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January 1976

Petunia's fingers felt like they weren't her own as they touched the precious letter, appendages puppeteered by something out of her control, the rasp of paper alien and surreal against her cold skin. The finger – not hers , but the ones she was watching – unfolded it calmly, not shaking or hesitating when it flicked the letter open.

It was only as Petunia saw that familiar scrawl, the untidy loops of handwriting that had become as familiar as her own, that sensation flooded back to her, her heart beating in her chest and thumbing in her ears simultaneously, her lungs straining and her head feeling light and woozy as if she'd been holding her breath.

Her eyes devoured the first lines before she gave it any conscious thought.

Petals,

I miss you.

I don't usually ponder a lot before writing stuff but just starting this first paragraph took me ages because there is so much I want to say to you but I can't seem to find the right words to express it. I wish you were here or that I was with you and I could just look at you, because I'm convinced that would make everything easier. But instead I'm staring at this stupid blank paper and feeling like an idiot. Maybe I should doodle a bit so it's not that intimidating anymore – what would you like to see? I know from a confidential source that I'm quite the artist when it comes to buttcheeks.

On second thought, I'd rather not have the first thing you see when you open this letter be a pair of buttcheeks – no matter how perfectly drawn. Just imagine I sketched pretty flowers around the margins or something, I'm a bit reluctant to attempt them. Something tells me my doodling skills are not that easily transferable to a more refined subject.

Well, at least the stupid paper isn't blank anymore. I already made a fool of myself, so what else should I write down for you?

I hope you're smiling. I always hope you're smiling, even when I can't see it. You have the most perfect smile in the world, Petals. I miss it. I miss you.

Ivy misses you too. She's really gotten quite cranky, always snapping at everyone. Once she even tried to make a break for it, almost flying from my dad's suitcase but he was quick enough to prevent it. It actually wouldn't have been the first time something like that happened, so he has some experience.

What else? My uncle and aunt are sickeningly in love as always which usually just makes me roll my eyes but now makes me furiously jealous which then makes me feel pretty icky because that sounds like I'm pining for my own aunt or something. But you know what I'm trying to say – I just wish you were here so we could be even more sickening and give them a taste of their own medicine. My nieces and nephews are cute enough I guess and my hair-braiding skills were highly appreciated. You have their thanks.

New York is interesting. Definitely different from Dorset and even London. Lots of people and lots of different ideas – and it's strange that when they're talking about the war it's in a 'what a shame' way instead of a 'hope I'm still alive next year' way. It must all feel very distant and harmless to them and maybe that's exactly what my Mum wanted when she brought us here, that we would feel the same: safe. But honestly, I just feel like a coward and like all of these people are willfully ignorant because it's not their problem so why should they care. It makes me mad and I don't like feeling that way – sometimes I just want to go back to England but I know it would kill my Mum.

Now that this letter has turned wholly depressing I'm even more tempted to scribble something silly. I hope you'll forgive me for this poor attempt – it was supposed to be a petunia but it looks like a generic flower, which, let's be honest, is not the worst outcome.

I hope you're happier than I am. I got your letter – and give my thanks to your house elf, you've got to tell me all about that, he's very politely waiting for me to finish agonising over what to write to you. Anyway, it seems like a lot happened while I was gone and all I can really say is that I know you can do whatever you set your mind to. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise and don't let other people dictate your wants and your future. You should be proud of who you are and what you have accomplished, not ashamed because of it. Really, who else can claim to have tamed a wild Thestral as a child? Who else can brag that they got invited to Hogwarts, and not because you got a letter when you were eleven like everyone else but because you were chosen specifically?

Don't let them put you down. You're strong, Petals, you always were, from that first moment you stared me down in that dusty bookstore and silently dared me to make a misstep. Do you still remember the first time I visited your home? We sat on the couch and were watching telly and you told me about space and electricity and cars and toasters … for me, that sounded like real magic. Something that was refined over generations of trial and error and inquisitive minds, something anyone can learn about and do if they have enough passion. If that teacher is so hellbent on finding out the differences then talk to him about those things.

I wish I could tell you that I'll be back soon and that we'll see each other again but I'm not sure what will happen. But that you found a way to get your letters to me means the world. I'd love to hear more about what you're experiencing, what you're doing – how is Aspen? How do you get along with Hagrid? Are those little twerps still bothering you? And if so, did you already kick them in the nards?

What a beautiful sentiment to end this letter on. But I fear if I don't stop now I'm either going to continuously write more and more inane stuff or give doodling another try and I don't think either of us really want that.

Yours,

Now and always,

Eugene.

The smell of baked beans and fried eggs wafted to Petunia's nose, enticing enough to lure her from her daze for the first time since last night. Everything after reading Eugene's letter had felt strange, her body going through the motion while her head was whirling in swirls of ink on paper, soaking her silent mind. Her motions followed long ingrained routines without any clear thoughts as she took Fluffy out on his morning walk, got dressed in sturdy clothing and then there was a stutter in her steps. Instead of continuing to Hagrid's hut she had turned and somehow found herself here, at the breakfast spread she had avoided since her first week.

Maybe Petunia had hoped to melt into the chatter and clutter all around her and be left alone with her thoughts, a chance to really process all the questions and feelings Eugene's words had dredged up like seaweed from an ocean floor disturbed by waves. Hagrid would surely notice that she was miles away and when he prodded her, words would spill out of her without giving her a chance to digest them first.

But Petunia shouldn't have forgotten that there was a reason she usually avoided the Great Hall for breakfast.

"How nice to see you so early for once, Miss Evans! I thought I'd have to wait until dinner to ask this – you see, I came up with a theory. Surely you're familiar with the muggle saying 'touch wood', right? Well, I wondered. It makes no logical sense until you take magic into consideration! Wood is a very good conduit for magic, which is why our wands are shaped from it, so maybe the muggles hoped to imitate us in their ignorance and so this saying came to be! What do you think?"

Petunia thought that Mr Pudubec was quite impossible to ignore. He had reeled her out of her contemplations as effectively as if there was a piercing hook in her mouth and he was holding the fishing rod.

If that teacher is so hellbent on finding out the differences then tell him about those things.

Petunia opened her mouth and was surprised herself when instead of a biting correction something else entirely left her lips.

"What can you tell me about house elves?"

Mr Pudubec blinked his round, blue eyes. "House elves? Not sure how they're connected …"

When Petunia just stared at him he continued, apparently enticed by the prospect of her actually paying attention while he was talking.

"Right, then, muggles don't have any house elves and I imagine it must be very tedious to live like that! They are bred to take care of us. A diminutive creature that does all the housework and listens to your every command, without ever being a burden. That's a house elf."

Petunia frowned. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why? House elves simply are – they were once a status symbol, at least the size of the group you could acquire for your house was, and Hogwarts has a whole herd of them, over a hundred. Of course, it doesn't mean that they can slack, their work is impeccable – just look at this spread."

Petunia glanced at the table before her, groaning under the weight of all that food. "They … cooked all this?"

"Of course, who else would? I imagine it's quite extensive work. But that's what house elves are here for after all – cook, clean, repair and remain unseen all the while."

"How?"

"Magic, of course. How else would such tasks be accomplished?"

"Magic, like yours?"

"Err, no, well, they're not wizards, clearly! They're beings, not people and they have no wands. Which brings me back to the wood –"

"So," Petunia interrupted. "They can use magic and instead of being treated like the students here, they hide and clean up after them? And this is … normal?"

Mr. Pudubec's chest inflated a bit at Petunia's tone, his vest straining more than usual. One of those buttons might yet take out an eye. "Of course, it's normal! It's been this way for generations. House elves live to serve, it's their whole purpose, without us to command them they would be lost. They're grateful to be part of such an institution as Hogwarts!"

"It was the best choice at the time."

Petunia started, turning towards the man who had unexpectedly spoken up. Professor Flitwick looked up from his place to her right, his eyes shining behind a pair of frameless glasses and his hair slicked back and parted in a perfectly straight line.

He continued once he had both their attention. "Helga Hufflepuff was the one who brought the house elves here when the school was founded, not to use them but to help them. It was the most moral choice at the time – she saved them from the horrible working conditions they were put through in the noble houses."

"'Horrible' is quite a strong word," Mr Pudubec interjected.

"House elves have to obey the word of their masters. They were usually bound to pureblood families, inherited through generations and blood magic. Due to their absolute obedience, house elves have been treated very brutally by their owners. To this day many wizards view them as servants without feeling or emotions who simply obey without thinking, as property to own and use."

"They like working for us," Mr Puducbec once more interjected. "They need it."

"Mayhaps. But they certainly don't need to be tortured or to maim themselves for our pleasure."

"Those practices are outdated."

"But not forbidden or abolished."

Mr Pudubec cleared his throat. "I didn't know you were such an advocate for house elf rights, Fillius. I agree that needless brutality has no place in a good master-servant relationship, but it is a fact that freedom does not suit them."

Would it not suit them … or would it not suit you?

Petunia's gaze was focused on her plate in front of her. Her stomach churned and the longer she stared the more disturbing the image seemed, the pale beans in the red sauce turning into fat maggots, the eggs staring back like unseeing, runny eyeballs, burst from the tines of her fork and bleeding yellow streaks.

Hundreds of servants, unseen and unheard. Servants that had prepared her meals. Servants that had cleaned her room, had stoked her fire and repaired her bed. Servants that had delivered her letter, without being asked or expecting acknowledgment.

"Where can I find them?"

Mr Pudubec looked surprised. "Find them? The mark of a good house elf is that you don't find them, they do the work but remain unseen."

"They're usually in the kitchens," Professor Flitwick said, ignoring Professor Puducbec completely.

Petunia rose abruptly, the clatter of her chair thankfully swallowed by the noise screen around her. She needed to leave this place full of happily eating children, stuffing themselves on fruits of others' labour they didn't even know or care about. Away from these stone walls hiding creatures that slaved away in the bowels of this castle, that shielded those that used them.

That had shielded her as she used them, unknowingly as all the rest of them and just as guilty.

The air outside the hall was lighter and cleaner, allowing Petunia to breathe deeply. Looking down the empty hallways and staircases, she started walking allowing her long legs to carry her away from the grotesque images her mind conjured with every loud smack of lips and every scrap of cutlery across porcelain.

But the longer she walked, the more she realised that she had no real idea where to start. Petunia had never even heard about the kitchens and after a slew of echoing hallways and empty rooms she wondered if it was on purpose.

Unseen and unheard, the house elves hidden away someplace no-one would accidentally stumble upon them, someplace it would be hard to check on. Determined she spotted a staircase leading into the bowels of the castle, forcing her feet to carry her down into the darkness.

Someplace gloomy and dank, hidden deep underground where the stones emitted an unmistakable chill throughout the year and there was a smell of wet dust in the air.

"What the –"

Petunia whirled around, her eyes widening when she saw the tall, slim figure emerging from behind her, the blackness of the school uniform blending into the flickering shadows all around and only leaving the white of his eyes as two pinpricks glaring out at her.

Before she could open her mouth Severus continued: "What the hell are you doing down here?"

But Petunia's attention had switched, from his furrowed brows and snaggled teeth bared in a grimace to the scone he was holding in one hand, a smear of jam on the tip of his long fingers.

"Where did you get that?"

"You better go. Now."

"I'm looking for the kitchens."

"I don't care what you're doing, just go ."

"Do you know where they are? Where did you get the scone?"

He snarled. Severus actually snarled, as if he were a rabid dog. "You insufferable, obnoxious, stupid – why are you looking for the kitchens, and here of all places?"

Petunia sniffed. "I wager the dungeons would be quite a good place to keep hundreds of servants."

Severus just blinked and then pinched the bridge of his gigantic nose, leaving a trace of sticky red behind. "There are no servants here, but do you know who actually lives in the dungeons? Slytherins. A whole lot of purebloods who would love to give a muggle like you a warm welcome."

Something shivery ghosted down Petunia's arms, the same feeling she got when she had walked through a spiderweb in the woods and was now certain an eight-legged insect was crawling beneath her collar right this second. She forced herself not to look around in sudden paranoia.

"Leave," he repeated for the third time.

A muscle in her jaw ticked and Petunia forcefully unclenched her teeth. "Show me the kitchens."

There was a standstill, a tense moment in which Petunia was sure he would just turn around and leave and why would the wretched boy care what happened to her anyway, the last time they talked it was horrible and fraught with hostility …

And then he did turn around and walked away. Her shoulders lowered and she couldn't determine if the loss of tension was owed to relief or disappointment.

"This way."

It took Petunia a bit too long to realise he wasn't simply leaving her behind and she had to widen her steps to catch up despite her long legs.

Their trek through the castle was silent, neither of them looking at the other. Maybe Severus was embarrassed to be helping her, maybe he was silently resentful. Petunia on the other hand didn't want to chance losing his cooperation.

They finally stopped in front of a baroque still-life painting, the corridor around them empty but filled with light spilling from a few high windows.

"Tickle the pear."

"What?"

Severus grumbled and leaned forward, his fingers brushing across a pear, the paint yellow and ripe, bursting from a basket of similar fruits. Before Petunia could question him there was a whispering, high giggle and the pear transformed in front of her eyes into a golden door handle. Not giving her any time to come to terms with the fact that a part of a painting had just transformed and materialised in the real world, Severus grabbed the doorknob and opened the painting as if it was a door, leading her into the room beyond.

It was a large room, almost as big as the Great Hall, with a curved ceiling high above and a giant brick fireplace throwing heat and light towards them. Mountains of glittering cutlery, brass pots and pans and shining porcelain crockery surrounded them, looking a second from tumbling down on their heads. At the back of the room was a strange wooden construct consisting of a multitude of empty barrels which had been connected with walkways and planks, almost looking like an oversized children's playground. Long tables spanned the big room, a mirror image to the ones Petunia had gazed upon so often while sitting at the teacher's table in the Great Hall.

And it was empty.

"Happy now?"

"Where are the –"

There was a pop of displaced air and then: "Master Severus! Would you like another scone? Maybe some more jam?"

A creature had appeared between them from thin air. Petunia gaped at it, noticing the ears that were almost pig-like in shape but bigger and slightly floppy, the long, beaked nose, the thin limbs and hunched figure, the potato sack it was wearing like a toga. The top of its hairless head barely reached her ribs.

"No, that's fine, Blim," Severus mumbled before shooting a glare at Petunia. "Don't go into the dungeons again."

But Petunia wasn't paying him any attention. "Your name is … Blim?"

"Blim, Hogwarts house elf, at your service, Miss Evans," the house elf said, sketching a deep bow.

For the first time Petunia realised that she had been so caught up in her indignation about the treatment of yet another magical and sentient species she came across and then preoccupied with running around like a headless chicken searching for its coop, that she had no idea what to do now.

What was she actually doing here?

The house elf looked back at her, with big and intelligent eyes, appearing eerily human while at the same time completely alien.

"I … thank you. For helping me. For cleaning my room and … for delivering my letter."

"It was our pleasure, Miss Evans. We were all delighted by the tasty cookies you left for us! No-one ever gifts us anything, for obvious reasons."

"I … I can make more, if you want."

"Oh no, we could never accept such kindness! We are here to take care of you, not the other way around."

Petunia swallowed, looking at the spotless kitchen around her. "You cook here? For everyone?"

"One of our duties, yes."

"Maybe I can come by again? I like cooking," Petunia said and immediately felt foolish. What was she trying to accomplish here? When she had left breakfast she had been fueled by her past realisations, by the memory of satyrs saving her with their music when moments before they had been treated like cheap entertainment, of sitting opposite Xenophilius while the taste of melting ice cream lingered on her tongue, talking about so many creatures that had been robbed of all rights, of the realisation that she herself was also categorised among them, a muggle, useless, weak, lesser …

And now she was standing here in front of this well-mannered elf that reminded her strangely of a butler but was dressed in rags and half-naked, whose voice was kind and soft but his skin stretched taut above skeletal shoulders and bony knees.

And she was talking about cooking?

But the elf didn't look offended, quite the contrary. "Of course, Miss Evans, whatever pleases you! We would welcome your company."

Petunia nodded numbly, suddenly longing for a quiet corner to sort her thoughts. "I'll come by again."

"Certainly. Master Severus, Master Regulus already left but he instructed me to tell you –"

"Later," Severus interrupted sharply, shooting a glare at Petunia and whirling back around to the entrance, his school cape billowing quite spectacularly. He didn't bother with any goodbyes, simply strutting off, leaving Petunia to stammer as polite as a parting as she could before following after him. When she was back in the corridor she only saw a flash of his uniform as he disappeared around a corner, leaving her behind.

Maybe it was for the best. Petunia didn't know what she would have said if he had questioned her what all this had been about.

Mostly because she herself wasn't completely sure – yet.

When evening came around Petunia found herself not in the Great Hall or on her way to the kitchens, but sequestered in her room, Fluffy chewing on the bed once more and her quill poised above the paper, the tip quivering in the still air.

She hadn't known what to write to Eugene after reading his letter. Before, when she had no way to reach him, she had used her unsent letters almost like a diary, writing whatever came to mind, her concerns about Lily, her annoyance at James Potter, her happiness at aiding Hagrid and looking after the Thestrals. But now that his answer was lying there on her desk, his words echoing in her head as if he was standing behind her and whispering them in her ear she was suddenly unsure what to write.

Taking a deep breath, tasting the wax of the slowly melting candles perfuming the air, she touched the stupid, archaic feather to the paper.

Eugene,

I need your advice.

I want to help but I don't know how. I only found out that house elves exist through your letter, and everything I have learned since has upset me. But I'm not sure what I should do or if it's even my right to be upset.

What do I understand about magical creatures? What do I know about contracts and blood magic and tradition? Everything you take for granted is new to me.

Do they like serving? The house elf I met today didn't look unhappy or mistreated but it just sounds so wrong to me, to obey whatever you're told to do, to be punished for making mistakes.

And another thing I simply do not understand is the way wizards think about magic. I hate it, but some part of me understands why the wretched boy looks down on me, why his classmates think me weak and unworthy. Because I don't have magic. And I never will.

But house elves do. Hagrid does. Satyrs and redcaps and goblins have it. So why aren't they here? Why are they below the wizards and witches? Why …

Petunia bit her lips so hard she could taste copper, lifting her feather before she left an ink blotch on her expensive paper. This didn't feel right.

Instead of balling the paper and throwing it away she moved it aside, selecting a fresh, untouched one.

Eugene,

I miss you. I wish you were here with me. I'm sure all the things I'm worrying about would suddenly not seem that daunting, that the answers would come so much easier if only you were by my side.

Somehow, despite Aspen and Hagrid and Fluffy, I feel lost here. Each day I seem to learn something new and each time I don't know if what I'm feeling is wrong.

But I will be alright. I know I will because no matter what happened I always came out stronger for it. When I found out about the war, when I lost Aspen – all of it brought me here and made me into the person I am today.

And you did. You mentioned our first meeting and I sometimes wonder what would have happened if you hadn't helped me. I doubt that a finger would be the most important on the list of things I'd be missing.

I hope that despite everything you told me you can find some joy and novelty in New York, that spending time with the family you so rarely got to see is a comfort. I hope your mother is alright and that your father doesn't lose any of his creatures, even if I miss Ivy quite fiercely.

I don't know if and when this letter will reach you. You thanked me for finding a way to get them to you, but I had no hand in that and don't deserve the credit. I don't even know the house elf that you met – they decided to do me a favour without any prompting from me, despite the fact that I didn't even know they existed. It's one of the things I'm unsure how to handle. Should I continue to approach them? Leave them alone, as they are so clearly used to?

I can't wait to see you. I can't wait for you to meet Fluffy and Sepulchria and Tenebrus and the rest of the herd. There is also a herd of Hippogriffs here, which I'm sure you already know, and Hagrid is currently teaching me how to care for them as well. He was quite impressed that I'm not a complete novice, thanks to you and Icarus.

Our summer seems so long ago even though I know that not that much time has passed. Maybe we can go for a flight again when we see each other, just like we did back then.

I'm not sure if this letter will reach you, but if it does I want you to know that you are in my thoughts whatever decision I come to. But some things I'll have to handle on my own, no matter how daunting it feels.

Yours,

Petunia

Putting down the feather, Petunia allowed the ink to dry without another look at the letter, instead calling Fluffy to her side for his evening walk. The fresh air must have done her some good because as soon as her head touched her pillow, sleep claimed her, dragging her into cottoned depths and mumbled promises of safety.

Her dreams were a whirl of colours, oranges and blues. And in those dreams she met Eugene. In the morning Petunia didn't remember what exactly had happened, where they'd been or what they had talked about but one sentence stood out clear in her head, as if he had actually said it to her, branded it into her skin.

Do what you feel is right, Petals.