Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I am merely borrowing them.
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MUGGLE
Prologue
Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.
-Sydney J. Harris
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Petunia Dursley was not a happy woman.
Considering her present situation, most people would be inclined to sympathize. After all, who wouldn't be upset if they had found their nephew in a basket on the front porch? Who wouldn't be distraught at the death of their only sister? Anyone else would be drowned in grief, and rightfully so, unable to comprehend the inexplicable moments that had led to this world-shattering event.
Petunia Dursley was most certainly not a happy woman. To the outside observer, she was reacting in a perfectly normal way, just like everyone else, upon learning of the death of a loved one.
But though she hid it well, Petunia Dursley was not like everyone else.
She looked at her nephew, silently playing with the toys Dudley had gotten bored with already, and clutched a piece of parchment in one hand, so tightly that her knuckles turned white. The little brat had her sister's eyes, wide and green and wondering, though all his other features favored James Potter. Petunia had only met him a few times, but she could see the resemblance nonetheless.
Her nails punched through the parchment in her hand, right through to the skin of her palm, and she drew a sharp breath at the sudden prick of pain. She couldn't look at Harry any longer; she was already furious, boiling with a rage so deep and vicious that it surprised her. Petunia had a temper to be certain, and it snapped often, but never lasted long at all.
This, though... she could maintain a semblance of grief on the outside, but inside she was seething mad, and had been in the same state since they had discovered the newest addition to the family sitting on the doorstep.
With a quick glance at Dudley, who was wresting the fire engine out of Harry's hands, she fled upstairs.
In the back of her closet, lurking behind heels and tennis shoes and boots, a plain brown box sat waiting. It was dusty, possibly the one dusty thing in the entire Dursley household, but instead of attacking it with a feather duster she merely opened the lid and sat looking at the objects inside.
On top a wizarding photograph of Lily and James, dancing through the fallen leaves of autumn. Petunia wondered vaguely when it had been taken; probably sometime before the wedding, since she remembered receiving it with a crisp white marriage announcement.
"Oh, Lily," she sighed, running a finger down the smooth edge of the photograph.
The anger was slipping away, despite the fact that here was the subject of her wrath right in front of her. All Petunia could think of now was the little girl she had known before they had started quarreling, before Hogwarts and all the wizarding world tomfoolery, when they had been just sisters and not competitors.
"I'm sorry," said Petunia to the photograph, faintly guilty because she was not acting as a normal person should. "Vernon is angry because you dumped Harry on us... I suppose I'm angry about that, too, but not really in the same way. You never did listen to me, Lily, never at all, and look what happened."
The anger swelled up again for a moment. "You'd think," snapped Petunia, "that I'd be gloating, because I was right about what was going to happen and you weren't. For once in our lives I was right, and for once I wouldn't have cared about being wrong."
She set the photograph down, the little picture-Lily flashing her a joyous smile as she twirled in James' arms, and reached once more into the box. A cloth-wrapped bundle came out, bringing with it a shower of dust and mothballs and a strong smell of ancient incense. The spicy smell drifted around Petunia's nostrils for a long moment, and she sat still, trembling, before finally drawing the cloth away from the object inside.
"Lily, I wish you had listened to me," said Petunia softly. Her hands drifted over the smooth crystal, but she did not dare look down for fear of what she might see. The ball sat on her lap, gleaming with some mysterious internal light, calling to her to look down and see...
With a heavy sigh she drew the cloth back over the crystal ball and put it back in its box. If the letter was true, then it would be safe to use it once more, but Petunia had too long been cautious. And besides, Vernon was due home soon—if he caught her with the crystal, there would be many more explanations required than she cared to give.
But as Petunia went downstairs and wearily began to make supper, she could not stop her mind from dwelling on the past. Choices made, arguments lost, and nothing at all gained... Today she had received a letter telling her what she did not want to hear. Bad things always came in letters; everything that went wrong in Petunia's life had started with a letter.
A long time ago, another letter had told her something else she did not want to hear...
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