As always, thank you so much for your support and continued interest, you guys really are the fuel for my creative engine and keep me going!
Petunia's tribulations aren't over yet but her life is full of twists and turns anyway ...

August 1975

Petunia twisted the fabric of her blouse so viciously between her fingers she could feel the treads of the fine material stretch and warp. Even when she loosened her grip, it remained bunched up in an ugly wrinkle.

Probably just as ugly as the one she could feel between her brows, her skin furrowed deeply, birthed of uncertainty she'd tried to hide behind annoyance.

"Remember, Mary told us you shouldn't say anything. It will only serve to incriminate you," Lily repeated. "Muggles are very rarely called into the ministry, other to give witness accounts and even then they -"

Here she stopped and Petunia didn't have to wonder why. Obliviate.

Maybe tomorrow Petunia would wake up and have forgotten everything, Aspen, Ivy, Eugene - maybe she would wake up and be Petunia Evans, fresh graduate, looking forward to her type course in London while unobtrusively shopping for a fitting husband with sensible expectations and big enough pockets.

The idea terrified her more than any mystical prison. Her nightmares had warped since Lily's friend, chocolate-haired and doe-eyed Mary McDonald, had regaled them with what she knew about the Ministry of Magic's justice system. About the council, about the laws and about the punishments; about a spell that was used to wipe the memories of muggles, leaving them blissfully unaware and blind to everything unusual.

Of course there was no question of consent or morality, those were muggles after all.

"You'll rip it."

Only Lily's voice prevented Petunia from mutilating her best blouse further, the soft flower-patterns stitched onto the fabric scratching against her skin.

"Take a deep breath. Mary said that you shouldn't fall under the usual laws because of me. Having a witch in the family means you're already aware of magic and aren't beholden to the Statue of Secrecy. So all that's left is the charge of illegally keeping a beast -"

"Aspen is no mere beast, he's -"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure he's wonderful. What matters is that you never kept him, understood? He was wild and living in the forest and you had nothing to do with it."

Petunia was reluctant to obey Lily's commanding voice but found herself nodding anyway. Her nerves were stretched taunt, every minute spent in nail-biting anticipation winding her up just that bit further. She wondered when they would snap, and if they did, what would be left of her - a hysterically laughing madwoman? A crying and begging mess? Something in between?

Just when she wondered how much longer she'd have to wait - the letter had only mentioned a pickup, no time when her escort would arrive - her mother's voice echoed from the downstairs hallway. "Petunia, there's someone here for you!"

Lily took a deep breath. "Remember what Mary told us."

All Petunia really remembered was her silent terror.

Hopefully she would still be herself when she came back.

The woman who had been sent to pick her up strangely reminded Petunia of Ms Savours. Young but put together in a sensible outfit consisting of cut lines and dark fabric, no embellishment or bright colours to highlight her age. Her lips were expertly lined and fixed with an unwavering, polite smile.

In flights of dreadful imagination, Petunia had assumed she would be picked up by grim-faced men with thick bull-like necks and flinty, mean eyes. They would haul her away with bruising grips, uncaring for her slim limbs and speak not a word.

There would be a pair of cold iron manacles burning the flesh of her wrists.

Instead the young woman explained to Petunia in detail what was going to happen before offering a hand with short, clean nails for her to take. No grabbing, no hauling, no threats. Just something called 'apparating'.

"You might experience some nausea," she warned when Petunia took her hand and then the world compressed as if Petunia were an aluminium can in a trash compactor, squeezing her tight until her mind spilled from her cracked head and the only thought that remained was 'Don't puke'.

It only took a breath, a blink, and when Petunia refocused they were standing in a dingy alleyway lined with grey office buildings, a telephone booth right in front of them. The red lacquer was peeling, revealing rust spots and smeared layers of grime, the windows scrawled with ineligible graffiti. Car exhaust layered on her tongue with every breath, bitter and strangely cloying. It only enhanced the pulsing need to double over and retch, but Petunia kept her spine straight with an iron will, refusing to soil her best blouse with vomit to accompany the wrinkles.

"Alright?" The woman asked and Petunia only now realised that her escort had never bothered to introduce herself. Instead of asking for a name she gave a short nod, not yet trusting herself to open her mouth and allow more of the foul air to invade her lungs and taste buds.

Apparently satisfied that Petunia hadn't crumbled or puked, the woman led her into the telephone booth. It was uncomfortably cramped, especially because Petunia was with a stranger, though the woman's citrusy perfume at least chased off the stink of the alley.

Without a hint of hesitation, the woman picked up the phone, dialling a short sequence of numbers without explanation.

Petunia failed to hide her flinch when a polite, female voice suddenly echoed around them, coming from thin air instead of the receiver in the woman's hand. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Verena Crickely, Magical Law Enforcement Patrol" the woman - Ms Crickerly - stated cooly, "accompanying Petunia Evans, muggle, to her disciplinary hearing."

"Thank you," the disembodied voice replied. "Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes."

There was a strange clank and Petunia saw something silver flash in the chute where returned coins usually rained in, rattling and clinking. This was no coin though, but a strange, square badge, no bigger than her palm, which was etched with unnecessarily flourished letters. 'Petunia Evans, Muggle, Disciplinary Hearing' it read.

Petunia wasn't wearing any robes - had never worn robes in her life actually - and so pinned the unnaturally light badge onto her blouse, only feeling a sliver of remorse when it pierced the fine fabric. She had already tortured the garment beyond saving anyway.

Just as she fastened the small clip the ground underneath her feet suddenly shuddered and Petunia yelped, gripping the thing closest to her - the phone - for stability. Before thoughts of earthquakes in London could truly manifest she noticed that it wasn't the world that was trembling but the telephone booth that was sinking!

The pavement rose slowly, covering the blind windows inch by inch, like a building tidal wave of dirt and tar. Petunia thought that the air was getting short, caught in this small prison of rust and stains, with a stoic woman who wore perfect lipstick and spritsy perfume as her only company. And then they were enveloped in darkness as the last of the daylight slipped away, Petunia's harsh breaths echoing in the capsule, accompanied by the steady grind and screech of earth against metal.

Oh God, she was being buried alive, caught in this macabre, red-painted coffin …

Just when Petunia's stomach curdled so much she feared puking would now be inevitable, a slant of golden light spilled across her shoes, a beam of pure salvation.

"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day," said the disembodied voice and if Petunia hadn't been so relieved she would have cursed at it. Instead she marvelled at the sight that was slowly revealed with every inch they sank further, until the booth rattled to a stop and the door popped open without Ms Crickerly touching it.

They stepped out into what Petunia had to admit was one of the most beautiful and opulent rooms she had ever seen. The ceiling stretching far above her head was a deep sapphire blue inlaid with delicate, golden symbols, slowly rotating or shifting in a hypnotic display that almost managed to monopolise her attention, if it weren't for the gilded fireplaces along either side of the large hall, big enough to allow a man to stand in comfortably, the flicker of green flames mirrored in the polished dark wood beneath her feet and along the walls. It looked exactly as she would have imagined a wizard noble's private entry hall, something decadent and showy in all the expensive decor, fitting more with an age where swans were glazed with sugar and displayed as centrepieces.

Petunia suddenly felt a bit silly for all the fuss she'd mentally awarded her blouse - in this place it would probably not even be fit to be used as a napkin.

"This way."

Ms Crickerly's voice snapped Petunia out of her daze and she hastened to follow the slim woman. The hall wasn't packed but it wasn't empty either, wizards and witches arriving in the flames, hurrying along or standing in lines in front of some fireplaces, and Petunia didn't want to risk losing Ms Crickerly because she was too busy gaping.

Though she couldn't help a small stutter in the rhythm of her quick steps when they passed a giant statue, her gaze captivated at first by the pure gold it was moulded from and then further snared by the motive.

A man was uppermost, obviously a wizard going by the wand he was pointing in the air with a haughty posture and face, but it wasn't him that caught her attention and neither was it the beautiful witch that was next to him, somewhat shorter and less prominent but with a wand of her own.

It was the grouping of creatures cowering around them. One was a man with half the body of a horse, his long legs folded down to reduce his size and presence, another was a short man with giant ears and a hooked nose and lastly something that was more man-like than an actual man, with spindly limbs, tea-cup sized eyes and bat-like ears. All of them were demure in posture, not proud and upright like the witch and wizard, but their eyes clung to the pair, adoring and worshipping. Jets of water arched around the picture like a glittering, see-through frame, the two biggest jets emerging from the wands.

"Keep up."

"What's that?"

Ms Crickerly glanced at the sickening display, obviously not seeing why Petunia was so tense all of a sudden. "The Fountain of Magical Brethren. Let's go, you don't want to be late."

The gurgling and splashing of falling water should have merged with the background noise of hissing flames, pops and cracks when wizards and witches suddenly appeared, clatter of footsteps and murmuring of a dozen different voices, but it stood out to Petunia even when she had turned her back on the fountain and followed behind Ms Crickerly.

The statue could not have been clearer in its message, it wasn't about brethren but superiority, the belief that wizards and witches stood above all other creations, that they alone could rule and decide the fate of everyone else.

Honestly, Petunia was surprised that a muggle hadn't been cowering among all the others they deemed less.

And considering who - what - she was she suddenly felt like all her careful preparation, all of Lily's warnings, were moot. Her fate had probably already been decided.

After all, what did one measly muggle have to say in those pompous halls? Nothing that would be listened to.

Petunia fought the sudden urge to turn around, run up to the statue and break the stupid, water-spewing wands, grinding them under her heel until all that remained was golden sand.

Instead she took a deep breath and continued to stare at Ms Crickerly's back, leading her deeper and deeper into the ministry's bowels.

Ms Crickerly proceeded through a doorway and they boarded an elevator that looked more like a delicate, golden bird-cage, rattling chains and tinkling metal as their accompaniment instead of soothing, bland music when they ascended until it stopped with a disembodied announcement of "Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services."

They emerged into a corridor lined with doors and Petunia blinked at the window to her right. When she had stepped into the telephone booth the London sky had been heavy and overcast, low clouds pregnant with gallons of unspilled rain pressing onto her head, but now … the window showed spills of tropical sunshine, the light so clear it was more white than yellow, casting crystals of brightness into their path.

"It's enchanted. We're still underground." Ms Crickerly must have noticed her stare. "This way."

Petunia banished all musings of magical sunshine from her mind, trying to recall what Lily's friend had told them about the Ministry of Magic and what Petunia's role would be. With every step across polished wood she shortened the distance between herself and the person on trial, the muggle accused of keeping illegal creatures, a mantle she would be forced to wear like a jacket of lead.

Lily had been firmly convinced that denial would be the solution to everything, that Petunia should simply claim to have no knowledge of whatever she was convicted of, had never seen a Thestral and couldn't be held accountable for every wild beast roaming the fields around her house.

But Lily had a tendency to view things in a positive, rosy light whereas Petunia scratched at each clean surface until she found the nicks and dirt hidden beneath the perfect lacquer. And this was no different - what would happen to Aspen if Petunia renounced his existence? He didn't have anyone else to speak up for him, he wouldn't even be put on trial. Petunia was no idiot and she still remembered that he had been classified as dangerous.

Would they set him free? Or would they have him locked up somewhere 'safe'? She didn't even know where he was at the moment, if he was well, if he had a chance to stretch his wings and harass all the birds crossing his path, if he was even still alive -

Petunia felt a breath catch in her chest, her sternum tight and smarting and she did her best to focus on the steady rhythm of Ms Crickley's clacking steps, leading her down the corridor.

Aspen was fine, he had to be. She couldn't allow any other notion to fester in her head, infected with worry and anger like leaking pus and blood. Taking a deep breath, Petunia shifted her worry onto another trail; if she would even be able to lie to the witches and wizards. Lily's friend Mary had been vague when it came to this topic but her words had been branded into Petunia's memory anyway.

"Secrecy Sensor. They vibrate when they detect concealment and lies... not always in use, but for some trials they keep them on hand. Of course there is also veritaserum, but it's controlled by very strict Ministry guidelines, I can't imagine that they would force a mu- you to take it without any provocation."

They turned a corner, and arrived in front of a pair of heavy oak doors, 'Courtroom Four' etched in a plaque above the entry. Petunia noticed that it was slightly lopsided, making the otherwise imposing sight look a bit shabby.

"On you go, just in time."

Petunia blinked. "You're not -"

"My task ends here. Good luck." Ms Crickley gave a curt nod and an impersonal smile before turning around and leaving without another word of goodbye.

For a few seconds longer Petunia's eyes remained glued to her receding back, as if the instinct to follow along like a stupid duckling had already been ingrained in her brain, before she forced herself to face the doors. She wished that there was someone at her side, someone who would take her hand and grip it with silent encouragement, someone to tell her it would all turn out alright, but silence gaped around her.

There's no time for this, Petunia reminded herself forcefully, her fingers only shaking slightly when she raised them to open the heavy doors.

Some part of her must have expected iron shackles and torches in the room beyond because she was surprised by the clean space unfolding in front of her, illuminated by delicate glass lamps ensconced in the walls. Rows of benches formed an U around a chair in the middle of the room, an undecorated, square piece of furniture with a straight back made from solid wood. A sprinkling of wizards and witches were seated on the curved benches, clothed in plum-coloured robes decorated with a stitched, silver W above the breast, around a dozen in total. The courtroom was made to seat many more and the air echoed with the absence of people.

A muggle girl's trial obviously didn't generate a lot of interest, Petunia thought with a mix of resentment and relief. She was reluctant to sit down in the prominent chair until a man with an impressively twirled beard spoke: "Very well, take a seat. You are Ms Petunia Evans, I presume?"

The chair had no cushion, the unforgiving wood pressing against the meat of her thighs when Petunia lowered herself. "Yes."

"The accused being present, let us begin. Are you ready?" he called down the row. A murmur of assent rose through the small crowd, no enthusiasm present in the voices. To them it was the same drudgery as every other day, their thoughts on more important matters like breaktime or what they should have for dinner, while for Petunia her destiny hung in the balance, teetering above a plunging abyss.

"Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August," the bearded man started in a ringing voice as another bird-boned, tan man took notes, though his face remained placid and unengaged, "into offences committed under the Decree for Reasonable Regulation for Dangerous Creatures and the International Statute of Secrecy by Petunia Evans, muggle."

Petunia noticed a few faces lifting from the paperwork fanned across their laps as soon as the last word had been uttered, eyes blinking at her with surprise or derision. Apparently putting a muggle on trial was just as uncommon as Mary had believed it to be.

"Interrogators: Elphias Doge, Ministry of Magic jurist; Elphinstone Urquart, senior officer in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Abraham Grimblehawk, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures; Gilbert Macnair, Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. Court Scribe, Jeremy Marchbanks."

Another voice spoke up as soon as Mr Doge finished, male and good-natured. But it didn't belong to any of the wizards Mr Doge had just listed - it emerged from behind Petunia's seat.

"Witness for the defence, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."

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