Author's Notes: Yes, another fem Harry story. I'm playing around with different ideas and seeing which one I want to go with. It might be this one.

Other random thoughts - I always did feel rather sorry for young Petunia. I think that shows here.


Chapter One

Annabelle Wickley did not particularly enjoy working as a secretary at Grunnings Co. It was a job, something to get her by while she worked toward becoming a nurse. Some of her coworkers were tolerable.

Petunia Evans was not one of them.

Petunia Evans was gossipy, rude, and high-handed. She was dating the biggest asshole at Grunnings, Vernon Dursley, and everyone thought quietly that they were a perfect match for one another - and absolutely no one meant that in the positive sense.

So when Annabelle saw Petunia crying on the front steps of Grunnings one day, she was torn. It was her surprise that won her over in the end. Petunia Evans had a certain innate dignity to her, and she never cried over anything.

Annabelle sat down next to her. "What's wrong?" she asked in concern.

Petunia sniffed. "Nothing I want to talk about," she snapped.

Annabelle sighed. That was predictable. She stood and turned to leave.

The words burst out of Petunia as though she could not hold them in any longer. "My sister is having a baby girl!"

Annabelle paused, and turned back to Petunia cautiously. "That doesn't sound so bad," she said, and sat down slowly next to Petunia as she began ranting.

"Oh, you don't know my sister! She's a freak, she - she's into imaginative things, nonsensical, fanciful things. And - and she's beautiful, and she threw it all away marrying some player from her schooldays. They ran away and eloped, first thing at age eighteen. Shotgun wedding. They're perfectly horrible. And now they're having a baby girl, and - And that's what I always wanted," she whispered.

"Imagination isn't so bad," said Annabelle gently. Petunia gave her a flat glare. "No, really. It has its perks. It leads to innovation."

"I'm not much for innovation," said Petunia stiffly.

"But that thing you use to type on - would it even exist without the imagination of someone?" Annabelle pointed out. "You have to admit, at least some innovation is necessary for society to function."

"Yes, but it's just - I don't have any," Petunia murmured.

"I'm sure you have more than you think. More imagination, I mean," said Annabelle at Petunia's blank look. "You type, right? You should try writing. Experiment with a little of that imagination for yourself. Create new things."

Petunia looked torn.

"I think you may be jealous of your sister," Annabelle continued softly.

Petunia suddenly stormed to her feet, flushing. "I am not envious!" she snapped. "Envy is an ugly emotion and I don't have it! That's perfectly ridiculous!" She stalked away.

Annabelle sighed, staring after her - almost pitying.

She decided to keep Petunia's secrets.


Petunia expected to hear all sorts of awful gossip about her over the next few days - she dreaded it - but to her surprise Annabelle decided to say nothing. This was unusually principled of her.

Petunia registered this for the first time - that she was grateful someone hadn't participated in gossip.

The word rattled around in her brain. Jealousy. She couldn't stop thinking about it. Envy was something lower people did, something not at all attractive on her. But - well, she was skinny and bony, with a long neck and protruding teeth and a thin face. She was without magic. And Lily had both - beauty and magic, with her perfect proportions and gorgeous green eyes and long crimson colored hair.

She was fanciful. Weird. Impulsive. A freak.

She was married and pregnant with a daughter and special. She had the life Petunia had always wanted.

Petunia had decided to tell Vernon about her sister. They were sitting in the car at a drive in theater one day, having dinner, and she tentatively decided to broach the subject.

"Vernon, I have something to tell you. My sister… is a witch."

She expected anger. She expected disbelief. She expected to be called insane.

She didn't expect what came next.

"She thinks she's a witch?" said Vernon, eyebrows raising.

"Yes! Yes, that's exactly it!" Petunia jumped at the theory like a lifeboat.

"Well then. One of those heathen types, eh? Devil worshipper? Not to worry. You're perfectly sensible. I'll never hold it against you that you have a freak for a sister," said Vernon solemnly.

Petunia hesitated. Freak. That thing she had called her sister out of envy.

"Well… is it really bad, to be so imaginative? Doesn't imagination breed innovation?" Petunia did want imagination, suddenly. She wanted it a lot. She wanted to be innovative - a kind of magic in itself.

She realized that desperately, out of the blue.

Vernon stared at her. "Now, Pet," he said condescendingly, "I won't have that kind of nonsense talk. Stop being ridiculous and finish eating."

Petunia did not like being told what to do in such condescending tones. She was almost completely silent for the rest of the night.


Petunia sat down, tentatively, to write a poem.

Poetry, she had decided, was refined. It spoke of ballet and French cuisine and sophistication and pearl drop earrings and lace gloves. Things she adored.

Perhaps she was more of a romantic than she'd given herself credit for.

She sat down to write… and was at a loss, staring at the blank page. What to say? Then she thought of what Annabelle had said. Of envy.

She decided to write a poem describing a series of moments with her sister. It came out like this:

I'm six years old.

I love my sister.

She's reckless from the beginning,

She's always in trouble,

I'm the good girl.

She can float and make blossoms open and close.

I disapprove,

And maybe,

Maybe I envy her, too.

A boy steals her away.

He's strange like she is.

I hardly ever see my sister anymore.

I try to join them or listen in on them,

And the boy hurts me with his power.

We're eight years old.

Now we're ten years old.

She gets her first Hogwarts letter.

Our parents praise her instead of me.

I beg to be let in.

The headmaster tells me I can't,

As I have no magic.

Eleven years old.

I call Lily a freak

And storm away from her at the Hogwarts Express station.

Thank goodness, I think,

That I'm not a freak.

And out of bitterness,

I almost out her to the Muggle world.

But then I remember loving my baby sister,

And I don't.

Now we're sixteen.

Lily's full of nonsense,

Bright smiles and airy eccentricity,

Fanciful art and healing spells,

Animal evidence and Transfiguration.

She's much prettier than I am.

She gets all the boys.

I won't be asked out until I am nineteen.

Lily is eighteen.

She doesn't invite anyone to her wedding.

I stop talking to her.

Our lives no longer intertwine.

Then I hear the baby girl announcement,

And I realize the cycle is complete.

My sister has the life

I always wanted to have.

The husband,

And the daughter,

And the magic.

Petunia stood and rushed from the writing desk. She made herself a cup of tea and pretended that her hands weren't shaking, that there weren't tears in her eyes.


She went shamefully to Annabelle one day at work and handed her a portfolio full of poems.

"I want you to look over this and tell me if it's any good," she said stiffly. "It's full of poems I wrote. I am… sorry. About the other day."

Apologies had always been hard pills to swallow for Petunia Evans.

Annabelle paused. She was a rather plain girl with a bun of brown hair, but when her face lit up, she had a lovely smile. "I'd be glad to take a look at them. Now let's see -" She opened the portfolio.

"Oh, no, not here!" said Petunia, panicked, but it was too late. Annabelle was already reading.

"Oh, this is wonderful!" she said warmly.

"... Really?" said Petunia tentatively.

"Do you enjoy writing?" Annabelle asked, looking up.

"... Yes," Petunia decided. "When I'm writing, I almost feel like I'm creating something… magical." The last word was whispered, and it sounded foolish to her own ears.

"That's great!" said Annabelle enthusiastically, despite Petunia's inner turmoil.

Petunia sat down slowly. "I… I had a date with Vernon the other night. I told him my sister believes she's a witch - you know, like a Wiccan? He called her a freak. And it made him sound like the ugliest part… of me.

"Then, when I defended her, he ordered me to stop talking nonsense and finish my dinner."

Annabelle stared at her, piercing, for a long moment, her bright smile fading. "You know Vernon Dursley," she said abruptly at last. "He has very… loud and extremely traditionalist opinions and complaints. And he thinks women should play a very… certain role in life. Are you ambitious?"

"I would like to do something with my life," Petunia admitted, troubled. "Perhaps I could write. You're saying… that's incompatible with Vernon."

"... Perhaps," said Annabelle at last. "You'll have to decide whether or not that's something you want to live with. Are you attracted to him?"

"... That's hardly up for debate," Petunia huffed, straightening, turning back to her old self.

But they both knew she was dodging the question. Because she didn't.

Annabelle looked pitying and Petunia hated pity.