See Prologue for disclaimers and warnings.

Something More Than This
Part II
The Strength of Flowers

When Petunia Dursley wakes to a night-dark room, heart thundering in her chest, sweat sticking hair to her face, she immediately rolls over to check the time. 04:40 flashes from the red digital display of their new alarm clock, and she frowns slightly. She turns to Vernon, mouth slightly open but closing abruptly when she realizes that Vernon is snoring obliviously, one arm thrown over his face.

Shaking her head, she rises from bed and throws on her robe, padding quietly down the hall to her son's room. She stands over the crib, smiling softly as Dudley knuckles his face, yawns, and rolls a bit to one side, all without waking. She leans forward and kisses his head, smoothes his hair a bit, then leaves to check the rest of the house.

She is confused as she wanders through the house. Vernon and Dudley are perfectly fine, and the neighborhood appears as quiet and calm as ever as she peers out the windows. Each room checks out, everything in its place, and she wonders what could have possibly woken her when everything seems perfectly fine.

In the kitchen, she sets up the coffee pot and checks the fridge for breakfast items. Eggs and back ham, she thinks. Maybe some oatmeal, to help fortify for the turning weather. She reminds herself that she still needs to make Vernon's lunch, and write up a grocery list for later.

The coffee is done, and Petunia sets her mug on the counter, measuring sugar, cinnamon, cocoa powder, and vanilla in the mix she likes. Vernon says it's disgusting, both her coffee habit and the flavor, but it's the one thing she refuses to budge on, this last connection to the sister she hasn't seen in five years. She goes to the fridge again to retrieve the milk, and frowns when she notices how little is left. There's enough for her coffee, but not breakfast.

There's always a possibility that the dairy delivery could be early, and, if not, it is never later than 06:30. Petunia decides to check anyway, and hums faintly as she makes her way to the front door, checks the windows, undoes the locks, and slowly pulls the door inward.

The light outside is strange, muddy and casting eerie shadows. Petunia shivers in the morning chill, and hurriedly looks down for the dairy.

Her breath catches, a scream caught in her throat as her eyes take in the barely-covered baby gazing up at her with wide, wet eyes and a dirty face. She notices the crumpled edge of an envelope stuck between the baby's body and some sort of baby carry-all, and hastily glances around the neighborhood. She is the only person outside, and the rest of the houses continue to lie dark and quiet in the too-early morning.

With a small sound of dismay, she hurriedly ducks down and grabs up the basinet, rushing back inside and re-locking the door. She's panting, trembling as she leans against the door, basinet clutched to her breast. Still tense, her eyes dart around the house, alighting on the soft light spilling from the kitchen doorway.

Small steps, she tells herself, avoiding looking down at her burden. She enters the kitchen, setting the baby on the table. She steps to the fridge and grabs the milk, adding it to her coffee. She watches it splash, drops hitting the counter top. With barely a thought, she grabs a larger mug from the cupboard and switches the contents, reaching into the above-stove cabinet for the bottle of rum that she keeps there for "emergencies." She adds a shot, pauses to consider, then adds a second. Stirring, taking a deep breath, she tips the mug back and drains half.

The slow burn, the dark, familiar taste, and Petunia is suddenly both calm and more awake. She feels steadier, fortified as she makes her way back to the table, to the quiet, solemn baby who has, apparently, watched her every motion.

She sets her cup down, staring at the baby who had been left on the stoop of her home. Her hand trembles once more as she softly brushes unruly tufts of black hair from his face. There is a scar, livid as if fresh at his right temple, and he whimpers when her fingers trace over it lightly, the first sound she's heard him make. Her gaze drops to his eyes, and her breath catches once more, hot tears burning in the corners of her own eyes.

Green is far too simple a word to describe those eyes—variegated green, perhaps, but it seems that a description should be more poetic, using artists' colors to describe them. Either way, though, those eyes are her undoing, as always. First her father, then the tiny form of her baby sister flash in her memory, until the tears pour freely down Petunia's cheeks.

"This isn't how I wanted to meet your son," she whispers, voice harsh, seeming overly loud in the too-quiet kitchen. "Oh, Lily, what the bloody hell happened?"

The baby with Lily's eyes and that man's hair cannot answer, and simply continues his solemn staring—so wrong, she thinks, knowing those eyes look best filled with laughter, mischief, and love.

With a sigh, she grabs a rag from the drawer by the sink, wets it, and begins to carefully clean the baby—Harry, she suddenly remembers. Lily had written the birth announcement a bit over a year ago, and Petunia remembers distinctly the name Harry, because it, like Petunia's Dudley, was out of place in their family's regular naming system.

Harry's face now clean, Petunia pauses to sip her coffee, which has gone tepid. The kitchen isn't the best place to be comfortable and ponder, she thinks, glancing at the wall clock. 05:10, it reads, and God, has it only been half an hour since she was frightened from bed? It seems so much longer than that since she had found Harry, alone, left on the stoop.

That thought brings her up short, and her fear and sorrow are suddenly overrun by the hot burn of anger. They left him, alone, on the stoop! God, how long had he been out there? How dare anyone do that with a child, especially one so young and helpless? If she had been Lily—

If Lily—

Petunia chokes back the sobs that want to burst forth, scrubs fiercely at her eyes, takes a deep breath and then slowly releases it. Slowly, carefully, she retrieves Harry from the carry-all and settles him against her hip. She stares at the letter, the calligraphy of Mrs. Petunia Dursley (neé Evans) seeming stark and bleak, matte black on crumpled cream. She grabs it, shoving it in her robe pocket. With her free hand, she grabs her coffee, and heads for the living room.

She settles on the couch, Harry in her lap, and takes a deep drink before retrieving the letter. She's proud that her hands are steady as she breaks the seals on the back—one she recognizes from Lily's school, the other a stylized "D" with some sort of winged insect and drooping plant at the center. She pulls out the folded pieces of parchment, nostalgically reminded of Lily's many letters from school, and begins to read.

When she is done, she is too empty for thought. She sets the letter aside, pulls Harry to her chest, and cries softly into his fine, dark curls for all the things they've both lost.

Vernon stumbles into the kitchen at half past seven, glaring at Petunia accusingly. "I'm going to be late! Why the hell didn't you wake me, Petunia?"

She's angry—far too angry to deal with his childish temper this morning. Most of the time, she finds his moods endearing, like a petulant child. Today, it's simply irritating. "I'm not your bloody maid or mother, Vernon. You have an alarm clock and are perfectly capable of setting it."

Vernon pauses from fumbling with his tie, stopped short from further ranting by her unusual acidity. "Um, pet, what's wrong?"

Petunia looks up from feeding Dudley, whose happy burbling can't break through her sorrow and rage. She gives Vernon a moment to take in her face, and watches his own become slightly concerned. "My sister's dead—killed two nights past by a mad man with delusions of Hitler."

"Oh. I'm sorry, pet."

He tries to say it as a statement, but it comes out more like a question. Petunia blinks for a moment, then narrows her eyes. "Sorry like that is what you say when you bump into someone on the sidewalk."

Vernon shrugs, fidgeting. "Well, you never seemed close, you know. So, I wasn't sure what to say."

"We were close when we were young—very close. Yes, we drifted apart when she started going to school—further when you and I married and you expressed your views of my family's…peculiarities, and further still when she suddenly married that man, but for God's sake, Vernon! She was my baby sister, and she's dead, murdered, and that man too, and there are so many things left unsaid"—she sucks in a breath and lets it out in a stutter—"that can never be said now."

Dudley wails "Foo!" and Petunia shakily spoons another mouthful of rice cereal into his mouth. He waves his chubby hands in the air, grinning baby teeth and messy face making her smile softly.

"That's what all the strange stuff yesterday was about," she says, voice more level. "The owls, the shooting stars, the wizards freely roaming about in their garb amongst Muggles. There's been a war in their world, you know, almost eleven years now it's been that way. But it ended those two nights past, with Lily's death."

Vernon scoffs lightly, but the sound is still very audible to Petunia's ears. "Those unnatural people—at least they kept it to themselves, their war. Yesterday's spectacle was abhorrent, though. Quite rude of them, really. They shouldn't do things like that where nice, normal people have to deal with it."

"I used to be one of those unnatural people," Petunia reminds him coldly.

"But not anymore, you have a normal life now," Vernon says, voice full of pride.

There are many times when Petunia struggles to remember why she chose to date and ultimately marry Vernon Dursley. She knows a large part of it is what he already mentioned—an intense desire to be normal, a way to separate herself further from Lily and the burning resentment she felt towards Lily's new world, the world that slowly pulled her baby sister away from her, the world she was not welcome in.

Vernon was as plain, forthright, and ordinary as they came, which was why he had been perfect at the time. She sighs and shakes her head to clear the cobwebs of memories. She opens her mouth to tell Vernon the rest, but Dudley suddenly squeals with laughter. "Mama, baby! Baby 'wake, Mama!"

"Has he gone daft? Of course he's awake," Vernon snaps.

"Of course he's not daft!" Petunia snaps back. "He means the other baby is awake." It's hard to bite back other name calling, but she does it for the simple reason that there are things more important than her anger at his callousness.

"Other…baby…" Vernon's face pales first, then begins to flush. "Now, see here, Petunia, you had better not be saying what I think you're saying. I told you that we would have nothing to do with those…those freaks, and that includes the children of freaks."

"My sister was one of those freaks, and I grew up in the fringes of that freakish world," she hisses. "By blood, by association if not actual ability, I am one of those freaks, Vernon."

"You just got done telling me that your sister and brother-in-law were murdered by a mad man, and you expect me to calmly accept the boy? God's sake, woman, think! Now we'll be the next target! I can't believe you agreed to take him, without consulting me first. I would have put this nonsense to a stop before things got this far."

"Before Harry was orphaned and left alone on our stoop in the middle of the night, with only a letter to explain things?" She looks away from Dudley to the sleepy green eyes blinking up at her from her lap. "Go to work, Vernon," she says, suddenly tired beyond belief. "I have "freakish" visitors arriving this afternoon to explain things to me—and I need to hit the grocers before that to pick up more baby products."

"We're not keeping him, Petunia!"

She smiles, pulling Harry up so that he's visible over the table. "You don't have to keep anyone, dear. And you won't keep anyone if you don't head to work, cool down, and speak to me like an adult and your wife when you return."

Vernon splutters, face now a violent shade of purple. "I'll not have you allowing those kinds of people into my home! Especially when I'm not here to insure that they don't do anything…strange!"

Arching an eyebrow, Petunia says coolly, "Whose home, darling?"

"My—er, our—"

"I do believe the majority of this home was paid for with my trust fund and the interest from my investments. Do correct me if I'm wrong."

Vernon scowls, eyes narrowing. "We'll speak more later. I'm late for work as it is."

"Of course, darling. Your lunch is in the fridge. Have a wonderful day at work."

Petunia rolls her eyes as she listens to Vernon stomp to the fridge, open and slam the door, stomp through the hall, and open and slam the front door. She looks at Dudley, grinning with food drying on his cheek. She looks down at Harry, face still red from the too-long stain of salt tracks, the cause-unknown scar peeking angrily out from under baby curls.

His eyes seem slightly out of focus, as if he can't quite see her, or he is looking through her. Then, like Dudley, he grins. She smiles back, thinking Oh, Lily, he's definitely your son! and fights the urge to cry yet again.

After a few moments of taking in the sight of smiling boys to hold close in her memory, Petunia shakes her head and stands. "All right, boys, we have lots to do and little time to do it in. Our visitors may find "Muggles" quaint, but I'll show them that we're a force to be reckoned with, yes? Especially when their side isn't as knowledgeable as they think they are."

The doorbell is rung at promptly half past three. Petunia is surprised, but careful not to let it show, when she opens the door to the sight of five people standing on the stoop. She arches an eyebrow, her gaze centered on the obvious leader of the group. "Quite a number of followers you have with you. I understood from your letter that this was to be a small meeting, and that my address was to remain undisclosed."

"Ah, Petunia. I am Headmaster Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts, and I must say that is delightful to finally meet you. Lily spoke of you so often; it feels as though I know you from personal experience."

She eyes his robes, lavender with black trim and iridescent gold sparkles, and bites the inside of cheek. To think that she once corresponded with this man, in a desperate attempt to join sister and friend at their school. Truthfully, though, she wasn't all that surprised by his appearance. "A pleasure, sir, to finally meet the man who entitled Lily to expand her horizons from our home to the school of Hogwarts," she murmurs, careful to keep her eyes focused slightly below his.

"Alas, that it takes a terrible tragedy like this for us to finally meet," Dumbledore says gently.

Her hand clenches on the doorknob. "Indeed. I will listen to what you have to say, and I expect you to answer any questions that I may have, Headmaster. Is that understood?"

"Who does the Muggle think she is?"

Petunia glares over Dumbledore's shoulder, unsure which of the hooded figures spoke. "I am the elder sister of Lily Evans," she says tightly. "And you will be civil in my house and presence, or you will leave."

"Of course, my dear, of course," Dumbledore says, his expression and tone soft still. "May we come inside? These matters will take some time to discuss, and I think it would be best if we were all comfortable for the duration."

"Of course," Petunia simpers. When Dumbledore smiles broadly, she adds, with a calculating smile, "Of course, you may all come in, when I see your wands in front of you. As you come through the entrance of my home, you will see a table off to the left. You will place your wands on the pewter pedestal there, and we will proceed to my sitting room, where this…discussion will take place." Her voice is as hard as diamond, daring them to argue at their own peril.

"Leave our wands? Are you crazy?!"

Feminine, rough with age, and the same voice from before, Petunia thinks, smile hardening to a feral baring of teeth. "Crazy? Mayhap. Personally, I think grieving and angry to be more accurate. Perhaps it is you who are crazy, though, thinking that I would allow you into my home, armed, when I have two young children here—one of whom is quite traumatized enough, thank you."

"Peace," Dumbledore murmurs, turning his head to address the cloaked and hooded people behind him. "What she asks is but a small thing, and not so different from the formalities of guest and host rites in our own world." Turning back to Petunia, he says, "We will abide by your request, Mistress."

It's hard not to smile—it's been a long time since she's been addressed so, but the fact is that she never expected to be called by such a title ever again. "Thank you for your consideration and word, Elder. I welcome you and your companions into my home. Please, come in."

She stands to the side as they walk through one at a time. Her eyes are hawk-like as she watches them place their wands on the pedestal, three of the four hooded members obviously reluctant to do so. She grins, feeling fierce with all the other rampant emotions, gesturing her visitors into her sitting room.

She follows after them, movements steady and sedate as she begins the soothing pattern of setting up refreshments. "I would appreciate seeing the faces of the people I'm speaking to," she says. "And if you wish anything specific in your tea or coffee, you'll need to speak up."

"What a wonderful idea," Dumbledore says with another one of his broad smiles. "Please, everyone, remove your hoods—we have little need for secrecy at the moment. And I would like three sugars in my tea, Mistress."

Petunia nods, fixes the tea, and passes it to Dumbledore. She arches an eyebrow expectantly at the still-hooded members.

A long sigh, and the one nearest Dumbledore pulls the hood back, revealing a woman of late middle years that Petunia recognizes as the woman who was moving into the empty house one street back, near the park, just that morning. She has a bland, somewhat angry expression on her face. "Mrs. Arabella Figg, Mistress. I am a Squib, childless widow, and longtime friend of Albus Dumbledore. And I'll take the tea plain—thank you."

Petunia fights the urge to smirk, nodding solemnly and politely as possible. This, then, is the one who spoke out so bitingly before, as well as the one that relinquished her "wand" with apparent ease even after making such a fuss of it. "Of course, Mrs. Figg."

The two seated on Figg's right throw their hoods back at the same time. This time, Petunia's smile is more genuine as she looks at the woman who needs no introduction, for she has changed little since the last time Petunia saw her. "Mistress McGonagall. Is it still one sugar and five creams?"

A small smile makes its way past the tight expression McGonagall wears, lending beauty to her stern, ageless-seeming face. "A good memory you have, Petunia."

"Thank you. And for you, sir?" Petunia looks at the man next to McGonagall, tipping her head to the side. "Tawny" is the first description to come to mind, hair long and wild like a lion's mane, eyes more gold than brown, canny and unblinking like a hawk. She can tell that, like his appearance suggests, this man is fierce, a force to be reckoned with.

"Chief Auror Rufus Scrimgeour, Mistress Evans." He doesn't flinch at using her birth name rather than married name, and that intrigues her, since few would dare to use a pre-married name for fear of offending. "And, honestly, I wouldn't mind something a little more potent than plain tea."

His voice is a medium rasp, and Petunia fights a shiver even as she smiles at the last part of his words. "I can do that, if you don't mind Muggle Jamaican rum as your poison."

Figg squeaks at the word "poison," McGonagall rolls her eyes, Scrimgeour smiles and nods, and an amused snort is heard from the only still hooded figure. Petunia pulls the bottle of rum out from under the couch, where she had placed it earlier as a just-in-case measure. She holds up the sugar spoon after adding the liquor, and Scrimgeour shakes his head.

"I prefer it strong and bitter—it seems more real that way."

"And poisons are easier to detect," the hooded figure grumbles.

Scrimgeour smiles again, and accepts the tea. "Of course."

Petunia looks at the only one unserved, whose voice had given the gender identity as male, and arches her eyebrow again. Silence hangs in the room, the low buzz of the central heating kicking in, seeming loud like a roar.

Dumbledore sighs and turns to the hooded man with a chastising expression. "Severus, come now. I know you don't wish to be here, but I need you to do this for me." After another moment of silence, he adds, "Please, my boy."

The hood is flipped back dramatically, and Petunia bites her tongue to keep her expression neutral. Night-black hair and eyes, olive skin, and a prominent Roman nose, full-lips peeled between sneer and snarl even while his arms cross in a child-like huff over his chest. Petunia knows this one as well, though it's been nearly six years since she last saw him. She can picture him so much younger than he is now, still an awkward, scruffy child in mismatched and too-large Muggle clothing.

"As I did not wish to be here, there is no need for my name, or for your…hospitality. Mistress."

This time, Petunia laughs softly, even as her eyes burn with unshed tears. She pulls the coffee carafe over and pours a cup, holding it out. "I would know who you are even if the Headmaster hadn't said your name, Severus Prince, Slytherin, Lily's friend, imp and bane of my childhood. And I believe you would love a cup of Evans' coffee—you look as though you need it."

His expression is startled, Dumbledore's pleased, McGonagall's bemused, Scrimgeour's wry, and Figg's befuddled. Severus gathers himself after a moment and bites out, "I—said—no—thank—you. Mistress."

She snorts at his 'Mistress' nonsense. "And I'm saying take the coffee like a good man before I'm forced to come over there and pour it down your throat."

"I'd like to see you try, Muggle," he sneers.

"Still ticklish in that certain place?" she asks sweetly.

Again his expression is startled. It settles into a scowl—a scowl that hasn't changed in twelve years, she notices, as he reluctantly holds his hand out, taking the cup. He sniffs at it, eyeing her warily as he takes a tentative sip. While the expression he adopts most certainly cannot be called blissful, there is a certain softening to Severus' expression, something akin to fondness that Petunia catches in his eyes and the twitching corners of his mouth.

Dumbledore smiles, and Petunia notices the almost unnatural twinkle of his blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles. "Thank you, Petunia. Now, shall we proceed?"

She smiles in return, careful to keep her teeth covered as she nods her head. "Of course."

"Might I enquire, before we get too involved, where young Harry Potter is?" McGonagall interrupts, an eyebrow arched.

"Lily's son and my own are lying down at the moment. We had a long morning—Harry more so, I imagine."

"I would like to see the boy, to assure myself of his well-being."

Petunia cocks her head to the side, eyes darting to each of her guests. All except for Severus are attentive on her, though Scrimgeour's gaze falls the most piercing. Serverus' gaze, however, is fastened to somewhere over her left shoulder, and she allows her teeth to show when she smiles this time. "And I would like to know what is going on, that my sister's son was left alone on my stoop in the middle of the night."

Her words cause an almost instantaneous flutter of activity, from rapidly changing facial expressions, to hand waving, to snarled curses. Severus' are the ones readily heard over the flurry.

"Are you insane, Headmaster?" he snarls, body rigidly held in place like a coiled snake. "You left the boy outside on the steps of this house? You may as well have left him in the house in Godric's Hollow to be picked off!"

"As much as it pains me to say, I agree," Scrimgeour says, smiling sourly at Severus before turning back to Dumbledore. "Dark Lord defeated or not, there are far too many Death Eaters unaccounted for, Dumbledore, which you know. And we know they're not shy about prowling in Muggle neighborhoods, so I have to wonder, on behalf of the Ministry if not for myself, what in the world you were thinking."

"I was watching!" Figg snaps. "She"—a hand is flung in Petunia's direction—"grabbed him at about five this morning."

"And we left him there around midnight," McGonagall says coolly. Her thin, black eyebrows are drawn into a disapproving frown. "I thought it foolish, Albus, and I told you so. It seems I'm not the only one to have had that thought."

"Ah, but you also thought it foolish of me to leave the boy with this family in the first place," Dumbledore reminds her. His eyes continue to show his apparent ease and amusement with the situation. "You watched them all day, and told me they seemed—oh, what was it?—ah, "the worst sort of Muggles imaginable"."

Petunia arches an eyebrow as McGonagall colors and looks away. "On the one hand, I suppose anyone from your world viewing my family would make that assumption. I won't lie—I very much have wanted to be normal, a Muggle, and my husband has never liked where I came from and where my sister continued to live. I take no offense to your thoughts, Mistress McGonagall, because you were expressing them in Harry's best interest.

"However, that still doesn't address the fact that Harry was left with only a Squib to watch over him, when those who helped to murder his parents are still at large."

"It's true I can't really do magic, but I have a wand that can alert anyone I need in case of emergency. And, besides, what's a Muggle like you got any right to make such noises about a Squib?" Figg snaps.

Petunia sips her coffee before replying. "Squibs are the children of a union of at least one if not two magical parents, born without magic. Did you know, however, Mrs. Figg, that there people with magic in their blood perfectly capable and willing to live as Muggles?"

"Why would they want to? The wizarding world is so much better than this one," Figg says, expression a mix of disgust and awe.

We covet what we do not have, Petunia thinks bitterly. "From your view, perhaps."

"But Lily was a Muggleborn," Severus interjects. "Neither of your parents had magic."

Petunia shrugs her shoulders; Severus knows her better than anyone else present, knows her situation from before, but she realizes that he, also, knows so little about her now. "My home is perfectly capable of protecting Harry—without the aid that the Headmaster has outlined I should accept in his letter. The aid I can offer requires Harry to be within the boundaries of the house itself, though. There are other locations more secure than this, it's true, but considering that the house lies out in the open, it's secure enough—more secure than the house in Godric's Hollow was," she adds darkly.

"Fine." Figg continues to scowl, even after enduring a chastising glance from Dumbledore. "We can see that you think yourself capable of keeping the boy safe. What we need to discuss then is what other measures will be taken to insure that the boy continues to stay safe elsewhere. I believe a rotating Auror watch would go a long way to—"

"No." Petunia sets her cup down, eyes narrowing. "Harry will have a normal childhood—or as close to one as he can get."

"You can't protect him always," McGonagall says gently. "What about his early schooling?"

"Mayhap we can renegotiate later. For now, though, I'll tolerate the Squib woman, since I recognize that she's already living in the neighborhood. No one else is allowed near the house—in fact, I really don't like that the five of you know where he will reside, but there is little I can do about that."

"What about knowledge, training? I can't believe you're going to raise him ignorant of the world he rightfully belongs to," Severus says.

She remembers him as a boy, the hurtful things he could say, and yet she can also remember that awkward comfort he attempted to provide. "Funny, I thought that those with magic were raised to belong to the world as it is, not as it's segregated by the people living in it. And I don't think that sort of pressure—to "fit in," to be molded to a set of beliefs and ideals—is good for a child. Harry will be raised to see and understand the world so that he can form his own ideas and opinions."

"I think that's a marvelous idea, Petunia!" Dumbledore says brightly.

"Fine. Then what of accidental magic? And what will you tell him about his parents?" This time, Severus is leaning forward when he addresses her, eyes narrowed, lips set flatly.

Petunia remembers being a vicious child, remembers a tree branch falling and hitting her shoulder—remembers wilted daisies, chapped lips apologizing, and solemn dark eyes. "Lily and…James died in a car wreck, for now—Harry was there, thus his scar. I will tell him the truth later. I will not raise him with thoughts of hatred and revenge. As for accidental magic, it will be tolerated easily. I have quite a lot of experience in that."

Severus sits back a bit, head bobbing in a brief nod. "He'll want to know why he is different."

"And that will be easy enough to explain. Because he is Lily's son. Because it's all right to be special, as long as others don't notice. Some things are for family only," Petunia says softly.

His gaze goes from intense to curious. "How long have you…been flying under our noses, Mistress?"

She laughs bitterly, casting a burning glare at Dumbledore before dropping her gaze. He remembers before, she can tell, and wants to ask a different question than the one he did. "Longer than you've been alive. Perhaps longer than I've been alive. A closing word, guests, and then I ask all but Severus to leave my home." She holds up her hand to forestall their arguments. "I tell you now, the decision to attend Hogwarts shall be mine. I will be the one to decide what knowledge Harry receives and when, and I will not tolerate your interference in this."

"You can't keep him from the school. He's been on the list since birth!" McGonagall exclaims.

"I can and I will," Petunia says firmly. "There are other schools, Mistress. My concern first and foremost is for my children, which Harry now is. My husband doesn't understand this yet, but I am willing to sacrifice a great many things for my children's safety and happiness."

"I understand, Petunia." Dumbledore speaks softly, and for the first time he seems to be utterly serious and sincere. "The only thing I ask is that you allow Mrs. Figg contact with Harry at least once a month, so that I and the others may be apprised of his well-being."

She inclines her head. "That is acceptable."

"Then we shall take our leave." Dumbledore rises, followed by McGonagall and Figg. "Rest assured that everyone here is under Oath and incapable of revealing your home's location. Severus, please do not linger too long, my boy. We have much to do at the Ministry this week."

"File them in triplicate," Scrimgeour murmurs, rising as well.

Petunia pins Severus with a look that informs him to stay put—or else—and walks the others to the door. She exchanges polite yet tense goodbyes with Dumbledore and Figg, shares an awkward yet meaningful hug with McGonagall, and shakes hands with Scrimgeour, bemused to realize that he has slipped her his business card. After watching them Disapparate, she re-enters the sitting room to find that Severus has switched seats and is watching her with a look that dares her to say something.

She grabs her cup and takes his old seat. "I must have been told wrong."

"Told what wrong?"

"That you were from Slytherin House. Lily led me to believe that only males of the Gryffindor variety had a burning need to subvert anything resembling authority."

A snort of laughter, followed by a shake of his head, and Severus is smiling faintly. "Yes, that does sound like something she would say. But surely it isn't just for reminiscing that you asked me to stay."

"I suppose the better question is, why did I trust you to stay, and why did I trust that the Headmaster would make sure you stayed."

He arches an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't he have let me?"

Petunia sips her coffee. "Because Dumbledore doesn't trust me or my intentions, and is most likely going to interrogate you concerning our discussion. We had many heated debates via letter concerning Lily, and he knows that I will not lie back and simply "take things" when my family is involved."

"All right. I can certainly see that. I must say, though, that he showed little animosity to you in this meeting."

"Why should he? Everything went the way he wanted it, and with a member of the Ministry here, he couldn't stray too far from the outlined idea, really," Petunia says, rolling her eyes.

"Hmmm, yes, especially given that Scrimgeour is hardly fond of the Headmaster. Now, I believe you mentioned something about me as well?"

"Yes. There is a mark on your left arm, something tainted. It's similar to a curse, thought not quite—I imagine that your choice was required for the mark to take."

Severus expression betrays nothing. "I would ask how you could know such a thing, but I doubt you'd answer me truthfully."

"I might surprise you. It's a family thing. As for how I can sense it when I imagine no one else can, it's just something I can do. But I know it marks you as one who followed the man who murdered my sister, which begs the question: If you are a follower of the man who orphaned Harry, then why should I trust you to be in the same home as Lily's son? Will you finish what your master began?"

There is quiet in the house as Severus sips his own coffee, brows drawn down into a thoughtful frown. He glances off to his left, lips pursed. Finally, he sets his cup down on the coffee table and laces his fingers together, staring at Petunia as if looking into her.

It's very similar to the way that Harry looked at her earlier, Petunia thinks, shivering at a faint tickle in her head. The idea seems ridiculous at first, but then not so ridiculous as she watches traces of various emotional reactions cross Severus' face. The feeling recedes, and Severus slowly sits back in a slight hunch. "Find what you were looking for?" she asks softly.

"I shouldn't have done that." He speaks equally as soft, not quite meeting her eyes. "You, of all people, didn't deserve that from me. Tell me, Petunia, how secure is your home?"

She touches her eyes, ears, and mouth in turn, smiling. "As I said before, not as secure as some places, but more secure than most. Your Ministry would consider the wards here illegal, I suppose, since they were formed in the basis if old rituals which have a tendency to abused."

"Blood magic, then. Yes, most of it has been banned, but few would even be able to perform the rituals. They wouldn't have the belief, the power, the knowledge, or the wherewithal to perform such rites."

"Yet they offer the most sacred and secure protections possible—protections that would have kept Lily alive, had someone thought to use them."

"Blood magic fell out of general use over four hundred years ago, and the families that still retain such knowledge guard it fiercely. However, I do know that the Potters used a Fidelius Charm to guard their home, which really should have been enough."

"In a time of war? It's obvious that they were betrayed. Such a protection is far too easy to break, since a Secretkeeper doesn't have to be willing necessarily in order to betray the location they hide. Though, I'm guessing that they were willingly betrayed, given they had no warning of the attack that claimed Lily's life."

Severus hesitates, finally meeting her eyes. "You trust me?"

She has a feeling it was supposed to be a statement, but it came out more like a child's uncertain question. "Did I protest your presence in my head?"

He grimaces, eyes flicking away briefly before returning. "I'm sorry. It was unethical of me to do that without warning or asking your permission."

"But you didn't do those things when you used your gifts for the Dark Lord—or for the Headmaster, did you? I imagine it's hard to return to asking for permission when you haven't done it for so long."

He realizes, finally, that she is not only "giving him an out," she genuinely understands why he did what he had. She is also accepting his apology without recrimination. "You are correct that it has been a long time since I have asked for anything," he says softly.

"I'll be honest with you, Severus Prince. It's a bit disappointing that the boy Lily spoke so highly of, the boy I remember with both fondness and vexation, fell to the Dark Lord. I don't know all of the circumstances, though, so I won't cast aspersions. Lily only ever wanted peace, to enjoy and live life with magic. That life wasn't for me, not with the way your world had shifted and molded over the years. Better to deny magic and be an ordinary Muggle than to be driven mad by the shackles of a society who wants to keep their meager power, but fears those with real power."

"You have many places in your mind that are tightly closed. I would drive you mad trying to break the doors to those thoughts and memories, and there's nothing to guarantee that I would see them before your mind shut down completely.

"You insist that you're an ordinary Muggle, though your sister was a very powerful witch. I thought you Muggle as well, for I never sensed power within you when we were children. Lily was Muggleborn, we were told—this I thought I knew for myself, considering that neither of your parents were magical. Yet you seem to know much of our world, more than Lily herself knew, at least until she made certain friends. In fact, you seem to know and understand things on the level of a Pureblood from an Old Blood family."

"I won't explain myself to you at this point, Sev. Suffice it to say, my name would never appear on any list for magical births, whether school or ministry. In fact, Lily's name wouldn't have appeared either, had our mother not gone into labor while shopping in London. Lily was born three weeks early, outside of our family's home. She was the first child in hundreds of years to be born outside of the family home.

"You have to understand, much of this stuff was only learned after my parents' deaths." Petunia smiles sadly, spreading her hands. "My father's journals, especially, were illuminating. I never got the chance to share this with Lily. Her…husband….didn't like me much, and the feeling was mutual. Now, I'll never get to share these things with her, and they are things that could have saved her life."

"They couldn't have saved her life if the Headmaster continued to insist on the Fidelius Charm, because the Secretkeeper was friend of Potter's."

Petunia shakes her head. "I just can't see either of his friends betraying him willingly, never mind that the man didn't deserve such loyalty."

"Either?" Severus frowns, drumming his fingers over his knee. "Potter was part of a group of four friends. And, you must remember, with the war on everyone was suspect, really."

"Four? Hmmm… Black worshipped the ground that man walked on, and the cursed one, though lacking in confidence, was devoted not only to Black, but was quite close to Lily as well. In fact, she wrote that she was working on a formula to help his condition, so that it wasn't as violent."

Severus smiles wistfully, and the expression seems out of place yet fits him all the same. "She sent me her notes. It's brilliant work. The fact is, though, that Black was arrested early this morning for betraying the Potters, and for killing Peter Pettigrew—that's the friend you were unaware of—as well as killing thirteen Muggles. Dumbledore informed me before we came here that Black was sentenced to Azkaban, without trial."

Petunia shakes her head, biting her lip. "Oh, poor Lupin. That just doesn't add up! I knew there were things that I wouldn't be told, but I feel your Headmaster is determined to keep me in the dark about far too much. I just don't like it."

Severus fidgets, tugging on the hems of his sleeves, pulling the fabric of his robes tight over his knees. "There are things I would tell you, but I am bound by Oath specifically from telling you. Then there are other things that I'm glad I can't tell you, because I would like to think that the woman caring for Lily's son can sleep easier at night."

"That truly is a lovely sentiment, but it also makes me further determined to make sure that Harry never sets foot in the wizarding world."

"The Headmaster and the Ministry won't let you keep him away. The boy's scar is from surviving the Avada Kedavra death curse—it killed his parents, but not him. Now, Dumbledore says that it's from Lily sacrificing herself for Harry, that love destroyed the Dark Lord."

"But that can't be everything, because Lily certainly wasn't the first to sacrifice herself for her child," Petunia scoffs. "Yes, there is power in a willing sacrifice. There always has been power there, as long as the one making the sacrifice is perfectly at peace with what they are doing and why. But there isn't enough power by itself to defy a death curse, not one cast with as much hatred and determination as there must have been."

"There is another thing…" Severus hesitates, gaze inward and he chews briefly on his bottom lip. "I know you won't say whether I'm correct or not, but… Few people know me as Severus Prince—you and Lily were the only two who knew me as that from childhood. My father was a Muggle, and truly was one of the worst sorts imaginable, as you'll no doubt remember. My mother destroyed everything that she was to bring me into the world as her magical and familial heir. However, Ministry registration adopts the patronymic, even in the case of the mother being the magical parent. To the wizarding world at large, I am Severus Snape, from an obscure Pureblood family. In truth, I am a halfblood, and the last of the Prince line.

"Before my mother was committed—that would have been in 1971, the first year Lily and I went to Hogwarts, if you remember—she taught me as much about my line and heritage as she could, about the state of the Old Blood families as possible. We have leys that we can access, those of us who are Old Blood or simply very powerful. But the Ministry warded the leys long ago, and their power is relegated to certain kinds of access. Families in their ancestral homes aren't allowed to access the leys because they are feared—the Ministry would be unable to control an Old Blood who was using the ley their family has been tied to for hundreds or thousands of years.

"But the night Lily was killed, there was a huge backlash across the leys. We were told it was because the Ministry allowed unrestricted access to the Aurors that night, but I and several close friends were skeptical. The…flavor, if you will, of the access was unformed, like a mind aware but yet to be organized, full of fear and anger. One associate said they were certain that there was only one access point as well, not the many that there would have been had it truly been the Ministry Aurors."

"So, you think it was Harry."

"Yes. Children shouldn't be able to access the leys, warded or not. But I think he did, overcome by emotions, and that raw power is what really helped Harry to survive the death curse."

"Hmmm." Petunia finds it hard not to appear too interested. Severus' story of his life, as well as what happened the night of Lily's death, is very intriguing, but she wants to keep the balance of power clearly in her favor. "I don't suppose they were able to trace the access point, these friends of yours?"

"No. But we know that it wasn't in Godric's Hollow, nor was it at Thaineheim, the Potter's ancestral home."

She makes a small sound, fighting a smile. "No. Where were you at that time, though?"

"Of the murders?" Now Severus looks both uncomfortable and miserable. "I was there, at the house in Godric's Hollow, outside."

"I'd ask how you could have allowed it to happen, but I'm guessing that you had orders not to interfere, from both sides, no matter the result."

"I didn't expect the Headmaster to leave them completely unguarded!" he blurts out. "I didn't know it was planned until last minute, the attack, but I—"

"I'm not blaming you, though I wish to blame someone," she interrupts gently.

He bites his lip, slumping back into the couch. "The Headmaster saved my life, helped me attempt to make up for the evil things I did. I can never make them up completely, but the Headmaster gave me a chance at redemption."

"I understand." Petunia pauses, thinking about what he's told her, what she saw in the brief meeting today. She glances over Severus' left shoulder, eyes narrowing as her thoughts tighten to a fine point. "None of that helps to change my mind, you know. Did the Headmaster reach out a hand to Severus Prince, the Potions' Master who has much to offer the world, or to Severus Snape, the angry and bitter boy who could be manipulated?"

Severus bristles at her words. "Manipulated? I'll have you know, I—"

"Weren't you? Did the Dark Lord not play on your darker thoughts and desires? Did the Headmaster not play on your horror and regret? Do they not know your whole life's story well enough to know exactly what to say and when to say it? When exactly did Dumbledore reach out to you? Was it when he realized his dear student had fallen to the Dark, or was it when he realized he was losing the war and they needed an edge of some sort in order to survive, one that you conveniently offered?"

A bitter laugh escapes Severus, and he flexes his hands like claws. "How is it you're able to make everything seem like a sinister plot?"

"Whom do I have to trust?" Again, Petunia spreads her hands before her. "Everyone I had has been taken away from me, and what I have left is being threatened as well. I see threats, lies, and manipulation everywhere. And the worst part is that I have few options open to me. The current Ministry loves the idea of "quaint, eccentric" Muggles but gives Muggle relations little power in their world.

"I could hide away at our family's old home, but I have a feeling that the world would suffer for my selfishness. I have been the way I am for too long in order to change effectively, yet I often find I'm the only one I have to rely on. Black is beyond me, and though I couldn't have trusted him for my sake, I could have trusted him for Harry's. Lupin can't help me either, because his curse causes such a distasteful reaction with the Ministry. The others Lily spoke of are yourself and an upperclassman, a Narcissa Black, whom I know little about except for Lily's schoolgirl fondness and friendship."

"The furor that would come from you contacting Narcissa is almost amusing to contemplate. However, I doubt communication between the two of you would be allowed or tolerated. Not only is she Sirius Black's cousin—the cousin of the man who betrayed the Potters and caused their death, the cousin of the man who was a follower of the Dark Lord—but she is also the wife of Lord Lucius Malfoy, confirmed yet reluctant Death Eater and member of the Old Blood Pureblood families that are classified as Dark-aligned by the Ministry.

"Sirius was tolerated because he was "redeemed" from his upbringing by his association with Potter. Lord Malfoy has been tolerated simply because the family is one of the five richest in Britain, and has donated generously to various Ministry functions and foundations. Money, though, is really all they have left—that, and fear."

"Malfoy—mal foi—mal fey—mal du les fees—mer du les fees," Petunia murmurs. "I can see why the family would be feared. In any incarnation of name, they're a bit…intimidating."

Severus arches an eyebrow. "That is more about the Malfoy line than I have ever heard—and what I have heard is from Lord Malfoy himself."

Petunia shrugs. "Then it's not my place to say more, since it seems I've already said too much."

"Whose place will it be, then, to say these things?"

"Harry's, or anyone that he trusts with the knowledge. I wasn't supposed to be the successor to the knowledge, really, Lily was. So the knowledge would have gone to her heir, which is Harry."

"You play a dangerous game, Tuney." Her childhood nickname falls absently from his lips, and tears prickle the corners of her eyes as he continues. "Many would kill for the knowledge you apparently have."

"Ah, but you are the only one who knows that I have this knowledge." She wipes at her eyes and smiles faintly. "And as you said before, even you would have destroyed my mind if not out-right killed me trying to retrieve that information from me."

"There are potions that could make you tell the truth."

"Only if a person knows the right questions to ask."

Severus snorts. "Fine, I yield."

Petunia smiles, a small laugh escaping. "There are things about my family that I don't know fully—things I'm not sure my parents even knew fully. I know that I can't bury my head in the sand any longer. However, I won't let that boy be a tool. I will leave here before I let that happen, and the wizarding world will never see Harry Potter."

Severus twitches, and she thinks it's the closest thing to a flinch she'll ever see from the man. "I would ask that you not do that."

"Oh? And why is that? What is it to you if I take the boy into hiding?"

"For many, yes, he will be a tool, a figurehead—both for who he is, and for what he managed to do, whatever consequences brought it about. But, for others, he represents so much more."

She leans forward, lacing her hands together on her knee. "Tell me."

"A last chance to be free of the Ministry's chains—a last chance for the Old Blood families to be what they were, what they still are under the weight of wards, a chance for them to return to their ancestral homes, to be more than creatures deteriorating into madness. At a little over a year old, Harry touched the leys so deep that nearly every Old Blood family felt the echo in their homes. That's more than any Old Blood or tied-in Ministry official has been able to do since the wards were placed. Lily's son is our last chance for freedom, Tuney. I know you have little love for our world, or little trust, but among the Old Blood he will be a savior, beloved, and a power to be reckoned with."

"The Headmaster will never allow that. You know it."

"But, what the Headmaster doesn't know to suspect…"

"Perhaps. I daren't let you stay much longer—my husband will be home soon and he has no love or tolerance for magic. I want you to take this." She hands him a small, jeweled pin. "It's an old family heirloom, which will allow you access through the wards of this house if I will it. It will also allow me to communicate with you, should I be in need of your help."

"Oh?"

"I am not so foolish as to think I could possibly handle everything that will come up during Harry's childhood, and you are the only one I nominally trust to help me."

"Even with my allegiances in question?"

"I don't feel they're in question. You're loyal to the Old Blood and their ideals now, despite any other past loyalties. I would think that quite obvious."

"I see." He looks down at the pin, framing it between thumb and forefinger. "Black and silver serpents, twined around lapis lazuli. This is indeed old and valuable, as well as highly appropriate. I swear to keep it safe."

"If you wish to Disapparate, the wards will now allow it."

"Thank you. I am no fond of being gawked upon."

"Somehow, I'm not very surprised that hasn't changed," Petunia says dryly.

Severus gives her a wry smile in recognition of her tone. "Then, until later, Mistress Petunia Evans."

She inclines her head. "Until later, Master Severus Prince. Oh, and, Sev?"

"Yes?"

She waits until his eyes meet hears, and she finally allows that sorrow she feels free reign. "I know you loved her, loved her more deeply and fiercely than that man ever did. I don't know what happened that last year and a half of school, but I do know that she missed you—and I'm sorry that you never had the chance to set things right between you."

A lone tear slide down one cheek as he closes his eyes, jaw tight, hands fists at his sides. "Thank you," he whispers, and then Disapparates.

Petunia glances once more to the left of where he had sat, to the play pen settled in the corner between couch, window, and bookcase. Dudley is still asleep—probably one of his longest naps ever, she thinks wryly. Harry sits propped up in the far corners, eyes wide, mouth pursed as if he had taken in and understood everything that had happened that afternoon.

"Severus was the only one who didn't make a fuss about your whereabouts, poppet—seems he knew right where you were. You'll have to be much cannier if you're going to pull one over on him," Petunia murmurs with a sigh, glancing at the mess of tea cups lying on the table.

Harry burbles a laugh, and small ripples dance across the surface of any remaining liquid.

"Yes, you'll be clever," she says with a laugh, rising to her feet. She stretches her arms overhead, wincing as her joints pop. She glances at the clock, mentally counting the time she has to make dinner and clean up the room before Vernon arrives home. She snorts and thinks that she should hold off on dinner until she sees what kind of attitude he comes home with. No point in slaving over food if he deserves self-served cold cuts.

"Clever like your Aunt and Mum," Petunia continues, moving to the play pen. She picks Harry up with a smile, balancing him on her hip. She kisses his forehead, then turns to set him up in the chair while she turns back to wake up and pick up a fussy Dudley. Carefully she balances both boys on her hips, moving slowly through the house to the kitchen. She sets them up in highchairs and bibs, and settles them with juice in sippy cups and small bowls of dry cereal.

She hums brightly as she moves back and forth between the kitchen and the sitting room, cleaning up from her visitors. Severus has given her both questions and answers, as well as given her room for thought and hope.

The front door opens and shuts, and she listens to Vernon take off his coat and set his briefcase down. He shuffles down the hall and pauses uncertainly in the doorway, looking at her and the boys in turn. "Pet, I…" He shakes his head, lips pressing into a flat line.
Petunia smiles and nods. "I see. Well, then, sit down, Vernon, since it seems that I have a lot to say and you have a lot to listen to." Her smile widens when he hurries to sit, and she begins to tell him, in excruciating detail, exactly how things are going to be.