Hey guys. It's been a while I guess. I just logged into my email for the first time since started the account (oops.) and I had like 30 favorites so thanks to EVERYONE because that was the best experience of my life.
Yeah so this is just an idea I had about Petunia, because seriously, who could love Vernon Dursley? That's just gross.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Duh.
She had pretended to hate him. She had pretended to turn her nose up at his disheveled hair, his lopsided glasses, and his worn, scuffed trainers. She had pretended he was beneath her, and she'd scoffed at all his jokes. She had scowled whenever he tried to talk to her; and she had felt her heart break as her cold dismissal murdered that beautiful smile on his face. She gone every moment with a grimace, a wince, or a glower on her face, to show him he didn't matter anymore than the dirt on his shoes (because, of course, there was none on hers).
It had all been a lie.
Because James Potter was perfect.
And Petunia Dursley knew it.
He was everything she had dreamed of as a child—you didn't seriously think she'd ever, ever fantasized about someone like Vernon Dursley did you? Not that she didn't love her husband. She did, really. He was sweet, and steady, and he loved her more than his own life. She couldn't ask for anything more, she knew, but whoever had said that love was blinding, or whatever, was either crazy or shit stupid. Of course, she had noticed that Vernon was 3 times the size of her. Of course, she had watched in fascination, just like everyone else, as his face made quick work of at least seven shades of purple, before settling on the ugliest puce color imaginable. And of course she hated that damn mustache. Who wouldn't?
But James, oh God, James. With the coal black hair that looked so soft from over her raised wine glass. With the hazel eyes that danced when he laughed, sparkled when he wanted to, and performed entire fucking ballets when he looked at her sister. The tall frame, the lean, unobtrusive muscles that were just as powerful as Vernon's bulky, baseball-bag type (she shuddered to think what he would look like when he started to let himself go), the mischievous air that had set her parents instantly on edge, but also the charming personality that soothed them just as fast.
She had dreamed of a boy like this all her life, while other girls lusted after flawless blonde Apollo's, and immaculate, bronzed surfer types. She'd never yearned for bulging muscles that strained against shirts or pushed, rock-hard, against a woman's body. She remembered countless summer longing for exactly the type of man that James Potter was. Lither, agile, and so alive.
She had dreamed of a man like him one day coming for her, whisking away from her carefully concocted, a-place-for-everything-and-everything-in-it's-place world. He would be wild and rugged, the kind of boy who picks your life up, spins it around a bit, then sets it back down on its head. The kind who scoops you up, tosses you over his shoulder and teaches you to break the rules. Even now, with Vernon beside her, droning about drills (the man makes drills for God's sake. Why can't she catch a fucking break?), her heart begins to beat faster, fantasizing about exactly the kind of man that Vernon isn't.
She can see her life, where it's going to go, where she'll be in 5 years, 10 years, 15. She knows exactly what she'll be doing every minute of every hour. In a way, she dreamed of this, too. A perfect life. Elegant. Refined. Because elegant and refined can be thrilling too right? Don't all the best action movies star a charming, classy lead, who likes to kick ass almost as much as he likes to drink champagne?
Except Vernon Dursley is certainly no James Bond—Damn. They've even got the same name. She breathes in sharply for a moment and glances over to where her sister's red hair is spilling over James' shoulder. They're just resting there, Lily's head on his shoulder. Breathing. Living. Being. Even now, they are perfect, and she knows that stupid little Petunia with her flowered apron and her prissy perms would ruin this picture. Besides, James simply cannot lose that awestruck expression, as though every breath Lily takes, every flicker of expression in her eyes, and every silly inane word from her mouth is a gift from God. He looks like at any moment he expects her to be taken from him, so he soaks her up like a sponge. He looks like he might die if he's not with her.
She glances at Vernon. For some reason, the ridiculous, besotted look in his eye does not have the same effect. She doesn't think Vernon understands love like she and Lily and James do. Vernon is…well…he's a moron. But he's a moron who is the best she will ever have, and that'd be ok, she'd be fine, if her idiot sister and that blasted boy would stop rubbing her face in what she'll never have.
They stand, Lily and James, and it's like a dance. Choreographed to perfection, and so in unison they might have practiced it. Except they are not Petunia, so she knows it just happened that way. They don't care for being polished they way she does. They just are.
They are making their good-byes to her parents, and Petunia knows what will come next. It's common courtesy. Traditional. Everything she loves. Lily will turn to her. Petunia will rise. They'll embrace, kiss cheeks, pretend they're still as devoted to each other as they were when all Petunia cared about was making that look of adoration come to Lily's face. They were children then, and nothing mattered but the fact that they were sisters.
Except this time, as Lily looks at her expectantly, Petunia finds that…she can't do it. She can't get up, hug her sister, and pretend to wish her all the best. Because after Lily will come James, and Petunia knows that if she gets her arms around James she will never let go.
This is freedom like she has never known it before, she realizes, as she defies all social constraints and stays in her chair. The awkward silence her immobility produces tastes so good, she almost asks for the recipe. But this new liberation, oh how it burns because it has only happened because of him. James bloody Potter. She is refusing this custom because of him, and she finds that breaking the rules is just as exhilarating as she imagined. She's flying high, doing what she wants because she wants to, not pretending to act happy for because other people say she should.
It's intoxicating. And she can't do it alone. The moment he leaves, she will stammer apologies to her parents and her husband, beg and illness of some sort, swear it will never happen again. She knows it, just as she knows that her parents will pretend they don't know it's a lie, and just as she knows that Vernon will swallow it like the gallons of lasagna he's tucked away tonight. This is the rest of her life, layed out before her.
She turns away, not wanting to see the hurt in Lily's eyes, because Lily is perfect and no one can help but love her, even Petunia. She doesn't want to see James' gaze turn hostile as he looks at her, doesn't want to see him spring to Lily's defense. She doesn't want to see how James will erase all the pain in Lily's eyes. How they will forget her, and go back to being LilyandJames. Go back to being something more than she can ever hope to be, go back to being saviors and heroes and prodigies.
She stares out the window and begs and pleads and bargains. Wishing she could be like Lily and James. Wishing she could be special, just once. And wishing that she got to fucking live in a goddamn castle, too.
(A/N): So how was that? I might have been a little unfair to poor old Vernon but well...he sucks.
p.s. um anyone who wants to beta me possibly...I don't know how to look into that so...I might need a little help.
And also for and Harry potter and Hunger Games fans who might have read this I'm thinking about doing something from Rue's POV. What do you think? Too overdone?