Petunia's read all the books in the house a dozen times now, the wizarding world's folklore and fairytales becoming as real and natural to her as any Muggle ones have ever been, and maybe more so. Giants, vampires, werewolves... They haunt her nightmares, along with the Death Eaters that always look like Sirius Black and are always after her every time she closes her eyes.
She can practically recite the books from memory, so she devotes most of her time to Hestia's letters. She rations them - after a quick skim through the words to make sure nothing too important is written there, she starts at the top with just the first paragraph. Maybe two paragraphs, if she can't help herself. Then she sets the letter aside.
She reads a bit more each night before bed, and sometimes that's a blessing, Hestia's words about hope and determination and life before the war rocking her to sleep as she goes over them in her mind. But sometimes it's a curse, and her nightmares are filled with the devastation Hestia tries not to describe in too much detail. (It doesn't matter, really; Petunia's imagination supplies the rest.) She talks about vampires working for the other side. Inferi, which are, as far as Petunia can tell, something akin to the zombies of films, but controlled by intelligent wizards capable of planning, not just a hunger for brains. She tells her about how Voldemort died, how he came back. She tells her whatever seems to cross her mind as she's writing the letter, and Petunia hangs on every word.
Petunia worries about her husband. Vernon wakes up at the same time every morning and showers and dresses as if he were going to work. He eats breakfast, then settles into an armchair near the front window, closes his eyes, and doesn't move again until lunchtime. She wonders sometimes if he's imagining himself at the office. It was never a secret that Vernon took pride in his ability to provide well for his family. Being trapped here, unable to work or take them out, unable to protect them, knowing that his job can't possibly even be there waiting for him when this is over, seems to be more than he can bear.
After lunch, he returns to his chair, and only leaves it to eat once more before retiring to bed. He barely seems to realize that there are two other people living with him, and almost never talks to them anymore.
Not that there's much to talk about, of course. They don't ever have to fill each other in on the events of their day because they spend all of their days together. None of them truly have individual experiences anymore.
Sometimes, Petunia tries to come up with things to say. She talks about the antics of the birds she saw out the window, the spider she chased around the bathroom. Vernon nods and grunts his acknowledgement, but never seems to hear the words.
She almost never talks about the war, though, or about Hestia, or Harry, or about life before they went into hiding. Every time she tries, Vernon just gets angry and leaves the table, and his face stays a reddish purple for hours. Dudley has never been much for idle chatter, either, so silence has become a near-constant thing. If Petunia had to pick just one thing that she hates most about this tiny house and this awful war and everything that's happened, it would be the silence. It makes the days feel longer and lonelier than she ever thought possible.
