August 1975
Ms Savours was a lot younger than Petunia would have thought, looking as if she had just graduated herself.
Her clothes were conservative and appropriate, a navy blue blazer with a high collar and her only jewellery was a thin pearl necklace. But she was wearing shiny lipstick and her dark hair was curled into tight, fancy ringlets, traces of her youthfulness blinking through like sunlight behind the clouds of a stiff posture and ironed fabric.
Maybe she has a date after this, Petunia thought, or wants to meet up with friends in one of those fancy, historic pubs Petunia had spotted on her way here, so unlike the ones in Cokeworth.
For now though, Ms Savours was responsible for the gaggle of potential students around them, most fresh-faced and newly graduated, a few others returning to the workforce after taking care of their families for years, with lines around their lips and small slivers of grey on their head. The first group was energised, soaking up everything Ms Savours said with enthusiasm, while the later group was more collected but no less interested or hopeful. Everyone was viewing this as the opportunity it was - everyone except Petunia.
Her eyes lingered on the off-beige wallpaper, meant to be neutral and modern but only reminding her of the padding inside a coffin. The slightly stuffy air was filled with the sharp scent of fresh ink and every word Ms Savours uttered in her posh accent was underlined with the endless clacking of multiple typewriters in the background.
"Our company is in contact with many big names in the industry, who value the competency and pose our graduates are known for. I don't want to promise too much, but a permanent position is almost guaranteed if you choose our institute to further your learning."
Clack, clack, clack …
"Many of you come highly recommended, and I sense that you will be a perfect fit for our program. Additionally to the courses we offer real-life experience by collaborating with different firms for internship opportunities and …"
Clack, clack, clack …
"This will conclude our introductory tour. Are there any questions?"
A few hands shot in the air, but Petunia's arms continued to hang at her sides, limp and listless, her fingers gripping onto her light coat as if she was afraid to let it slip from her grasp.
Why couldn't she muster any enthusiasm for this? Why did she feel so out of place when she knew deep down that this was somewhere she was supposed to belong? In between beige walls, stylish hairdos and endless clacking, readying herself to carve out a place in the belly of this sprawling city. She should be looking at Ms Savours and wanting to be her, wanting to wear glossy lipstick and curl her hair and meet her equally vibrant friends for a drink.
Instead all Petunia wanted was to return to the sprawling fields of Cokeworth, the wisteria tree with its garland of flowers and of course Aspen, winding between the lilac blooms like a shadow come to life.
And then what?, she admonished herself. Endure more of Lily's endless sulking? Her parent's furtive glances at their down-trodden daughter, afraid for Lily and at the same time plagued by undefined guilt? And Petunia in the middle of it, as the catalyst that brought to light what Lily had so desperately wanted to keep hidden, silently blamed by all.
She knew that her time in that setting had to come to an end. She couldn't always be the older sister, the responsible daughter, she had to forge a path for herself. But while all those years she had fantasised about leaving her old life behind, of finally freeing herself from her mother's expectations and Lily's shadow, now that the time had come her feet stalled at the doorstep. She just didn't dare take that one step that might lead to freedom.
"Hi, I'm Emilia."
Petunia blinked away her stupor only to realise that one of the potential students had come up to her in a cloud of hairspray and powdery perfume. She was wearing stylish glasses that successfully drew attention away from her weak chin and redirected it to her long lashes and big eyes - eyes that were looking directly at Petunia. "Me and a few other girls were thinking of grabbing something to eat, maybe see if there are any nice stores around here. Would you like to tag along?"
It took Petunia a second to process the question - the invitation. She had grown so used to her status of loner, invisible to her classmates all those years that she could now barely deal with the reality of someone including her - her, Petunia, muggle, left-behind sister - for a casual outing.
Her first instinct was to retreat, to deny and protect herself by keeping her distance, too far away to be hurt by any flailing social overtures. Instead she fought her denial down and took a cleansing breath, a smile etched onto her features that felt only skin-deep.
This is your new life, new friends, new opportunities to reinvent yourself. Learn to appreciate it.
"Sure, I'd love to."
Petunia pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the train window, ignoring the layer of grime she was surely acquiring in the process. Her skull rattled with the constant movement of the tireless wheels, and she could almost imagine her brain sloshing around in a soup of exhaustion, her eyes unfocused on the landscape flashing by.
The afternoon had been nice. She had even bought a small purse that was way out of her budget, but Emilia had cheerfully remarked how it fit her 'look' and Petunia hadn't known what to do with a compliment except to give in.
So why was she so numb? She should be elated and happy and looking forward to her next trip to London, when she will officially sign up for the typing course, together with Emilia and the other girls …
A remaining sense of alienation clung to Petunia's shoulders, invisible but heavy, weighing her down. The topics had been so mundane - fashion, music, which celebrity they wished to someday marry - and there hadn't been a single one where Petunia had been able to easily chime in. For so long now her life revolved around secret wars, underground organisations and fantastical creatures that she hadn't even realised how consumed by it she had become. When they'd talked about their favourite magazines, Petunia had almost blurted out 'The Quibbler' before stopping herself.
Petunia didn't feel like she belonged with those girls. It was as if her purse was a pitiful piece of camouflage, an attempt to blend in that only highlighted how out of place she was in a London boutique with all the other shoppers - the normal people.
And how ironic that she was just as out of place in the magical world. When she had boarded the train at King's Cross, her eyes had lingered on the wall between the platforms nine and ten. She knew what was hiding behind that unremarkable, rough brick but it wasn't meant for her. If it weren't for Lily, Petunia would be just as clueless as everyone else.
And didn't that sting, even now, years later.
The train slowed, the vibration of the scratched glass lessening the closer they came to the station. Petunia gathered herself, her coat and her new purse and was just standing up when she spotted something out of the window.
The station loomed beyond the glass, a few street lights flickering to life as if to herald the arrival of dusk, their orange glow already attracting a darting cloud of moths and mosquitos. And illuminated by that same glow was Petunia's mother.
If Petunia hadn't been a bone-deep cynic, she might have been happy, elated, and positively surprised that her Mum had made the drive to the station to pick her up, when she hadn't even given her a specific time for her arrival, such an unusual show of concern and affection that it would have stunned her.
But Petunia was long robbed of all such notions. And so she wasn't even that surprised when the first words out of her mother's mouth were not a greeting or an inquiry about how her trip to London went. Instead she asked: "What did you do?"
What did surprise Petunia though weren't the words, but what she recognized in her mother's eyes. An emotion she had grown familiar with seeing ever since she had outed Lily's ambitions to their parents: fear.
Only now it was directed at Petunia.
Petunia couldn't recall when exactly she realised that her parents were fallible.
It must have slowly accumulated and built throughout the years, like an invisible underground river gaining speed and traction, eroding solid structure one drop at a time until everything simply collapsed on itself, silently and inevitably.
If Petunia had to pick one moment where the realisation flared in her face it would have to be this one. Right now, sitting around their dining table, an envelope lying before them and her parents' faces just as pale and helpless as her own.
They weren't the invincible figures of her childhood, all knowing and all mighty. They were humans, with faults and fears and worries.
They were muggles, just as powerless to do anything about this situation as Petunia herself.
Because this was a letter that didn't belong to their world of scrubbing dishes and working themselves raw, it wasn't a letter that fit with the lace stitched onto the kitchen curtains or the telly blaring sport's news in the background.
It fit with golden-eyed owls and wands and a whole government of wizards, making rules without anyone the wiser and relying on a secret, magical prison to keep people in line.
From the Ministry of Magic, it read on the cream-coloured envelope, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Gethsemane Prickle, Per Bubonem.
And beneath that Petunia's name and address, glaring from the paper in clear, decisive lines of fine script.
And no one had dared open it yet. Not her father, usually boisterous and stoutly defensive of everything he connected with idioms such as 'bravery' or 'courage', not her mother who was always unconcerned when it came to her eldest daughter, not one to shy away from Petunia's flaws.
So in the end it was Petunia herself, with fingers that felt more like bone than skin, who carefully ripped it open and unfolded the missive inside.
Dear Ms Petunia Evans,
We have received intelligence that you illegally obtained a beast with the classification of XXXX without Ministry consent.
The severity of this breach of the Decree for Reasonable Regulation for Dangerous Creatures has resulted in a charge of Illegal Possession of Dangerous Creatures. Ministry specialists will be responsible for collecting the beast.
As this is a breach of not only the above but also Clause 73 of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy considering your status as a Muggle, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 2 p.m. on the twelfth of August. In lieu of your special circumstances, Ministry representatives will be responsible for your pickup.
Hoping you are well,
Gethsemane Prickle
Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures
Petunia's head was too light. She read the words, but it was almost as if she couldn't comprehend them, as if they were written in a foreign language she could maybe pronounce for the shared alphabet but not understand in any way that mattered.
"What beast? What does this mean?"
Petunia blinked and glanced at her mother, stunned at the question. Did she really have to ask? Of course it could only be one being, the one that was at her side since she was twelve, the one that had changed her life ever since she first laid eyes on him.
Aspen.
And the fine membrane protecting her mind from fully digesting the information inside the letter popped with that one thought, allowing an avalanche of fear and panic to suffocate any rationality Petunia might have left.
It's Aspen, they want to take him, maybe they already took him, no, they can't …
Her chair clattered to the floor, the noise loud in the shocked silence of her parent's wide-eyed stares but drowned out in the cacophony of Petunia's racing thoughts, barely registering as she already stormed off, her feet following a compulsion she couldn't and wouldn't fight against.
Please still be here, please don't be gone!
Please …
Shivers were wrecking her limbs, the cold penetrating to her marrow in such a way that Petunia almost expected slabs of her flesh to simply crack and break away, dead and numb. The air itself was balmy, a summer night with all the accompaniments of a concert of crickets and an aroma of blooming pollen, but Petunia could hear her teeth chatter and all she tasted was bile.
The cold came from deep inside her, spreading further and further with every futile step, with every hoarse shout.
She couldn't find him. She had lost track of time, the fully darkened sky the only testament to the hours that must have passed, and still she couldn't find him. She had searched the fields, the forest, even ran all the way to her empty school and through town.
And still, she couldn't find him anywhere.
He can't be gone, I simply haven't looked hard enough yet …
I need help, please, someone, anyone, help me find him …
But who should she turn to? Eugene was gone, far out of her reach, separated by an ocean she couldn't simply overcome in a matter of minutes or even days. And that was all she had, days, not weeks. The twelfth of August was looming threateningly close, its foul breath already whispering across her face and suffocating her in turn.
There is one other person who knows about Aspen, a small thought flitted through her mind, birthed from desperation, and he is a wizard as well.
Spinner's End wasn't far from where Petunia had been despairing and usually she would have avoided the area as if her life depended on it, especially alone and at night. But this time all her attention centred on Aspen and she barely registered the overturned trash bins, the boisterous voices slithering from open pub doors or the arguments echoing from narrow alleys. Her feet, clad only in her slippers and by now soaked through with mud and crusted with clumps of grass and rubbish, clapped against the broken street in a steady rhythm, unfaltering.
She couldn't give up. If there was any way to help Aspen, Petunia would do whatever it took, even beg the wretched boy - no matter that her pride, always polished and nurtured carefully in an effort to convince herself of its worth, would lie bleeding at his feet.
She'd much rather face humiliation than Aspen's absence.
The wretched boy's home looked as dilapidated as she remembered from her one visit years ago, small, dust-crusted windows staring unseeingly from the pockmarked surface of its ashen face, shingles broken or missing entirely as if flakes of skin had peeled from its head.
Petunia didn't bother with subtlety or politeness, she hammered on the door until the side of her palm smarted and pounded in tune with her head.
The door was ripped open, a slice of light spilling across her filthy feet and the cobblestones surrounding them. "He's not home yet - Petunia?"
The wretched boy was dressed in his usual rags, faded and with frayed hems, his hair just as stringy and oily as usual. But this time Petunia felt no derision upon his appearance, simply a small spark of relief at the familiarity, at the knowledge that she would have someone who could hear her out, who knew what she was talking about.
He's a wizard, his mother's a witch, they might know what to do, Petunia thought and her anguish and worry poisoned the night air with one hasty breath: "It's Aspen, I can't find him anywhere and I got a letter - it said they would collect him, as if he's something that can just be taken away and I don't know what to do …"
Her voice petered out, the words lingering on her tongue like a bad aftertaste, as if she had bitten into something rotten. It had never been easy for Petunia to admit weaknesses, to show vulnerability, especially not in front of someone she had such a strange relationship as with the wretched boy. They weren't friends but there was some connection between them, forged through Lily but reinforced with every small interaction.
That same connection was the reason that Petunia now paused, something telling her that she needed to take a second and really look at him.
Stillness settled between them, both of them poised, him in the doorway, his fingers clawing around the handle as if it was in danger of leaping away, her with her weight left off her crookedly-healed toe, her breaths coming fast and flat.
And then, somehow, she just knew. Maybe it was the slight tremble of his flitting pupils, avoiding her gaze where usually he was ready to meet and combat it. Maybe it was the way he pulled his lips behind his teeth, chewing the white flesh as if to stop them from forming words that would give him away.
Maybe it was the fact that something had been nagging at Petunia ever since she had first seen the letter, something small but gaining traction now that they stood in front of each other.
We have received intelligence … There is one other person who knows about Aspen …
"It was you."
It deserved to be shouted, with rage and anguish, but instead the sentence slipped from her tongue in bland syllables.
The wretched boy flinched regardless and Petunia had her answer.
It really had been him.
From one second to the next she was combating so many differing urges that she simply froze. She wanted to scratch his eyes out, she wanted to scream until her vocal cords ruptured, she wanted to simply let her self-control crack and allow the tears to run down her face, her chest cramping with sobs.
In the end she laughed. A hoarse laugh without any mirth.
The wretched boy flinched back again, as if she had actually hit him.
Did you really think anyone would help you? Did you think Severus of all people would? Of course not.
Of course he had hurt her, for reasons she had no wish to find out - if there even existed any beyond a whim. Of course she was as alone in this as in anything else.
When Petunia turned around and left it was with the knowledge that she had lost too much that night. Maybe more than she could stand.
Severus didn't have to search for his father's booze - he'd never made a habit of hiding it, and even if he had, it wouldn't be difficult to find, having to be placed in reach of his father's ham-handed grabs whenever the mood took him.
The smell almost singed the fine hairs in Severus' nose when the stopper came loose with a small, innocent plop. The self-brewed concoction actually looked pretty, a deep swirling amber, with the golden hues of resin, but it tasted horrible, like liquid glass-shards scratching down his palette and throat.
Severus embraced the pain with swallow after swallow, turning from sips to gulps once his mouth had numbed. He welcomed the nausea churning in his gut, his empty belly roiling with the toxic fluids he was forcing down.
It only took half the bottle until Severus had to rush to the bathroom, his stomach spasming so severely tears gathered on his lashes.
He let them, having a passable excuse for their existence.
Severus wasn't quite sure if regret had a taste, but if it did then it must come close to what was currently layered in a film over his teeth and tongue while he retched loudly, alone.
Without anyone who would ever wonder again if he was eating enough.
Petunia couldn't stop shivering. The air was mild, filled with Lily's sleepy breaths, a lingering smell of the dinner Petunia had missed and had no stomach for and the ticking of a clock, thunderous in the otherwise silent house.
And the clacking of Petunia's teeth. She almost expected to see her breath mist in front of her face, crystallising into ice to prove the tundra her chest had become. Instead it remained invisible, like Petunia herself had lost all substance, no proof of her existence remaining.
Just as Aspen had disappeared without a trace. She hadn't even found a hoofprint to mark his steps, a few bird-bones from one of his successful hunts. Nothing.
"Stop that," grumbled Lily in the darkness.
Petunia remembered years ago when she had first heard about the Ministry, about their prison, and that old fear had rekindled with a vengeance, a simmering spark booming into flesh-searing intensity.
Where could they have taken him? Was Aspen all alone? Was he … alive?
"Stop it, Tuney!"
Petunia blinked, her eyes dry and scratchy. She actually wished for tears to moisten them, but somehow they wouldn't come, buried beneath her shock and this never-ending cold.
In some removed part of her brain she was aware of Lily's louder voice and of her sister's bed springs creaking when she sat up, but it didn't elicit more than some quiet contemplation. Lily hadn't really spoken with her since Petunia had tattled to their parents about her secret ambitions. The sisters' interactions had been reduced to monotone nothingness ("Pass the butter" or "Bathroom's free"), not that Lily necessarily treated their parents any warmer. But while to them she was simply pouting, for Petunia she reserved a certain type of resentment that went deeper. It felt like Lily's unhappiness towards their parents was tempered by their sincere fears, her mother's tears when she had told Lily she would never survive seeing her daughter risk her life, their father's grim face when he told her that war was no kid's play while he rubbed the scar he always hid under layers of clothes, even during the hottest of summer days.
And though Petunia, no matter how silently, had been driven by those same fears she couldn't show it, sitting quiet and pale at the table, her fisted hands hidden in the layers of her skirt, the red flyer glaring back at her.
Lily had probably taken Petunia's interference as an act of pettiness, as an offspring of the jealousy Petunia had harboured so long and that Lily hadn't been unaware of, no matter how much she liked to close her eyes to its existence.
It was for this reason that all of Lily's anger had concentrated on her sister. And it was for this reason that Petunia was actually surprised when a hand touched her shoulder, not to shove her but to soothe the trembling in her limbs.
"Tuney, what's wrong?"
Petunia shook her head, rendered mute. Everything, she wanted to say, everything's wrong.
Her mattress dipped when Lily sat down at its edge, her hand continuing to weigh on her shoulder, light in bone and flesh but heavy in its implication.
"Do you need to be sick?"
Strangely Petunia wanted to say yes, simply to do something other than lie here and think. But she hadn't eaten anything that would justify any such notion and instead of nauseous she simply felt numb.
Lily allowed Petunia's silence to linger for a few breaths before she continued. "Did something happen? Mum said you got a strange letter and ran off."
A strange letter … If only it were that simple.
"She's worried."
The 'I'm worried' was conspicuous in its absence. Lily was forgiving in her nature - until a certain threshold had been overstepped. And Petunia couldn't quite decide if she had reached it or not, if Lily's late night concern stemmed from a lack of peaceful sleep and a worry that Petunia was ill and would infect her or if Petunia still had a stretch of lenience left, a few more pardons waiting on her road.
At the moment Petunia couldn't really claim to care either way.
"Do you remember when you talked to Dad about the magical prison?"
Lily blinked. The topic must have been unexpected, then. Petunia saw a certain wariness enter her features, maybe as Lily remembered the last time they had talked about things Petunia had no business knowing about. "I did? When?"
Years ago and Petunia hadn't forgotten, not to this day. "Tell me about it."
The question why Petunia suddenly wanted to know clearly lingered on Lily's tongue but instead she let her eyes wander over her older sister's face, pale and dotted with chilly sweat. When she finally spoke her voice was mild. "Oh, you know how it is, just a stupid tale to keep children from misbehaving. Our boogeyman if you will, 'eat all your greens or they'll stuff you into Azkaban'."
For a while silence lingered. Petunia allowed the lie to soothe her trembling, allowed it to nest inside her mind in the hope that she might believe it once morning came. "What else?"
"There's not much else to tell - no-one's ever seen it." Lily retracted her hand and sighed. "Get some sleep."
So sudden was her urge to not be left alone in the dark again that Petunia abruptly sat up in bed as Lily meandered back to her side of the room. She watched silently as Lily fluffed her own pillow, throwing her hair over her shoulder in a casual gesture, a fan of red in the dim light of a waning moon hiding behind curtains.
Lily was a witch. She'd been living in that world for years now, had friends and knowledge Petunia would never be able to access, had envied her for. But maybe it was no longer a cause for bitterness … Maybe Lily could provide where both Eugene and Severus had failed - one with his absence and one with his casual cruelty.
The letter had awaited Petunia on her desk when she came back, her mother clearing the dining table of clutter in preparation for the meal and finding no better space to put it. Petunia hadn't touched it since, though she found her gaze wandering towards it whenever she allowed her fears a bit more space. Now once more she was staring at the inconspicuous envelope and wondered if Lily would want to read her 'strange letter'.
"Night, Tuney."
"Wait," the short word was uttered with the same haste that Petunia sprung from her covers and grabbed the letter, offering it to Lily in one sweeping gesture. Only the trembling tips of her fingers clenched the smooth paper, as if some part of her feared she would get burned if she held it more fully.
Lily propped herself back up, rubbing her chin sleepily. "What's that?"
My own scarlet flyer, Petunia thought, intent on sending me not into the lap of a renegade organisation but into the bowels of a magical ministry, to be digested and disposed of.
"Read it."
For a few heartbeats Petunia thought Lily would decline, would tell her to stop disturbing her and go back to bed. But then the letter was taken from her hands, folded open and exposed to Lily's green eyes.
Eyes that widened fractionally the further she read. When they met Petunia's own again and Lily spoke there was no trace of sleep remaining. "An illegal beast?"
Not a beast, never that.
"Aspen." My first true friend. "A Thestral."
"Where - how - doesn't matter." Lily took a deep breath, her bed creaking. "Tell me what happened."
And so Petunia did.
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