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"Aunt Petunia!" Harry cried, startling the woman.
Petunia Dursley looked up in impatience at the ceiling. She was seated opposite her friend, fingers curled around a mug of steaming tea. But a glance at the clock showed her exactly why she should heed the warning. It ticked once more, and the alarm rang. The date changed. It was now July 30 1997. Harry's seventeenth birthday, though heaven knew why he had stayed so long. She shot up so quickly her chair fell over.
But it was too late. There was a shout at the door, and it blasted open with a force of red light. Petunia cringed, and clutching her friends wrist, dragged her away. "Get out now, Vernon, Dudley!" she cried, knowing they'd obey this voice. "I should have known . . ."
The people who entered, however, were not the ones she'd been half-expecting. The man who arrived first was not the one with red eyes that she'd heard her nephew describe to his friends on the rare occasion; instead, this person looked as though he'd once been slightly attractive, but had cut his face until no individual mark was distinguishable, or that someone had cut out with a butcher knife a sizable chunk of his nose. Looking at him, Petunia wondered why it was someone so unfamiliar—but she was sure he wasn't one of his followers.
"Petunia Dursley?" the man growled, other people inching in the door after her. "I'm Alastor Moody. We're here to take your nephew somewhere safe. I recommend you hide as well. You don't want to invite You-Know-Who's wrath."
Petunia ignored him, and made a beeline for the rather tired-looking man behind him with shabby robes. Strange. She'd have thought that magic could repair them. "Name." She muttered.
He looked at her with something akin to surprise, eyes widening when he noted that her friend, standing behind her, was gripping a wand that was user-friendly. "I'm one of his father's friends. Remus Lupin. And though you have a right to know where he is going, you forfeited the chance to decide long ago. His godfather's dead, so I suppose I'm to take up the role."
"What was Lily's wand made out of?" she snapped, ignoring the expression of surprise that spread instantly across his face. Oh, he looked like the person she'd seen in one of the photos that Headmaster sent her, but she was sure magic could be used to mask one's true face. "And answer quickly or she'll blast you straight out."
Lupin stopped staring. "Willow. And his was mahogany."
Petunia nodded and stepped back, wondering where she'd found the gall to threaten a wizard in the first place. Even with her friend backing her up. She supposed that some had more talent than others, but she could not really be sure. And the new she'd heard about this person was not a piece to be dismissed easily. She frowned and ran up the stairs, wondering why her nephew had called her. If he'd entered the master bedroom and found—
Her blood ran cold at the thought of the explaining she would have to do. When she entered she took one look and cursed the irony. Her senses buzzed, trying to find her bearings. He'd found it. "Why did you look in here?" she whispered more than asked.
Harry Potter ignored that question. "Why the bloody hell do you have something like this? Like these things? You're not a witch, and you don't belong in my world either! And you're not a squib either, are you?"
By now the others had filed up behind her; only one pair of eyes remained calm upon seeing what Harry was clutching in his hands. Petunia only half-heard her friend step forward, though she could feel herself leaning hard against the doorframe. "You shouldn't have found it." She muttered, walking forwards and sitting heavily on her bed, not noticing that Harry's two friends moved immediately out of her way. "And I didn't have a choice."
"Aunt Petunia?" he said, tone deceptively mild. It became intense with his next phrase. "You always have a choice! No matter what the circumstances."
Petunia's friend took a seat on the other side of Harry.
"You!" he said in surprise, eyes widening when he got a good look at her. "But you died! In a real car crash."
"Hence why your aunt was so shocked to see me." Said the woman, blue eyes fixed on him. "One of the things you recognise. I suppose you should know a little bit about her story, though it isn't my right to tell you. And the other—I'm not sure why you are so shocked in the first place. You should know by now that there is a very good reason that Petunia likes spying on her neighbours. And it is not just for gossip, though I think she likes that too."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked.
She fixed him with a stern glare, one that Petunia was very familiar with. But Harry did not squirm under that gaze—much. "Your aunt is a very good actress. She always has been."
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3
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With a four-year gap between their ages, it came as no surprise to Petunia Evans that Lily would not spend much time at the same school as she. The day she started her second year was the day Petunia began her last year at that school. Yet Lily received far more of a welcome than Petunia had, especially among their peers. Lily soon proved herself to be quick-witted and sharp, not to mention infuriatingly pretty and adorable.
She'd been sitting with Yvonne Bloom, who was garbed in brown that washed out her complexion, and Laurel Figg when she noticed her sister running towards the playground, about two weeks before their last year at her school ended. Being rather quiet and plain, though she did not think she was ugly, Petunia always stayed on the sidelines. An older Petunia wished she could have prepared herself for what Laurel told her that day.
"Where do you think you'll go next year?" Laurel began, uncharacteristically sober. Petunia noticed with concern that her friend was blooming but in a greyish way that suggested too much time out of the sun. Yet she knew that Laurel never stayed inside when she had the chance—her friend was just that type of person, always flitting around and running when she could. She'd been right all those years ago, when she thought Laurel could run quickly. After an afternoon of gardening, she'd foolishly welcomed a chance to stretch her legs . . .
Yvonne lowered her eyes so her tresses of chestnut hair curtained her eyes, hiding them from Laurel's intense gaze. She'd been teased about her eyes so many times, being a cross between electrical light and neon shine, like cold fire or blue stars. "I'll probably go wherever father decides. I think he's contemplating places like Gregory's Elite Academy for Young Ladies of Fine Breeding or The Katherine Watson Finishing School. I do not have any consideration in his plans apart from convenience."
"Oh, stop talking like that," said Laurel, looking a bit more good-natured. "I've met your father before, and you shouldn't keep talking like that about him! And you shouldn't speak as if you were Elizabeth I or something, with her fine gowns and speech which would earn her pay at a dozen movies."
Yvonne smiled, looking up and returning Laurel's gaze full blast, "You're right. I shouldn't be so gloomy, or air my dirty linen in public."
Laurel shook her head. "Not dirty linen, exactly. No offence, Yvonne, but it looks as if the stains are embroidered into those blankets you have hung up."
They, Laurel and Petunia, had met Yvonne's father a year ago. Despite being friends for two years now, it had been their first time gazing upon Yvonne's rather rich father. He'd been . . . eccentric, to say the least, though there was steel within him that Petunia did not wish to provoke. She'd realised instantly where Yvonne got her dark hair from, even if Yvonne was rather quiet. It had been the first time, and the last time if Petunia had anything to do with it.
"What about you, Laurel?" asked Petunia carefully, watching her friend with half-closed eyes from the blinding sunlight, "you never tell us anything about your family. One moment you look as though there might be a break-through, then it's as if you cleaned that dirty speck of hope from your couch and rubbed it so hard that the surface shines as bright as that stupid sun."
The other two laughed easily, Yvonne lifting a hand to shade her eyes as she looked around the courts as children younger than they scampered around hurriedly in games that were more 'run-around-in-circles-while-screaming' than anything to do with their minds. Petunia followed her friend's gaze, wincing as their cheerful cries met her ears. After a moment, her eyes following a certain red-haired, green-eyed Evans, she shrugged and fixed her gaze on Laurel.
"Well?" she demanded.
The girl grinned. "Why should I disappoint you, Petunia dear? Besides, it's usually you who cleans after yourself, fussing over this and that. You should become a house-keeper or something. It'll save you so much money from education!"
Petunia sniffed. "I intend to learn thoroughly."
There was something not quite right about Laurel's frown; they had not talked deeply and out of usual ten-year-old gossip for a while, and though Petunia enjoyed it immensely, there was also something missing from their conversations. As the lunch hour came to a close, Petunia persuaded Yvonne to help her corner Laurel.
"What about you, Laurel?" inquired Petunia, as the three left to the classroom they shared. They were waiting outside the door. "Are you going back to that . . . what was it—magical school?"
Laurel sighed. "There's no not telling you, is there, Petunia? All right. I think Aunt Arabella is moving houses at the end of this year, and I know I'm probably not going to the same school as either of you, so we won't even be able to see each other in the holidays. You know? It's like when your neighbour moves away; you ought to write to each other, and you mean to, but somehow it just slides away from your mind, and suddenly one day you realise that you don't play together any longer."
Suddenly, Petunia wished she had not asked. When the teacher arrived she entered the classroom silently, trying and failing to pay attention to the work done. The rest of the day crawled by, and Petunia was never gladder to see her mother arriving to escort she and Lily home. As if to create the biggest possible contrast, Lily's face was aglow with happiness that could be seen a mile away. Petunia only needed to look once to turn away and try not to sound bitter; Lily was always happy, with her new friends and her wonderful life.
She could not remember her mother every paying this much attention to her when she told of her life at school—though, admittedly, her life had never been crammed full like Lily's—and nor had Rose ever really questioned her after her first few curt words. Petunia strode forwards in the long-memorised trip, determined to avoid Lily and all that horrendously happiness. Unfortunately, Lily suddenly had a mind of her own and followed Petunia at a running pace.
"Petunia?" the younger girl murmured, eyes wide, voice surprisingly loud. "Would you like to see the picture I drew?" Lily held it out, giving her a bright smile.
A sudden fury seized Petunia, drowning out all rational thinking and any affection. It was the type of fury that only occurred in teens, because their brains had not yet fully developed in some areas—and she could not help but see the world as red, especially those green eyes that were so trusting. Why should Lily always be the popular one? The one everyone loved? Petunia liked small chores at home, she liked routine. And that was convenient, so no one complained. But Lily . . .
She tore the paper out of Lily's hand, ignoring the surprised and frightened look on her sister's face, and she glared down with something strong, yet weaker than hatred, in her eyes. Frustration . . . her sense of injustice . . . Petunia did not stop to think. Lily . . . her hand moved to rip the paper into shreds.
"Petunia!" Lily cried.
The look on her sister's face; it snapped her out of her trance. She looked down to see the paper untouched, shoved it back into her sister's hands, and stalked off. She needed to be alone.
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She remembered her last visit to Yvonne's house before the two parted ways.
"I'm sorry, Pet," said Yvonne softly, reclining on her head.
It was just she and Petunia; Laurel had already moved away, somewhere with her Aunt. Petunia was not sure where, and could not be bothered remembering. Something like 'Little Wings' or that sort of nonsense. But no, she did not miss Laurel. She didn't! Petunia shook her head in return. "No, I understand. It's too much to hope that we'll go somewhere the same. Just look at your house! And look at mine!"
Yvonne stared at her and smiled sadly. "It's got nothing to do with the size of houses, Petunia."
"No, it doesn't, does it?" said Petunia, feeling as though she'd deflated visibly. She stood up quickly, and paced up and down the room. After a moment, a thought occurred to her. "Are you going to the same school as Laurel? Don't worry, you can tell me, I shan't do anything too out-of-control. It's your father who is sending you there, so it ought to be he that I blame for splitting the two of us apart, now that Laurel's already gone. But I suppose it shouldn't matter, should it! I can't blame him, or anyone else." She laughed.
"You know," said Yvonne calmly, her vivid eyes sliding off Petunia and staring at some corner while she picked at the threads on her mattress, "it's the first time I've seen you really motivated from anger. When you are angry you tend to—stay somewhat controlled, at least in front of others. And no, you can't really blame him. It's not his fault, either. It just happens, you know? And anyway, we'll write to each other and see each other in the holidays."
Petunia's face turned sour, and she sat down again. Her voice was quiet when she murmured, "Yes. We will, won't we? And, there's Laurel, too, of course. But she's already gone, and school is going to end in just a few weeks. Very quickly."
For a moment Yvonne did not speak, concentrating very hard on her mattress. Then she raised her head, and said, "Why don't we look into that house we saw that day while coming back from school? You know, just before Laurel left? I saw some wonderful gardens, and someone might be persuaded to give you a few samples. You like gardening, don't you?"
"A year ago and you would be feeling as protestant as I." Said Petunia, staring at her friend in disbelief. Was this really the quiet, self-possessed girl that was Yvonne? Still, she followed her friend and they slipped out, Petunia wincing as afternoon light shone in her face. The gardens were the biggest contrast imaginable to the indoor rooms, which Petunia could not imagine lightening up. Grass crunched under her feet as she made her way through thickets; the two raced down the open road, ignoring the younger children.
Soon they were standing outside foreboding walls once more, and Petunia wondered why this scene seemed awfully familiar.
"This way," hissed Yvonne, tucking her luxurious hair under her collar and sneaking stealthily into the shadows. Despite the glaring whiteness of her skirt, the girl seemed to blend perfectly, somehow, into shadows. Petunia could understand that if they were still in Yvonne's house, which was as blank as an unwritten sheet of paper, but in black? She started as Yvonne poked her head out. "C'mon!"
Evans glanced around guiltily, sure she was going to be seen, and someone would ask why she was sneaking onto private property—again—but Petunia could not deny that there was a certain thrill in what she did. It was . . . different, to say the least, from the warm safety that her home aspired to be. When she realised that she, in fact, looked completely ordinary and was therefore ignored, she slipped after Yvonne, her hair too short to also tuck in.
She looked around thoughtfully. "It's very dark here," Petunia observed; but she was not afraid of the dark, as much as early morning. Her experiences, of that nasty, draining, cold feeling still lingered in her memories well beyond its time.
Yvonne did not look at her. "So is the chamber to my house, and you and Laurel passed through easily." She groped around in the dark, touching Petunia's arm by accident; but why she came back . . .
"It was your idea to come," said Petunia somewhat coolly, drawing back and squinting at the pale outline of the door through which they'd entered. "Why are you backing out now?"
"What are you talking about?"
Wait a moment . . .
"Didn't you just touch my arm?"
Petunia hardly needed to concentrate to feel Yvonne's startled gaze upon her. "I'm way over here, Petunia. What are you talking about? Maybe it's just some dust."
A cold feeling rolled down her spine. If it was not Yvonne . . . she heard her friend flick a switch and the lights in the warehouse immediately blazed on. Instead of the tastefully arranged flowers Petunia had seen through a window, the huge room was dark and empty but for a single table in the centre. She did not get time to wonder what it held. The person behind her had already latched onto her arm with hands bigger than that of a child.
She spun around, and she felt her face set into an expression of disbelief. "You!" Petunia wretched her hand away. He did not protest. "Mr Muggle. Why—what--?"
The man seemed to be preoccupied with something else, his gaze already turned towards the table in the centre. "No. You're not her . . . might I have made a mistake? No—they said it was Evans . . . perhaps the other. Rose? Lily?" He strode towards Yvonne with a determined look.
Yvonne was standing behind the table, her hand still on the white switch where she'd frozen. But when Mr Muggle neared her friend, Petunia saw Yvonne step forwards and grab whatever was on the table, a box that Petunia could not fix her eyes on for some reason. It was crumbly, and probably rubbish, she knew—but Yvonne was looking at it as though it was the most brilliant treasure in the world.
The man pulled out a glossy black stick that looked as though it was made of ebony, perhaps mahogany. "Put—that—down!" snarled Mr Muggle, brandishing the wand threateningly.
"Your name isn't inscribed there," said Yvonne, clutching the box to her chest in a rather protective manner, "it doesn't belong to you! If anything it should go to the—wait a minute." The young girl's eyes narrowed. "You're not allowed to do anything if Petunia's here!"
Mr Muggle's mouth stretched into a taunting smirk. "I don't think so. If it's not Petunia, then it'll be someone else in her family. And she'll find out about it anyway. As it is . . . you're right. It does belong to Petunia. Why don't you take it home, maybe show it to your sister? I'm sure she'll find it very interesting. She'll probably need it too, if she wants to get anywhere in life. About what Yvonne was going to say—"
But Petunia never had a chance to listen. The temperature of the room seemed to drop exponentially, until she was sure ice would have formed had there been moisture. It was like night in the desert . . . and Mr Muggle had stopped talking. Both he and Yvonne were fixated on something to her right, where the cold originated.
The already dim room darkened further until she felt as though she'd dropped into a pit where no light fell . . . it was so cold . . . she felt so lonely, staying by herself while her parents were taking Lily out to play. Petunia remembered their faces, disappointment, as their images faded slowly away . . . . Someone was screaming—
She snapped her eyes open. It was Mr Muggle, lying shivering on the floor, and Yvonne, backed into a corner by something. Petunia could feel that the haunting air seemed to come from there, but, what was it? Did she really want to know, she wondered, if it could reduce a grown man into something that resembled a dead body? He wasn't dead, she knew, he was breathing, but he looked very much like an aunt who'd been in a coma.
Oh god . . . .
Petunia huddled down, wishing that she could feel cheerful, even irritable. Anything was better than this . . .
She SCREAMED, loudly
. . . and something rushed in, a source of light that warded away the darkness. Petunia could not see its form, it was too bright; she shielded her throbbing eyes from its light, then with energy she did not know she had, she ran over to Yvonne, and grabbed her friend's hand.
"Lets go!" she hissed, pulling Yvonne upright. Petunia looked around quickly, wincing as the bright object moved towards Mr Muggle, and took the black box from Yvonne.
Yvonne seemed to gain her senses. She proved to be faster than Petunia, dragging her towards the door despite the effort Petunia was putting into running as well. The sooner they escaped whatever had caused such misery, the better, Petunia thought, the two almost finishing the stretch of ground towards the door.
But before she could make it something lifted her up, and threw her down not too hard; Petunia clutched the box, not letting it roll away. A similar thud signalled that her friend had also fallen.
The man standing above her was old, very old with a long white beard, but he looked not very friendly at all. Before she could help herself, Petunia asked him, "Were you the one who sent that magic creature in? My sister can do strange things too, but nothing like that."
The man paused, his face almost puzzled. "Are you by any chance named Evans?"
Petunia hesitated. "Well, that's my last name."
He lowered his stick, that Petunia now suspected to be a wand. That puzzled expression had disappeared into understanding, and deep thought that befitted one his age. "I see. You should leave now. Don't show anyone that box. Do not even touch what is within."
"Yes sir." Said Petunia automatically, not able to prevent her words. There was an aura of power with this man whose name she did not know, that told her not to argue, and she found herself obeying. She scrambled up, as did Yvonne, and the two ran out the door as quickly as their legs could carry them.
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To be continued…
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A/N:
I want to note that this story ignores Deathly Hallows, as it was planned before that & the ages wouldn't make sense.
As you might have guessed, the person who 'discovered' Petunia in the warehouse was actually Dumbledore. My reasoning is thus: according to Petunia, he'd been in contact with him for a while. Although this might have been just because she was raising Harry, it also said that 'his last' was the letter when Harry was first delivered. Therefore all the letters before must have come before Harry came to live with the Dursleys. If Petunia had not been in contact with Lily for years, then it would make very little sense for Dumbledore to actually keep in touch with Petunia. I invented that scene to explain this.