Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, situations, and events are property of J.K. Rowling and her publishers.

Author's Note: I have been inspired by the local Arthurian folklore of Brittany, but all references to real places are fictitious. Big thanks go out to pookha from the HPFF community for his assistance and encouragement.

Invidia

Brittany, France

Hard November rain lashed the forest of Paimpont. Oak leaves, soggy and brown, plastered the limestone walls of Castle Lestrange. In the courtyard, the local servants cast feeble charms to keep the flagstones clear of leaves. Gusty winds made their efforts futile, but the servants pressed on. Fear kept their eyes to the ground and their wands in motion.

Magic flowed from the very bones of the earth, underlying everything like groundwater. Even the Muggles sensed it, turning everything true, as usual, into a children's tale. Merlin's Tomb, the Fountain of Youth. The Muggles sold their guide-books, their useless spoons and hideous shirts, and pocketed their paltry earnings, mocking the true power below their feet.

Behind their backs, the servants made superstitious, warding gestures. Watching from the warmth and light of the salon, Lucius Malfoy felt their caution was wise. He and the Lestranges bore the brunt of the Dark Lord's punishment for Snape's betrayal. Bellatrix retreated to her rooms when the Dark Lord was finished with her, tended only by her cringing house-elf.

Walden Macnair poked at the embers of the dying fire. "Seen Toothy lately?" The executioner chuckled. "Heard the Potter girl messed his jaw up so bad, Bellatrix had to send somebody to kidnap a healer from St. Mungo's."

Lucius forced a rueful laugh and sipped at his hot, mulled red wine. Nutmeg and cloves combined with the warmth of the wine to loosen the constriction in his chest and throat. "Snape's little Mudblood had more up her sleeve than I would have guessed."

Macnair's voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Think she was really Imperiused?"

Lucius sobered and set down his empty tankard. He made a pretense of smoothing his clothing, twisting the heavy silver cuff links bearing the Malfoy arms. "How Snape pulled it off, I've no idea. Before I kill him, I'll be sure to find out."

His wife, Narcissa, lay a white hand on his shoulder. Lucius covered it with his own, exerting a gentle pressure. Her impassive gaze softened just at the moment of eye contact, no longer. "Dolohov and Nott are back from Manchester. They found nothing."

"What's in Manchester?" frowned Macnair.

"You should be asking, 'What was in Manchester?'" Narcissa's smooth face quirked with amusement. "Snape's old sty in Spinner's End."

Lucius chuckled. "Severus isn't that stupid."

"Surely not, but the Muggles may thank us for sanitizing that part of town." The Malfoys bent their fair heads together, laughing.

"Lucius!" Swathed in black sable, Bellatrix cut a fearsome figure at the top of the marble stair. Swirling her silk-lined, fur cloak around one arm, she swept into the salon. A housemaid crept up to her with a steaming cup of wine. Bellatrix dismissed her with a nauseated glare.

Lucius gave his sister-in-law an ironic bow, but Narcissa stared straight ahead at the fire. Bellatrix ignored her sister's insolence. "The Dark Lord has ordered me to trace the Portkeys. Lucius and Narcissa, you will assist me." She brandished an intricately detailed chart, drawn in black and blood-red ink. Midway down the scroll were circled "Brixton Station, London," and "Shrieking Shack, Hogsmeade."

"Bella, I can't. I've got to go home. I've left Draco with the nurse far too long. I can't be haring off on a wild goose chase."

Bellatrix flared up. "You've gotten soft, Cissy. Useless! You'll spoil that baby. He won't be of any use to Our Lord."

Narcissa looked sidelong at Bellatrix. Her smooth, white-blonde hair fell forward over one shoulder. "What higher purpose have we, dear sister, than to bring forth pure children to strengthen the Blood?"

Bellatrix bared her teeth and took a step toward Narcissa. Narcissa made a swift motion for her wand, but Lucius grasped her forearm, holding her back. The tense silence was broken by a sudden burst of rain against the tall, mullioned windows.

Bellatrix's refusal to produce an heir for Lestrange was a constant source of family tension, but Narcissa had never spoken so against her sister. The last thing Lucius needed was a duel. He squeezed Narcissa's wand arm, surprisingly firm under her silken sleeve.

"I wouldn't consider disobeying Our Lord, my love. We all failed Him, and we are unworthy of His grace." Narcissa subsided, all her fury gone. She was surely thinking of their little son, helpless and alone with only servants to protect him. Lucius could think of nothing else.

"Mistress," said a squeaky voice at Lucius' knee, "Posey brought your medicine." With shaking fingers, the house-elf passed a steaming beaker up to Bellatrix.

"Another cup for our brother," ordered Bellatrix. The house-elf stayed, her twig-like fingers working together with anxiety. She stared at the mantelpiece with bulging eyes. A hairline crack, repaired in haste, was just visible in the shifting firelight. Bellatrix's robe flared as she aimed a kick at her reluctant servant. "Now!" The elf departed in haste.

Narcissa smoothed her hair. "Something the matter with your house-elf, Bella?"

Bellatrix laughed. "What little brains she possessed have been turned to pt. Snape's little pet was a bit rough with her."

"Might have been good for her. All that family of elves are sub-standard, Mother always said so." Narcissa and Bellatrix smiled as one: fair and dark, full moon and new. Lucius sighed with relief. He could never rest easy while the Black sisters were at odds.

Bellatrix finished the dregs of her potion and dropped the mug to the floor with a negligent gesture. Barely visible as a streak of motion, the blonde house-elf collected the cup just before it smashed to the floor, disappearing as quickly as she came.

Outside, Dolohov and Nott stepped to the center of the rain-swept courtyard. Clutching a glowing blue Portkey, they disappeared in a swirl of black robes.

"Where are they headed this time?" inquired Lucius.

"I have ordered them to Surrey."

Macnair choked out a gravelly laugh. "What's in Surrey?"

Bellatrix's heavy eyelids drooped in keen anticipation. "A Muggle village called Little Whinging."


Dudley Dursley pulled himself up on the sofa. His plump, sticky hands made divots in the groomed, chocolate velvet upholstery. Biscuit crumbs trailed from his fingers like buttery rain.

His mother sat still on the hard cushions, bony legs crossed tightly at the ankles and sweaty hands folded in her lap. Petunia stared into the empty grate, as if her moss-colored eyes saw the ghosts of fires long extinguished.

The baby was not used to being ignored. His jowls crumpled. Immense tears flowed over stubby, blonde lashes, making tracks down his jam-smeared face.

Dudley's angry shriek tore down Petunia's spine, bringing her suddenly to her feet. The baby tumbled to the floor, howling with shock. Petunia snatched him from the carpet, checking him frantically for injuries. The toddler's screams had turned to sobs, tinged with relief. He tried clinging to her black satin blouse, but his fingers could not find purchase. He dug his fingers in between the buttons, searching for her familiar, warm skin.

"Mummy's so sorry. Mummy loves Dudley. Mummy loves him." The baby's solid weight, a healthy two stone, nearly knocked the wind from Petunia as she sat heavily on the sofa. Her son curled tight against her, a trembling and teary bundle. Petunia's eyes widened briefly at the sensation of sitting in a drift of pulverized butter biscuit, but she made no move to clean it up.

When Petunia closed her eyes, all she saw was her sister's face: first, as a skinny, screaming infant, Petunia's first clear memory. Two-year-old Petunia begged them to take "it" back where it came from. By the time Lily was three, and Petunia five years old, it was lovely to be a big sister. Lily grew into a pretty, ruby-haired toddler, an object of envy in the shabby neighborhood near the woolen mill. Petunia doted on her baby sister, dressed her with more care than her favorite doll, and treasured every jealous gaze.

On the sofa, Petunia clutched Dudley harder. She pressed her cheek into his thick, barley0-colored hair. The baby squirmed to be let down, his attention drawn by a children's program droning away on the telly. Mechanically, Petunia refilled his milk bottle and his biscuit bowl, relaxing a fraction as her son grew engrossed in the puppets' song.

Lily's strangeness grew slowly. It started with little things, like being able to catch a falling glass of milk before it slopped onto Petunia's clothes. Eight-year-old Petunia was proud of Lily's quick little hands, but there was something peculiar about the way the liquid in the glass seemed to freeze in mid-air, pouring itself back into the drinking glass, nary a drop shed on the table.

It wasn't so bad until the kids at school started to notice. They called Lily a weirdo, a head case. Petunia was sent home from school with a black eye after the Headmaster called their mother.

Two girls from their street giggled across from the Headmaster's office. Petunia ducked her head and walked faster. "That goody-goody, Petunia Evans! Yeah, the one whose dad is the foreman at the mill! She socked Colin Furvey right in the face with her lunch pail, she actually broke his nose!" Petunia brought her flowered book bag up to her face and ran.

Lily went to Mummy and Daddy that night with her customary floods of false tears. With the acid of jealousy eating into the love that had bloomed wholeheartedly for her sister, Petunia observed that Lily's blotchy, freckled face was even prettier than ever.

"Mummy, Daddy, I promise I didn't do anything wrong! Colin was teasing us in the schoolyard. He tried to take Mary Brewer's lunch money. I was so angry. I was about to run and tell a teacher, but before I even said anything, his rucksack flew right off his shoulder! All by itself, way up into the top of a tree! It must have been the wind, or somebody threw it? I don't know! Then he came after me!" Whimpering, Lily buried her pigtailed head in her arms. Their mother wept, their father patted her back, and Lily was forgiven, as always.

Lily hadn't even mentioned Petunia. Enraged and terrified for her sister, Petunia charged in, swinging her pink metal lunch pail with both hands. Colin Furvey bellowed in pain and came after her, completely forgetting Lily's freakish stunt.

The next morning, Lily left the house for school, pale but unmarked. Petunia, bandaged, in disgrace, was left behind with their mother.

"Mummy, Lily embarrassed me in front of the entire school and she wasn't punished at all! I'm out of school for an entire fortnight! I can't believe you aren't punishing her! She started this! It's not my fault my sister is crazy!"

Petunia and Lily's parents never spanked them, but the look their mother turned on her at that moment made her wish they had. Their mother was ashamed of Petunia: ashamed of her normal daughter, her good daughter. Something deep inside Petunia turned to plaster, cold and hard to the touch, but prone to shattering at the least vibration.

Lily never even thanked her for beating up that idiot Furvey. Lily's manner to her sister turned skittish, hangdog. Lily never again knocked on Petunia's door when she had a nightmare, but sometimes, Petunia heard her sobbing on the other side of the wall.

And then came Severus Snape.

On the chocolate velvet sofa, Petunia wept for her baby sister. The funeral had done nothing at all to help her. The lovely church in Godric's Hollow was full to bursting, defiled by cloaked freaks. That old ghoul, Dumbledore, prated on at the podium about love and duty, sacrifice and devotion: a mockery of a real funeral. Petunia could bear only a few lines of his eulogy before running back out into the cold, clutching her coat and scarf tight about her face.

Petunia returned from the funeral past dusk, pale and swollen-eyed from driving halfway across the south of England. The baby was already in bed.

"Better this way," said Vernon. He poured her a hot cup of tea. Seeing her shaking hands, Vernon turned back to the sideboard for a splash of liquor. Petunia would have been touched by her husband's tender care, but she was too cold inside to appreciate it. She gulped the hot liquid back all at once. The numbing waves coursed to her hands and feet.

"You're well shed of them now, lovey. They can't get to you anymore. Not your sister, or that useless sack of dog shit she married, either."

"But the boy," croaked Petunia. "He could be in trouble. Mummy and Daddy wouldn't be able to bear it if they knew. Their grandson all alone!"

Vernon swelled up at once. "If those -- whatyoumacallum -- gangster wizards are as bad as you've said, we're staying well clear of the whole lot. They'll come after Dudley. They'll come after us! Petunia, I won't let you throw yourself down your freak of a sister's grave! She wasn't worth it."

The breath left Petunia's stomach like it had been hit with a forceful punch. "You're right, dear. Of course. Her people said they were searching for the boy. If he is alive, somewhere, he's far better off in their world than ours."

"Good girl, Petunia." Vernon sat down beside his wife, covering her delicate hands with his own. She hadn't even removed her driving gloves. "I'll keep you safe. You're a Dursley, and I'll take care of you. None of that rubbish will ever come near you ever again."

On the crumb-strewn, brown velvet sofa, Petunia curled into a ball. She buried her face in a hard, unyielding cushion, willing herself to cry, to scream, to rage. The awful silence and her frigidly empty soul were worse by far. Dudley's program was still on, but he sneaked anxious glances at his mother every few minutes. Failing to catch her eye, he reached further into his biscuit bowl for comfort.

Seeing Dumbledore at the funeral had sent Petunia's mind crashing into the past, going over and over the paths of her childhood. Where had she gone wrong?

After Snape and Lily stole the letter, and Lily shamefacedly pushed it back under her door, Petunia burned it, but she was never able to erase the words from her mind.

"My dear Miss Evans, I understand your plight more than I can possibly tell you. I understand the pain of being separated from your younger sister, whom you have cared for and protected all her life. Sadly, it is impossible for a student to enter Hogwarts without evidence of strong, inborn magical ability. If it were merely a matter of being 'magical enough,' as you said in your touching letter, the Ministry would have secured you a place at Hogwarts many years ago. Indeed, Lily herself has been on the entrance list for Hogwarts School since she first entered Senior Infants at the age of five. Our magical government, if you care to label it so, very rarely misses a potential student.

I urge you to stay close to your sister, to enjoy first-hand knowledge of a world most non-magical humans can only imagine is real. I urge you, also, to explore your own individual talents and dreams, and to make use of what life has given to you, rather than letting your (quite justified) grief and disappointment color your young, promising life.

There may come a time when, instead of protecting your younger sister, that Lily's particular talents may empower her to protect you, and perhaps your entire family. If that time ever comes, Petunia, please remember that I asked you to stay close to her. Lily will always be your sister, and even in my brief acquaintance with her, I can easily see how much she will always love you."

Petunia uncurled her body from its tight, nautilus-shell contortion. She felt like she had cried herself out and fallen asleep, but her eyes were hot and dry. Stiff and aching, she gathered Dudley into her arms. The baby had clambered up on the sofa, falling asleep, like an overgrown puppy, with his head on his mother's knee. Tenderly, she wiped a streak of saliva from his cheek.

A strange, acrid odor crept into the living room. In summer, Petunia would have thought it was a barbecue, started with too much lighter fluid, but it was November, the middle of a weekday afternoon. Sniffing suspiciously, Petunia clutched Dudley to her shoulder and crept toward the kitchen.

Thick, purple-black smoke erupted from a tall man's wand. In Petunia's orderly, shining, porcelain-white kitchen, such a man was an incongruity, an impossibility. Cloaked in black, masked in silver, the man laughed as Petunia took a hasty step backward. She knew exactly what he was.

Petunia pressed Dudley's sleeping head tighter into her collarbone, until she could almost feel her finger bones cracking with the pressure.

Petunia backed rapidly into another, rangier man who blocked the door. He chuckled affably, but the silver mask muffled his speech. "Going somewhere, Mrs. Dursley?"

Petunia screamed.