In answer to reviews, Petunia isn't exactly a witch, so read on:

II: Petunia's Secret

Harry trudged down the carpeted stairs almost as slowly as a dead snail. Aunt Petunia? Aunt Petunia? Mrs Figg's wizarding prowess was hard to believe, but his Aunt Petunia? That was another matter. He remembered having the same thought, just two years ago, when she mentioned something about Dementors, horrible soul-sucking demons that had only recently betrayed the Ministry and joined Lord Voldemort.

Petunia stood guiltily at the bottom of the stairs.

"Harry," she started, her eyes purposely averting his, "we need to talk."

Harry snorted. "I think I know! Why have you lied for so long? How could you lie for this long?"

Petunia put her finger to her lips. As Vernon was at work and Dudley was at his friend Piers Polkiss's house, Harry could only guess that his aunt believed the saying 'walls have ears'.

Petunia beckoned with her long, bony fingers for Harry to enter the living room. As he strode in, his auntie shut the door and burst into the tears of seventeen years of deceit. Harry watched her coldly, not feeling any pity for her whatsoever.

"Explain." said Harry curtly, and she did:

"All of this started when Li… Lil… your mother was accepted into Hog… Hogwa… your school. Our parents cooed over her, mollycoddled her, while I looked on from the sidelines. I was the disappointment, she the prodigal child," here she sniffed sadly, "a bit like you and Dudders, I suppose. Anyway, I got so jealous, that when she was in her third year, April I think, I wrote a letter to Albus Dumbledore, your mother's favourite teacher, and asked if he could teach me magic so that my parents could love me as much as they loved her. He sent back a letter telling me to meet him, and he would help me in my plight. He then, from then on for three whole years, taught me how to do some simple magic spells and that's how I get the garden done so nicely, how I cook the tea so beautifully, and it was Dumbledore's idea, not mine (I repeat, not mine) that I look after you for all these years with an iron fist, to not tell you about my magical skills, and to treat you like a piece of dirt on my shoe." she winced at the thought, "So you can tell him from me that I'm sorry I've let him down."

"I'm afraid that would be impossible." Harry whispered, trying not to show his raw feelings to his lying aunt, "Dumbledore is dead."

Petunia let out a small wail. This time Harry comforted her.

"So you're a Squib?" Harry asked, "Aren't they meant to come from a magical background?"

"Not a Squib," Petunia straightened up, brushing her blouse and skirt with her manicured hand, "a Half-Blood Squib, or, as most people call us, 'Desperates'."

"Why?" sniffed Harry, "Why lie for all these years?"

"Dumbledore's orders," his aunt replied, "but Arabella Figg has broken them, so at least I'm not the first."

"You knew about Mrs Figg too?" Harry was despairing.

"Oh yes. Trusted her too! Why do you think I left you in her care for all those years?"

Harry went to leave but Petunia stopped him.

"Please Harry!" she cried. "Don't just hate me for ever! What can I do for you? Anything! Something to make up for every day of Hell in Privet Drive. Something to make up for all of your birthdays we've ignored, the Christmases we've barely remembered you!"

Harry stood in the doorway, obviously thinking.

"I know. You can leave here forever with me. You can mix with people who accept me for what you are. You come to my friend's brother's wedding. I'm sure they'd love you there!"

Petunia sighed, tears welling up in the eyes that had just stopped crying, "I'd love to, Harry. I honestly would. But I can't. My place is here. I know it seems incredibly tedious to you, but you and I are very different. Vernon may seem a monster to you, and Dudley a fat, ungrateful balloon, but to me they are the people I love, always have done, always will. I'm not proud of what I did in my youth, the magic and all that, but I do enjoy it, although I'm ashamed. You go if you really want to go, I can't stop you, but don't leave until tomorrow as it's your birthday and I think I should give you your present of your total departure on the day – it would be more apt. Thank you Harry, you've been very considerate after all I've done, what I've caused. Thank you so much."

At this, she brushed tearfully past him and left the room, headed for the garden, probably to perform some more minor spells.

Harry sighed sadly. He traipsed up to his room, his heart sunken and still, compared to compared to coming down the stairs just a few minutes before, when it had been bouncing all over the place.

As he reached his bedroom, what Petunia had said was still well and truly floating around his brain. She was right; it was his seventeenth birthday tomorrow, when he was thought of as a licensed wizard, able to use whatever spells, whenever he liked.

He lay on his bed, wondering how he could leave tomorrow afternoon. Subtly? Dramatically? Quietly? Rowdily? Politely? He could not make his mind up.

He decided to let his snowy owl Hedwig out of her cage, to catch a mouse, or maybe even to make a trip to his friends' houses, to see if they had got him a birthday present, to save the clumsy Weasley owl Errol delivering it.

Harry lay on his bed excitedly, looking forward to freeing himself from home, school, everything, and becoming an adventurer, or maybe even an outlaw.

Little did he know, that dream wouldn't come true until January, for all the wrong reasons.