Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Thanks.
A/N: Thank you for reading and please leave a review (even if you hate it), I'd love to hear what you think!
"I'll be home late today, Petunia," Vernon Dursley grumbled as he stuffed a pile of papers into his briefcase haphazardly. "Don't wait up for me."
"Of course, dear," his wife smiled as she handed him his coat. "I'll make your favorite for dinner and leave a plate on the stove for you."
Her large husband gave a slightly appreciative half-snort as he nodded his goodbye and headed out the door, leaving Petunia in a silence that seemed to envelope the whole house. Dudley had stayed with a friend the previous night, and would not want to come home for a few hours yet . . . as much as Petunia valued the silence, she didn't quite fancy feeling so lonely.
In an effort to distrsct herself from the emptiness, Petunia gathered all of her cleaning supplies from underneath the kitchen sink and set to work. Something about dusting always set her mind at ease, and the house had been left to settle for far too long since its last thourough clean. If all went according to plan, she would be done just before noon when Dudley would start to feel homesick for her peach and rhubarb scones.
She swept the dustrag across the mantle, careful not to knock over any of her husband's family heirlooms which he insisted they leave up, just in case his mother ever came to visit. Petunia stared, for a moment, into the eyes of her husband - a black and white photograph of him at about seven years old, the same age as their Dudley. His eyes seemed to be swallowed by the massiveness of his face and Petunia almost laughed because, as it turns out, some things never change.
She was just about to clear off the table in the sitting room when she heard a small scuffle of feet coming from behind her. Turning slowly, she came face to face with her nephew. She had almost forgotten he was even in the house.
"Do you need something, boy?" She asked, much softer than she intended as she was wary to break the silence that had become almost companionable.
He didn't answer, instead he gazed around the room almost curiously, as though he hadn't set foot in it before.
"Well?" She put her hands on her thin hips and stared down at the six-year-old with a penciled eyebrow raised. "As you can see, I'm quite in the middle of something," she gestured slightly with the dustrag. "Unless you're injured or in need of something, kindly return to your room and leave me be."
Petunia began to turn away but, as she did, he came to stand beside her - at a distance.
"Can I help?" His little voice squeaked as he rubbed his socked foot against the carpet.
Masking her surprise at his request, Petunia simply handed the boy the dustrag. "May I help," she corrected him as she grabbed the homemade dusting spray. "And I suppose you can, if you don't talk too much. I'll spray and you wipe."
The boy nodded and helped her clear the books and nickacks off of the table before watching her spray it down.
"Wipe in one direction," Petunia instructed. "Don't leave any streaks on my table."
She wanted to move on to the side table, but something gave her pause. She watched the boy carefully as he wiped from one end of the table to the other, making sure he didnt't miss a single spot. She wondered, absently, where he had gained his meticulousness from. Surely not his delinquint father, and his mother -
Petunia shook her head and clicked her tongue as though chiding herself - it didn't matter how the boy had become so good at cleaning, as long as he did so throughly and quietly.
The two worked silently for some time; Petunia spraying while the boy wiped, Petunia righting tilting photographs on the walls and the boy straighening out little figurines on the tables. She had almost forgotten that he was there yet again when she heard hs stomach growl viciously. She turned her head slightly to give him a look; the boy seemed embarrassed. A quick glance at the clock told her it was half to noon and she wondered where the time had gone, and why Dudley hadn't called for her to bring him home.
"Are you hungry?" She asked lightly, without looking at him.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia." The boy admitted, once again shuffling his tiny feet against the floor.
"Come on, then," she wiped her hands on her smock despite the fact that there was nothing on them to rid herself of. "Into the kitchen."
The boy said nothing, choosing instead to follow slightly behind his aunt, dragging his feet as he went.
"Sit." Petunia demanded, pointing to the kitchen table as she walked over to the fridge. She reached for the package of pre-sliced cheese before withdrawing a moment. Normally, she would leave the last of the leftover roast for Vernon or Dudley, since they were so fond of it and they both ate so much . . . but neither had eaten it yet, and neither was there. For some reason unknown to petunia, she grabbed the leftovers and a jar of mayonaise and began to craft a simple sandwich.
She set it before him as she readied her tea, carefully ignoring the way the boy's eyes widened and his mouth practically watered.
Finally taking a seat across from him, Petunia watched him eat with practiced disinterest. She took notice of the way he kept his head down as he ate, taking small bites and wiping his mouth on his sleeve every so often. Growing tired and disgusted of watching it, she slid him a napkin. The boy grinned so brightly that his eyes squeezed shut, causing Petunia to pause with her teacup balanced on her lower lip, resting slightly against a chip in the china rim.
There was something . . . Petunia finally sipped her tea.
The boy really did look so much like his father - ratty dark hair that stuck up in every direction, scrawny and lanky with the promise of never reaching six feet tall. Petunia clicked her tongue again as she went to take another sip. Like his father, the boy would probably also amount to nothing.
Just as she was about to demand that the boy go back to the cupboard under the stairs and leave her alone, he looked up at her with a strange expression on his face without saying a word. The way his head tilted slightly to the left and his tongue flicked out to catch a spot of mayonaise that had fallen to the corner of his tiny mouth . . .
There was something . . . Petunia finished her tea.
She had seen that expression before, a long time ago, although she couldn't very well say when. Without thinking, Petunia took a scone out of the cake stand and handed it to him. She would normally never give him sweets, but noon was fast approaching and Dudley still had not called and so someone might as well eat one.
The boy stared at the scone for a moment before saying a quiet thanks and taking a small bite of the proffered delicacy. It was then that Petunia realized where her deja vu had come from.
The last time she'd seen that expressive and nervous face staring back at her across this kitchen table had been just over six years ago, but then the face had belonged to someone else. Someone with clear, pale skin and pink, bow-shaped lips . . . a face framed by thick, dark red hair. Her sister's face.
Lily's face.
Petunia gripped the edge of the table to keep herself from slipping backward into memory, but she fell all the same. She recalled watching Lily pick cautiously at the scone Petunia had set before her, smiling politely and awkwardly all at once.
"So?" Petunia had snipped. "What is it you've come to tell me?" Vernon was out, thank the Lord, and wouldn't be home for a while. Petunia knew he would rage if he'd known she had let Lily inside. He was always afraid her disease would infect their home.
Lily sighed, glancing toward the window as a bird stopped for reprieve at the feeder outside. "Mum said you and Vernon were expecting. Congratulations."
Petunia smoothed her crisp white blouse cautiously, she was three months gone already and her petite frame left nothing to the imagination.
"Yes . . . sometime in June," Petunia answered politely. "Although you didn't have to come here for that. You could have just as well sent a card."
Lily nodded, "I missed you, 'Tuney," the childhood nickname brought a wave of nostalgia; Petunia washed it away with a sip of tea. "And I do have something to tell you."
Petunia could feel the strength of Lily's green gaze; something burned behind her sister's eyes and Petunia would have thought she was on fire judging by their intensity. There was something about those eyes that seemed to always know what Petunia was thinking, even as they'd grown apart.
"Oh?" Petunia coughed. "And what would that be."
"I'm pregnant." Lily spoke quickly, as though she'd rehearsed the statement for months. "It's due in July and I'm almost certain it will be a boy." Lily couldn't keep the smile off of her face as she spoke, but Petunia could do nothing but stare at her sister's mid-section.
'Perfect,' she thought. 'Another little magical beast for the world to fawn over. Another thing Lily can do better than I can. Another . . .'
"'Tuney?" Lily's voice broke Petunia's reverie and caused the older woman to start. She brushed a lock of her thin, blonde hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. "Petunia, I know we haven't gotten on well, since . . ." Lily shrugged and it was then that Petunia noticed her sister was wearing a ghastly over sized tshirt with the word 'Quidditch' stitched into it. Some game or other that Lily had tried to explain once over her first first Holiday back home . . . another thing Petunia would never understand.
"But I was thinking that could change," Lily continued. "We could be close again, if you really wanted, and I . . ." Petunia noticed the way Lily sat, one leg tucked under herself as she always had at breakfast on Sunday mornings while they were growing up. Lily's jeans were ripped to shreds at the knees, and her simple trainers were scuffed to all hell. "I really do miss you."
Petunia thought about it because, no matter what any one of Lily's no good, vagabond friends said about her, she was nothing if not rational.
Petunia thought about inviting Lily and James into her circle and forcing Vernon to be polite as much as possible. She thought about Sunday brunches and shopping, spending Christmasses together instead of apart, trading gifts and secrets and sorrows as they had done once. She thought about her future child and Lily's growing up together and being as tight-knit as she and Lily had once been . . . she thought of Lily's child recieving their letter to that bloody school and leaving her child all alone just like -
Lily's eyes were big, green, and full of unabashed hope. Petunia stared at the crumbs on Lily's tshirt and grimmaced. Lily was nothing more than a child - barely graduated and only nineteen years old. She was foolish, stupid, and altogether naive to believe that the two of them could ever repair what had been broken.
"No, Lily," Petunia frowned as she finished off her tea. "I'm afraid that can't change. It has been eight years, but unfortunately you're still a freak."
Lily's eyes brimmed with tears which only served to make them greener. Petunia scowled and stood to her feet, washing her teacup with unecessary vigor.
"'Tuney -"
"Don't call me that!" Petunia turned and threw the teacup without thinking, watching it shatter to the floor. "You're a freak, Lily! You're a freak, your husband is a freak, and I have no doubt in my mind that your baby will be just as freakish as the both of you! I will not have your perverted way of life infect my home or my child, Lily- I will not stand for it!"
Lily opened her mouth as though to speak, even as tears pooled and flooded from her eyes.
"I don't want to hear anything else from you," Petunia continued. "Get out of my house! Get out!"
Lily stood, wiping her eyes hurriedly on her sleeve.
"Congratulations on the baby, Petunia," she said quietly. "You'll make a wonderful mother."
It wasn't until Lily was gone and Petunia was sure of it that the woman collapsed into her chair with a gasping breath. The taste of salt on her tongue alerted her to the fact that she was crying although she couldn't for the life of her remember when the tears had begun to fall. When she finally regained her composure, she stood to clean up and, to her surprise, found that the teacup she had shattered was sitting before her, repaired all except for one small chip at the rim.
Petunia found her hands were still clutching the edge of the table when she returned to the present, her knuckles white and stiff and her breath shaking slightly. It was the last time she'd ever seen her sister. Months after the fact, she'd recieved a birth announcement for the boy who sat across from her now, staring at her with Lily's face and Lily's . . .
There was something . . . something about the boy she had refused to acknowledge from the moment she'd found him on her doorstep along with a note saying that his mother, her sister, had just been murdered.
The boy, Harry was his name, looked at Petunia with a quizzical quirk to his thick, dark brow. "Aunt Petunia," he asked quietly, "what are you staring at?"
There was something . . .
"Harry . . ." she began, " have I ever told you you have your mother's eyes?"
The phone began to ring.