She was always the one who listened from the shadows, watched from afar. She was, and she was there, and yet she was no where. Round and round they chased her, yet never could they find her in the place where she hid.
It was pleasing to her this way, being able to vanish, to be so far away. This was her game, something that was her own, to make them seek her and lose them at every turn. Maybe her delight in it was wicked, as they said, but she considered them deserving of her game. They were the ones who had nothing but derision for her. They had given her this fate.
So she would go on, the quiet observer, the game player, disappearing and appearing at convenience, a world away from theirs. For after all, Petunia Evans was nothing more than a ghost to her family.