She had always been introverted. While most girls were begging for a Princess phone in their bedroom, she was not. She was in her best and only friend's room. She had no need for a personal phone and that was okay. She found immense joy in forming close relationships with a select few, to cultivate the relationships with her mother, father, sister, and her best friend to its full potential.

Then she grew up.

All of her relationships fell flat. Her relationship with her mother and father passed when they died at the threshold of her gateway of adulthood. Her relationship with her sister broke in bitterness. Her relationship with her best friend fell into oblivion when her friend left for university and she was hired as a typist.

Then she met him.

Her life, already broken, became centered around him. Their love story was like one of a movie. She was a lowly secretary, having eyes for her boss' son who is slated to take over. She, being completely ordinary, had thought he will never notice her. But he did and charmed her with expensive jewelry and chocolates.

Then she married him.

Her family became his and her sister was shunned by him. She put on the mask by day, living the life of a CEO's wife. By night, after exhausting social events (which, she, of course, acted as if it were a natural talent of hers), she would curl up on the sofa with hot tea and a journal. She would write, dreaming up fantastic dreams of her future and family and love.

She became pregnant and birthed a son. She was ecstatic, prideful of her sweet, beautiful baby boy. She wanted another little boy, so that her baby could have a brother to grow up and become best friends with. But, alas, the doctor had sat her down and gave her the hardest news ever: another pregnancy could risk her life.

Then she received a wedding invitation.

Her hands shook, nearly ripping the floral invitation into two. She casually mentioned it to her husband who snorted. She headed to her favorite charity shop for a wedding gift (after all, she told herself, it is the most respectable thing to do), combing the shelves for something decent. Then she found it. It was a chartreuse vase with floral patterning up the spine. It was not the most attractive vase; in fact, she said (under her breath) that it was "downright ugly." But the vase resembled her late grandmother's vase that she and her sister once broke after a rowdy game of tag. With mirthful tears, she bought the ugly vase, wrapped it, and sent it without her husband's knowledge. But her sister, the bride, did not understand the reference. So she avoided any future interactions with her sister.

Then she found someone.

Someone who made her laugh, made her smile, and made her remember, with fondness, of simpler time. Someone to become that little brother for her baby boy. But the bitterness and resentment had taken root, dug deeply in her heart, and she could not give the innocent little boy the life he deserved. She could not forgive herself, so she hid away emotions and bought secondhand clothes (all, coincidentally, from the same charity shop of the vase) for the boy. She never said "I love you" or kiss his boo-boo's, instead she said "get up" and taught him how to cook. She never told him of his mama, for fearing the guilt would annihilate her.

Then the boy left.

She cried herself to sleep. Not the gushing, loud, abrasive cry, but the silent one. The silent cry that no one, not even she at first, noticed. She just laid there on her side, her husband snoring beside her, as she stared numbly at the framed photographs of her parents. Her parents, sister, best friend, and her nephew were all gone, all left her alone. She just had her husband and son and she felt like a stranger to them and to herself. Fearful of losing the only two people in her life, she decided, that night, to do what she does best: keep up with the façade.

Then nearly a decade passed.

She was going to say something to the boy, now a young man. She wanted to, very much wanted to. It was all coming up. She was ready to burst out a heartfelt apology, tell the boy (for he was still a boy to her) about his mama and how much he is like her, but the fear lodged back in her mind of losing her husband and son. So she passed the boy to the car that was to take her away from her home to safety, and in the privacy of the car she smiled when she saw her baby boy walk up to the boy and offered a handshake. She did not give herself credit, for it was not her. It was all her son.

Then it is today.

She is sixty years old. Her youngest granddaughter was in the living room coloring. She watched, from behind the kitchen's bar, the small girl biting her lower lip as she carefully designed a house. She turned around, looking out the window at her grandsons playing with sticks outside.

"Grandma, Grandma," came the girl's voice, drawing her grandmother's attention back to her. "Look at what I did! Look!" The child's artwork was thrusted in the older woman's face and she froze, her hands shaking as she held the drawing (nearly tearing the paper).

The drawing of a house had a garden with colorful flowers, one scarlet flower was opening and closing on the page – literally! She closed her eyes, breathing in and then out, before reopening her eyes. It had happened. Another one. She looked down at her flaming red-haired granddaughter.

"We have a witch in the family," she said faintly, a grin creeping up on her face despite the pallor of her face.

"Grandma," came the incredulous, confused tone of the girl. "Why are you calling me a witch?"

Then the color flushed back to Petunia Evans Dursley's cheeks, her eyes brightened, and her soul felt much, much younger. She grabbed her granddaughter (after setting the magical drawing down) and flung her up, laughing gleefully, "You're a witch, Tuney, and boy, do I have stories for you!"