Not all at once, now. We're dying from the enthusiasm.
In Loving Memory - "It is easy, frighteningly easy, to dislike someone you love."
Petunia Dursley awoke early.
It was part of a routine she had begun early in her childhood, mostly because she enjoyed the fresh solace of the early hours. She needed no alarm – when the birds made their usual racket about dawn, she slowly opened her eyes as she lay in bed and listened to the cacophonous trills and squawks accompanied by Vernon's rhythmic snores. But before the birds could become too irritating, she quietly slipped from under the covers – carefully, so as not to disturb Vernon – and changed out of her nightdress.
She briskly descended the stairs, humming tunelessly, and headed straight for her kitchen, where she soon set about preparing breakfast. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, pooling in puddles of molten gold on the countertop and assuring her that this was going to be yet another perfect, happy, ordinary summer morning.
It wasn't until she started cracking eggs into a hot pan that she realized what day it was.
The tuneless hum that had been on her lips dropped dead. Slowly, she turned to glance at the calendar – and sure enough, much to her dismay, it was the day.
As she turned back to the stove with a huff, heavy footsteps stumped down the stairs and Vernon entered the kitchen, looking cheery in his fading Grunnings promotional t-shirt and worn trousers. He pecked her on the cheek as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "Good morning, dear."
"Morning, Vernon. Is Dudders up yet?" she asked as she laid some sausages sizzling.
"Sleeping like a log and snoring loud as a foghorn," Vernon chuckled as he sat down at the table, reaching for the newspaper. "You know, dear, I was just thinking – we should invite the Polkisses over for tea today, they've been saying Piers was keen on seeing Dudders about something or other, and I could do with a little chat with Pete about the new Chancellor of the Exchequer. I don't approve much of his shenanigans with the Americans these days…"
"We can't," Petunia said testily.
"Why, have we got something planned?"
"Vernon, it's the day."
He looked at her over his newspaper with an almighty frown. "Already?"
She nodded at the calendar. "Unfortunately. I thought we'd have a bit more time, but…"
Vernon heaved a gusty sigh and took a large gulp of coffee. "I don't see why we have to go pick him up," he grumped. "Can't he use his ruddy…thing and, I don't know, fly here?"
"What, and have the neighbors see the boy zooming in through our window?" Petunia snapped. "I think not."
Vernon gave his newspaper an irritable shake, considering it. "I suppose not," he grunted. "But at least it's the last ruddy time he'll set foot in this house, and then he can go get himself killed by that madman he says is after him…"
Petunia had been about to say something, but the words fled her mind as Vernon's words registered. She clamped her mouth shut and pursed her lips as she turned her attention back to her spotless stove. It was quiet for a moment, with only the occasional rustle of the newspaper and crackle of the pan to punctuate the silence. A sense of panic filled Petunia as she turned the sausages, determined not to look back at Vernon, because an alien emotion that had quite suddenly – and rudely – invaded her wholly ordinary life seemed to be growing tenfold within her with every passing second.
You have never treated Harry as a son.
Sixteen years, and she'd never given it a thought. What had he ever done to deserve the same treatment as Dudders? He was a despicable, ungrateful miscreant with that – that thing in his blood.
He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands.
And should she have shown him anything else? He was the embodiment of everything she had turned away from twenty-six years ago. He was everything she detested because he was everything she was not. And before – long before – it had been something to envy.
She and Vernon had vowed to squash it out of him, but it was like trying to squeeze the sap out of a tree with bare hands.
The best that can be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you.
It made her indignant, of course – she had never given her son anything but the best. And yet, perhaps…perhaps they had spoiled him a bit. Compared to the boy, Dudley was – well, immature. Looking back on the years, it shocked her to see how much the boy had grown. He seemed almost an adult, really, and nothing like a real teenager should have been. No loud music, no electronic obsessions, no garish clothing, no carefree laughing – although of course she would have been offended if he'd gone around her house looking happy. He didn't belong here – he was un-Dursleyish, inhuman, and abnormal, and her job was to make that clear to him.
Right?
The strident sound of the doorbell sliced through Petunia's tumultuous thoughts and she nearly jerked the pan off the stove. Vernon looked up, frowning again. "Who the blazes – ah, no, it might be Mr. Manning, he said he'd drop…"
His voice faded as he strode over to the door, and she heard the loud creak of it swinging open. There was a pause, then a loud throat-clearing from Vernon that could only be a foreboding sign. "Ah, Mrs. Figg…what brings you here?"
Petunia froze with a plate of eggs and sausages in her hand.
"I need to see your wife, Mr. Dursley." The wheezy voice of the boy's old babysitter came drifting into the kitchen, with a tense and demanding tone to it that Petunia had never heard before.
"And may I ask what is so urgent that you come calling so early?" Vernon asked with a restrained kind of politeness that suggested he did not appreciate batty neighbors appearing on his doorstep at seven in the morning.
"You can ask, Mr. Dursley, but I'm sure you wouldn't like the answer," Mrs. Figg said curtly. "Now, is Mrs. Dursley in?"
Petunia was jolted out of her frozen state. She bustled out of the kitchen, setting the plate down on the table and wiping her hands on her apron. "Hello, Mrs. Figg," she said as pleasantly as she could. 'I'm sure you wouldn't like the answer' didn't seem to be an auspicious statement coming from an old cat-loving lady.
"Ah, Mrs. Dursley," Mrs. Figg said, peering around Vernon. Petunia was surprised to see her normally fluttery disposition gone, replaced by a stern demeanor that Petunia disliked at once. Vernon reluctantly stepped aside to let the woman in and closed the door behind her.
"Have a seat," Petunia said through pursed lips, indicating a chair at the table. Mrs. Figg obliged, her hands fidgeting in her lap. "You wanted to see me?" Petunia prompted, when Mrs. Figg didn't speak.
The old lady closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I am the bearer of terrible news," she said slowly, as if each word caused her terrible pain. Petunia squirmed. Mrs. Figg shuddered. "Dumbledore…is dead."
The words didn't register for a moment.
"Who's dead?" Vernon asked loudly.
Dumbledore. "How do you know?" Petunia demanded, ignoring Vernon. "How do you know that – that man?"
"I'm a Squib," Mrs. Figg said tersely. "I have connections."
"Squid?" Vernon spluttered. "What – "
But Petunia was hearing a lost voice, a hated voice, echoing in her head – Squibs, they're wizards and witches born to wizarding parents that can't do magic. Old Filch at Hogwarts, he's one of them, and real bitter he is about it, too…
"A Squib," Petunia repeated. "You can't do magic."
Vernon stared at her, aghast. For once, Petunia didn't - couldn't - care.
Mrs. Figg gave her a thin smile, as if the subject were too painful to discuss.
"You – you're one of them?" Vernon asked her incredulously. "And you – we let – " Petunia knew he was thinking of all those times they had sent the boy to her place, and she was a Squib…they had tried so hard to squash it out of him…
"That's not the point!" Mrs. Figg said furiously, her eyes snapping. "Dumbledore is dead!"
"Dumbledore? You're – it's that man, isn't it?" Vernon turned to Petunia. "That crackpot old man that came last year, and – "
"Albus Dumbledore is no crackpot!" Mrs. Figg screeched, looking as though she would like nothing better than to take a swing at Vernon with her stringy handbag.
Dead?
Professor Dumbledore…oh, Petunia, he's the most brilliant wizard in history! Even You-Know-Who's afraid of him, that's how powerful he is. But you wouldn't think it of him, he's like a skinny Father Christmas, always smiling and saying the strangest things…
"He can't be," Petunia said defiantly.
Mrs. Figg smiled a sad, little smile, as if she understood her denial. "I'm afraid so, dear."
"But he's the – the most…"
Lord Voldemort. He's back.
"Yes, quite so. We're all in grave danger," Mrs. Figg went on, looking slightly teary-eyed, "especially Harry." Vernon's eyes looked fit to pop. "Dumbledore loved that poor boy," she said woefully. "I imagine it struck him terribly hard… But I'm here to remind you of your promise."
"Promise?"
"To keep him until he comes of age and not send him out like a pile of bat droppings," Mrs. Figg said severely. "Just because Dumbledore's gone… People will know if you do, and they won't like it one bit." Petunia half-expected her to wag her finger under their noses. "You can do whatever you like after his seventeenth birthday, I daresay they'll send someone along to pick him up…"
She sighed then, and got up. "That's what I came to tell you." Petunia stood up as well, and led her to the door. Mrs. Figg kept talking. "I do hope you realize the gravity of this situation. Dumbledore was the one man You-Know-Who feared, and now that he's gone…"
Petunia nodded stiffly and bid Mrs. Figg goodbye. And although the whole of her being really did understand the dreadfulness of what she'd just heard, she couldn't stop a tiny voice inside her head saying wistfully, "And it was supposed to be such a nice day…"
------
Petunia spent the rest of the morning in an unpleasantly uptight mood. More often than not, she found herself in the midst of doing things she didn't remember starting, for her mind kept straying toward absurd thoughts. She knocked over Dudders' glass of milk during breakfast, spilling it all over him, and felt Vernon's troubled gaze upon her as she wiped up the mess. She rubbed at a spot on the counter without really looking at it, and stood there scrubbing it long after it had disappeared.
"Petunia dear, maybe I should – you know, go by myself," Vernon said hesitantly as eleven o'clock approached.
She gave him an appreciative smile – he really was a caring man, despite his loud and gruff bravado. Not just anyone would offer to go to that horrid place alone. "Can you, Vernon?" she said with a sigh. "I'm feeling a bit odd, but I'm sure I'll be better soon."
"Yes, Dudders went off to see Piers and Malcolm, so why don't you go lie down for a bit?" Vernon suggested. "It's that woman, I'll bet you anything," he continued darkly. "I knew she was strange…" He shook his head as he headed for the door, still muttering under his breath.
Petunia let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding after she heard the door slam behind him. She stood awkwardly in the front hall for a moment, listening to Vernon revving the car and pulling out of the driveway. Shaking her head, she turned and strode toward the living room. Lying down did seem to be a good idea. She sank down in Vernon's armchair. It would just be for a moment…
She awoke to the sound of the front door slamming shut.
"Up to your room," Vernon growled. "Your aunt's not feeling well, and I don't want you disturbing her."
If the boy made any response, she didn't hear it. She only caught a glimpse of him as he hauled his trunk up the stairs, his face expressionless.
Vernon stomped into the living room, clucking his tongue.
"Did something happen?" she asked, standing up. "Did – did they say anything?"
"That old man, he must've been an important bloke," Vernon said, shaking his head. "Everyone looking like it's the end of the world. That dumpy woman, the one with all the kids, she was crying, she was… And I mentioned what's-his-name to the boy and he went all rigid. Didn't say a thing on the way back." He snorted. "Arrogant little berk."
Dumbledore was the one man You-Know-Who feared, and now that's he gone…
"Feeling any better?"
"What? Oh, yes, better…"
Vernon sat down on the sofa, propped his feet on the coffee table, and turned the television on. She tried to listen to Jim McGuffin's report on an incoming rainstorm, but the longer she stared at the weatherman's face, the blurrier it became.
You have never treated Harry as a son. You have never…
------
Who cares what happens to – to wizards?
It was a question Petunia asked herself an increasing number of times as July slowly trickled by. She'd seen neither hide nor hair of the boy since he'd come back, but she couldn't quite bring herself to be glad about it.
Even Vernon seemed rather nonplussed. "Doesn't come out of that room at all," he scowled over dinner, to which the boy had failed to appear once more. "He's cooking something up in there, and I'll eat my shoes if he isn't."
"Doesn't make a sound, either," Dudders said around a mouthful of meatloaf. "It's kinda creepy."
"Don't speak with your mouth full, popkin," Petunia admonished gently.
"Hasn't come down to eat once," Vernon continued darkly. "I suppose those ruddy owls are bringing him food."
"Maybe he's planning to blow up the house," Dudders said, his eyes suddenly going wide. "Maybe – "
"Does it matter?" It had come out sharper than Petunia had meant it to, and she inwardly shrank back under Vernon and Dudders' astonished gazes. "He's not of age yet, so we don't have to worry about him blowing up the house," she sniffed. "And he'll be leaving in less than a week, so I'd rather have more pleasant conversation during dinner."
She didn't mention what she really felt – that she was still worried. Those people would come striding up the garden path if they knew the boy wasn't eating, voluntarily or not, and she couldn't abide that. He was eating, of course – she slipped food through the cat flap in his door three times a day, when Vernon and Dudders weren't looking. But what was he doing in his room? Holed up like a caged animal… Half the time she felt the urge to barge into his room and demand that he get out and act like a normal boy.
The last day of July crept closer, and Vernon took to announcing how many days there were left each morning. Petunia rather felt like strangling him.
------
July thirty-first finally arrived with a mighty bang of thunder and a torrential downpour. Much to her chagrin, Petunia's first thought upon waking was: It's his birthday. She considered this fact for a moment. He was seventeen and therefore, according to his world, of age. It also meant that whatever thing Dumbledore had put up around the house would cease to function. It meant they, the Dursleys, would no longer have to feed him, clothe him, look at him, or put up with confounded owls every summer. She had already concocted a story to tell the neighbors – Even St. Brutus' couldn't put up with the monster so they've sent him off for labor in Siberia… Good riddance, I'll say…
And then Petunia traipsed downstairs to find him sitting at the table, calm as you please. She stopped in her tracks as he looked up from a note he'd been reading. What he was thinking, she could never guess, but she felt as though she were under serious scrutiny.
She thought about saying something to him – the words 'happy birthday' hung precariously on her lips – but everything seemed inadequate for the situation, so she merely swept by him and entered the kitchen. To her horror and shock, he followed her.
She tried to ignore him as she fished out a carton of milk and bread for toast from the refrigerator, but she could feel his eyes on her.
"What do you want?" she snapped finally, whirling around to face him.
"I'm leaving today," he said simply. His voice was deeper than she remembered and his eyes, she was startled to see, looked haunted. "My friends are coming, but not until night, so you won't have to worry about people seeing them. I've told them to be careful anyway," he added dryly. "Just thought you might want to know."
He turned around and made as if to stride out of the kitchen, but paused in the doorway. "And…thanks for the food."
He disappeared up the stairs.
Petunia stared after her nephew. It was, perhaps, the most he had ever said to her of his own volition. And he – he had thanked her. What was the world coming to?
------
Darkness descended swiftly upon Privet Drive, and it rained on. Clouds obscured the view of bright stars she usually got through the window, while fierce bursts of lightning sporadically illuminated the black sky. To her right, Vernon was snoring loudly. After nearly twenty years' worth of snore-filled nights, the sound was comforting.
She was tired, God knew – she'd spent the better part of the day giving the house a desperate cleaning – but she couldn't bring herself to shut her eyes.
If she did… She shuddered, just thinking about it. …If she did, if she gave herself up to sleep, a pair of beseeching green eyes would emerge from the darkness and plague her dreams. They stared and stared, the sharp, ghostly look in them making her want to run away. But there was nowhere to run to, because those eyes would find her, wherever she went, whatever she did…
She glanced over at the luminescent clock sitting on her nightstand. 11:42. She'd been laying sleeplessly for nearly two hours. Petunia gave a soft sigh, quite disgusted with herself. This would never do.
And before she could change her mind, she got out of bed, tiptoed out of the room, and strode down the hallway. She reached the boy's room, not at all surprised to see a crack of light under the door. Praying that Vernon wouldn't wake up, she knocked twice.
There was a soft thud, followed by the sound of a chair being pushed back. Light footsteps approached her.
You can still run, still run, her mind whispered urgently. Run!
The door swung open and he stood in the doorway, his startlingly tall frame silhouetted by the light of the desk lamp behind him. A look of amazement flitted across his face before it smoothed over to form a mask of indifference. If she hadn't seen his initial surprise, she could have sworn that he'd been expecting her.
"Aunt Petunia," he said.
She drew a shaky breath. "Harry."
If he was surprised that she had finally called him by his name, he didn't let it show. They stood looking at each other for a moment, and it suddenly struck her how like a little boy he still looked. Except the eyes.
It was ironic, how the one thing she hated most about him was the one thing that had compelled her to take him in. Lily's eyes. He was, after all was said and done, her sister's son. And had she really hated Lily? In one sense, yes – she had loathed perfect, pretty Lily with her angelic face and her brilliant red hair and her confounded magic in the worst possible way.
It is easy, frighteningly easy, to dislike someone you love.
Why Lily? she had asked herself all throughout her childhood, watching from the side as her parents praised "amazing little Lily" and "talented little Lily" to no end. Why Lily, and not me? It wasn't fair that she had a castle for a school where all she learned was how to make hair turn green and vanish fingers and create vile-smelling concoctions while Petunia had to gruel through sixteen years of normal school memorizing equations and theories and laws.
Lily herself was no help, gushing on and on about Professor this and Professor that, showing off her wooden twig, giggling over notes brought almost daily from owls. Under the onslaught of all these bizarre things, Petunia had felt so…ordinary.
Yet she had loved her sister. Before the confounded letter, before cloaks and cauldrons and quills, they had been friends. But as Lily receded farther and farther into a world Petunia couldn't even see, she began to resent it – the yearly trips to Diagon Alley, having to listen to tales of classes and friends, lying to classmates about her sister's whereabouts.
Then that awful boy came onto the scene, and Lily declared she was getting married. Married! She was seventeen, for God's sake! Petunia had turned her back and said good riddance, determined to erase all connections to a world she could never be a part of.
But she cried when Lily was murdered.
For one night, and one night only, after Vernon had fallen asleep. She had wept, reading Dumbledore's letter and looking at baby Harry, with his mother's green eyes. She had hated him all the more for that constant reminder.
"Something wrong?" he asked at last.
"Where are you going?" she blurted, letting more concern slip into her voice than she'd intended.
A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. "Do you care?"
Before, she would have bristled at the impertinently mocking undertone. Now, she could only nod stiffly.
He gazed at her for a moment, and she rather felt as if he was seeing past her skin and bones to peer at her soul. His mouth twitched, but he stepped aside so she could enter his room. She froze in astonishment when she saw that it was impeccably clean. All his possessions had been packed away, with the exception of a book on the desk and a trunk, cage, and broomstick which stood beneath the window.
"Have a seat," he said, offering her the desk chair. He sat down on the edge of his neatly made bed, whose sheets had been tucked under the mattress just the way she liked it. He hugged his knees to his chest, watching her, and the image of the little boy was reinforced.
She cautiously sat down on the proffered chair, glancing at the book. Killing Curses: The Power Behind the Spells. She shuddered.
Placing her hands on her knees, she took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his eyes.
"You won't be seeing me, if that's what you were wondering," he said simply, without a trace of resentment or anger. "Privet Drive is a nightmare." He gave her a wry smile. "You've done – "
"I don't hate you," she interrupted sharply.
He blinked.
"I dislike you," she went on. "Because – "
"Because of my mum," he supplied.
"I didn't hate her, either," she snapped.
"Right. You disliked her."
"And why not?" she fired back. This wasn't going the way she'd thought it would. But what exactly had she been thinking? "Tell me that."
"Were you jealous?" he asked quietly.
She didn't answer.
"That's stupid. I thought you wanted this – a normal husband, a normal son, a normal life."
She gave a harsh laugh, feeling suddenly reckless. "Normal? Too normal, you mean. This house is the epitome of typical and ordinary, but there's a reason behind it. Two years ago, when the dementors attacked, do you know what Dudley saw?"
He frowned. "Dudley?"
She could see the curiosity in his eyes – what could Dudley possibly have to fear in his perfect life?
"He was a wizard," she spat.
Silence filled the room. There, she told herself furiously. There, I've told him.
He eyed her incredulously. "Dudley? Was?"
"I had it squashed out of him," she said bitterly.
"You can do that?" he asked, eyes wide.
"Painfully," she said curtly. "Magic, they told me, is a part of your being. Even tampering with it, never mind destroying it, is deadly. But he couldn't be," she whispered. "I had them do it. He doesn't know what they did to him, or what it was for. He just remembers the pain, the doctors. That's what he saw."
She saw it too, the madmen in green robes that called themselves Healers, taking her baby from her, her son, her wizard son…
The boy's disbelief was etched onto his face. "Do you – do you really hate magic that much?"
"It took my sister," she retorted, "and it's taking you. It wasn't taking my son, too."
"Taking me?"
"Just like Lily. You spend nearly all your time in this world of yours, paying no attention to Muggles and thinking they're just stupid, ignorant oafs. You can't deny it. If Lily hadn't been a witch, she wouldn't have died. This Voldemort was after her because she was a witch."
He was clearly stunned. "How – how do you know all this? Dementors and Voldemort – you called yourself a Muggle?"
"I am, aren't I?" she said with a twisted smile. "I paid more attention to these things than I let on. And I heard Lily talking to that boy – "
"My dad."
She nodded. "About Voldemort. Only they called him You-Know-Who. Mass murderer, megalomaniac, powerful wizard. He was after half-bloods and Muggleborns like Lily. And from what I've heard, he's killed nearly everyone he wants to."
"Not just half-bloods and Muggles," Harry said softly, his eyes becoming distant. "It's everyone that doesn't side with him."
"But especially you."
He looked at her for a long moment, and the desire to run returned. "Which brings us back to your first question, doesn't it?" he said quietly, raising an eyebrow. "I'm going to kill him."
She stared at him. There was so much determination, so much vengeance burning in his eyes. He's going to die, she thought helplessly. Just like Vernon said… Like Lily and her silly husband, he's going to die… "By yourself?"
He looked as though he were going to question her sudden interest in his life, but merely sighed. "I have friends," he said shortly.
"Mrs. Figg," she said, suddenly remembering. "The Squib. She came by to tell us Dumbledore – "
He flinched, as though she'd slapped him, and swiftly stood up without looking at her. "I told you where I'm going," he said roughly, striding over to the desk and picking the book up. "You got what you wanted. Ron and Hermione are coming soon; you'd better go."
She got to her feet, bewildered at how much his coldness stung her. "Was he – "
"He was my teacher," he said tersely.
Words lodged in her throat. "I – I'm…" I'm sorry. Sorry…
"They'll be here any minute," he said, turning his back to her. The dismissive tone in his voice was unmistakable.
Acting purely on impulse, she stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. He tensed under her touch.
"Don't die," she whispered, swallowing audibly. "Lily – Lily won't forgive me."
And she spun on her heel and left the room.
------
Harry Potter stood unmoving long after the door had shut behind Aunt Petunia. He could still feel her hand on his shoulder, could still hear the words uttered by a soft voice that had rarely been lowered below a shout when addressing him.
Don't die.
Was that what she had waited sixteen years to tell him? After sixteen years of abuse and rejection, she told him not to die. For what? So she could scoff at him when it was all over, call him a murderer, tell him he was worse than all the rest put together?
…But did he really think that? A hidden side of Petunia Evans Dursley had showed itself tonight, a side that cared and loved and worried about things he'd thought she'd thrown away. And Dudley – Dudley had been a wizard? His hand curled into a fist around the fake Horcrux in his pocket. It was impossible. How could you take the magic out of someone?
Someone tapped on the window.
He jerked his head up to see a pair of blue eyes staring at him out of a freckled face, red hair plastered down by the rain. He hurried over to the window and yanked it open, extending a hand to help Ron Weasley climb through.
Hermione came in after him, followed by Mr. Weasley.
"Hey, mate," Ron said quietly. "Happy birthday."
"Harry," Hermione said, bestowing a damp hug on him. She gave him a sad, half-smile as she stepped back. "How've you been?"
"Fine," he shrugged. "Hi, Mr. Weasley."
"Good to see you, Harry," Mr. Weasley said. "Ready to go?"
"Yeah. My stuff's right there." Harry pointed to his things beneath the window. As Mr. Weasley turned to transport them to the Burrow, Harry gave Ron and Hermione a significant look. They nodded in return, understanding he had something to tell them.
"Let's go, shall we?" Mr. Weasley said. "Harry?"
Harry took one last look around his room before taking Mr. Weasley's extended hand. Ron took his other hand and Hermione took Ron's.
Lily won't forgive me.
His last thought as he watched the darkness swallow the walls was that Dumbledore had been right.
Up Next: A wedding, a fight, an unexpected declaration of love, and a new leader.
Like we said, not all at once. If y'all line up single-file now, and just click that button one by one, everything will be okay. ;)
