Story Title: Petunia the Petulant

Chapter Title: A Silly Woman

Author's Note: I am thoroughly enjoying telling the story of just two of the characters who are, in my opinion, rather unfairly treated in the Harry Potter saga. I solemnly swear to do my best to update once a week, and no worse than once a month, until it is completed. If you're following, please let me know by reviewing, and thanks! Hope you enjoy the adventures of Petunia Dursley!

Summary: Vernon is dead, and Dudley and Harry are gone. There is nothing left of her shattered existence but a previous chapter, long ago, the ending of which never satisfied her. Petunia Dursley, deciding for once to stand up to her stars, sets out to seek closure to the haunting loss of her much-beloved sister, Lily, and bring to account the wizarding world that tore them apart-a world whose current ambassador is Severus Snape. Meanwhile Severus, who has spent his life pining for Lily, now finds himself with yet another irritating member of Potter's family on his hands...

Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling, nor am I on her payroll.

Pairings: PD/SS, and others I haven't decided yet.

Warnings: NOT slash! Gasp! Plotline not entirely dependent on erotica. Gasp! This story follows the Deathly Hallows, but without the deaths of most of the characters we like. I don't know of any others yet, but will update if I think of any.

Petunia, the Petulant

petulant

1599, "immodest, wanton, saucy," from . petulant (1350), from L. petulantem (nom. petulans) "wanton, forward, insolent," from the root of petere "rush at, seek" (see petition). Meaning "peevish, irritable" first recorded 1775, probably by influence of pet (2).

A Silly Woman

"And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not"

-William Shakespeare

A lone, black carriage from a nightmare realm clop-clop-clopped away down the darkening path, led by invisible forces that were probably too terrible to look upon without turning one to madness. A mercy that they could not be seen. The journey had been hard. The landscape had mirrored very well the perpetual grief that was the woman's constant state of mind. It was not all for her husband, although much had been for him, to be sure.

She stood just within the gates of the strange grounds, the mansion-of-madness rising before her with bright lights glowing from its windows, quite inappropriately, she thought without emotion. She knew it was filled with children, but she did not think of them now. Instead she clutched the card, still in its cinnamony envelope, as it to reassure herself that it, at least, was real.

Dear Aunt Petunia, the note read…though she could never remember her nephew actually referring to her this way, now that she tried…I am so sorry to hear the news about Uncle Vernon. I would have come immediately; please forgive me, as my recent dangerous work prevented me, and by the time I tried to make arrangements, I found the funeral had passed. I am sorry for you and Dudley especially. I want you to know the news causes me a heavy heart. I am glad Dudley could visit when he did. I'm proud of his success. Aunt, forgive me if this seems a bit presumptuous, but you see he strongly urged me to let you know that I intend to help you with your request, much as it came at my surprise! It may take some time, but I am working at it. If you'll forgive me, I think it would be best if we act first, and ask permission later. I have made arrangements to put our plan in motion, if you should agree to them. Not to discourage you, but this is going to be a tough journey. I am here to help in any way I can, and with anything you may need. Please don't hesitate to ask, or let thoughts of the past prevent you.

I've sent instructions to him as to how to reach me, and I hope my gift of the pair of doves brings you some pleasure. Of course, I will not be offended if you prefer not to keep them, but I promise you that they can be very useful creatures. Besides, I figured they would be preferreable to an owl. I await your response to let me know if I have your permission to come and see you. Of course, if you wish to be alone in your grief, I understand as well. By the way, Draco Malfoy, my friend who visited that summer before I graduated, says hello, and sends his sympathies as well.

Please never doubt that I think of you fondly, and you remain in my thoughts at this difficult time.

Your nephew Harry

Of course she had not responded at any length, other than a note of thanks when she could finally muster it, and it had taken all of her to do so. The nice thing about grief, though, was that it numbed you to all else. Almost.

But after the coffin had been lowered in the grave, the appropriate prayers and words said, and the brazenly bleached flowers tossed among the first dirt to hit the coffin with its thud of finality, it had not been long. Not long at all. It had been there all along, she realized, this idea, budding in her, this resolve to find…closure.

And so she had written to her son, Dudley, asking him politely to get in touch with Harry and grant her very odd request, and the next thing she knew, a taxi had arrived to take her to a train at which her son stood, ready to greet her, with one of those people she had always hated standing next to him…a young man who at least had the decency not to wear a robe. He was otherwise neatly put together, and when he had been introduced by Dudley as "one of Harry's friend's kids," he was polite enough to put her mostly at ease as he escorted her onto the train into her very own private car, which, he explained, held no students in it, and which, he and Harry had hoped, would be comfortable for her.

She had closed her eyes to go through the wall to get to the train, but she knew he'd assisted her, probably having been warned by her nephew on how much running through a wall on a train platform in public would have traumatized her in her present state of mind. She wondered the whole ride, of course, if she could have done it after all. But that was a question perhaps never to be answered.

Petunia looked like a wilted, shriveled version of the flower for which she was named, at the moment. Clad in mourning black, she wore her hair pulled tightly back in the same old-fashioned style she'd worn for almost thirty years. Not a strand was out of place, but that came from years and years of practice, rather than extra care. Everything she did was automatic, everything practiced and mechanical. That's how it had always been. And now she had an empty house, with nothing but silence around her when she did not have the T.V. on playing in the background, which she had done in the beginning to perpetuate the illusion that Vernon was still there. The effect had been discomforting, after a while, though, and so she had the T.V. given away. Then there was nothing left but the sound of her washing the same dish over and over again, of the tea kettle brewing when she remembered to take tea while she stared out of the window into the tiny garden in her backyard.

The cooing of the doves that Harry had sent her.

It had been quite the appropriate gift, it turned out, for it introduced to her a new habit to add to her repertoire; she fed them and cleaned their cage entirely too often, she supposed, but it was comforting to have something new to take care of. Who'd have thought it?

Shriveled, yes, but not with age; rather, with bitterness. Bitterness in her belly that fed itself on misery again and again. Until now. Now, when she stood here, empty, staring at the mystical "School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" that had claimed her sister and shut its doors to her forever, then repeated the insult by claiming her nephew while he lived out his youth in her own home. Empty, except for one brand new thought that had taken hold. A wand. Nevermind that she was in her waning years, and that she was…what did they call it, that terrible name that was the sum of her whole existence? A Muggle. She was not her sister, no. But what did that matter, and why should she be?

Her sister was here, that was certain. She could feel her behind those walls. Lily had been to this school. And every year she'd spent here had been one in which her existence had denied Petunia's. Her sister was long dead, and so it was too late to show her how wrong she'd been. But in those walls was someone who had known her, someone who had valued her above Petunia, and who had made no effort to hide his contempt for Lily's mundane, uninteresting, inferior sibling.

Her stomach twisted as she thought of the dark man with the greasy hair and the penetrating, spiteful eyes, the eyes that could make her feel so worthless, so far beneath him. She twisted her ankle in an absent-minded nervous habit she had recently picked up, and was mildly aware of the stiffness in her tight, dark high-heeled shoes. Hardly traveling attire. What was his name? Something crazy, like a snake…something…sever…Severus. Severus…Snape. That was it.

"Severus," she whispered, picturing him now, his withering glance blazing in her mind's eye. She lifted her short, stylish dark veil and set it upon the lip of her tiny hat as a youth in robes, uncertain-looking, approached her from the bottom of the stairs.

"Do you need something, ma'am? Are you looking for your child?"

"I'm here to see Severus Snape," she said flatly.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Lily's sister…another flower, if I remember correctly? Primrose, was it?" The man smiled acidly.

"Petunia. But you know my name."

"Ah, Petunia. Yes. And what brings the delicate flower to grace the halls of this, no doubt, unusual establishment? You'll have to forgive the mess…we've had a bit of construction going on, you see."

Severus made a production of stepping over a giant tumbled statue on which half of the face had been blown off. He stood looking at her curiously, a sallow man who seemed to tower above everything, although he was only at most a foot and a half taller than she. His black, billowing robes seemed to suit his solemnity, though they were oddly out of place with the youthful students teeming here and there, chattering with excitement, hardly noticing the two of them. He had aged, just like she, and she saw in him a dignity befitting something of a mad genius…a demeanor that must have taken many years of development to replace the lurking, uncertain insecurity he'd had as a teenager. He was terrifying, fascinating, and loathsome.

"Yes, I know about the war," Petunia answered, ignoring his attempt to patronize her. "As I heard it, the good side one. Didn't it?"

He smiled, and she could not tell if it was the smile of pleasure or the grin of a hungry predator.

"Yes, it did, at some great costs, but all things were righted, you might say. We're still in the clean-up process. But I was not aware you paid such close attention to the events of our world, Mrs. Dursley."

"Well, with a nephew like Harry living with me, it was hard not to."

"Yes, I imagine so. And it's interesting that you use the phrase living with you, as I thought I'd heard it might be strange to call it that, but then, one hears things all the time."

Petunia flushed in fury and shame, but said nothing to this, and merely waited, holding his gaze.

Let him size her up. Did he think she was afraid?

After a moment, he broke his stare and looked about, as if considering some other busy matter.

"Well, perhaps I can regale you with all the details at another time, although I have to warn you it may put one such as yourself to sleep. In the meantime, I would simply love to know what has brought you to these halls, especially so closely on the heels of your recent loss. My deepest condolences, by the way."

She nodded curtly.

"Please," he said, his voice oozing, step into my office. With one graceful gesture, the towering villain stepped aside, and she saw that he held a long, thin wand in his hand. She felt a rumbling under her feet, and just caught herself before she squealed. The statue had begun to right itself. When it stood completely upright, it then began to twirl about, and a hidden, winding staircase was revealed. She glanced back at Severus, remembering to close her gaping mouth, and he dropped into a mocking bow as he nodded toward the stairs.

"After you, madam."

She gulped, gathered herself, then lifted her head and stepped forward. Her heels wobbled, but she made it down the stairs without tumbling.

"I'll get right to the point," she said when she stood before the Headmaster's desk and the chamber had closed behind her. She tried desperately not to swallow her own voice.

"Please do."

Severus sat behind the desk that looked, along with the whole office, like the workplace of someone fictional from the worlds of Jules Verne or perhaps even the Arthurian legends. She resisted the urge to look around at everything. The most unsettling thing by far were the moving pictures behind the headmaster's chair; in fact, she was certain she recognized his predecessor, Albus Dumbledore, who had made several unpleasant visits to her home over the years when her nephew was with her.

She started to speak, then stopped. All that she had rehearsed seemed to fade away, and appeared so foolish now. She had meant to tell him of the wand, and the broken china, and-but it all seemed not to matter now. There would be no convincing him. Best to simply ease into it, feel him out and see which way the conversation would turn.

All she really had to make him understand was that she was not leaving.

Petunia, having made her decision, placed her tiny hands primly folded in front of her. As she stood before him, she wondered if he liked this, seeing her standing there like a student about to be reprimanded, knowing that he had not even offered her the courtesy of a chair. She cleared her throat softly.

"I wonder, Mr. Snape, how many like me you've had in this room."

He raised an eyebrow, leaning on one elbow. His mouth was covered by a restless hand, but she could have sworn he was amused.

"Muggles, you mean?"

"I object to that term, actually," she found herself saying, and she shifted her glance to his desk, on which there was a tiny globe. She gave it a spin before he took it away.

"I'm sorry. What would you prefer?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something a little more dignified. Perhaps 'unawakened.'"

"That is about as dignified as 'unevolved,' and hopelessly sentimental besides, but have it your way. No, I don't think we've had the pleasure of the 'unawakened' at Hogwarts in a couple hundred years, at least. When they were here, usually it was with the hopes of burning all of us-the awakened-to ash in the hopes that this would send us back to the devil where we belonged, so as you can imagine, we have taken extra care just who we let into our walls since then, you see."

"Well, that was a long time ago, obviously," she snapped, struggling to maintain composure.

"It may have been a long time ago, madam, but it is nevertheless etched in our memories as if it were yesterday. Some of us to this day have not experienced the best treatment from Mug-er, the 'unawakened," and rather than persist in a life of agonizing estrangement from humanity, have found it better to form communities with our own kind," he said even more coldly, and Petunia felt her stomach jump to her throat. Now she felt threatened by that terrible speechlessness that always seemed to come to her when she was addressed by one of these people…but she must remember why she'd come!

"I have come to apply to the school, Mr. Headmaster," she blurted, and stood there daring him to laugh, or throw her out in a rage.

Now it was his turn to be speechless.

It seemed that time froze for a moment. Then he seemed to regain himself by shuffling scrolls meaninglessly about his desk; she recognized the tactic as characteristic of every bureaucrat who ever stood between people and something they wanted.

"Well, if you don't mind my saying so, Mrs. Dursley, I must confess I could not be more astounded than if you'd said you would like to be named the Minister of Magic herself. Did I hear you correctly," he tried, frowning with genuine confusion, "that you wish to become a student at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? You, a full-grown woman, who is clearly past her prime, and has already finished, I daresay, a full secondary education many, many years past?"

He could be as insulting as he liked. She was numb enough that she could take it. Instead, she would handle him the way she did every bureaucrat.

"It's the twenty-first century, Headmaster. It's never too late to better oneself, wouldn't you say?"

"It is for some."

"Only to those with a limited imagination."

"In my line of work, Mrs. Dursley, it is the skill that is too limited, however fantastic the imagination might be. And-forgive me-did you say 'imagination?'"

"You have not even asked me, Severus, if I have it."

"Of course you do not!" He raised his voice, dropping all pretense.

"I assure you, I do."

"If you did, you would have been here when your sister was!"

"I didn't know I had it then. Now I do."

"That is the silliest thing I've ever heard. What has happened that makes you think suddenly you have the right to call yourself a witch?"

Petunia wanted to answer him; she wanted to tell him about the wand and the china, the dreams and all she believed-but couldn't. How could anyone be so utterly prejudiced?

"Suppose I did tell you? Would it change anything?"

He laughed.

"You have nothing to tell, just as I thought. Go home, you silly woman, and grieve in your empty shell of a home like a good little housewife. Don't worry; the pain will pass soon enough, and then I'm sure you'll remember some neighbor you can torture. Go back to Privet Drive where you belong, and I promise you'll be good as new."

"I can't. I can't go back….Too many memories, wasted time…"

"I fail to see how that is my problem. If you truly had any gifts at all, we would have detected them long ago. You see, we are very good at looking out for our own. Of course, in your defense, I have seen loss have some outrageous effects on people, especially very weak individuals who do not have the discipline or even the will to master themselves. But this fancy must end, Mrs. Dursley, for all our sakes. You don't belong here."

Petunia had let this barrage of dismissal wash over and engulf her, expecting to drown. But she found that something else was happening instead. As Snape talked, the grief, jealousy and fury she had felt for so long in her silent raging against the world throbbed, heating up like a coal fire in an underground furnace. The hot snake began to uncoil inside her. She could not breathe. She tugged at her tight collar, choking on her rage. But the snake had stretched itself out, taken over her body. It would not lie back down. Its heated metallic form now took control of her limbs. She leaned forward, placed her fingertips on Snape's desk, and looked him square in the eyes.

"And just who are you, Severus Snape, to decide who does and does not belong here? I would think such ultimate judgment could scarcely be left up to the whim of one man. Isn't there some body of superiors even you must report to?"

Snape did not blink and slowly rose, hatred and disgust pronouncing every wrinkle.

"If you were a person of any magical stature at all, Mrs. Dursley, you might be right. However, since you are nothing but a sorry little creature guided by the instincts of little more than a pampered dog, do not dare to think for a fraction of a second that there is a witch or wizard from whom you are owed any rights. There is nothing you have that can buy entrance into these sacred halls, in which you would not even have the metal to survive one night without charging headlong over a moving staircase or getting yourself blown up by a first year with a wand. And since that is the case, my delusional little pilgrim, better you understand sooner than later that this decision rests with me, and to you, I am nothing less than your better."

"My better?" Petunia laughed, her lips shaking. "And you call me delusional? You think just because you can wave a wand around and make things fly about, I should consider myself less than you?"

"I could end your miserable existence right now if I chose, so yes, I'd say that puts you a little lower on the chain of evolution. And I must say, this isn't the first time I've considered doing just that. In fact, I used to offer the option to Lily quite often. Fortunately for you, and unfortunately for her, judging by your treatment of her son, she actually pitied you. I suppose I should have done her the favor long ago!" His words cut her so deeply, her rage flew from her lips, and she could not control it, even though she was afraid.

"Then why don't you do it now? What is stopping you, your holiness?!" she shrieked.

"I doubt anyone would even weep," he growled nastily, his hand moving slowly to his robes. But before he could pull out his own wand he was staring down one that she clasped clumsily in her two tiny trembling hands…a wand that looked vaguely familiar.

He stared for a full second at this act of audacity, his eyes wide, and then trumpeted a delighted laugh.

"Mrs. Dursley! You are full of surprises. But enough banter. Your game is much better. Shall we play?"

Petunia's teeth chattered, and she clutched her wand, but nothing came to her-she braced herself-

"Ready?"

He wouldn't!

"Set?"

Would he?

"Reducto!"

Petunia flinched and tried wildly to block his movement, wielding her wand like a weapon as she staggered back and shuddered to the sound of a crash behind her where Snape's spell had hit. She backed away and tried to summon something, pull some intention from all the chaotic emotions that now raged freely through her body, but he was laughing, just laughing at her as he shot fiery magick this way and that, watching her dance about, and his laughter was deafening, deafening, deafening…the dark man came from behind his desk and began to walk toward her, and she was reminded of a moment buried in the recesses of her memory…

…She'd been on a playground, and a neighborhood girl with a troupe of friends behind her was hurling insults at her, laughing and laughing as little Petunia threatened to tell her parents, whom she knew would not understand if they even cared. She had cried and cried and cried that day, and when Lily, all smiles and kindness, had come home looking for her to see if she was okay, she had lashed out and screamed that she hated her…

Suddenly, Petunia had the distinct, horrifying feeling that he was looking into her memory. She felt him feeding upon it, feeding on her own self-loathing. Worse, she could feel him…and stinging more than his contempt for her, was his complete devotion for Lily, even after all these years, and then his accusation as if she were to blame for being alive while Lily was dead! She was crumpling…there could be no winning against him. If only he would kill her where she stood.

He'll have to, some unwavering part of her hissed, because I am not leaving. That's right! She had come here to end it…

She suddenly halted her retreat, let her hand with the wand hang toward the floor, and held her ground. Let him read her mind, and let him read her resignation! There's nothing more you can take from me, you dog, she thought at him. And then another thought entered her mind: At least I got to see Hogwarts. And her head hurt.

Snape, smiling, flicked one or two more spells off to each side, and then lowered his wand as he approached. He had returned to his more businesslike self. He was about to say something, but stopped, for he saw something was happening to Petunia.

She was still shaking, but now from pain, and she could tell he understood this. In fact, Petunia's head was killing her; she was seeing spots before her eyes, and she had the strange feeling that some energy was leaving her from a very specific location in her body…she felt certain she was about to faint, but she did not want him to have the satisfaction…something blue and shining, like a glittering cloud of smoke, was rising now before her…she was falling…what was this thing? Hallucinating…

She felt herself caught on the way down and realized with some horror that Severus was holding her, now looking at her as if she were very far away under water…

"Mrs. Dursley…Mrs. Dursley…" he was saying over and over again. She tried to answer but could not. Her head hurt so horribly! She was raising her hand to it, and her hand felt heavy. She looked down at it and was surprised to find that the wand was still in it, and the smoke, she could have sworn, had been coming from it, but she could not see it now…it was fading…she must be coming to.

He tapped her lightly in the face a couple of times, and that brought her smartly to her senses. She raised her hand slowly, wishing to slap the living daylights out of him for daring to touch her, but her arm merely flopped onto her stomach.

"What…did you do to me…"

"You're weak, Petunia. You must sit a moment. Here." He was guiding her to his chair. How odd.

"You're the one who's weak! Attacking a poor little woman one third your size…" she hoped he would feel the dig about his weight, although really he was quite slight for his age-

"Yes, of course, madam. Now let me see here, something for the stomach…"

"It's my head that hurts, you dolt. You blasted me. What did you expect?" She put her hand to her head, which was now throbbing with a dull pain. But the spots were gone, and she was feeling more like herself. She was desperate to regain her dignity as she shifted about in the giant chair, but Snape didn't notice…he was rooting around in the desk for something, looking thoughtful. He turned back to her and in his hand he held what looked like a wrapped piece of chocolate.

"Eat this; it should help."

"Oh, go hang yourself." She pushed his hand away from her mouth, then let him push the chocolate into her hand and hold her hand to her lips. The chocolate tasted bitter and just a little like dirt. Saliva rushed into her mouth, carrying its own metallic taste. She made a face.

"Blech."

"Just finish that now, Petunia. Good girl. You've had enough excitement for one night, I think," he murmured, more professionally than compassionately. He was still frowning as if thinking very hard about something. "I'm afraid you may have to stay here at least one night after all, as you've worked yourself up into quite a state. I do hope you've no intention to raise an objection, or I may have to call your nephew and have him give the nurses permission to restrain you. I would rather not use any more magic at this time, of course. I hardly think you are used to its effects. Yes indeed, it does seem to have had a strange side-effect…"

"What are you prattling on about?" she snapped irritably, trying not to let him see how hard it was to hold herself up. She did indeed feel weak. But he was ignoring her. She heard him say some unrecognizable word, and suddenly there was a pop! A strange voice spoke, and he responded, mentioning her name and something about "appropriate quarters right away." Someone was there whom she could not see. The little voice assented. Then it was speaking to her.

"….Mrs. Dursley," it said. Right this way? Right what way?

Lifting herself up on her forearms, she looked down to the side of Snape's desk and saw a little grey, demonic-looking creature with pointed ears staring at her. The thing said her name again, unnaturally large eyes bugging out of its head, and reached out a tiny, clawed hand…she felt its fingernails on her skin.

She screamed.