Petunia pov
November 2 1981
The first light of dawn had yet to break through the horizon, casting a gentle darkness over our home, but the remnants of a haunting nightmare clung to me, making sleep impossible. I couldn't shake off the anxious thoughts swirling in my mind, centered around my precious baby boy. Just a week ago, we had been granted the miraculous opportunity to bring him home after a harrowing four months of battling for his life in the hospital. The memory of those days filled with uncertainty and fear still felt fresh, and I often found myself overwhelmed by the fragility of his existence.
As I slipped into my soft, worn slippers, I noticed that my husband was not in our bedroom, a pang of worry striking my heart. I wrapped my bathrobe tightly around me, a feeble attempt to find comfort in its familiar fabric, and silently crossed the hall to the nursery. Each step felt heavy with trepidation, fueled by the instinct to check on him to reassure myself of his safety .
Upon entering the nursery, a wave of relief washed over me as I took in the sight before me. There in the corner, my husband sat in the rocking chair, cradled by the quiet stillness of the early morning. He had fallen asleep, his body slumped slightly, exhausted from the weight of our shared worries. His arm draped gently over the edge of our son's crib, a tender gesture that spoke volumes about his love and commitment to our little miracle.
I let out a soft sigh, a mixture of gratitude and concern. Grateful that my husband was there, present and protective, yet concerned about how much this journey was taking out of him. The sight of our tiny son, so small and delicate, nestled peacefully in his crib, reminded me of the countless nights spent in the NICU, filled with beeping monitors and whispered prayers.
Taking a moment to absorb the scene, I felt the weight of motherhood settle upon me—this fierce, need to protect my baby boy .Today would be a new day, filled with hopes and challenges, and I was determined to face it head-on, ready to embrace the joys and the fears that came with raising our precious boy. As I quietly moved closer to them, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. It was time to start the day, to nurture and protect the two most important people in my life.
I gingerly made my way down the stairs, each step sent a pang of pain through my body, a constant reminder of the tumultuous events that had unfolded. My son's birth had been nothing short of a harrowing ordeal, complicated further by that dreadful car crash that thrust him into the world far too early. The worst of my bruised ribs and the minor skull fracture I sustained had healed, yet the lingering bruises still marked my skin, a testament to the trauma I endured. Even four months later, that fateful night haunted my dreams, a relentless specter that refused to fade.
The memories of the fight with my dear sister Lily still echoed in my mind. She and her husband had vanished into hiding, caught up in a foolish war that I had vehemently warned her to avoid. My baby sister, ever the fighter, was headstrong and passionately idealistic, often to her own detriment. As children, I tried my best to steer her away from danger, but her spirit was indomitable.
When she enrolled in that school run by that man, she became ensnared in the notion of the greater good. The so-called Order of the Phoenix, which she revered, was, in my eyes, nothing more than a dangerously misguided cult. It was a magical Manson family, with Albus positioned as its messiah, drawing innocent souls into its web of deception. If only she had listened to Vernon and me, we could have escaped this madness together, leaving the chaos behind. But here I was, left to grapple with the consequences of her choices, my heart heavy with concern for her safety and my son's future.
As I reached the door at the foot of the stairs, a sense of unease settled deep within me. The morning light filtered through the small window, casting soft rays that danced on the wooden floor, yet the beauty of the day did little to lift the growing dread in my chest. I turned the knob slowly, the hinges creaking like a warning. The familiar scent of dew-kissed grass mingled with the distant chirping of birds, creating a deceptive tranquility that belied the turmoil brewing inside me.
But the moment I swung the door wide open, a chill swept over me, one that cut deeper than the crisp morning air. There, nestled in a small wicker basket, was a baby wrapped snugly in a soft blue blanket. The sight was utterly shocking, rendering me momentarily speechless. My heart raced as I noticed a note fastened to the blanket with a safety pin, a small but significant detail that sent my mind into a tailspin.
Time itself seemed to freeze, the world around me blurring as I struggled to comprehend what I was seeing. Who would abandon an innocent child like this? My gaze darted around the yard, searching for any sign of the child's parents, my pulse pounding in my ears like a frantic drum. Panic washed over me, each breath becoming more shallow as I gingerly bent down to lift the basket, my hands trembling slightly from the weight of the situation. Cradling the baby in my arms, I rushed back inside, heart pounding as if it wanted to escape my chest.
Once inside, my instincts kicked in, and I quickly began to check for any signs of distress. I held him close, my heart aching at the sight of his tiny face, delicate features framed by soft curls of wild black hair . His chest rose and fell gently, rhythmically, as he slept soundly. He appeared blissfully unaware of the chaos surrounding his arrival, as if he were wrapped in a cocoon of safety. But this stillness only heightened my concern; he seemed almost too tranquil, like a doll left forgotten, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
With my mind racing, I turned on autopilot, my body moving mechanically as I made my way to the kitchen to place the basket and retrieve the the milk and newspaper. The familiar routine felt surreal, almost detached from the reality of the moment. Each action was performed in a daze, as if I were watching myself from a distance. I placed the milk and newspaper on the table, my eyes drifting back to the basket that now occupied a space that had once been prepared for breakfast a surreal reminder of normal everyday life.
The baby lay there, a small miracle amidst the chaos, and I couldn't help but marvel at his fragility. My heart ached with questions: Who was he? Why was he left at my doorstep? As I stood frozen in place, I felt a surge of protective instincts rise within me. This little life, so innocent and vulnerable, needed someone to care for him, to love him.
But I was overwhelmed. I needed Vernon; he would know what to do. He had always been my rock, the steady hand that guided us through storms. My mind raced with the realization that I was likely having a panic attack, my breath quickening as anxiety threatened to engulf me. I took a moment, forcing myself to breathe deeply, in and out, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling within.
"Think, think!" I urged myself, glancing again at the basket on the dining room table. The sight of the baby stirred a whirlwind of emotions—fear, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility. I felt the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders, the future of this child suddenly intertwined with my family's own.
"Please, don't let this be what I fear it is please god don't let it be true . ," I whispered under my breath, climbing up the stairs . I knew that whatever was unfolding, I could not face it alone. I couldn't shake the feeling that our lives were about to change dramatically, and whether we were ready or not.