice never came.
She remembers how angry he was when he found out the truth; when that giant of a man found them in the tiny cottage that Vernon had taken them to in order to escape from the inevitable. Oh, she knew it was inevitable the day the very first letter came. She had known it was inevitable much sooner than that really. He had turned his accusing eyes on them, angry and…hurt she had finally realized. Of course she couldn't acknowledge that bit of guilt that tugged at her, especially when those eyes focused on her and she was forced to look at him. Even in the dim light of the fire she could see. And so she had turned the blame on her sister and her parents, if only to keep the deep stabbing pain that she felt any time she saw those eyes at bay.
She remembers when it seemed to pain him. He was nearly fifteen. She watched him weed the flower beds, but every few minutes he would stop and rub at his forehead, slight grimace on his face.
She knew he had nightmares, they had all heard them. His moaning and crying in the night had woken all of them more than once. He would call out that he was back and beg for someone named Cedric. She didn't know who Cedric was, but every time she heard the boy cry out that he was back, her blood ran cold. She wasn't sure why, but for some reason she thought it had something to do with the scar on his head. She knew how he got it, what really happened that night. It was all in the letter that Dumbledore person left with him on their doorstep.
Now, she knows why, of course. He is back. The one that gave the boy that scar. The one that is forcing her to leave the place she has called home for the last eighteen years of her life. The one that took Lily from her and left her with a poor substitute. She stands in the entry weeping after Dudley's generous display. She can feel the boy's presence behind her, but she does not turn around. She thinks that maybe she should say something. But, even now, when she is not sure that will ever see him again, she cannot look, cannot bear to see those eyes for what might be the last time. Vernon and Dudley are already in the car, having followed those people that will be taking them somewhere else for who knows how long.
She says good-bye without looking at him and takes two steps towards the door before she stops. She tries to make herself keep moving without looking back, but it's almost as if some unknown force is compelling her to turn her head back toward him. Against her own volition, she meets his gaze. She sees the confusion on his face before her eyes narrow in on his and she sees nothing else. They seem to be holding her captive, urging her to tell him, to say something before it is too late. Perhaps she should wish him luck or maybe even try and explain. Explain the reason that she could never really look at him, could never let him close to her. Because she knew that she could not bear to lose those eyes again, not again. But instead, she finally jerks her head away and turns and follows the others from the house. And all the while she feels those eyes burning into her back.