Petunia sat at her kitchen table, the morning light streaming through the dusty blinds. She stirred her tea, the clanking echoing through the empty room. Her eyes fell on the photograph of Dudley, the chubby cheeks and confident smile a stark contrast to the hollowed face and vacant stare she remembered.
Her thoughts drifted to Vernon, her ex-husband, who had met his end in a prison cell, a broken and defeated man. His death had brought no solace, only the bitter taste of regret. The constant reminders of his cruelty and the fear he had instilled in her were as palpable as the stale air in her flat.
Vernon had started drinking heavily after the Grunnings Drill Company closed its doors in the UK after a merger and moved that part overseas. Now jobless and unable to find a new one. His pride was shattered, he had turned his anger inward, and then outward, onto her. The sweet, gentle man she had married had transformed into a monster, twisted by his own bitterness and the loss of his status. The nights grew longer, filled with his shouting and the sickening thud of his fists. With the freak long gone, he turned his aggression to her.
The neighbours had complained, but she had always convinced them that it was just a heated argument, that everything was fine. But the night the screams grew too loud to ignore, they had called the police. The red and blue lights danced across the walls as she cowered in the corner, clutching her bruised ribs. The sound of the door being kicked in brought a strange mix of terror and relief.
Vernon, in his drunken rage, had not noticed the police's arrival until it was too late. By the time he did, the room was filled with stern faces and authoritative voices. His eyes glazed over first with confusion and then fury as he took in the scene. He lunged towards the nearest officer, his fists clenched and face contorted with rage. The stench of whiskey wafted through the air as he swung wildly, a pitiful shadow of the man he used to be.
The scuffle was brief but intense. The officers took him down with a practised ease. Vernon was a large man, but he had no defence against the taser that sent jolts of electricity through his body. Petunia felt a strange sense of detachment as she watched her husband being dragged away in cuffs, shouting all the way to the police van for everyone to see. She knew that she should have been worried about his fate, but all she could feel was the weight of his absence.
The article in Forbes had shattered the last shred of her reputation. The gossip in Little Whinging had always been a steady stream, but now it was a flood. The woman who had taken in her sister's strange son and raised him as her own was revealed to be a monster, complicit in his suffering. The article painted a picture of a billionaire investor and philanthropist, whose humble beginnings had been marred by the cruelty of the people that he was abandoned to. Harry Potter, the boy who had lived under her roof, had become a symbol of hope and triumph over adversity.
Petunia's name was now synonymous with neglect and abuse. He did not name anyone in the article, but the residents of Little Whinging pieced together her role in Harry's tragic childhood. The once respectable Dursley's were now pariahs, shunned by the very community that had once envied their apparent prosperity. She had become the villain in a story that had captured the world's heart.
The people of Little Whinging remembered the small, malnourished boy who could sometimes be seen weeding the garden of number 4, dressed in hand-me-downs. They had been fed a diet of lies about Harry's laziness and ingratitude, but now the truth was as clear as the day. Harry had been a prisoner in his own home, forced to live in a cupboard under the stairs and had to slave away to be fed leftovers, while her own son had been given everything he could ever want. It was not lost on them that they believed Petunia's tales and ignored the boy, to their utter shame.
Petunia's mind was a tumultuous storm of memories and recriminations. She thought of the way Harry's eyes had lit up when she had reluctantly allowed him to eat at the dinner table when they had guests. The rare moments of kindness she had shown him were now dwarfed by the years of cruelty and neglect. The whispers around the neighbourhood grew into accusations, the eyes that once held envy now bore into her with contempt. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice, the weight of her actions pressing down on her with every step she took through the town she had once called home.
The council flat was all she had left now. The mould on the walls grew like a living entity, a silent testament to her own decay. The leak from upstairs had spread, the drip-drip-drip a constant reminder of the relentless march of time and the futility of her existence. The noise was maddening, a symphony of despair that played in the background of her lonely life. She could almost feel the dampness seeping into her bones, chilling her to the core.
Her thoughts grew darker, the weight of her past pressing down on her chest like a heavy stone. She had punished him out of spite and jealousy for her sister and projected it onto him, treated him like nothing more than a burden. And now, as she sat in her decaying flat, surrounded by the echoes of a life that had gone so horribly wrong, she couldn't help but wonder if things could have been different.
The music from next door grew louder, the bass thumping through the paper-thin walls like a relentless heartbeat. Petunia felt the vibration in her chest, a reminder of the world that marched on without her.
Her thoughts swirled back to her son. Dudley's downfall had been swift and brutal. The day he'd walked into that store, desperate for money and his next fix, had been the last straw. The store owner behind the counter had seen the glint in his eyes and was not fooled when Dudley held out the fake plastic pistol. The war veteran was not impressed as he took in the situation with a cold stare. The punch that followed had been swift and precise, a product of the military training that had shaped the man's life. Dudley had crumpled to the cold tiles, nose gushing blood and the fake gun clattering away. Instead of some easy money, the only thing he received was a broken nose, cheekbone, medical bills and a year in prison.
The attempted robbery had been a desperate bid for money to feed his cocaine addiction. The pride she had felt at his graduation from Smeltings Academy was now a distant, sour taste in her mouth. She had been so blinded by her love for him that she had failed to see the signs, the erratic behaviour, the constant need for money, the glassy eyes. She had hoped it was just a phase, something he would outgrow. But it had only gotten worse.
The judge had given him a year, saying it was a chance to get clean, to turn his life around. Sadly, prison was no place for someone like Dudley, a place where the biggest and strongest ruled. In the school yard, he'd been the bully, it was something he learned that was acceptable at home or at school where the staff turned a blind eye, due to the principals ties to his father. In jail, he quickly learned different.
Dudley had strutted into the cell block with the same swagger he had used to terrorize the kids in Little Whinging, but it hadn't taken long for the other inmates and guards to dislike him thoroughly. Even at the age of 26, Dudley still thought he could bully others or whine if he wanted something, and the tables had turned with a brutal swiftness that had left him stunned and cowering. The guards had turned a blind eye to the beating, perhaps relishing the comeuppance of the arrogant young man who thought himself above the rules.
When Dudley was finally released, Petunia had hoped that the experience had changed him, that he would come out a better person. But the craving for the white powder was stronger than the love she had tried to give him. He had promised her that he was clean, that he had learned his lesson, but the twitch in his eye and jumpy behaviour told a different story.
Two years later, she found him in the bathroom, his body cold and still. She had tried to save him, had begged and pleaded, but his addiction had held him in a vice-like grip, one that she could never loosen. The guilt and pain were almost too much to bear. Her beloved son, the boy she had raised and loved, reduced to this.
The funeral had been a solitary affair. No one from the old neighbourhood had come, not even Piers Polkiss, Dudley's one-time best friend. The only face she recognized was the priest's, his eyes filled with pity as he recited the words that were meant to offer comfort but only served to highlight the stark reality of her situation. Petunia stood at the graveside, her heart heavy with grief and regret. If only she had seen the signs sooner, if only she had been a better mother.
But it was too late for 'what ifs'. The earth swallowed Dudley's casket, and with it, the last of her hope for redemption. She had failed her son.
Her thoughts grew darker, the walls closing in around her. The flat was a prison of her own making, a cage of bitterness and regret.
Now, alone in her flat, Petunia couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. It was a sensation that had plagued her for a long time, a prickling at the back of her neck that made her turn around, expecting to find someone standing there. But there was never anything, just the cold emptiness of her surroundings, the mould spreading like a dark secret across the ceiling. She knew it was all in her head, a manifestation of the guilt that weighed her down like a stone.
The leak had become a constant companion, the drip, drip, drip echoing through the silence like a taunt. She'd tried to fix it herself, climbing onto chairs and tables with buckets and towels, but the effort was futile. The water had made its way into the fabric of the room, creating a dampness that seeped into everything. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the spreading stain, a visual representation of the choices she had made. Even the small TV she had gave up the ghost after it sat unnoticed in a puddle of water for too long.
And now, even the fridge had turned against her. It had given a final gasp before dying, leaving her with a mouthful of rotten milk. The repairman had come a month ago, fixing the very same problem, but the old appliance had apparently decided it had had enough. The receipt for his visit fluttered on the fridge door, mocking her with its pristine whiteness amidst the grime. She'd stared at the price, the numbers swimming before her eyes as she realized that she couldn't even afford to replace the thing. The money was gone, swallowed up by debts and the relentless cycle of living, just to make ends meet.
Petunia sighed heavily and stood up, her knees popping in protest. She shuffled into the kitchen, her slippers squelching on the linoleum. The room was a mess, a reflection of her shattered spirit. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, their remnants a feast for flies that buzzed lazily around the room. The counters were cluttered with unopened bills and letters, the weight of the world seemingly contained within their envelopes. She ignored the chaos and grabbed a glass from the drying rack and filled it from the tap.
The flat felt suffocating, the air thick with the scent of mould and despair. She couldn't take it any more. The loud music, the memory of her son's wasted life, the echoes of her ex-husband's rage, they were all too much. She needed to escape.
Her eyes fell upon a bottle of sleeping pills and a strip of pain killers...
She never heard the near silent 'pop' as she closed her eyes.
Somewhere in America, Harry Potter, now 38 years old, leaned back in the comfortable chair in his home office, the warm light of a setting sun casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. He has been comparing possible investments with his arithmancy numbers for more then he really allowed himself today. His work could wait for now, family first, he told himself and it was time for him to join his girls. Just as he was about to stand up, he heard a sound from one of his curio cabinets. The silver trinket, a delicate ornament that sat on the shelf behind a glass door sputtered to a halt and caught his eye as it stopped spinning.
With a small smirk on his face he stepped out of his office to join his wife and daughters for dinner.