September 1974
Petunia sat at her open window, wrapped in a blanket to ward off the morning chill. She had been sitting here since the first ray of sunlight creeped across the horizon, dyeing it a dusky yellow. She'd been watching as the crystals of dew dotted on every blade of grass and every branch slowly evaporated, turning into a misty fog that covered the ground as a thick, white blanket.
She'd watched as light pierced that fog, creating holes and flimsy spaces until it retreated to the edge of the forest like a skulking animal, seeking refuge in the bluish shade of the trees.
She had simply been watching, her head empty except for one thought.
There was nothing she could do.
Petunia wasn't a warrior or a genius. She wasn't even magical. She was a young, human girl that had one day thrown a sandwich at a magical creature in a selfish bid to be special.
And as the lingering fog disappeared completely she took a deep cleansing breath. The thought had gone from torment to fact, something that she simply couldn't change, no matter how much she might wish to.
There was nothing she could do about the war.
A winged shadow crystallised in front of the morning sky, familiar in its silhouette. Petunia motionlessly watched as it grew closer and closer until the owl with the crooked beak and little feather-horns finally alighted at her window sill. The breeze of his wide wings ruffled the fine hairs above her forehead and Petunia blinked her moist eyes.
"Krampus."
He clicked his beak at her, sounding almost reproachful. For once Petunia couldn't muster a smile at the sight of the letter bound to his clawed foot.
She freed it, feeling the cool paper of the envelope between her fingers. Something stopped her from opening it.
It would either be an apology, an explanation or a bid for her forgiveness. Petunia wanted neither.
Dragging her stiff bones away from the window sill, Petunia grabbed one of the good papers she always reserved for her letters to Eugene, smoothing it out across her table. Her pen hovered above the pristine white for long minutes, long enough that Krampus hooted impatiently. In the end Petunia could only muster one sentence.
Eugene,
Please give me some time.
Yours, Petunia.
The numbness set in slowly. Like snow softly settling on the ground, flake by flake, layer by layer, until the earth beneath was frozen and silent.
The first few flakes were nightmares, shifting images of faces Petunia didn't know, names shouted in endless repeats, the voices in her memories hoarse and desperate. Footsteps behind her, but she could never turn around to look who was following her, only knew that she had to get away but no matter how fast she tried to run she never moved. The ground shaking underneath her feet, shaking until it was crumbling apart and nothing was holding her afloat anymore, and she was falling, always falling, sometimes from high, wooden towers, sometimes simply in endless darkness.
And then the nightmares ceased, her body ridding itself of the memories by enhancing them like trying to kill the flu with boiling fever and suddenly Petunia was confronted with something else.
Lily's silence. Her parent's pale faces after Petunia forced Lily to tell them the truth. The closed newspaper that laid beside the family's breakfast spread, untouched but not unnoticed. And when Petunia's eyes ghosted over the thick, black headlines, doubt churned in her stomach. Had it really been a gas leak? Had it really been a burglary? How would she know, how would anyone know?
The reprieve she had usually found in Eugene turned into another layer of ice, his betrayal still stinging. Sometimes she would grab a sheet of paper, words tumbling through her mind, but none touched her heart and so none left the tip of her pen. She didn't know what she should say to him, she didn't know what to name the feeling she endured when she thought about him.
On some level Petunia understood why Eugene had never told her about the war. Their time together had always felt like something removed from their usual existences.
For Petunia, Eugene was an escape from her mundane school, her impassive family, her left-over status as the lesser sister. When she was with him, he made her feel pretty and interesting and important, made her feel like all her worries were unfounded.
And maybe for Eugene, Petunia had fulfilled a similar function. She didn't see him only as Newton Scamander's son and she was untouched by the war that was festering in his world. Maybe in her company, for a few hours at least, he could delude himself that its violent reality would never disrupt them in their little bubble of happiness and blissfully forget about it.
But all fantasies had to come to an end. And now that their bubble had popped, Petunia was suddenly unsure how they should continue.
Lily left for Hogwarts, but instead of relief, Petunia felt just a smidgen emptier. At least while her little sister was around, Petunia could nurse a small ember of resentment or anger to keep her warm and her feelings alive, but now that she was alone, that ember turned to cold ash.
Her toe healed crookedly. It looked ugly, a stray from the symmetry - a lifelong reminder. She hid it with thick socks and closed shoes, sandals forever banished from her closet.
It was on her sixteenth birthday, two days after Lily had left, that Petunia finally realised how numb she had grown.
She was staring at her favourite strawberry shortcake, its sugary scent lingering in the warm afternoon sunlight slanting through the room's windows while her parents were complimenting Petunia on her new dress. Her mother had actually baked the cake herself, evident in the slightly lopsided top and too-little strawberries, and usually that thought would have filled Petunia with just enough happiness that she started to resent herself. Mum always baked Lily's cakes, so why should Petunia be grateful if it was done for her?
But in truth she felt nothing. No happiness, no resentment, not even a twinge of hunger or appetite. Sitting in front of her could have just as well been a slap of wet cardboard for all the impression it left on her.
I have to do something , the thought came out of nowhere and sent a small ripple through the stillness of Petunia's mind. I have to do something before there is nothing left for me to do, before there is nothing I ever want to do.
As if controlled by another entity she ate a piece of cake, not tasting the cloying sweetness of the thick cream or the tartness of the fruits even though they touched her tongue. She thanked her mother for the cake, for the dress and dutifully put it on so her father would smile and nod. And then she watched as they left, her father to meet some work friends and her Mum to pick up groceries and the thought echoing in her head intensified.
Do something, do anything, don't just stop like this …
She was turning sixteen, shouldn't she be happy or nervous or a mixture of both? She was no longer a girl, but a young woman, she should be looking forward to her future and decide what she wanted to do with it, and celebrate this day that she was born …
There's nothing you can do, Tuney!
She had to do something. A shuddering breath reached her lungs and it felt like the first in weeks that actually provided her with oxygen. Inhaling greedily she gulped the air, her chest expanding wide and the pinched feeling fleeting with every breath.
She was alive, she was young but grown, she could decide what to do now. There was no guarantee of success and no responsibility to change the world, simply her whims and wants.
I want to do something .
So what if it might amount to nothing? So what if she really couldn't do anything? At least she wouldn't continue to be buried under this layer of nonchalance, at least she would feel alive.
The idea sprang up out of seemingly nowhere, a seed planted in dry earth for long weeks, waiting for the first trickle of rain to now sprout and unfurl in her mind. Before the attack, before her world had been soaked in chaos in panic, her thoughts had been occupied with something else entirely - the mascots.
They had seemed so inconsequential compared to the giant she had spotted, compared to her broken trust and bone-deep aches. But at that frozen point in time, when she had still been happy and clueless, they had felt like the biggest discovery.
Sentient, magical, but not in the way Lily was. Green vines climbing over the splintering structure, holding it together in a tightly-wrapped net, iron boots crunching through the grass, blood dripping from a pike.
Her curiosity, so long dormant, revived like it was slowly thawing from a crust of ice, the hard shell melting with the first rays of spring sunshine.
Petunia didn't want to think about the war anymore, ever present but invisible. She didn't want to torment herself with her own impotence any longer.
Because there was something she could do - she could learn about those things that piqued her interest, just like she had done all those years ago when she first stumbled upon a skeletal foal in the forest. Her story hadn't started with Lily or even Eugene - it had started with herself.
Feeling the energy surging through her veins, the curiosity in her heart and the whirling thoughts in her mind, Petunia didn't hesitate. Not even changing out of her new dress, she stormed to their fireplace and grabbed a handful of newspapers to ball up and throw inside, uncaring of the headlines for once.
The vase with the magical, glittering powder seemed to catch the light like a beacon, reflecting right into Petunia's soul.
So what if Lily thought Petunia couldn't do anything?
She would do what she wanted.
Once a flickering flame had been coaxed to life, Petunia grabbed a handful of the small grains, crunching and squeaking between her fingers and threw it into the fire. A wave of heat washed over her skin, the fine hairs on her arms standing up while her pale eyes reflected bright green light.
Help comes to those who help themselves.
Petunia stepped into the flickering, emerald flames, warmed by them just as much as the new determination burning inside herself.
Petunia's memories of her only visit to Diagon Alley were of a chaotic, colourful mess of people and new impressions, bouncing wizard toys, buildings bowing to the sky and snippets of conversations about things she thought only existed in fairy tales. Though she'd been unaccustomed to it, the memory wasn't necessarily bad, leaning more towards a balance of trepidation and wonder.
But stepping onto the cobbled street now, Petunia couldn't mesh reality with those pictures in her mind.
Diagon Alley was almost empty. Only a handful of people hastened by, their heads lowered and collars propped up as if to ward off any curious gazes. Some of the once brightly coloured storefronts were closed and covered in a layer of grime, the bulbous windows dull and empty. The road winding like an intestine through rotten flesh was shaded by lopsided buildings with faded lettering and peeling paint. A few fluttering papers were nailed against unlit lampposts, and Petunia risked a closer glance at one of them only to reel back when the picture of a hairy man snarled at her.
Wanted posters , she realised and hastened her steps, feeling eyes prickling along her skin like the legs of small, crawling insects. Petunia wasn't sure if the feeling originated from the animated pictures or the few people around who surely noticed how out of place she looked with her frilly dress in this grey world. Maybe she should have taken the time to at least don a jacket, if not change altogether. But it had been an impulse that brought her here, not a well-thought-out plan.
Thankfully the bookstore wasn't too far, though Flourish & Blotts looked a lot more deserted without the wizards crowding in front of it like they had years ago to get Newt Scamander to sign their books. The memory twinged inside her chest, pictures of tumbling curls and a wide grin crawling unbidden to the surface of her thoughts like creatures from a lake.
What if all those years ago she had never entered the store? What if she had never met Eugene? Would she now feel lighter, happier, without the weight that pressed against her chest whenever she thought of the last time she had seen him, the dirt in his face, the darkness in his eyes while he told her about the horrors lurking behind the glittering facade of his world?
Or would she feel even more empty, clueless but also … worthless?
She tried to swallow against the clump of doubt blocking her air pipe, her breath almost whistling in her ears. It was just a stupid bookstore. There would be no Eugene here today, nothing but a few books that might have answers she needed.
Books that might be braided into a lifeline Petunia could cling to and use to drag herself out of the mire of her thoughts.
Searching for that determination inside her, Petunia made her way through the unobstructed front door, hearing a small bell above her head tinkle softly. The noise was too cheerful for her dour mood and Petunia froze in the warm air smelling like dry paper and old ink, a sweet aroma almost like vanilla - but no one came by to either welcome her or chase her off.
Feeling a bit like an intruder, Petunia walked deeper into the interior, her path framed by high shelves and strange signs, just like all those years ago - and then she saw it, now at eye-level but years ago it had been above her head. A book standing out from its neighbours thanks to its fur and chains. Nostalgia swept through her mind with unexpected force and Petunia almost expected to hear a familiar voice behind her any second.
But everything remained still except for some page-rustling in another part of the store and the almost inaudible groaning of old wood. Petunia forced her eyes away from the book that was a creature in itself and instead started studying the spines and titles around her. Some of them were obviously old and precious, real leather embossed with gold foil while others more closely resembled cheap comics, with thin paper covers and bright, painted monsters on the front. The titles were wide-ranged as well, from ' Beast Legislations ', ' History of Magical Creatures ' to the taming, breeding or killing of the same, but nothing stood out to her as being specifically about the human-like creatures until her wandering finger halted above one spine.
' Beings or Beasts? '
The book was bound in faded cloth and smelled faintly of mothballs. Green ink had soaked into the yellowed fabric over the years, making the words on the cover almost unreadable. Petunia couldn't even decipher the name of the author.
Carefully she freed the book from its tight squeeze and brushed a layer of dust from its cover. The binding creaked when she opened it and flipped a few of the brittle pages, her eyes roaming over the tight script. She started reading a few pages in, when the question that had mandated the title of the book was posed.
'What is a beast and what is a being?
What deserves to have its voice heard and be protected under the laws of our society and what deserves to be slain and hunted?
First we shall take a look at the history of the term, seeking answers that our ancestors provided.
Burdock Mundoon, Chief of the Wizard's Council in the fourteenth century, was the first to tackle the difficult question, deciding upon a simplistic differentiation: Whatever creature walks upon two legs would henceforth be granted the status of 'being', all others to remain 'beast'.
Madame Elfrida Clagg, Mundoon's successor, made an attempt to redefine the differences in hopes of forging closer ties between different breeds of magic users (a worthy cause, as despite widespread Wizard superiority, some creatures such as house elves or goblins posed a risk). Madame Clagg declared all those capable of human speech as 'beings', unwittingly banishing many intelligent creatures that spoke their own tongues.
Over the next four centuries many new definitions were introduced and subsequently abolished, resulting in strained relations between all magical factions that were not helped by pesky goblin uprisings or the necessary enslavement of house elves.
How should a troll, who walked on two legs and could utter simplistic words but had the intelligence of a gnat and the bloodthirstiness of a rapid werewolf be defined? How should a werewolf, who remained on two legs and sentient but for a portion of the month, be defined? How should a centaur, intelligent and capable of magic but walking on four legs, be defined?
It wasn't until 1811 that a definition was found that most of the magical community found acceptable. Gorgan Stump, the newly appointed Minister of Magic at the time, decreed that a 'being' was 'any creature that has sufficient intelligence to understand the laws of the magical community and to bear part of the responsibility in shaping those laws'. Stump thereafter created the divisions of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures that still exist today.
Trolls were judged not to comprehend any words even though they spoke them, therefore reclassified from 'beings' to 'beasts' despite their two-legged gait. Merpeople were defined as 'beings' for the very first time in history. Fairies, pixies and gnomes, contrary to their humanoid appearance, were placed firmly in the beast category.
But not all troubles were that easily solved. Centaurs refused the 'beings' status after centuries of being called 'beasts', werewolves meanwhile are being shunted between the two divisions to this day, while some argue that muggles should be -
"This is a store, not a library, young lady."
Petunia flinched and looked up. She had been so absorbed in the text that she hadn't even noticed that a man had walked up to her. His stern gaze was magnified by a pair of thick glasses that meshed well with his ocher sweater-vest and greying hair, the ink-stains on his fingers declaring him as belonging just as firmly in this store as the books all around her.
"Either buy it or put it back," the man grumbled now, his gaze darting over her outfit, no doubt noticing the fine material of her dress - as well as the obvious lack of any pockets to carry money in.
A strange mixture of anger and embarrassment was creeping up Petunia's neck, leaving unsightly, red blotches in its wake. She hadn't taken any money with her in her haste but even if she had wanted to, Petunia would have been unable to get her hands on any wizard currency.
Swallowing her shame and resentment, Petunia straightened her back and lifted her chin while slowly closing the book, careful not to crinkle the pages and slotted it back where she found it.
Before the man could say anything else, a delicate jingling sound disturbed the air, catching both of their attentions.
"Mr Blotts," someone called from the front of the shop and Petunia frowned while the old man groaned.
"Good day," he told Petunia, a clear dismissal, before walking away, muttering under his breath. And despite herself Petunia was quick to follow him, the interesting book for now forgotten.
She recognized that voice.
When Petunia turned the corner of the last shelf blocking her view of the entrance area of the store, her feet halted without conscious thought.
A boy was waiting in front of the low counter, his familiar face turning towards the bookkeeper as he appeared between the shelves, lumbering ahead when Petunia had stopped. Hair a shade of blonde even lighter than her own brushed the boy's collarbones, prominently revealed by the gaping neckline of a strange tunic patterned with big birds. A drying branch was tucked behind his ear, small curled leaves dusting his shoulders and clashing horribly with the orange fabric. His eyes nicked Petunia's for just a breath, bulging and bright, before they settled on the bookkeeper once more, who groaned in exasperation.
"You again."
The boy smiled without any ire. "Did one of me come by already?"
The bookkeeper ignored his nonsense. "I told you a hundred times, I won't sell that rag, let alone print it. Pander it elsewhere."
"Why would you sell a rag? Instead you should consider my magazin."
"Stop testing me, boy."
Looking honestly confused, said boy tilted his head. "What test? I already decided you would be a good place to publish from, no need to pass a test."
Petunia finally remembered his unusual name: Xenophilius Lovegood.
She had only met him once, at the Weasley's get-together. He had grown taller since then, his hair longer and clipped at uneven lengths as if he had taken dull scissors to the light strands himself. But his sense of fashion was as horrible as back then, just like his voice remained soft and unassuming.
"People will be happy to read my magazine and learn about -," he continued.
The bookkeeper interrupted him with a scoff. "Learn about what? All you're writing is insane nonsense - look at this!"
The man's hand was surprisingly swift when it snatched one of the papers from the counter. Petunia, still standing among the towering protection of the shelves, only now realised that this must be the magazine Xenophilius was trying to sell.
The bookkeeper started reading the first headline, a scowl marring his face: " 'Minister of Magic moonlighting at Vampire Pubs in the hopes of infiltrating the Dark ranks…' Where do you get this garbage?"
The paper was thrown to the ground and the man stomped off between the shelves, apparently done with all of this. His quickly receding back made him look like he was fleeing into the shadows sliced by slanted beams of light, safer between all those unseeing covers than out in the open with Xenophilius' guileless gaze clinging to him.
And now that he was gone, Petunia found herself the focus of those same eyes.
"I know you. Like a flower - Petunia."
Petunia wasn't sure if his words really deserved the wave of embarrassment that washed through her, he didn't seem to mean anything by them. "... Yes. Xenophilius, right?"
He smiled. "You remembered. Most people tend to forget it and then they simply call me something else."
Petunia felt a bit out of her depth. She had wanted to come here to learn more about creatures or more specifically, to get out of her own head. She hadn't thought she would be required to interact with anyone, especially not a wizard she barely knew.
But something stopped her from just walking away. Maybe it was the fact that the bookkeeper had just done the same, ignoring the boy and walking off as if his presence was gnawing at his nerves.
Maybe it was the illustration Petunia glimpsed on the cover of the thrown-away magazine.
Petunia picked the paper up, absently smoothing a crease, her eyes clinging to the smeared lines of the small drawing, stuffed into a corner and surrounded by a circling headline. Why Giant fashion will soon sweep the market …
Grinning back at her was the drawing of a man-like beast with long arms, clothed in rags. Its heavy brow and small eyes were exaggerated to the extreme but somehow the likeness was enough to send a shiver down her spine.
Grass beneath her fingers, pain spiking along her leg, the earth vibrating with a loud noise …
"Do you like it? I wrote it myself."
Petunia flinched and looked up. Xenophilius had come closer while she'd been distracted, now standing right next to her and staring at his own magazine in fascination as if he had never seen it.
Her finger hovered over the drawing and Petunia absently noticed that it was trembling slightly. "This … what is this thing?"
"An illustration."
Was he making fun of her? Petunia shot him a quick glare that failed to penetrate his armour of good-natured obviousness. "Of?"
"A giant. Have you ever seen one? I heard they can grow big enough to clean a chimney without needing a ladder. Imagine how convenient that must be … though I also heard their caves don't have any chimneys, so maybe they aren't all that happy about it."
Petunia swallowed and forced her eyes away from the picture, staring blankly at the headline the bookkeeper had read out loud. Vampires?
"Do you want to read it?"
Petunia wanted to say no. She should have said no. The boy was acting too familiar, they had barely exchanged a few words and didn't really know each other, she had no interest in his magazine - except a small part of her couldn't stop her eyes from flitting from headline to headline.
And somehow an hour later Petunia found herself inside a strange ice cream parlour, sitting on a bright-purple, wrought-iron chair with a melting glob of green ice in front of her, while her fingers flipped through pages, careful to keep all sugary stickiness away from the paper. When she had finished the last article - Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and how to catch them - she finally looked up at Xenophilius sitting across from her.
His lips were smeared with pink ice-cream, almost as if he had purposely applied colour to them, and he didn't seem to mind, placidly gazing back. He had not once interrupted Petunia in her reading, the only signs that he was not nodding off his constantly tapping feet. Now his face brightened. "What do you think?"
Petunia wasn't actually sure what she was thinking. Her mind was buzzing with all of her thoughts, like a beehive that had been poked by the different headlines as if they were sticks.
The snowball in her mind had already started rolling and gathering when she read ' Beings or Beasts? ', catching on every creature that was mentioned in passing but which Petunia hadn't known about, absorbing the information, but this …
She didn't know anything about the things Xenophilius mentioned in his magazine. She hadn't known who the magical minister was (a middle-aged witch named Eugenia Jenkins), she hadn't known that vampires actually existed and even had their own pubs, she hadn't known … Petunia hadn't known that giants were not mindless beasts but standing against the wizards for a reason.
Xenophilius' articles had been convoluted and unstructured, emphasising unimportant details while glossing over important conclusions. But when he claimed that giants were fighting alongside the enemy forces because they felt their clothing choices weren't getting the appreciation they deserved (and now magical society was called upon to dress like them and lead by example) Petunia read beneath the lines: they had a conflict with the wizards that stemmed from lack of respect. If the issue was truly their clothes or if it went deeper wasn't mentioned, but Petunia could readily believe that there was more to it, the tone of ' Beast or Being ' still soaking through her thoughts, the treatment she herself had observed when it came to the mascots ...
The giants were fighting because wizards were probably treating them just as dismissively as they treated muggles. As they treated satyrs with all their natural magic and music, as they treated redcaps, whose eerie laughter had haunted Petunia's dreams. As they apparently treated a number of other creatures, listed in ' Beings or Beasts? ' - centaurs, werewolves, house elves, goblins …
To put it simply, Petunia was a bit overwhelmed. She didn't know what she was supposed to do with all this information.
Usually her curiosity had been fed with small appetisers, whetting the appetite, but never satting it. But now she was stuffed so full, she didn't know how she could ever digest it all.
And strangely enough, it felt too simple at the same time. She knew that there was more to it, that she wouldn't be able to comprehend the complexities of a whole war because of a fashion article, even though she might desperately want to. But at least it was something she could picture and cling to.
"My ice-cream never looked like that."
Petunia blinked, trying to tune out the humming of her thoughts and focus back on Xenophilius, who was in turn staring at the green soup that was all that was left of Petunia's mint ice cream in obvious interest.
Petunia cleared her throat. "You mean melted?"
"Hn. I always eat it while it's cold. Does it taste better when it's warmed up?"
"No."
"Good, I don't know if I could wait that long every time."
Petunia wasn't sure what to say to that and so instead focused back on her own concerns. "This magazine, is everything you wrote true?"
"Truth is such a strange concept. What is true for me might not be true for you."
Petunia blinked.
He continued: "But does it have to be the truth to be important? I think it's much more fun to keep the thoughts inside your head well-fed and interesting."
Well-fed thoughts, sated curiosity … wasn't that what had driven Petunia here as well? Her curiosity, her wish to learn something new.
"What do you know about satyrs?"
Xenophilius played with a strand of his hair and it was looking like white cotton candy was slowly wrapping around his fine-knuckled finger. "I know that you should never enter a drinking contest with them, lest you wake up in a compromising situation."
Petunia blushed and then scowled to hide that same blush. "That's it?"
He grinned, not reacting to her tone. "That's it."
For a second silence lingered, before Petunia continued in slight challenge: "What do you know about intelligent creatures?" Remembering what she had read in ' Being or Beast' , Petunia quickly clarified: "Like centaurs and werewolves?"
Xenophilius stretched his spoon across the table and dunked it into the green ice-soup, a small clink ringing out when his utensil hit the bowl. "Knowing a little and a lot might feel the same. I know that centaurs can see the future and that werewolves love cheesecake."
He licked a green drop from his spoon, his eyes thoughtful. "Maybe I should write about it."
"Why?"
"When people know they simply have to bake once a month, they might not be so afraid any more."
Petunia swallowed, something in his tone catching her attention as if she had snagged her nail on a loose threat of the conversation. "Afraid of what?"
He shrugged. "Werewolves. Giants. The war, of course."
'Of course ' echoed in Petunia's mind. She hadn't even known it existed not too long ago, while for Xenophilius it had been a constant shadow for much longer. But his eyes were as clear as a spring brook, no doubts or fears to be seen.
"You think it will really help?"
He smiled but didn't answer her question. "Did you like it?"
"What?"
He pointed his chin towards the colourful cover she had laid a proprietary hand on. "The Quibbler."
Petunia was slightly reeling from the switch of topic . What a strange name. "It's … certainly engaging."
Eugene would have liked it , Petunia thought and then her heart cramped painfully, reminding her why she should rather focus on the boy who was actually sitting with her - a boy who hadn't kept a whole war a secret from her - instead of the one whose absence was like a festering hole in her gut.
For a ludicrous second she wondered what the two of them looked like from the outside, sitting in these ornate chairs together, her in her pretty dress, him with flowers behind his ear, eating ice-cream and talking. And why she had never done anything so simple but bright with the one she wished she could simply forgive.
"Your head must be quite heavy, here, this will help."
Petunia almost flinched back when Xenophilius suddenly extended his hand towards her and then he snapped his fingers and she felt something press against the delicate skin creasing the top of her ear, a sweet scent wafting towards her nose. Carefully reaching up, her fingertips encountered satin-soft petals, tickling her temple.
A small flowering branch had appeared behind her ear, twin to the one Xenophilius was sporting.
"That will help to keep the Humdingers away, they like to weigh down the mind."
Petunia felt her pulse in her throat, her cheeks heating. Say something, don't just stare at him … "Your magazine - is there more?"
He smiled. And somehow when Petunia left the ice-cream store she was one subscription to ' The Quibbler ' richer.
Some of the text Petunia is 'reading' is referenced from the 'Fantastic Beasts and where to find them' book published by Bloomsbury. No Copyright Infringement intended.
As always, thank you so much for engaging with the story, reading, leaving your thoughts and in turn giving me something to think about ^^ Without you, dear readers, this story would never have turned out to be so much fun to write !