Prologue – One Cold Night

The windscreen had fogged up since she and Vernon had left it parked in front of the restaurant. The windows on the sides, too, were covered in a layer of frost so thin that she could trace a line through it and watch as it froze up again. It was cold tonight, at least for Surrey, and the state of the car wasn't the only thing indicating that. She felt it as she pulled open the door, sat down in the leather seat as her body kept shivering. Vernon plopped down in the driver's seat, and she let out a sigh of relief as he turned the key and the heaters came on.

"It wasn't this cold before," he said. "Was it, Dear?"

Petunia shook her head.

No, it hadn't been.

"It isn't usually like this, this time of year," she said. "Did the forecast say anything?"

"About the cold? No, not at all." Vernon slowly worked the car onto the road, narrowly avoiding the car behind. "Tonight, it was supposed to be slightly chilly. Nothing else that I remember."

"Oh well." Petunia pushed herself up so that she was sitting up straight. "How do you think Dudley's doing?"

"He's fine, I'm sure." Vernon directed the car to turn left, passing under the green glare of a traffic light. "Mrs. Figg probably has him playing with her cats, or whatever those monstrosities are supposed to be."

"Perhaps calling them monstrosities is a bit far, Vernon."

"With those ears of theirs?"

"They're odd. Odd creatures, but not monstrosities." Petunia heard Vernon mutter something under his breath but didn't quite catch it.

No matter. Never anything serious, those whisperings.

Vernon was a good man, and he'd been good to her, she'd been good to him – they'd been good to each other, good for each other. She remembered the day he'd proposed to her, and only recalled the smiles and well wishes. The blessing from her mother. The approval. Vernon had gotten down on one knee, and she'd said yes before he'd opened the box.

And she was happy with Vernon. She didn't regret her decision, not in the slightest. She had a husband who, no matter how much time he spent sitting on his ass in front of the couch, loved her, accepted, understood her. She loved him back, and he had given her a beautiful son who they would pick up from Mrs. Figg's, and then they would be back home, warm and snug and protected from the cold, cold night.

And it was getting colder. Petunia could see the creeping fingers of frost framing the window. She rubbed her winger against them and came away with nothing. They were on the other side.

Suddenly the car jerked to a holt, and Petunia wheezed as the seatbelt pulled her back against the chair, the air going out of her lungs. Vernon was cursing beside her, but she didn't dare to look at him. There was another car, its bumper frighteningly close to theirs.

God, god, god.

I might have almost died.

Her hand found Vernon's, and she squeezed tightly. His thumb caressed her palm, as she watched the driver of the other car stare at them in shock.

"Are you alright, Dear?" she heard Vernon ask. She nodded stiffly, before realizing that he wasn't looking at her.

"Yes," she said quietly. "I'm alright. Just a shock." She pressed her hand flat against her chest, felt the line where the seatbelt had pressed into her dress. She traced the line running diagonally across her body.

"Blubbering idiot," Vernon spat. Petunia squeezed tighter.

The other driver – he must have been no older than his mid-twenties – silently backed up his car, before driving around them. Vernon put his foot on the pedal, and they resumed their drive in silence.

"Are you sure," he asked. He sounded worried. "You look pale."

"As do you," she said. She hadn't looked at him.

Vernon chuckled.

"Must be the cold, then."

No, Vernon. The cold turns you red.

Petunia caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror hovering between them. She could barely tell the difference between her skin and the whites of her eyes.

This isn't right.

She released Vernon's hand, intertwining her fingers together.

This isn't right at all.

She looked over to the window on her left. The fingers of frost were still there, lengthening into spindly claws as they crept over the glass. She rubbed her finger over it, and this time she came away with moisture on her finger. She looked over to Vernon, but he had his eyes on the road. Best not to distract him right now.

Petunia had seen things like this before. Petals which flew from a person's hand, leaves transforming into dragonflies. Once upon a time, she had longed for that world.

Now she wanted nothing to do with it.

Vernon turned the car, and Petunia saw the familiar buildings and trees, the sequence of fences that so perfectly encapsulated Privet Drive. Vernon pulled over coming to halt next to a small patch of greenery. Petunia got out of the car, brushing off the hem of her dress before closing the door. A blast of cold air hit her as she heard the trees rustle quietly. Vernon stayed in the car, staring aimlessly ahead. She walked to the gate of the house, reaching over to slide the lock and swing open the door.

Mrs. Arabella Figg's garden was probably the nicest garden Petunia had ever seen. It was certainly far better than hers, although her job kept her away from maintaining it most of the time. Mrs. Figg, however, had almost nothing else to do, apart from look after her many cats. And gosh, were there a lot of cats.

Petunia walked over smooth grey steppingstones, their edges shining softly in the moonlight. She extended her hand, so her fingers brushed the petals of the roses growing in their beautiful vases, arranges in a tight 'V shape' before cutting off as she reached the stairs. Ivy hung over the deck, so low that she had to duck to pass under.

Petunia raised her hand to knock at the door, jumping as the lock clicked and the door swung open. Mrs. Figg stood in the doorway; her face was lit by an orange glow from the dim lights behind her. She was wearing a new gown – this one had a floral pattern with splashes of greens and blues. It fit her well.

"Good evening Mrs. Figg," Petunia said, giving the best smile she could muster as she shivered from the cold.

"Mrs. Dursley. Always lovely to see you." Mrs. Figg smiled pleasantly, opening up the fly door and motioning with her hand. "Please, come in."

"I hope that Dudley hasn't been too much trouble," she said. She left her shoes by the door, closing it behind her.

"No, not at all." Mrs. Figg waved her off, leading Petunia through a hallway filled with various framed pictures, hanging on nails embedded into the walls. Cats, mostly. Playing in the grass, lying on the couch… Mrs. Figg liked her cats.

"You son is always a delight to have over," Mrs. Figg told her as they entered the kitchen. Something was cooking on the stove, a blue furred cat with long, pointed ears sitting next to it. Petunia widened her eyes at the sight of the strange cat, but Mrs. Figg was already picking it up and carrying it away.

"Oh, dear. Missy, you can't go close to the fires," she scolded. The cat let out a sad meow as she placed it back on the tiled floor, trotting off to where a whole group of them were milling about a large armchair.

"Mrs. Figg?"

"Yes, Mrs. Dursley?"

"Could I ask… what kind of cat is that?" Mrs. Figg flicked her head back towards the blue cat, then back to Petunia.

"Oh, a rare breed, from… India."

"India." Petunia looked to the wall, and saw a painting hanging there. Two black kittens, sleeping together in a basket. She'd painted it herself, when she was younger, gifted it to Mrs. Figg as a birthday present when she'd had nothing else to give her. She hadn't painted for years now.

"Yes, yes. India. A… a dear friend from there is visiting, I'm just looking after her while he goes around. Tourism, you see."

Petunia looked back at the blue-furred cat. The mane of white fur around its neck, the long, feathery tuft at the end of its sleek tail.

"I see," she said. She felt herself shiver, and this time it wasn't because of the cold. "India."

Mrs. Figg smiled at her, then tiptoed through a sea of cats, tails brushing against her feet before she reached Dudley as he petted a white kitten.

"Dudley, dear. Mummy's here." Dudley looked up at Mrs. Figg, and Petunia felt herself smile.

"Hi, baby," she said. The boy didn't struggle as Mrs. Figg picked him up, instead twisting around so that he was facing Petunia.

"Huh?"

"Mm, mm." Petunia took him from Mrs. Figg's arms, wobbling a little as a cat brushed past her leg. "Have you been good?"

"Huh!"

"Of course, you have." She kissed his forehead, before continuing to slowly rock him as she hugged him to her chest. "Thank you so much for looking after him for me, Mrs. Figg."

"Oh, it was no trouble, dear." Mrs. Figg patted her arm. "You deserved a night off, after all." Petunia smiled earnestly as she slowly walked out of the kitchen, Mrs. Figg following behind.

"Things are looking up right now," she said. "So there's a chance we might not be calling you as much, after this."

"Oh, but you know I wouldn't mind looking after Dudley if you needed some time for yourself."

"I know. Just… I'm sure you're busy looking after all your… charges."

"Yes, yes." Mrs. Figg chuckled. "They can be a handful, but so can looking after children. You know where to find me if you need some time off."

"Of course," Petunia said. She pushed the door open with her shoulder, slipping her feet into her shoes. "Good night, Mrs. Figg." She walked out, then paused and turned around. She felt the cold air encroaching around her, and Dudley shook in her arms. Mrs. Figg was staring at her, her lip trembling.

"I…" She reached out, grasping Petunia's arm. "Stay safe, Petunia," she said. Petunia shifted her arms so that Dudley rested against her shoulder, then took Mrs. Figg's hand.

"I will," she said. She looked at her hand, then Mrs. Figg, and for a split second she felt a wave of discomfort crash over her as she took in Mrs. Figg's expression. Grim, taut, serious. Mrs. Figg sighed, releasing Petunia's hand and stepping inside. Petunia watched as the door swung shut behind her. She cradled Dudley in her arms, listening to the soothing sound of his breath.

Mrs. Figg had never acted like that. And Petunia had known Mrs. Figg for quite a while.

When she walked back through the garden, the air felt different. The bright colors, so brilliantly visible in the moonlight, were now angry, biting and clashing. Between the blades of grass were blinking eyeballs, tracking her movements as she hurried along, Dudley bouncing in her arms. And… She shivered as she felt the wave of cold air pass over her. Yes. It was colder than before. Petunia fiddled with the gate, locking it behind her before hurriedly throwing open the door and sliding into her seat. Vernon stared at her, eyes scanning her up and down.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly. Petunia looked at him, then at Dudley, then shook her head. She could see the reaching fingers at her window, meeting at the centre and forming some misshapen polygon.

"Can we…" She took a deep breath. "Can we just go home?"

She didn't look at Vernon, but surely enough, she felt and heard the shudder of the engine. Dudley was looking up at her, eyes blinking. She smiled, stroking his cheek.

"What happened, Petunia?" she heard Vernon say. "Did Mrs. Figg–"

"No, no." She shook her head. "I just feel weird."

"Okay," he said. She looked down at Dudley, stroking his chin. She remembered how she'd felt when she'd first seen him. He'd been covered in blood, he'd been crying, but she'd felt… worry. Confusion. These things were supposed to be magical moments. Perhaps that had been the problem. It had been as mundane as anything else.

"We're home now." Petunia looked up, and saw the familiar driveway, the front lawn lined with various flowers. She breathed in, out, in, out.

"Great," she said. She opened the door, Dudley clutched to her chest, closing it just as Vernon managed to push himself out. She smiled as he staggered over the cement, grumbling to himself as he slammed the door shut.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine." He tossed the keys in his hand. "Come on, let's head inside. It's freezing out here." As if answering his statement, the howl of the wind raised in volume. "Yes, let's go inside." Petunia followed Vernon inside, sighing in relief as she felt the biting cold begin to ease away. She felt Dudley nuzzle into her shoulder.

"I'm going to put Dudley to bed," she told Vernon. He nodded as he stopped underneath the stairs to get into the cupboard, tossing in one of Dudley's one-year-old toys that had been lying about. The floorboards needed another mop, Petunia noted, but that could wait until tomorrow. She walked with Dudley past the living room as Vernon headed over to start up the fire, up the creaky but firm wooden stairs. With each step there was a groan, a slight dip as the wood bent inwards. When she reached the top, two feet on steady ground, she pushed open the door into her and Vernon's room.

The bed was already made – that must have been Vernon, because she'd been in a huge rush this morning – and Dudley's cot was just a little to the left of theirs. Her side of the bed. Little ornaments, stuffed animals and baubles, hung over Dudley's bed, still spinning around on their cords.

"Come here," she muttered as she set Dudley down. Trying to get him changed had always been hard when he'd struggled and squirmed, but tonight he didn't protest much at all. She managed to get Dudley into his pajamas within a few minutes. For Petunia, that was probably a new record.

"Okay." She left Dudley in the cot, his head laid against the pillow, as she headed downstairs. The lights were already on, she noted. Had Vernon–

The lights flashed green. Petunia froze on the stairs her hand clutching the railing.

Oh.

Oh God.

She hurried the rest of the way down, stumbling over herself as she staggered to a halt and rounded the corner.

The first thing she noticed was Vernon, sitting still on the couch, a mug in his hand. His gaze was fixed, and when Petunia followed it, she saw him. A man in strange, loose purple robes, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. Long white hair and a beard framed his face, ending somewhere near his stomach. Petunia didn't know the man. But he was familiar to her, in an uncanny sort of way.

And then it hit her. Her sister's world. Those little cards which from the chocolate frogs, that was where she knew him from. She'd seen his picture once, on the back of one of those cards that her sister had given her. This was a man who'd denied her, refused to allow her to partake in another world, just because she hadn't lucked out the way her sister had.

"Hello, Professor Dumbledore," she said. "Finally reconsidered, have you?"

The old man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He was holding a tiny bundle in his hands, wrapped in a blanket.

"Hello, Petunia," he replied. His voice somehow sounded rough and smooth at the same time. It was an odd observation to make, but this was the first time she'd ever met the man in person. "I'm not here for that, unfortunately."

Her I'm glad went unsaid, as Dumbledore smiled and shook his head.

"No, no. Something else has happened. Last night, I'm afraid." He shifted the bundle in his arms, as if trying to subtly draw her attention to it. Well, it was working – she had to give him that much. "Although it is quite nice to finally meet you. Lily spoke of you often."

Petunia felt her breathing quicken. She took a step back.

"Excuse me, um… Mr. Dumbledore," Vernon spoke up. "While I'm sure that you're not intending to, you're making my wife very uncomfortable. And me as well, to be honest. I'd appreciate it if you could leave. Neither of us are really in the mood for this…" he paused, as if searching for a word. "Freakishness," he said. "Sorry, couldn't find a better word at the top of my head."

"No, I should be the one apologizing. I'm aware that I'm intruding here, but I needed to speak to both of you face to face. This matter concerns both of you two."

"Well, could you get to the point then?" Petunia asked. Dumbledore sighed.

"Very well. Petunia, I'm afraid that last night, Lily and her husband… passed."

All at once, she could feel the cold again. Gripping her heart in a steel-cold vice. She didn't think of her sister, most days. She'd been a presence in the background, someone who Petunia had known to be there, but had never had any intention of paying attention to. Lily had always been frozen, in her mind. The girl with the smile who made the leaves and the flowers spin and fly. The one who had begged for her to listen, to understand. And she'd refused.

"How?" she asked. Her voice was soft, quiet.

"A dark wizard. There was reason to target the Potters, as a powerful wizarding family. They had been a thorn in the side of this… particular dark wizard, for quite some time. It was partially a strategic move, I would assume, considering how the deaths of the Potters would otherwise have given them a large advantage in the ongoing war."

Petunia opened her mouth to ask, but Vernon said it first.

"War?"

"Yes, Mr. Dursley. War. A wizarding war, if you would."

"A war between… magic users? No… regular people?"

"No muggles are fighting, Mr. Dursley. They have, however, suffered casualties from so-called collateral damage."

"Collateral–"

"Vernon," Petunia cut in, "I know you'd love to hear more about… the war."

"It sounds terrible, actually."

"But," she said, "I'd like to hear what he actually came here to say."

I want to know why my sister died.

Dumbledore nodded at her.

"Thank you, dear." Her skin crawled at that. Only Vernon ever called her 'dear'. "Lily and James were… murdered. However, they also had a child. I believe that you were aware of this?"

Petunia nodded. She remembered the letter, telling her about their daughter. She'd named her Hydrangea, to continue their little naming game. Only flower names for the girls in their family.

"She died too?" Petunia asked. She felt a pang of guilt as she said it. She'd just found out that she'd lost a sister, but she could barely bring herself to…

To really care.

But her child? That was a different story. Children were innocent of the sins of the world, and to know one might have died…

"No, no. Amazingly, little Hydrangea was the only survivor of the attack." He shifted the bundle in his arms again. "However, she did not make it out… unscathed."

There it was again. The cold vice, clamping around her heart.

"Professor? What do you mean?"

"Hydrangea was struck by a lethal curse. The killing curse, it's called."

"Oh, God," Vernon murmured.

"Yes." Dumbledore nodded. "However, the curse… somehow reflected off her. And it hit the spell's caster, killing him instead. But when the spell made contact with her skin, there was a… wound."

"A wound," Petunia said. "Where? How deep? How bad was it?"

"It was not deep, nor was it harmful," Dumbledore said calmly. "However, it is very much visible." He lowered the bundle in his arms, placing it on the coffee table. The bundle squirmed, and Petunia gasped.

Dumbledore turned the bundle, and for a moment, she saw Lily again, the little girl with the floating flowers. But this wasn't her. This was Hydrangea. The girl whose photo she'd ignored because Lily had sent one of those freakish moving ones which had blinked and laughed and waved.

Hydrangea gurgled, rolled a little, and Petunia recognized something there.

I saw it in Dudley, she thought.

She had red hair, just like her mother's. Petunia reached out, and Hydrangea smiled. She almost smiled back, but then she saw the scar. Stretching from the corner of her lip all the way down the side of her face, splitting off into five narrow fingers, all sprouting off in different directions in fountain curves. A flower sprouting from the center of her cheek.

"She was lucky," Dumbledore said. "No one has ever survived that curse. Not directly. Always something thrown in the way, dodging out of the way. But a direct hit? Unheard of. She should be dead, Petunia. But she isn't." He traced a line on his knee as he looked at Hydrangea. "I think you know what I'm going to ask you."

"I don't," she lied. She wanted to hear him say it. Ask it. It wouldn't feel right, otherwise, to take on that responsibility.

Dumbledore gave her a look which told her that he knew exactly what was going on in her head. But he asked anyway.

"Petunia, would you be willing to… take in Hydrangea?" She took a deep breath.

"I'm not sure you should be asking me, Professor."

"I don't see why not."

"Hydrangea… she was born from magical parents. I don't have the greatest history or impression of magic. Professor. You're telling me to look after a girl who reminds me of a world that I could never be a part of."

"Then perhaps this is your way of being part of it. Look after Hydrangea, and when she comes of age–"

"It's not that simple, Professor."

"No?"

"No. I told you about my… views."

"I'm aware of what you think of magic, Petunia. That doesn't change the fact that you were my first choice of who to entrust Hydrangea to." Petunia looked at Vernon, willing him to say something. But he didn't even look like he was paying attention. He was staring at the fire, watching it crackle and burn.

"I don't understand, Professor. You're aware of my prejudices–"

"Perhaps too strong a word."

"–but you're still willing to believe that I'll treat her fairly?"

"Perhaps not. But I trust you to keep her safe."

"And you would leave her with me? You'd leave a girl with magical blood under my roof?" Dumbledore sighed.

"Think of it this way, Petunia. Magical children don't show magic immediately. In fact, many don't until they encounter something distressing in their childhood. There's a chance that if you looked after her, Hydrangea would display none of the usual… what the word you used? Ah. Freakishness." Petunia flinched. "But don't worry. You're my first choice, not my only choice. There's another wizarding family who I'm sure would be perfectly happy with taking her in."

"Then why me?" she asked. "You know I despise magic."

"You know that isn't true."

"Perhaps. But I'd be envious of her."

"I imagine you would be."

"So why?" she repeated. "Why, dammit, why?!"

"I'd rather have Lily's sister raise Hydrangea than someone else," he said. "Hydrangea needs a peaceful life. A normal life. You can give her that. This girl has suffered enough, don't you think?" Petunia looked at Hydrangea, still curled up in her blanket. She saw the scar, flowering into a claw made of jagged cuts into her skin.

"Yes," she said. "But that's not all. It never is, not with you." She looked him in the eye. "She used to talk to me, once."

Dumbledore smiled.

"She told you."

"I figured things out from what she gave me."

"Smart. No, that's not everything. You're the only person in the world, other than Hydrangea, who is related to Lily. That means that if I wanted to set up some blood wards which would provide her some extra protection, then your house would be the only place where I could do so."

"You couldn't just take some of my blood?"

"No, no. Blood magic is funny like that. I would need you, Petunia, to be in the same location as her. Boundaries would be drawn around you house."

"Why all the extra protection? They got her parents, why would they want her?"

Dumbledore rubbed his wrist, propped up his glasses.

"Professor."

"Yes, yes. I… I don't think that's something you would want to know, Petunia."

"You're asking me to take her in so that you can give her better protection, but you won't tell me why?"

"You told me you felt that you could never be a part of the magical world," he said. "I'm trying not to make it hurt. Please. Leave it be." She wanted to keep asking. To pester him, question him all night long. Why the protections were necessary. Why it was Lily who'd had to die, instead of someone else. There were always more layers to everything, especially with magic, and she wasn't blind enough to not see them.

But instead, she backed down. Blinded herself.

She nodded.

"Well? Will you?" He looked at her, then Vernon. "I'll need an answer."

"You'll get one," she said. "Just… let me talk to him?" Dumbledore nodded, then took Hydrangea back in his arms and walked away. Petunia sat next to Vernon on the couch.

"You were quiet," she said.

"I wasn't sure what to say," he muttered. "The strangeness of tonight, now this…"

"It's been quite the night." She grabbed his hand and squeezed.

"That," he said, "is the biggest understatement I've encountered in my life." Petunia giggled.

"God, I'm going crazy. This is… this is a lot, isn't it?"

"That's one way of putting it." Vernon shifted in his seat, turned to face her. "Do you think we should?"

"Do you?" she asked back.

"I don't think I'm the one who should give the final call."

"Vernon, I'm too close to this."

"And I don't know anything," he said. "You know about magic. You know the risks. If we take in your sister's kid, I… I think I could live with it. The freak- uh, fantastical stuff. You need to figure out if you could, because this is more about whether or not you think you could look after her right, knowing what you do."

Petunia flinched back. Vernon… he meant well. But she couldn't help it. That feeling. She'd heard him say biting things, angry things. His words were a weapon, and a weapon well honed, but never had he aimed it at her.

You have a silver tongue, dear.

"There would have to be rules between us," she said. "We'd have to talk to Dumbledore, know how to deal with a magical child."

"But do you think you could? Could you handle it?"

"I think I could," she said, and she was surprised that when the words flew off her lips, they sounded genuine. "But even I didn't, Dumbledore told me that he'd rather that I raise him than someone out of the family. This girl… she deserves a life, Vernon." Vernon closed his eyes.

"Then I suppose that's a yes."

They rose from the couch and walked over to where Dumbledore had lain Hydrangea on the kitchen counter. She was reaching up towards him, giggling. He tickled her chin, then turned towards them.

"Well?"

"We'll take her in," Petunia said. "But there'll have to be rules. And we have questions for you."

"I'm at your disposal," he said. "But perhaps we should sit down for this. This will take some time." They headed over to the couch again, sitting down as Dumbledore rested himself in Vernon's armchair.

"Well," he said. "What would you like to know?"

Hydrangea and Dudley were playing in the backyard. It was sunny today, but she didn't want them in the front. Too many people staring at Hydrangea's scar had been a problem since day one, and she'd begun to ask questions about why they were looking.

She thought she was weird, and Petunia wouldn't let her think that. That just wasn't right.

Hydrangea was sweet. She was thoughtful, kind, and definitely not bratty. She'd rubbed off on Dudley enough that he'd calmed down, become more sympathetic, with time. But there were still issues. Every time she thought things would be okay, Hydrangea surprised her. Saying things to Petunia as if she could read her mind. Saying a word which might have bordered on the cusp of magical. But these were coincidences. When she thought Hydrangea could read her mind, she was just observant. When she said those words, it was because she'd read them in a library book and wanted to know what they meant. Petunia's paranoia was getting better, but every now and then, she still jumped. She still flinched. And Hydrangea would look at her with those innocent eyes and ask what was wrong, as Vernon stared over her shoulder and sighed.

She finished pouring her tea, setting the teapot back down. Vernon was staring out the window, watching as Dudley and Hydrangea ran circles around each other.

"They're going to get tired soon," he said.

"I'll bring them in," she said. "Don't worry about that."

She heard the sound of the doorbell ringing and got out of her chair.

"I'll get it."

Petunia made her way to the front of the house and opened the door.

"Hello, how can I–" She paled as she recognized the man standing on her doorstep. "Professor?"

"Petunia." He nodded at her. He looked grim, far more so than the last time they'd met. "How is Hydrangea?"

"She's doing fine." Petunia looked back at the yard. She could see them through the window. "Why? What's going on?"

"There's been a development," he said. "You remember what I told you, about how your sister died?"

"Yes," she muttered. "A dark wizard and a killing curse."

"That, yes. We've been watching and listening, these past few years searching for a sign. I have news for you."

"Good news?"

"No. Unfortunately not." Dumbledore sighed. "I'm sorry about this, Petunia."

"Sorry?" she looked at him in confusion. "Why?"

"Because it seems that I may have misled you, the last time we met." Dumbledore coughed.

"I received a message this morning. And it seems that the man who killed your sister is still alive."