Written for Muggle Studies Task 1: Medieval AU in which a canonical witch or wizard is being burnt at the stake by a canonical Muggle
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Fight Fire with Fire
Lord Dursley looked on, an eager smile on his face. Punishment was something he liked to inflict. Upon these freaks especially. These deviations of Nature that were not most certainly the Lord's work. So he used his authority, under that of the King, to punish their kind whenever he could.
His Lady is usually by his side from the very beginning but today she belated her arrival. His sister dislikes her, always has, but his wife's tardiness is not helping her cause with any of the Dursleys today. He doesn't want Marjorie to be riled up, not when he has something like this to enjoy.
When his wife comes to him, sometime later, they have already punished the cattle thieves, sentenced to lose hands for their offence by Lord Dursey there and then. The glint he is used to see in his wife's gaze is not there, gone, replaced by a shadow he does not know or understand. She is even more adamant on their task of ridding the world of these freaks. He nods to her, a simple recognition of her presence, and she replies with a curtsy, but no words. That is unusual too.
His sister is equally treated but she makes it a point to let Petunia know she is late and that she, Lady Marjorie, is not pleased and deserves better treatment.
"My apologies, Lady Marjorie, I had to tend to my child."
"Ah, yes. My brother's heir. And how is little lord Dudley doing today? He is not sick, I hope."
"Oh, no. No. Not sick," Petunia does look a bit sick herself, and her eyes lose focus for a second, "he was just fussy during the night, so he isn't on a very good mood." She gulps, knowing perfectly well that Dudley slept through the night and woke up crying for the nurse's teat like he always does. His mood is fine too. Petunia simply needed refuge. She almost hoped he would be fussy, or that there was the tell-tale rosiness of teething fever in her child's face. She could have stayed there, and not be here.
"And why is he not here?" Lady Marjorie's voice retrieves Petunia from her mind.
"Wha-why? He is only one, it is much too cold."
"We were always present when sentences were carried, no matter our age. Or the weather. Of course, your family would not be expected to hold the same standard of education."
Petunia shrinks on her seat. Her husband won't come to her rescue, or stand for her, not against his sister. He never does.
Her family… Her family consisted only of herself and her parents, as far as the Dursleys know. The freak in her family had long been presumed dead. The summer fever provided enough cover for the freak to be hidden from the world. For her safety, her parents said, even years later, as they shipped the freak to a freak-filled school somewhere in the barbaric North, in the realm of the Scots. Fitting really. She remembers being dragged along, every summer, to see the freak. How all the attention was gathered round the aberration that she had been given for a sister. How her parents were so stupidly proud of the sin they had seen born to the world.
Her parents are dead now. They saw her married to Lord Vernon, a bit later than other girls her age, and delivered of a son and quickly followed the reaper to the afterlife. They had not spoken of their other daughter to her for years, knowing that she did not like it, or her. Aware of the danger it posed under her husband's roof. She has not seen the freak in years either, ever since the last summer she was forced to see her, when she had taken the chance to let her know that she should never, ever, show her face around her future husband's lands. Let alone for her wedding. She hopes to never see her again, truly.
Her thoughts scatter to the wind when the witch is brought forward.
She had heard the rumours from the servants. All the talk about the red-haired witch that had been caught, half mad they said, clutching a blanket to her chest. She had feared then, but her mind had talked her into believing this would be another red-haired witch. She had warned her, after all, never to come near. No, she corrects herself, not warned her, she had banished her from her lands, and that was it. She would not risk her marriage, her life, for the sake of the likes of her.
But it is her. She is unmistakable. The pale freckled skin, the fiery hair, the eyes. Those green, green eyes that haunt her dreams ever since the witch was caught a fortnight ago.
But she is also broken. The hair not so bright, the smile gone, the glint missing from her gaze. The last fortnight must have been miserable for her. Kept in the dark dungeons, subjected to the whims of the guards, prayed to time and time again by the priest, beaten and battered when she would not confess to doing the Devil's work, made to watch the breaking of her wand.
Still, under the bruises and the defeat on her face, her essence remains. She is Lily. And Petunia did nothing for a fortnight to save her.
No, she is the freak. Not Lily, not your sister. She died in the summer. She did.
Except she didn't. And Petunia didn't save her. That ship has sailed, there's nothing she can do now. Nothing that wouldn't raise suspicion about herself, nothing that wouldn't end with her on that stake too, nothing that wouldn't see her boy disgraced. Her son, bless him, that has never shown any peculiarities and never will. She hopes.
"Petunia, are you quite alright? You seem pale," her husband's voice sounds very far away, even though it is in fact a whisper at her ear, followed by a yearning look at her middle, "have you been eating?"
Petunia has to force the scoff down. Of course. He does not really care that she is pale and looked sick just a while ago. He cares that she might be carrying another child for him. He remembers her being like this only when she was with child and she wouldn't break fast in the morning for fear of making her nausea worse. He remembers how everyone fretted because she was losing weight instead of gaining it in the first months, her gangly body becoming ganglier.
And he has not a clue of the real reason for her state. For he has not a clue about the identity of the woman they will burn today and what she used to mean to his wife. He never presumes to go beyond what he knows, what he is certain of, what others tell him is true. So he misses all the little things that could have let him in into his wife's biggest secret. So he presumes another babe with blond hair like his mother and the build of his father.
And Petunia is thankful.
"I'm fine, my lord. It will pass," she gives him a small, shy, little smile, "maybe like last time." That earns her a smile of his and a contented look. Lord Vernon has been averted.
Her gaze returns to the witch being tied to the stake. She wears nothing but a rough tunic of harsh material, and the fabric still manages to cling to her shapely body in all the right places. Her eyes, even if dull, still silence the crowd. Her long hair was left uncut and unbound, and it's its dance on the wind that evokes an image in Petunia's mind.
She is a flame unto herself. And she will burn.
And she will do nothing to stop it. Not now, that she has had the chance to supress Lily to the vault of her childhood memories and force herself to only see freak. A freak the likes of which get burned. Purified. Cleansed.
Because she has been living in jealousy of that woman for too long. For most of her life really. How she was pleasant on the eyes and became shapely, while she remained bony-faced and never overcame the lankiness of adolescence. How she has fiery hair that shines like copper in the sun, while hers is a dull yellow with not half the smoothness. How she was capable of things she could not wrap her mind around, still is. How she made their parents proud, while she remained in her shadow. How she received a letter one day and she had to plead for one and see it denied.
So Petunia turns her nose up, as if something smells horrid already, and sees the freak be settled over the wood. She merely looks on, as the witch fights the guards that attempt to pry the blanket from her. Her hold on the dirty thing is such that they simply give up and tie her with it. She clutches it, her knuckles going white. There are tears coming down her cheeks, as more ropes bind her body.
"She would do better to confess instead of cry," Lady Marjorie feels the need to say, "her life would be spared that way." She hadn't heard herself talk for too long apparently.
But Petunia, no matter how much she wants to see the freak and not Lily, knows better. Those tears are not for her life, brave Lily would never give her foes the satisfaction of her tears. Those tears are for someone else's life.
A blanket! Dear Lord, no! It can't be. Please let it not be.
Her mind runs frantic at that. A blanket like the ones she embroidered for Dudley. Her sister has a child of her own, it seems. She must stop this, she must save Lily.
No! No, stop this madness! That is not Lily, your sister died in the summer. That is a freak, a devil-doer, let her burn.
Let her burn because if you don't, you will burn too. Your child will be alone in this world.
Like Lily's.
No! The freak has a child, what of it? Freaks shouldn't be allowed to breed, freaks are to be burned.
Petunia shuts down. Silences the world around her. Sees nothing with her clear blue, unremarkably blue, eyes. Feels nothing but the slight touch of the wind in her clothes. She will witness the freak burn, and the witch die. She will not see her sister perish.
She died in the summer.
The creature before her means nothing to her but jealousy, and remorse, and grudge, and spite, and all the things she could never have. So she will see the flame burn.
And burn she did. Deliberately taking large breaths of air in, along with all the smoke from the moist that gathered on the wood throughout the morning. The freak is brave, she will not give her screams to her foes, she will not let them see her pain. But she inflicts one last damaging blow to Petunia.
She knew all along who was watching her burn, has known all along whose dungeons held her. With the last seconds of conscience, she turns her piercing green eyes, her so remarkably green eyes, to her sister and mouths one word.
Tuney.
Petunia shatters. She can't see the freak anymore. All she sees is Lily. Lily, her sister Lily, her little baby sister Lily. Lily that she has not saved.
The flames lick her hair and it becomes a blaze all on its own, a banner of copper melting into red and gold flying in the wind. And Petunia has to run. Lord Dursley actually looks worried, broken the spell of the beautiful witch dancing with the fire. Lady Marjorie looks displeased that her sister-in-law cannot stomach the most important mission of her husband.
Retreating to the inside of the castle, more of a fortified house really, nothing outstanding, Petunia sobs alone, refusing all help from the maids. She sobs her way up the stairs, looking for her only tether to sanity, who sleeps peacefully, with a belly full of milk, on his crib with a blanket just like Lily's. That drives her to impending bouts of nausea, making her reach for the window and gather some fresh air.
The air isn't fresh at all. The air already carries Lily with it. Still, Petunia spots a figure on the courtyard in the brief moments she keeps the window open, a man in a dark cloak.
X
It wasn't worth it in the end. There was no point in pleading for her life after all. The gift his Master had decided to concede him, provided that he did not sire children by her, is gone all the same.
He had created a diversion that night, making sure to keep Lily out of the Dark Lord's path, knowing that He would not hesitate were she to stand before the child. And of course the brave, foolish lioness would sacrifice herself for the son of the prancing, proud James Potter. He had Obliviated her in the end, making sure she would not remember his role on the death of her husband, on the death of her son.
Still, Lily wouldn't come with him when he entered the house to rescue her. Lily wouldn't let go of her boy's body and he could hear her soul breaking, her heart shattering in a wail that went right through him. He had promised her safety, and love, and comfort. But she did not budge. She had lashed out at him, a furious lioness striking down the snake that had killed her pride, drawing her wand on him, throwing all care about secrecy to the wind for the sake of vengeance.
In trying to win her, he had broken her. And himself. There was no point in pleading for her life in the end. There wasn't even a point to keeping her alive at all, watching over her while she meandered her way through the woods, drifting without destiny, holding the precious blanket that had first wrapped around her son's body. Drifting into lands that were not safe. He had fallen asleep, minutely, watching her sleep under a tree on the cold floor that he made warmer just for her. And waken to the sound of steel singing out of its sheath and spells being screamed but not fired. She had allowed her wand to drift from her hand and it had followed the slope, away from her. And in their sleep, the Disillusionment spells had faded, hers and his. But his dark clothes concealed him in the shadows of the wood, while her copper hair shone in the moonlight.
His Lord had summoned him, the piercing pain on his forearm a command he could not deny. His Lord had seen to him being too preoccupied with completing tasks assigned to keep him from her. She was not worthy, he said. A Mudblood, and one that got caught by Muggles at that, he said, ordering him to some other place that was too far away from her.
He was late, too late. He had trusted her own sister to save her, and she hadn't. She had ran, with tears in her eyes, tears that solved nothing. Love truly was a weakness. He could see it now, at the sight of his weakness burning away. He has nothing to lose anymore. He does not know what will guide him now. Now that his wish, his want for her, is no longer. But he does know that this is where he shall come the next time his Master commands him to inflict punishment on Muggles.