The wind was cruel for such a bright day in April. She walked along
the rows of graves, her footsteps crunching over the few leaves that had
drifted off the trees from last night's storm. The wind lifted her hair
from her face, making the stones much easier to read.
It had been three months since the news had come of her nephew's death. Although she despised his presence, she couldn't stop the tears from flowing the moment she was alone. Granted, the Potters were a weird bunch, but they were still her sister, brother-in-law and nephew. She raised Harry Potter from a baby; he had become like a son to her. Now as she visited his grave for the first time since the funeral, she couldn't help but feel bad that she had never had the chance to tell him she loved him.
It had been a horrible story. There were hardly any survivors. Harry, along with his friends, had been killed in the terrible attack that was forced upon that school that he went to by the same monster that killed her sister and brother-in-law. But he, too, was dead, for good this time. None of the children survived. The blast that killed Harry and the monster also killed those on the same level as them. There were five bodies accounted for. Numerous others were found in other secret, hidden rooms, having starved to death. It was painful and too horrible to think of.
She knelt at the tiny stone that read, "Harry Potter, seventeen-years old. Remembered for his bravery and final capture of all that is evil in the world."
"Not all that is evil was captured," she thought as a lone tear escaped down her cheek and off the end of her bony nose. Death still existed in this world, a world where her seventeen-year old nephew could be snatched from underneath her nose, only because she never took the time to appreciate him like she wanted to. She could never explain to her husband and son the gaping hole little Harry Potter had filled in her life. They would never fully understand why she sat, crying so openly, over a boy everyone thought she had hated. Pressing her face to the cold granite, she said a silent prayer for the fallen boy before standing back up and brushing off her dress.
The sun shone behind her as she left the cemetery and the open road ahead of her glistening with the light. Petunia Dursley was certain she would return before long.
It had been three months since the news had come of her nephew's death. Although she despised his presence, she couldn't stop the tears from flowing the moment she was alone. Granted, the Potters were a weird bunch, but they were still her sister, brother-in-law and nephew. She raised Harry Potter from a baby; he had become like a son to her. Now as she visited his grave for the first time since the funeral, she couldn't help but feel bad that she had never had the chance to tell him she loved him.
It had been a horrible story. There were hardly any survivors. Harry, along with his friends, had been killed in the terrible attack that was forced upon that school that he went to by the same monster that killed her sister and brother-in-law. But he, too, was dead, for good this time. None of the children survived. The blast that killed Harry and the monster also killed those on the same level as them. There were five bodies accounted for. Numerous others were found in other secret, hidden rooms, having starved to death. It was painful and too horrible to think of.
She knelt at the tiny stone that read, "Harry Potter, seventeen-years old. Remembered for his bravery and final capture of all that is evil in the world."
"Not all that is evil was captured," she thought as a lone tear escaped down her cheek and off the end of her bony nose. Death still existed in this world, a world where her seventeen-year old nephew could be snatched from underneath her nose, only because she never took the time to appreciate him like she wanted to. She could never explain to her husband and son the gaping hole little Harry Potter had filled in her life. They would never fully understand why she sat, crying so openly, over a boy everyone thought she had hated. Pressing her face to the cold granite, she said a silent prayer for the fallen boy before standing back up and brushing off her dress.
The sun shone behind her as she left the cemetery and the open road ahead of her glistening with the light. Petunia Dursley was certain she would return before long.