13 September, 1998

Petunia tucked the last letter back into it's envelope, and tied the packet with deft fingers. The boy is well, indeed. Of course he was well. Him, with his freakishness, just like her sister...

Of course he was well.

She shut the lid on her wooden music box, a very rare relic form her childhood, part of a set, matched with Lily's. All her old school letters were tucked at the bottom. Her son's were on the top. The music cut off with a sharp clang, but she ignored it.

Of course perfect Lily's perfect son was well. How could he not be? Meanwhile... Petunia looked around her room. The furniture wasn't quite in place, now. She'd spent years perfecting this house, making it the home she'd always wanted as a child, after Lily's ways started ruining things.

This... this had been her sanctuary. Before their sort had ripped her up from it. Now, the walls had to be rebuilt, repainted. Her neighbors thought vandals had broken in a time or two, while she and Vernon had spent a year in America on business. A nice promotion for her husband.

In reality, those Dark Eaters had ruined it. It was salvageable, but Petunia clucked her teeth every time she turned a corner, now. It looked almost right, sometimes. But then she'd turn the light on, and she had to remember.

Being driven from her own house. What had she done to deserve that? She scoffed. It was over now. She and her husband would do the British thing and carry on, picking up the pieces. Petunia had spent her childhood picking up after perfect Lily, so it wasn't such a change.

Her son, though... that had been a change. He'd continued ay Smeltings, of course. She and Vernon weren't about to allow freaks and weirdos to interfere with their boy's education. They'd done as they always had, their best for him.

Now he'd thrown it in their faces. It's not right, the stuff you've done. I've got a boxing scholarship. I'm not coming back.

Petunia clenched her fists, closed her eyes and breathed. No.

No, she had done her best, by Dudley and by that... boy. Look where it had gotten her. She and Vernon were still trying to pick up the pieces, put their life back together here. Vernon had had to tell old man Grunning some story the wizards had put out that they were in hiding form some terrorist, some maniac that had killed her sister's family and wanted her own. It was shameful!

So, no. No matter what that woman, that Pomp-ray or whatever he name was, said, no matter what lies had been spilled into her sweet dear popkin's head by the boy, she had done all she could. She'd done all that could be reasonably expected of her.

The blonde woman's face remained blank as she pulled a bucket and some bleach out from the cupboard under the stairs. She frowned, though, seeing a small crayon drawing on the wall near the floor. She thought she'd had the boy clean all those up. Iit must have been hidden by the old mattress before the move.

No matter. She'd clean it up later, after the kitchen was finished. Poor Vernon, the last year had been hard on him. He'd lost so much weight at that Jones woman's house, and his poor heart... all that freakishness hadn't done him any good. He couldn't stand a lack of order now, something she sympathized with entirely.

But that was behind them, now. They would carry on, and things would get better. Grunning had given dear Vernon his old job back to him, and Petunia's garden club wecomed her home with open arms, eager for whatever juicy gossip she gave them, especially after finding out the American business trip had been a cover.

So far as the Mrs Next Doors were concerned, Petunia's life was something out of a film or a fairy tale.

Fools, the lot of them.

Petunia slammed the cupboard door shut and dumped the bleach into the bucket. This. Would. Stop. There was no point whatsoever in her silly reminiscing, and it had to end. She'd burn those stupid letters in the morning. This... hold that that lot had on her life would end.

And things would be normal.

The thought brought a smile to Petunia's face as she looked out at the back garden, recalling Dudley playing on a tricycle there, garden parties with the ladies' club, that dinner Marge had come for, where the boy was run up a tree.

All the little voices in the back of her mind, her mother's, bemoaning that no mum should feel so cold to a child; her sister's, asking why, why, what did Harry do, what did she do; that Pomp-ray bint, snarling at her;Dudley, leaving, telling her it isn't right.

In Number Four, Little Whinging, Surrey, Petunia Dursley hummed to herself as she scrubbed at the kitchen floor, certain that all was right with the world.

…

Well, it's not on my normal update schedule, but Veteran's Day was a thing, so... *shrugs* How'd you like it?

Remember to EatYourRikkios!

7:09 PM, 12 November, 2013 CE

Edited 3:46, 13 November, 2013 CE Sorry for the mess up! And major thanks to the amazing alaskanwoman25 for pointing out that I posted the year six letters again instead of this chapter. Sorry, my bad...