School and Year - Ilvermorny Year 4
Title and Link - Wish You Were Here
Theme - Humility
Main Prompt - [Quote] "Don't become captivated by captivity. There is no beauty in stolen freedom."
Other Prompt - [Emotion] Disgust
Word Count - 2361
Author's Note - The theme of humility is used here in two ways. 1. Petunia realises the error of her ways in relation to her sister, but remains stuck in her ways when it comes to her treatment of Harry. 2. Harry realises at the end of the scene that as much as Petunia hates him, he can't hold that against her. It's not quite forgiveness, but understanding for why Petunia is the way she is, and why she blames him.
Wish You Were Here
In the falling dusk, Godric's Hollow looked magical. Orange lanterns hung from each house and every tree, giving the village a tainted halo. Groups of children swathed in costumes made their way from door to door, parroting jokes and rhyming songs in exchange for pumpkin pasties and bars of muggle chocolate. Laughter was in the air as friends and family greeted each other in the streets; merriment seemed to be the order of the night.
Harry couldn't help but envy them their happiness.
He'd been standing outside the small church, staring at the ornate iron gates for so long that his toes had grown numb from the cold. Over and over, his eyes traced the swirling pattern of the gates, pausing each time a tendril of climbing ivy interrupted his progress. There were points where the plant had such a tight grip on the metal that it looked almost painful. He thought about reaching out and loosening the ivy's grasp, but it wouldn't do any good. It would simply reattach more fiercely elsewhere, like persistent memories of a bad childhood fighting to suffocate you.
Whenever his eyes reached the edge of the gate, he would flick his gaze to the start and repeat the whole thing.
There was comfort in the sameness of the pattern, a precarious sense of safety in the idea that he didn't have to leave if he chose not to. It was false security, though, and Harry knew that. He wasn't sure what he was afraid of, just that this was only the second time he'd ever been to visit his parents' grave, and the first time he'd come alone.
He flexed his frozen fingers around the stems of the small bouquet and puffed a cloud of warm breath into the frosty air.
It was time to move, and as he lifted his boot and placed it one pace closer to the gate, his stomach gave a nauseating swoop like he'd missed a step going downstairs. Harry forced himself to breathe through the sensation and continued to walk forwards, lifting and planting his feet one after the other. After a few paces, he gave the gates a firm shove, waiting as they groaned and swung inwards to admit him into the churchyard. He reached out to run his hand across the worn metal and felt in his weary heart that they were kindred spirits.
The pale, pebbled path crunched beneath Harry's boots as he passed a sea of tidy graves, his eyes fixed upon the ground until, finally, he reached the section of land where his parents waited for him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, giving into one last moment of cowardice, before forcing them open. He lifted his chin to catch the first glimpse of the tombstone and sucked in a harsh breath through his clenched teeth.
Someone was already there.
Harry pressed his top teeth into his bottom lip almost hard enough to draw blood. This was his night with his parents, and Harry couldn't help but feel cheated that someone had arrived before him. The person, a woman, was talking in a low voice and Harry felt a gripping need to hear what was being said.
He made his way closer, careful not to make any sound.
Wisps of the woman's blonde hair fluttered in the light breeze as she knelt on the ground, her heavy pink coat billowing around her legs and feet. Curious, despite himself, he stopped several yards away and watched her place a large, carved pumpkin on the crisp grass.
"I know it's not as creative as the ones you used to make, but I did my best," the woman explained, her voice soft and teary. "I used to wonder how you managed to make them so perfectly."
Harry clamped his lips tight together, the woman's words trundling through his brain until, finally, recognition stole his breath. Petunia. He tightened his grip on his flowers and forced himself to breathe through his nose, fighting for calm as Petunia continued to speak.
"I'm sorry I haven't been here before now. Things...were complicated. I've just missed you so much." Petunia sniffed loudly and ran her hands over the sides of the pumpkin as if it were a conduit to touching her sister.
"I was looking through the photo album you got me, and I found the picture we took when we were eight, hunting for fairies down by the old stream, remember?"
"We'd stopped to eat our sandwiches on a patch of grass, and we were talking about what life would be like when we grew up. We were going to live near each other and have lots of kids and picnics by the sea." Petunia's voice caught on the last word, a strangled sob echoing around the quiet churchyard. "We were supposed to grow old together."
The memory seemed to be too much for Petunia, and she dissolved into tears, her hands coming up to cover her face as she wept.
He inched forwards until he was standing next to his aunt.
"I miss her too," offered Harry.
Petunia snapped her head around to face him, curling her hands into fists.
"You!" Petunia lurched to her feet so quickly she knocked the pumpkin onto its side. "What are you doing here?"
Harry felt his chest tightening at the vitriol in his aunt's voice, but he was determined to stand his ground. "Excuse me? This is my parent's grave. I have more right to be here than anyone else."
"You have no right at all to be here," Petunia's mouth pursed as if there was a sour taste in her mouth. "You're the reason she's not here with me."
"What are y—" Harry began, but Petunia cut him off, her fury hurtling at him at the speed of a freight train.
"She was my only sister, and you stole her from me. She didn't have to die. It should have been you." Petunia's eyes flashed in her pale face as she vented her grief at him, each word slamming into Harry's heart so hard it made him gasp. "It should have been you."
Petunia's words, words which Harry had thought to himself sometimes in the dark when he couldn't sleep, settled like a tonne weight upon his shoulders. He looked around them, at the shadows that clung to the graves, softening the harsh stone lines. What he wouldn't give to be able to hide amongst them.
"Yes," said Harry in a small voice, wiping a lone tear from his cheek, "it should have been me." His eyes burned with the truth of the statement, and he clutched the bouquet to his chest like a shield. "But it wasn't. My mother made her choice to do whatever she could to make sure I lived, and I thank her every single day for the gift she gave me.
"But if anyone has no right to be here, it's you," Harry continued in a shaky voice. "You were supposed to look after me, but instead, you treated me like crap. Criminals in prison are treated better than the way you treated me."
"You stupid, entitled little boy." The sheer volume of aggression in Petunia's hushed voice was startling, and Harry found himself taking a step back. "When I look at you, I see the deadbeat she married and the world that stole her from me. You remind me of how she died, and you have no idea, none, how much it hurts to have the person who murdered your sister living in your home. To have to feed and clothe them when they should be rotting in Hell somewhere."
Harry breathed a dark chuckle as Petunia's words hung in the air, waiting for acknowledgement. Little did she know that Hell was subjective and he'd had more than his fair share of it all his life.
"I was in Hell, Petunia. You and Vernon made sure of it."
"Don't be dramatic," said Petunia in a clear dismissal. "You survived well enough."
"On leftovers — in more ways than one." Harry couldn't restrain himself from arguing, finally breaking the damn on the emotions he'd always kept buried deep inside his chest.
When he'd been young, he hadn't known there was anything wrong with his life. He had his cupboard and his little mattress and all the spiders that he'd made friends with to talk to. It wasn't until he'd gone to school that he'd realised that things weren't normal. The teacher had asked everyone to describe their bedrooms and Harry had been given detention for making up stories. That night, after finishing his chores and eating Dudley's leftovers, Harry had cried himself to sleep, wondering why he wasn't good enough to have what everyone had.
"My mother loved me so much she died for me, yet you didn't love her enough to look after me properly. You locked me away in a bloody cupboard. You wished me invisible so hard that you wouldn't even look at me."
He finally closed his mouth, startled by the level of anger he still carried. He felt the trauma had been festering away and it had finally been lanced, releasing the pain. He looked at his aunt, watching her as she stared straight ahead. Did she realise that this was her only chance to make things right?
"I'm sorry."
Petunia's apology was so soft, so quiet and unexpected, that Harry almost dismissed it as wishful thinking.
"You're sorry?" he repeated. "Do you even know what you're sorry for?"
"I'm sorry for letting Lily down. You're right. She would have wanted me to look after her little boy like he was my own, and I failed her." She turned back towards the tombstone, her expression softening. "I'm so sorry, Lil," she whispered, "please forgive me."
Harry waited, his lungs beginning to burn from the short shallow breaths. One minute passed, then two, and still Petunia remained silent. Unable to help himself, he asked the unimaginable.
"What about me?"
"What about you?" Petunia glared at him, clearly harassed. It was always the number one rule at 'home' after all — don't ask questions.
"Don't you have an apology for me?" he prompted.
Harry had no idea why he was pushing the issue, but some masochistic, perverse part of him wanted to hear what she had to say.
"No." Petunia's voice was suddenly strong, confident, as if she knew the truth of her words with every fibre of her being. "You're the reason I can't apologise to Lily face to face. I hate you, Harry, for taking her from me."
Harry stood for a moment, mulling over each word Petunia had said. She hated him. Blamed him. As much as that knowledge hurt, he wasn't surprised. Her feelings towards him were in every little thing she neglected to do for him. He thought back to when he was locked in his bedroom and she'd pushed a can of cold soup through the catflap. Even then, she only gave him the bare minimum to keep him alive. She had dedicated herself to sucking the enjoyment out of every little thing, even eating a can of soup.
He shook his head and squared his shoulders, his eyes fixed on the names of his parents so carefully engraved into the grey stone.
"Leave," he ordered after several long moments.
"What?"
"I said leave," repeated Harry, his voice empty. "I'm their heir, and as such, I own this plot. Until you have an apology for me, I don't want you anywhere near my parents."
Harry waited as Petunia narrowed her eyes. Then, as if in resignation,, she nodded, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She reached out and ran her hand over the top of the gravestone, letting her fingertips linger. Then she turned and made her way down the path, her coat swinging around her legs.
"Petunia?" he called, and she paused. "Don't come back. I'll know if you do."
His aunt followed the pebbled path until, finally, she disappeared out of sight.
Harry dropped to his knees and rested his flowers next to the large stone, stems squished from his fingers.
"Hi Mum, Dad," he whispered, tracing the etching of their names with his index finger. "I'm sorry it took me so long to come back, but the trials just ended this week. I brought you some flowers from Neville and Luna's garden. Now, there's a relationship I didn't see coming," he confided, smiling a little at how shocked he was when he'd found out. "'Mione says I'm almost as thick as Ron when it comes to relationships, though," he added.
His friends had offered to come with him tonight, worried about him being alone, but he'd refused. This was his thing.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the pumpkin Petunia had brought, still lying on its side at the edge of the plot. He paused, seriously considering smashing the offering under his boot, but something held him back. He looked at his mother's name and sighed. His mother, who loved and forgave and believed more than anyone he'd ever heard of, would want him to leave the pumpkin whole. Petunia was her sister, after all, and banning her from visiting was punishment enough.
Harry reached over and lifted the pumpkin, setting it down next to the flowers. He pulled his wand from his pocket and touched the tip to the wick of the small candle fixed inside, watching as the flame sputtered into life and grew.
Harry watched as the light danced behind the slanted eyes, and wondered if Petunia would ever find it within herself to be sorry for what she had put him through. He leaned back onto his heels, curious what it was inside of him that made him hope for anything positive from his aunt.
Dumbledore's words popped into his mind. Love as powerful as your mother's love for you leaves its own mark. He'd always supposed that Dumbledore had been talking about the protection his mother had given him, but perhaps, he thought as he stared into the pumpkin's illuminated face, not every mark was positive. Petunia's hatred for him was real, and something he would need to live with just as much as she did. His heart contracted under the weight of it.
"I wish you guys were here," he whispered, even though there was no one around to hear him.
A tear trickled down his cheek, and then another, until they poured from his burning eyes in wet rivulets. He made no move to wipe them, continuing to stare at the pumpkin until the bright, mocking smile began to blur.