A/N: I wasn't sure whether or not I would actually write this, but as you can see, I have. Many of you mentioned this as a possibility, and I confess I had thought about it too. Mutti is actually a German diminutive for mother, much like mum or mom, but I thought it could be passed down as a family name in England where practically no one would be using it. Think of it as being something like Nana here, and I do hope I haven't offended anyone who actually speaks German fluently.

I still remember the day I got my letter. Lily, a charming, bouncy six-year-old at the time, was suffering from an acute case of the chicken pox and I had been packed off to Mutti's for the duration. Mutti, my mother's mother, was a devout woman from southern Germany, and when she asked about the odd-looking letter I had, I read it out to her. She snatched it from me and destroyed it before my very eyes. She said it was wickedness and I was not to concern myself with it. No granddaughter of hers, she said, would attend such an unnatural abomination.

I loved my Mutti very much, and she was so angry that she frightened me. She wanted to know what I had done, to get such a letter. I had always had a knack for finding things that had been lost, and I supposed that was it, but I told her that I had done nothing. It took quite a lot of convincing to make her believe me. When at last she was satisfied, she warned me to speak of the incident to no one, otherwise I would be rejected as a freak.

I was no prettier as a child than I am now, I harbor no illusions on that score, and making friends had always been difficult for me; I could imagine only too clearly what would happen if people found out I was really a witch. It was a hard secret to keep, it was as though knowing had set loose some power inside me, and I had to make a nearly constant effort to control the magic that was continually trying to get out. It was hardest when Mutti died, the year I turned thirteen. There were a few small mishaps, but no one noticed or realized what they were, and after a time I had become very adept at that form of self-control.

You may imagine my shock and consternation when, five years after the first peculiar, parchment envelope had arrived, a second letter came. This time, however, the letter came for Lily. My mother and father were not disappointed or disgusted, as I had imagined they would be, instead they were both pleased and proud. Suddenly it was as though Lily could do no wrong.

My sister was, of course, permitted to attend Hogwarts and from her many letters home I could tell she was thriving. I was jealous, and then I grew bitter. It seemed she was having such fun, fun that I had been denied. She wanted to tell me all about everything she had seen and done while she was away, but I couldn't bear it. I shoved her away as much as possible. Eventually she brought James Potter home and I could not help but hear some of what he told her. Strange things he told her, wonderful and terrible things, things that a part of me cried out to know more of, and I hugged those few pieces of forbidden knowledge to myself, despising James and Lily and myself even as I did so.

I thought I had finally left that part of me behind, buried forever, when I married Vernon. Vernon was as thoroughly Muggle and ordinary as it was possible to be, and that suited me just fine. With him I could never again feel the exquisite torture of learning something of that other, alien world.

I knew, of course, when Dudley was born, that there was a chance my son would be like me, but I also knew that if he wasn't upset he would be less likely to reveal any unusual talents, and so I indulged him shamelessly. I cannot say that I am particularly proud of that, but I felt I could not take the chance.

And then came that fateful morning when I found my nephew lying on my doorstep. I shrieked. What else could I do? Despite my best efforts it had come back to haunt me. I decided then that I would not allow Harry to ruin my life or my son's. We had no choice but to take him into our home, but we did not have to accept his magic, and I knew he had it. What else could he be but a powerful wizard, with the parents he'd had? And so I treated the boy like dirt under my feet and I taught my son to do the same.

I am not proud of that either, but I was successful. My nephew may be magical, but my son is not, my Dudley is perfectly normal and will never know the pain I have known. That is my consolation, that the nightmares my nephew has. Obviously the magical world is not the paradise they would have us believe, and I have spared my Dudley that horror as well.

A/N2: It has been suggested that I find a beta reader. If anyone is interested in volunteering for the position, please tell me in a review. If you could leave your email address and a perhaps a short explanation of why you think you would be a good choice. I would like you to be reasonably familiar with the books as well as the rules of grammar, punctuation, spelling, etc. Thanks! MQW