Chapter One

The Inevitable Girl

For several years, Petunia Evans had managed to forget that she had a sister at all. For several years, Petunia Evans had managed to forget the horrible display at her and Vernon Dursley's wedding reception, about the Potter man who'd come with his wife, despite great protest from the bride herself. And for several years, Petunia Evans – now Petunia Dursley – had managed to keep an orderly house without drawing any unwanted attention from her nosy neighbors.

But it was equally impossible for her to avoid the chagrin of the neighbors. After all, her chief aim in life was to get "one-up" on them all. She was a crane-like woman with far too much neck, which she used to spy on Mrs. Next Door and her impossible daughter ("She's one of those autistic children! There's no question, it must be the parents' fault! I am convinced!"), and she was thin and tall with spindly legs. Not much of a gardener, Petunia enjoyed overwatering her potted plants – despite their being potted in the ceramic vessels that had been presented to her and Vernon by the Potters at their wedding – because they all stood by the windows and allowed her the chance to peek outside and see what was going on. To her chagrin, she'd noticed a tabby cat loitering on their property from the late afternoon on. She hated cats, mainly because Lily had loved them, and had meant to have a go at it with her house broom, but her hands were full with her eighteen month-old son, Dudley, and she simply couldn't be bothered.

Presently, she'd been fussing with the boy as he persisted in throwing his food across the room, smashing the bowl and splattering its contents against the wall. Petunia responded to this outrageous behavior with nervous giggles and cooing.

"Now Duddikins, what has Mummy said to you about throwing your food?"

"Won't!" The oversized baby – who resembled a seated fleshy snowman more than a baby – spat, spewing gelatinous mush all over her pearl necklace. Mrs. Dursley giggled again, wiping herself off and mentally deciding which new outfit she would wear on hers and Dudley's daily walk around Privet Drive. As she was straightening up and making more cooing noises toward her son, a flash of feathers caught the corner of her eye. Turning her head to look out into the back garden, she saw a tawny owl alight on her fence. It looked back at her without a care, and just to emphasize its existence, it hooted twice. Mrs. Dursley turned up her nose at the creature and decided to ignore it. Dudley, however, mimicked the hooting as he joyfully banged his splattered spoon on the table. Nevertheless, Mrs. Dursley would tell Mr. Dursley, later that night, how much better off they were than Mrs. Next Door, whose daughter was about to become the star of her daily report.

Mrs. Dursley took every precaution to shield her son from all weather. As the day was dull and cloudy, Mrs. Dursley wrestled Dudley's chubby feet into his Wellington boots and stuffed his chubby arms into a raincoat that was meant for a three year old. Next, she struggled to put a large brimmed hat on his enormous head, but it made him fussier than ever, and even after she'd managed to stuff him into his stroller, he made a good time of taking the hat off and throwing it out of his sight.

"Won't! Won't! Won't!" He chanted, each time the hat landed on the sidewalk and Mrs. Dursley had to stop and pick it up. She had chosen a light pink dress with a hideous floral pattern. She wore her large pearl necklace and just a bit too much powder on her face so that she looked like she was a schoolgirl still that was trying too hard. She carried her own umbrella – velvet green with a faux wood handle – rather than wearing a raincoat, and as she and Dudley left Number Four, her high heels clicked on the walkway. This was not the sort of outfit that went with Wellies. To her annoyance, the tabby cat was still sitting at the corner, and it seemed to be watching her as she went her way. She stuck her nose in the air and turned her back on the animal, hoping it would be gone at last when she returned.

Next door, Mrs. Next Door was fumbling with her daughter, who was eager to get outside into the back garden bordering the Dursleys'. She struggled against her mother's loosening grip as her outstretched arms pointed toward the tawny owl sitting on the Dursley's fence. Mrs. Next Door's daughter's mouth moved, though no words came from it, as though she were a fish. As Petunia and Dudley passed, Mrs. Dursley lifted her sun glasses from her eyes and offered a teasing wave to Mrs. Next Door who, mortified, finally lost her grip on her daughter as she tried to wave back. The girl got loose, realized she had achieved freedom, and then made a straight shot for the tawny owl, a gleeful shout escaping her. Mrs. Next Door shot after her, almost catching up before anything else could happen but, as Mrs. Dursley watched with delight, at the last moment, the girl swerved and Mrs. Next Door collided fantastically with the fence, disturbing the owl and causing her to fall over. In a poof of feathers, the tawny bird hopped off the fence and swooped down in an effort to get away, but the girl's hand shot into the air and came back with a fistful of feathers first. Squawking, irritably, the owl rose and took off to the roof of the house across from the Dursley's, where a batty older woman was out watering her rose bushes. Mrs. Dursley shrugged and put her sun glasses back over her eyes, a self-righteous smile turning up the corner of her thin mouth.

The rain came midway through their stroll, and Mrs. Dursley was more than happy to turn around again and head home. Other than Mrs. Next Door and her daughter, there had been too little to spy on. Before she turned down the front garden walk, Petunia thought she saw the cat holding an umbrella of its own, but Mrs. Figg, the batty neighbor across the street, appeared to be in the early stages of crossing the street to chat, and Petunia was not about to let that happen. She returned quickly to her own house – trodding on Dudley's rain hat for the thirtieth time, which caused her to stoop and pick it up – and disappeared behind the front door as fast as she could. It was exactly the sort of horror that Petunia Dursley had nightmares about, and though she didn't believe in those kinds of things, she had a sick feeling in her gut that something was amiss.

"Tea!" she trilled as she carried a tray with two steaming cups, her second-most favorite sugar bowl, her designated teaspoons and a plate filled with lemon drop biscuits and evening mints. Vernon looked off. Despite staring at the television – which had moved from a story about owls (Petunia was delighted that her own owl story had preceded it as she was not going to be one-upped by the news) to a strange weather report about shooting stars ("During the day! Who would've thought?") – she could tell her husband was not paying attention. She'd always been an acute observer, even when she was a little girl, and her powers of observation and (dare she even think it?) mindreading remained sharp. But she couldn't read Vernon Dursley's mind as he stared blankly at the telly. She hoped he might offer his thoughts to her unsolicited, but that would be out of character for him, she knew. Nevertheless, with owls swooping around at daytime, shooting stars streaking the daytime sky as far as Dundee, and most importantly, Dudley's new word, it was a day of firsts, she reasoned.

Vernon Dursley cleared his throat as she set the tea tray down on the coffee table and pulled up a card table on which he could prepare his cup.

"Er – Petunia, dear – you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

And that was that. Petunia Dursley (formerly Petunia Evans) shot her husband a look that kills, attempted to reorganize it, and then said, acidly, "No. Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Vernon mumbled. "Owls…shooting stars…and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…" he trailed off as though he'd just realized what he was saying.

"So?" Petunia spat.

"Well, I just thought…maybe…it was something to do with…you know…her crowd."

A stony silence fell between them, broken only by Petunia's sips and the television program, which had suddenly become engrossing to a degree that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Dursley took their eyes off the screen. At an advertisement break, Vernon ventured, with a casual air, "Their son – he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," Petunia replied, attempting to suppress images of the black-haired boy she'd inherited through pictures that Lily had sent on to her in their last letter – the same week Lily had gotten out of the hospital, incidentally. On the back of the photograph, Lily had written, Your new nephew, Harry James Potter; for a few days, in secret, Petunia had caressed the neat handwriting, temporarily allowing herself to miss the girl with whom she'd grown up.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?" Vernon broke through her reverie, though it clung to her firmly like Dudley's grip when he'd yank her hair in the midst of his temper tantrums.

"Harry." She said, struggling to conceal her wistfulness. "Nasty, common name, if you ask me." She added, her familiar sharpness returning.

"Oh, yes," her husband replied with feigned sudden remembrance. "Yes, I quite agree," he added, his familiar decided distaste returned. They finished their tea in silence, and Petunia indulged herself with three biscuits more than she would have normally taken – which, being zero, was exactly three lemon drop biscuits – and her usual two evening mints. All other conversation died, thereafter, and before the hour struck, both Vernon and Petunia had gone off to bed. While she was in the washroom, preparing for bed, Vernon snuck to the window and looked out at the quiet darkness that befell Privet Drive. The light was on in Mrs. Fig's sitting room window across the street, and a fainter light flickered in Mrs. Next Door's kitchen window. As he looked, he spotted the blinds fall back into place as though they had been briefly pulled back. Unlike his wife, Mr. Dursley didn't think twice about it because the tawny cat he'd spotted earlier in the day – the one he'd thought, madly, had been reading a map! – was still sitting at the corner. If he'd had a fanciful mind, Vernon Dursley might have thought the cat was waiting for something. He heaved a sigh, hearing his wife close the medicine cabinet where she kept her make-up remover kit, and slipped into bed, rolling onto his side as Petunia emerged from the washroom and joined him. He closed his eyes in an effort to go to sleep, but even after the lights had been switched off, Vernon Dursley lay awake, wondering if the events of this day had not been a coincidence after all.

Mrs. Next Door let the curtains fall back into place as she watched the Dursley's bedroom light go out. She sunk back into her kitchen chair, the candles at the center of the table casting an eerie play of light and shadow on her aging features. Ignoring her guests, a younger man and an older woman, Mrs. Next Door crossed out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, which was shrouded in darkness, and peered out the front window. The tabby cat was still there, sitting patiently at the corner. Mrs. Next Door sniffled, touched her head absently, and winced as the bump on it stung.

"Elvyra?" the woman tried in a soft voice. Mrs. Next Door – who's actual name was Elvyra Watkins (nee Whelan) – turned around and faced the older woman. She raised her eyebrows as if to say 'Speak!' and the older woman, who was standing in the doorway now after having followed Elvyra to the edge of the kitchen, shivered and crossed her arms. "You were telling us about the child."

Mrs. Watkins nodded slowly. Her voice was grieved when she spoke. "Yes, Arabella," she said, taking a seat in the gloom. The woman called Arabella took a seat opposite her, drawing the younger man to the doorway. Mrs. Watkins folded her hands in her lap and stared at them as she threaded and unthreaded them, rhythmically. "I'm afraid, Bella, she's become too much for me. But I can't bear to bring her back to that place." Mrs. Watkins brushed a frustrated tear from her eye. The man came and knelt by her side, taking her hand and gently brushing it with his thumb. Mrs. Watkins looked up at him. "Belyn – " she pleaded, softly. The man, Belyn, tried to offer her a reassuring smile, but it died midway through execution.

"Elvyra," he began, determinedly. "She won't go back to the home for autistic children. She doesn't have a reason to be there, and we all know that."

"We've done her wrong to have kept her under that spell for as long as we have," Mrs. Watkins agreed, her voice still tender but her mind plagued with guilt. "Really, Aunt Bella, I envy you for being the way you are." Her voice grew stronger as she spoke, but she never met the older woman's eyes. "I mean, to not be a witch – to have no magic…" she dropped off as Arabella sighed heavily.

"Stop," Arabella growled.

"I've never felt more like a wicked witch than these last few years with Effora." Mrs. Watkins continued, still not meeting Arabella's hawk-like gaze.

"Stop." Arabella growled again, more forcefully.

"But, you know, now…she's getting older and stronger, and it's just beyond my powers," Elvyra prattled on. In a sudden wave of emotion, Arabella stood and smacked the younger woman. Belyn winced as Elvyra put her hand to her cheek, which had reddened.

"Stop!" Arabella spat. "Feeling sorry for yourself will not do!" She plopped into her seat and sighed again. "You are powerful enough for Effora. But," she sighed again and shrugged her shoulders as the thought she didn't want to think settled in her mind. "But, I'm afraid you are correct; she does needs to be somewhere else. Bel is right that she doesn't belong in that home, and we can't take her back there, anyway." She shifted uncomfortably now, her gaze focused decidedly on the palms of her hands. "Mr. Figg wouldn't have it, and neither will I. No, Effora is going to live with Garald."

Garald Figg was the one person that neither Belyn nor Elvyra wanted to send Effora to live with; he had his good moments, but mostly he was best understood as the Wild One in the Whelan family. He'd not fallen far from the Figg tree, though: Mr. Figg had trained his son to be just like him. And at the same time, Garald Figg had shown promise that he would break the mould.

"I'll take her," Belyn said, breaking the thoughtful silence that had settled among them. Mrs. Watkins stared at him, tears beginning to form in her eyes. Arabella stared at him as well, but her look was cloudier. She seemed to be chewing on a large thought, and Bel wished she'd just spit it out. But that wasn't like Aunt Bella. She did it her way. The silence that Bel had meant to lift reformed around them, and this time it seemed different, weightier, like this was a moment whose importance could not be missed. At last, Mrs. Watkins sniffed.

"He's not really gone, is he?" she whispered. As to which "he" she was referring to, neither Belyn nor Mrs. Figg could tell, but each made assumptions about whom she was speaking.

"You'll be okay," Bel said, softly, assuming that his sister was referring to the recent demise of the Dark Lord, Voldemort. He'd been specifically targeting halfblood families for years, and often Belyn had feared that his niece would be fixed in Lord Voldemort's crosshairs. He told himself that was the reason he'd helped hide her away in Little Whinging in the first place, although he knew it wasn't exactly the truth.

"If Dumbledore says he's alive, then I prefer to believe him," Aunt Bella replied with a comfortable nod. It was a gesture that stunned both Elvyra and her brother, and each turned their heads sideways and shot quizzical looks at her. In response, their aunt tightened her upper lip and raised her own head slightly, looking down at her nephew and niece. "Well…Dumbledore is the only wizard the Dark Lord feared. I believe him when he says the Potter boy is alive, even though I couldn't tell you how anyone…much less a baby…could survive the Killing Curse." The misunderstanding dawned on Belyn and Elvyra's faces then, and Elvyra chuckled nervously, but received so harsh a look from her aunt that she stifled it just as quickly as it had come.

"I only meant…" Mrs. Watkins began, but Mrs. Figg cut her off.

"It's high time we were going, Belyn." She got up quickly and turned on her heels. Belyn rose to follow her but hung back a moment, casting a questioning look at his sister.

"So, do you think it's true? Harry Potter lives?" He whispered. Elvyra shrugged and clenched her jaw a moment.

"If it is true," she began.

"Elvy! Belyn!" Mrs. Figg snapped in a high-pitched voice from across the cottage. Bel regretted never knowing what his sister intended to say, for he had no way of knowing that this moment was the moment in which everything changed. He had no way of knowing that the next time he and Elvyra would see each other, it would be across battle lines. Elvyra stood and followed Aunt Bella into the sitting room, passing Bel in the doorway and never looking back.

The night was cool and clear when Effora – wiping sleep from her eyes and looking around, dazed – and Belyn stepped out of the cottage on Privet Drive. Aunt Bella followed close behind them, breathing down Effora's neck, but that didn't stop the girl from turning around to glance once more at the woman who had taken care of her for the last five years – nearly half her life. "Mom?" She called in a shaky, vulnerable voice. Aunt Bella clucked her tongue and turned Effora around to face forward, keeping two hands on the girl's shoulders.

"Come along, child," she said in a confused kindly and stern voice. "There's no time for gentle goodbyes." Aunt Bella hurried them forward toward the street, and try as she might, Effora couldn't see around her. She was becoming more alert now as the realization was dawning on her: something was about to happen to which she had not given her consent. She began to fuss.

"No. I don't want to go," she wiggled and Aunt Bella's grip tightened, her pace quickening. "You're hurting me!" Effora protested, but Aunt Bella hushed her sharply. "Stop!" She stomped her foot in frustration, but it was too late for her. Arabella shot Belyn a knowing look, and Effora saw her uncle take out what looked like a polished tree branch. Before she could comprehend what was happening, he tapped the crown of her head. A sweet, cool sensation caused her body to tense in confusion as it spilled over her crown and fell, like water, down her body. In a moment, her mind became cloudy and her senses dulled. She smiled because she felt good and at peace. A voice came into her head then, sweet and soothing, as though whispering a lullaby to her.

Don't fret, child. Don't even wiggle. You are loved. You are safe. You are at home. And nothing is going to harm you! Think only of the good things you have. Remember that someone else is out there looking for love and safety and security from harm, and it is not you because you are loved, you are safe, you are at home, and nothing…is…going…to…harm…you….

Effora's body went limp as the Pacifying Charm trickled through and around her. Belyn blushed as he stuffed his wand into his trousers and out of sight. He didn't like enchanting his niece, but for this moment, he knew, there was a good reason for it: he needed to keep her safe because she was in danger, and only he and Aunt Bella knew how to keep her safe. He linked arms with her on the other side of the street. "Go," Aunt Bella commanded, crossing her arms and standing back. Concentrating on his landing site, Belyn linked arms with Effora and spun around. He disappeared with her in tow with the slightest popping sound.

For nearly a minute, Arabella Figg concentrated on the spot where her nephew and her great niece had been. Then, seemingly regaining her senses, she inhaled deeply, let it out, and nodded to herself. Good luck, she thought, sending her love and hopes out to them, wherever they were.

Ten minutes after Mrs. Figg and Mrs. Watkins had retreated back behind their doors, a tall white bearded man in light blue robes and half-moon spectacles appeared at the corner of Privet Drive, removed an object that looked quite a bit like a cigarette lighter and clicked it. And with each click, the lights of Privet Drive went out, as if by magic.