December, 1973

Christmas morning was supposed to be filled with the sugary smell of fudge, the cold bite of frost in the air outside to contrast the cosy warmth within the house, the rustle of her father's newspaper and above all Lily's high exclamations over her presents which were always accompanied by her mother's indulgent tutting noises.

Only this morning Lily was silent.

Petunia stared at Lily who in turn stared at their unaware father. Her eyes were wide, her lips pale, and the grasp around the pretty burgundy cloak her mother had taken ages to choose for her magical daughter ('Petunia, do you think Lily will like this? Is it witchy enough? I don't want her to stand out just because we can't shop in the right stores.') was so lax the smooth fabric partly slipped from her fingers to pool beneath the breakfast table like spilled wine.

Petunia's eyes ghosted to her father, trying to see what had Lily so spellbound. Gregory Evans looked like he always did in the mornings, slightly rumbled with a smattering of small wrinkles circling his eyes and his light hair matted on one side. He was wearing his reading glasses and didn't notice his daughters' regard while flipping a page of his paper with much rustling.

And that was when Petunia realised that Lily wasn't staring at their father at all but focused on what he was holding. Today's headline was printed thick and black on the slightly grey paper, impossible to overlook and didn't proclaim Merry Christmas tidings to suit the atmosphere, but sensational tragedy, as always.

Family killed under collapsing roof, Petunia read and wondered if it was bad that she wasn't as shook up as Lily. Was she supposed to feel something other than the small twinge of discomfort, that originated more from thinking about something like that on Christmas instead of actual pity or shock at the misfortunate family?

Was Petunia cold-hearted for not paling and gaping at the headline like Lily was doing? Or was Lily just that pure and good, that bad news no matter if connected to her or not, would always make her sad? That she could empathise with the pain of everyone, connect with everyone and get everyone to like her because she was so genuine that it just made her better than anyone else.

Petunia buttered her toast with a bit more force than necessary, her dull knife breaking through the crust and leaving a mess of dry crumbles behind. She paused above her plate, staring at the slightly blackened dots scattered over her plate as if they were a star-map leading her to the right answer.

"Are you alright, honey?"

For one ludicrous second Petunia almost thought her mother had addressed her before she looked up and saw her mother's eyes firmly fixed to Lily's pale visage.

"Do you not like the colour? We can surely go back and look for one you like better -"

Lily swallowed with some difficulty, finally tearing her gaze away from the newspaper and donned a smile that Petunia could see through without effort. "Mum, I love it! It's perfect for going to Hogsmeade, everyone will be jealous! Have I told you about Hogsmeade yet? It's this little town right next to the school, and it has everything you could ever wish for and this year I'm finally allowed to go! There's a store there exclusively for sweets …"

Petunia tuned out Lily's ramblings as she had long learned to do, but her attention remained on her younger sister even when a bit of colour returned to her cheeks and her voice gained fervour.

Because once or twice Lily's green eyes ghosted back to the paper as if she just couldn't help herself. And Petunia was starting to doubt that it was simply out of Lily's perfect pity.

Because Lily didn't look sad.

She looked scared.

Krampus was waiting on her window sill when Petunia got back to her room after clearing the table, his feathers puffed up to bolster himself against the cold wind. It made him look almost adorable, something Petunia rarely associated with the intimidating bird, usually all piercing orange eyes, crooked beak and pointed feathers like devil's horns.

Krampus was quick to destroy this adorable impression when his eyes alighted on Petunia and he pecked the innocent glass pane in front of him with forceful vehemence. Petunia thought he might even be able to hammer through if she just left him to it long enough, but not wanting to test that theory at the expense of her intact window, she quickly opened it, allowing him to hop inside.

The owl's hop was a bit lopsided, a package tied to one of his feet. Petunia couldn't suppress a smile when she saw it and quickly glanced behind her at the open doorway. Lily must still be downstairs, modelling her new cloak to her mother's happiness, for Petunia could faintly hear her praises echo through the house.

For once Petunia didn't feel a sting of envy but relief and went to close her door. She wanted privacy when she opened Eugene's present, not because she was embarrassed or wanted to hide it, but because it was something just for her. And she didn't intend to share any of it with her sister.

She stepped up to Krampus, who had settled down on her desk, ironically right next to the present he would be carrying back to Eugene, a present Petunia had spent long hours on.

She had knit a scarf. It wasn't the prettiest scarf Petunia had ever seen, her skills still too new to allow for any elaborate patterns but she had taken care with each stitch she added, wanting it to look neat and tidy when she was finished. On a whim she had chosen wool the colour of melted caramel, something warm she knew would suit Eugene well.

The package was square and not too heavy when Petunia went to untie it, fitting into her hand without strain. Maybe another book, she mused while flipping the wrapping paper aside - and then her eyes widened.

It wasn't a book. It was something much better - a framed picture, but unlike any picture Petunia had seen before because it moved.

Entranced Petunia watched herself sit on yellow-tinted grass, slightly pressed down where Eugene had been lounging next to her just moments before. She still remembered how it had tickled her thighs, the warm light splayed across her skin, her memories crystallising with every second she stared at the picture.

Eugene must have taken it without her realising. The Petunia in the picture was preoccupied with Ivy, the loops of her sinuous body curled around the girl's shoulders and waist like glittering, broad belts of sapphire and emerald. The tip of her tail circled Petunia's wrist like a pretty bracelet, while her head rested on the crown of Petunia's head, thin blonde hair haloing Ivy's vibrant feathers. As Petunia watched, Ivy's feathers fluttered in a warm breeze and her big eyes slowly blinked in the photograph, as if she would unfurl and fly into her room at any moment.

And then her eyes ghosted to herself, magnetised despite herself. In the picture, Petunia was smiling. Happy.

Petunia had never been able to see herself as anything but plain, a lesser version of Lily without charm or beauty. Too thin, too tall, too pale, too bitter … When she looked in a mirror, Petunia sometimes felt as if a corpse was looking back, with colourless eyes and stretched skin, no joy or vibrance to give her life.

But she had never seen herself like this. This carefree, this alive. Wrapped in Ivy, with sunlight in her hair and a smile on her face Petunia could be … pretty.

Maybe not as pretty as Lily, maybe never as pretty as Lily, but pretty nonetheless in her own way.

Some part of her was delighted that this was what Eugene saw when he looked at her, that he liked it to the point of secretly taking a picture, but another part of her was strangely grateful. That he showed her that she wasn't destined to be overlooked, that she could mould her own beauty, that she had her own light shining from within without ever realising it herself.

She knew that the smile currently ghosting across her lips was different from the one in the picture, smaller and wobblier, but somehow she wondered if someone were to take a picture that second, if she would look pretty nonetheless.

March 1974

The lacy curtains of her kitchen window twitched in Petunia's tight grasp as she was watching her Mother's car finally leaving their gravel driveway. A few small pebbles skittered through the air and then the tires turned and carried Carol Evans away, leaving her daughter alone in the house.

Not for long, Petunia knew with the kind of jittery anticipation that made her skin prickle, hastening to the fireplace and kneeling down next to it. A small flame was quickly coaxed to life and Petunia's eyes continued darting to the old Grandfather clock in the hallway, counting the minutes. Her mother had taken a lot longer to leave for her afternoon tea than anticipated and Petunia hoped she would be able to get the fire big enough for Eugene's visit before the agreed upon meeting time.

When the kindling caught, she grabbed a handful of old newspapers kept in a small basket next to the fireplace, the thin material crinkling between her nervous fingers before being consumed by the hungry flames. Petunia's gaze, once more coming back from the relentlessly ticking fingers of the clock, just caught the smoking letters of a headline before the paper curled and glimmered, turning to grey flakes right in front of her - something about a rising rate of home invasions and homicides all over Britain.

Petunia frowned but it was already gone, like a fleeting thought she had failed to grasp onto. And before she could try to recall why it might unnerve her, the fire suddenly whooshed green, claiming all her attention and making her heart stutter.

Petunia only had time to straighten up and take a few steps back before Eugene was stepping through the flames, dusting small motes of ash out of his curly hair.

Petunia drank him in; ruffled like always, but he was wearing a nicer shirt than she was used to, even correctly buttoned, and his trousers were without any tears for once. He looked taller, or maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part - Petunia had shot up a few inches this spring and since then quite feared she would now tower above him.

Eugene lifted his face and his chocolate eyes alighted on her. A wide grin split his lips. "Petals."

And before Petunia could collect her thoughts enough to reply, she was suddenly tugged against his chest - and then his lips were on hers and everything else ceased to matter. They had kissed often but somehow this felt more intense, more intimate, especially when his mouth opened against her own. Until now it had mostly been short, innocent pecks of their lips while this - this was wholly different.

It was messy and disorientating and for a second Petunia was painfully aware of her thin arms dangling at her side - what was she supposed to do with them?

And then her thoughts got consumed with the taste and warmth and feel of Eugene against her and when she blinked the next time her hands were already tangled hopelessly into his hair. Somehow they had stumbled onto the old couch in the living room, Petunia's feet touching the floor like it was the only thing anchoring her in reality.

Warm breath feathered across her face, her tingling lips, Eugene so close to her she could see his blown pupils, the black swallowing the tempered brown. "I missed you, Petals."

Me too, Petunia thought but just nodded instead of saying anything. She didn't trust her voice just yet.

They hadn't seen each other since last summer, more than six months ago, instead falling back into the familiar habit of exchanging letters. But it wasn't the same, especially now that Eugene was not simply a confidant or friend. She had missed seeing his face, hearing his voice, feeling his hands grasp her own, the smell of salt and wildness that always seemed to cling to him. Petunia got lost in the sensations, leaning forward - he was close, so close, her nose rubbed softly against his - and then the couch suddenly creaked a bit when Eugene shifted forward and the noise was like a slap against the back of Petunia's head, clearing the pleasant fog.

What was she doing?

They had kissed and he had manoeuvred her onto the couch (though Petunia still didn't recall how they had ended up here) and he had missed her and for God's sake, they were alone in the house!

She shouldn't do this, definitely not - Her eyes darted away from Eugene's lips - a bit chapped but she knew how good they felt against her own regardless, firm and warm,no don't think about it - and glued themselves to the first thing she saw over his shoulder.

"Want to watch telly?"

Her voice sounded only slightly hysterical.

Eugene leaned back and blinked at her. "What?"

"Do you want to watch some telly? I could brew us a cup of tea and -"

Eugene's thumb ghosted over Petunia's burning cheeks, making her words die off abruptly. He looked a mixture between confused and amused. "Alright. But what's a 'telly'?"

Petunia hadn't expected her quick diversion to actually work. Especially not that well.

She eyed Eugene while he chuckled about something, lounging on the couch next to her, all his attention glued to the screen in front of them.

Should Petunia be worried? Eugene was much more invested in watching whatever program he got stuck on than trying to press her into the couch, after all.

Not that she necessarily wanted to be pressed into the couch, but an unreasonable part of her wanted him to want it.

That's stupid, she reprimanded herself. You were the one to panic -

Eugene suddenly sat up straight. "What's that?"

Petunia glanced at the screen. It was footage from the moon landing a few years ago, grainy pictures showing the first steps mankind had ever taken on the celestial body. "The Apollo moon landing. You didn't celebrate?"

Petunia still remembered it quite clearly, it was one of the few times she had been allowed to stay up late, the whole family waiting in front of the telly and cheering when the announcement came through. She hadn't even minded Lily's enthusiastic chatter all night, so excited by the news that it was actually a welcome backdrop to the event.

"I didn't know. So this is real? He's really on the moon? Our moon?"

"What other moon is there?"

Eugene ignored her snark, his face glowing, leaning forward to watch. And then he suddenly laughed, but there was a sharpness underneath his mirth, like the edge of a scalpel wrapped in silk.

Petunia frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, really." He sighed, head tipped back again and messy golden curls spilling over his forehead. "I just realised that I might have been more influenced by my upbringing than I thought. Magic is always praised as the cure-all to any problem or challenge, and I must have believed it, on some level at least. But now - I can't think of any spell that would get me to the moon."

Petunia didn't really know what to say. Despite feeling a small sting of satisfaction at his words, she couldn't really take credit for something like this - she herself had no idea how to get to the moon either, it was something clever engineers had worked out.

"I use a wand to light up a room and you flip a switch. Is one truly better than the other? Sometimes wizards act as if muggles still beat two stones together and hope for sparks, and in truth they're walking on the moon."

Petunia straightened her shoulders, deciding to be honest. "If you're waiting for me to protest, I won't. You wizards can do a lot of unusual things, but it doesn't mean you're better than us."

Instead of pouting or being put out, Eugene started grinning. "I know, Petals. It might even be the other way around. Tell me - what else can muggles do? What other things did they invent apart from the 'telly'?"

Petunia sighed. She really hadn't thought her date with Eugene would turn into some impromptu history lesson, especially with her quite watery knowledge of electricity and dates as the groundwork. But somehow his honest interest, his glittering eyes, propelled her to dive into the topic, while trying to remember if anyone had actually ever explained the inner workings of a toaster to her ("How does the machine know the toast is done?", Eugene asked and Petunia scoffed to hide that she didn't know either). The longer she talked, the farther her thoughts moved away from the couch and when Eugene leaned back and put his arm around her, encouraging her dangerously superficial knowledge with exclamations of interest, she didn't tense.

Somehow their conversation wandered from vacuums and planes to the things wizards used in their stead, Eugene telling Petunia about something called Portkeys and the brooms that were used for flying instead of cleaning.

"That sounds ridiculous."

He winked. "Not only ridiculous, but highly uncomfortable, it's basically only a stick clasped between your legs. I was never much of a fan, because as you know -"

"Yes, your perfect Hippogriffs. Why is it used then?"

Eugene shrugged. "Tradition? Honestly, I sometimes feel like those who ride brooms just love being uncomfortable. Quidditch is just another proof."

"What's Qui-" Quiddings? "-that?"

"A popular sport, riding around on brooms with pinched expressions is basically all they do, sometimes days on end."

Petunia frowned, doubt obvious on her face. "Days?"

"Well, the rules are almost as stupid as the brooms themselves."

Petunia couldn't hide her smile, allowing Eugene to catch a glimpse of it, which promptly widened his own grin.

"Actually, I think we should really go watch some! As thanks for showing me the telly, I'll show you something just as entertaining."

Petunia blinked, blind-sided by his sudden declaration. Her first instinct was to agree, swept away by his enthusiastic tone as if in a tidal wave, happy that Eugene wanted to include her in his world, happy that he wanted to spend time with her - but then her doubts flowed in, dirtying the water.

Would Petunia even be allowed to watch something this obviously magical? Petunia wasn't a witch after all, no matter how deeply entrenched she sometimes found herself in their world, and she simply couldn't imagine that it would be overlooked so easily.

Eugene didn't notice her hesitation, still contemplating his idea. "As it happens, the World Cup is actually taking place in Britain this year, so we can go watch the big leagues. Bilius is a huge fan, his whole family is, come to think of it, I'm sure he knows where to get tickets and which match will be the most interesting …"

Petunia felt her molars ache when she bit down too hard, to stop her fears from spilling from her lips.

What if they didn't let her enter? She remembered the only time she'd gone to Diagon Alley and Mrs Snape had left her outside the wand store like an abandoned pet, how out of place Petunia felt every time she was at the magical train station, as the only one not boarding the red train but staying behind, cloaked in sharp smoke, biting at her eyes …

" … it's gonna be while still, we have to wait until summer break but it's something to look forward to -"

"Eugene," Petunia's tone sounded brittle, splintering at the edges as if it could cut flesh. "What if I can't go?"

He tilted his head in question. "Do you already have plans?"

Petunia swallowed, forcing herself to continue looking at him. "What if I can't?"

Eugene's smile dimmed at his realisation. "Petals …"

The softness in his tone was what tipped her over the edge into outrage. "Don't tell me it won't happen, or that I'm ridiculous - I'm always excluded, always left behind, as if it's shameful for me to even be there -"

The arm around her back tightened, she had almost forgotten it was even there, simply a warm weight to anchor her, but now she found herself pulled forward into his chest, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, as if she was fragile, as if she was about to cry, as if she needed it when Petunia had always managed to calm down on her own …

"Petals." His breath ghosted across her neck, just under her ear, warm and strangely soothing. His touch didn't hold the same quality as it had when they kissed, there was no urgency, no heat. Simply tenderness.

"You can go. I'll make sure of it. Trust me."

Petunia wanted to shake her head, wanted to explain that she never trusted anyone that easily, and that words were cheap. But instead she just took a shuddering breath, feeling the tightness ease from her chest.

Eugene didn't try to explain himself, didn't assure her of all the ways he would make everything work out, instead he simply tugged her a little closer and whispered: "I'd never leave you behind."

And though she had no real reason to, Petunia somehow still believed him.