Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Season 9

Round One — Chudley Cannons — Keeper

Prompt: American Horror Story — Asylum

Note: This is an AU where Petunia is a good person, and raises Harry by herself.

W/C: 2323

asylum: shelter or protection from danger

Illusions

The nightmares torment Petunia to this day. In most of them, she finds herself before a tall faceless man in dark robes. She may never know what a wizard looks like, but if the children's books are anything to go by, this man must be one. He cackles maniacally, and then there is a blinding light — and Petunia wakes up with a start.

She looks up and around. Everything looks perfectly in order, and when she steps out of her room, things are still fine. She walks into the next room and peers into the cot, then heaves a sigh of relief when she finds her nephew fast asleep.

Usually, she would tell herself to ignore the dreams, but she cannot bring herself to do it — because she remembers the old headmaster's note. The one that was attached to Harry's blanket when she found him at her doorstep that morning all those years ago. The one that explained the death of his parents, and some Dark Lord who was after Harry Potter all because of a nondescript prophecy. How it was necessary that the boy live with his only living relative, because as long as he is under the protection of his mother's blood, he will be safe.

The memory of that note is enough to pacify her whenever she looks at the little boy and wonders if it really was a good idea to not enroll him in primary school.

An all-powerful wizard will not hesitate to blow up a building full of little children, she thinks. He will do anything to get to Harry.

So she calls up a friend of hers, who comes every weekday morning to teach Harry his lessons. He is an attentive child, and pretty smart too, from what her friend says, and Petunia is content.

"But he is a growing boy," the teacher tells her. "I do not understand why you don't send him outside more."

Petunia brushes her off, and anyone else who suggests sending Harry to school, or to the playground to play with the other children of his age. She does take him outside, for God's sake. They go to the park every evening for an hour and a half and take a few rounds around it, Petunia making sure she keeps a tight hold on the little boy's hand at all times.

"Aunt Tuney," Harry says, "tell me about my mum and dad."

"Your mum was my favourite person in the world," she tells him with an air of fondness in her voice. "She was smart, and brave, and sweet. We were best friends, you know? We all reckoned she was going to do great things one day. She loved you very, very much. Your father was a good man, too. You look exactly like him, darling, except for your eyes, you have — "

" — my mother's eyes!" Harry finishes the sentence, said eyes aglow with delight. Petunia smiles; he seems to love it that he and his mother have the exact same eyes.

"Yes, my dear."

"If they loved me, why did they leave me alone?" he then asks.

"They didn't want to leave you alone, my dear." Petunia says what she has already rehearsed in her head. "They died in a car crash. It was an awful thing."

Petunia feels her heart break as she watches Harry nod and pull his blanket tighter around himself, but there is nothing she can do. She cannot bring herself to tell him the truth. That his parents were nothing like normal people. Because then he would ask how they could die in a car crash if they could do magic. Then she would have to tell him that it wasn't a car crash, but an evil wizard who killed them. And that evil wizard was looking to kill him, too.

Thankfully, Harry only ever asked her why she wasn't sending him to school one time a year ago. She had told him that it was because she wanted to make sure he was getting his education properly, and that his mother had been homeschooled, too — a blatant lie, but it seems to satisfy him anyway.

As the years pass, people start to get used to it. Most of them, Petunia hears, believe that Harry Potter is a very frail little boy, ever since the accident that took his parents. They talk about him kindly and unsuspectingly, and ask Petunia about his well-being every time they meet.

Sometimes Petunia wonders if she is doing the right thing keeping Harry locked away, but then she remembers the note and prophecy, and the doubts subside for now.

Everything is well.

Except Harry is growing up too fast.

She dreads the day when he will start to levitate objects across the room, or make things appear and disappear. She remembers her sister showing signs of magic when she was as young as five, and thankfully, Harry — who is six — is yet to do so. She hopes he never will, because if he does, she cannot keep him under her eye anymore.

But it is only wishful thinking. He is clearly as magical as his parents, judging by the weird, lightning-bolt-shaped scar right down the centre of his forehead and the fact that even the most powerful evil sorcerer — who had wiped out hundreds of lives — was somehow unable to kill him.

"Goodnight, Aunt Tuney." Harry's voice is tiny. Petunia ruffles his hair and presses a kiss to his forehead.

"Goodnight, love."

He's going to hate you for it, you know. Petunia cringes inwardly. She pushes that specific thought back where it came from. She knows it is true, though, but she cannot bear it if — when — Harry really does resent her. It is one of her biggest fears, second only to Voldemort ever finding out where he lives.

Petunia's eyes fly open, and she sits up with a jolt. She is sure she just heard a scream from her nephew's room. She is in his room in a flash, and her heart thuds a little when she finds him awake — his forehead beaded with sweat and tears running down his cheeks.

She sits down next to him and puts an arm around his shoulders.

"Sweetheart," she says, "was it a nightmare?"

Harry gives a shaky nod. "I saw my parents," he says. "And there was another man. He was wearing long robes, and he had a wand. He said — he said he was going to find me, and kill me like he did Mum and Dad. And then there was a very bright green light, and M-Mum and Dad were d-dead. Aunt Tuney — "

She envelops him in a hug and lets him cry. She frowns to herself. "Is this the first time you're having a nightmare like this, love?" she questions gently.

He shakes his head. "No. But in all the other dreams, it was only the evil man — laughing, then the green light. Oh, Aunt Tuney, my scar hurts."

She strokes Harry's hair as he sobs, and says things like "I'm sorry", "they aren't real" and "I'm right here."

The words sound half-hearted, even to her. Especially when she finds herself being more concerned about the characteristics of the nightmare. The man in the robes, the light, his parents. There is a distinct possibility the nightmares are not just nightmares, not when Harry keeps seeing them over and over again — and his scar hurts, too.

She puts him back to sleep some time later, and returns to her own room. Sleep does not come to her again.

She starts finding the letters, folded up, inside egg cartons, shopping bags, and even inside the refrigerator. At this rate, Harry will start finding them as well, and Petunia shudders at the thought.

She is doing a pretty good job of keeping the whole thing under wraps, until one day the towering, silver-haired man appears at her door. Petunia has a faint memory of him coming to visit them at her childhood home, wanting to talk to her parents about their 'anomalous' younger daughter.

"Miss Evans," the man says in a deep voice, his eyes bright behind the half-moon glasses. Petunia suddenly feels like a thirteen-year-old again. "I am Albus Dumbledore. Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I presume you remember me?"

Of course she does. "Y-yes, Sir. Please, come inside."

Dumbledore's imposing presence seems to cause a shift in the atmosphere of the living room. He conjures himself a large, seventeenth-century armchair instead of sitting in one of the couches. Petunia blinks, wondering absently if there is something wrong with her furniture.

"Ah, I am just a bit too attached to my armchair." Dumbledore smiles. "I hope you do not mind."

When she brings him tea, he lazily waves his wand — one of the cups floats over next to his head and stays there, bobbing up and down like a buoy in the sea. The whole thing makes Petunia feel self-conscious in her own living room.

"I would ask if your nephew is home," he begins. "But that would be a foolish question, considering he has not been anywhere else since I left him here — "

Petunia flushes. "I — "

"I understand why you do it, Petunia," Dumbledore says. "But I am afraid he can no longer remain under your watch. Harry is eleven years old, it is time for him to come to Hogwarts. It is where he belongs."

"But the prophecy — he's going to be killed, Professor," Petunia says in a pleading tone. "I cannot let him go. He is safer here. You said so yourself — as long as he is under the protection of his mother's blood — "

"Until he reaches the age of seventeen," the wizard interrupts. His voice is calm, but Petunia shivers under his gaze. "Once he is of age in the Wizarding World, his mother's protection will not be as effective. Voldemort will find him, and if Harry Potter does not have the skills required to defend himself, this sanctuary you have made for him will be of no use. Hogwarts is going to teach him these skills. I assure you, Miss Evans, that my school is one of the safest places in the world."

"But look where magic got my sister and her husband!" Petunia exclaims, tears stinging her eyes. "Lily deserved so much better than being murdered by some stupid Dark Lord. I do not want Harry to end up the same way as his parents."

Dumbledore sighs. "We were all devastated upon hearing the news. Lily and James did not deserve what happened to them. But Miss Evans, do you not realise — Voldemort chose Harry as his enemy, and the moment Harry turns seventeen, his followers are going to find him out. You cannot keep him safe then, and he will not be able to defend himself either.

"Voldemort has already connected a part of himself to Harry. It is why he gets those nightmares. They are only going to get worse as he grows older. At Hogwarts, he will be taught to shut them out, control them before they get out of hand. He is going to be under the watchful eyes of all the Professors. Not even Voldemort can do him any harm there. You have to send him away, Petunia. There is no other option."

Petunia shrunk in her chair and dabbed at her eyes. "The poor little boy — I haven't even told him."

"Then I suggest you do it sooner rather than later," replies Dumbledore, standing up and putting on his maroon cloak. "It is going to be difficult, but it must be done. Harry will not appreciate it if you keep things hidden from him for any longer."

Petunia stands at the door, watching as the Headmaster admires the flowers in her garden. Then he looks at her.

"Remember, Petunia, the asylum is only tentative - it is going to fall apart eventually. Your silence will not protect him then."

It is done. Petunia has told him everything she was supposed to tell him. The true identity of his parents, their deaths, the prophecy, the school. Harry was silent throughout it all, listening attentively, his eyes cold.

"You are telling me all of this now, Aunt Petunia?" he asked.

"I am sorry, my love," Petunia said. "I just wanted to protect you."

She wished he would be angry. She could have taken it if he had yelled or thrown things, but the silence is unbearable.

"Then I don't want to be protected anymore," he says coolly. "I'm glad I'm going away."

Petunia drops Harry off at Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters on the morning of September 1st. The smoke and the red locomotive and the rush of students dressed in black robes — everything looking like a picture straight out of a children's fantasy book, reminds her of her and Lily as children.

Harry watches it all with rapt eyes, and does not look back at her when he boards the train. Petunia sighs and comes back home.

It is her own fault.

Harry returns that summer and stays for a week before a red-haired friend of his arrives with a flying Ford Anglia and takes him away. The summers after that are all the same — except the flying car bit. Petunia stops sending him letters when she gets little response, and only sends him fruit cake every Christmas, the one he used to love as a little boy, expecting nothing in return. Not even forgiveness.

While Harry is where he should be, learning she thinks she should have told him about, she lives alone in that house in Privet Drive, imprisoned by her own thoughts, while hoping that some day she can forgive herself, and that he will find it within himself to forgive her, too.