Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Domestic ❯ Undeserved Things ( Chapter 10 )

“Harry…” she trailed off, trying to corral her thoughts. Exhaling slowly, she began again. “I think you know that people are multifaceted. We can be kind to some and vicious to others, knowledgeable in a half-dozen subjects and deeply ignorant of everything else. We are not just any one trait, yet we always try to fit the people around us into boxes.”

Petunia waited until her nephew nodded agreement before continuing.

“That’s kind of what you’re looking to do now, isn’t it? You want a simple pat answer to make sense of my actions during your childhood. I wish I had something more profound to offer you than the reasons I’ve already given, but I don’t. Sometimes we do horrible things, and no reason will ever justify our deeds. Regret often catches up to us much later… much too late,” she whispered.

Her nephew stared down at her in disbelief. “So, that’s it? You hurt me even after your guilt for mistreating my mum? Even after reading the letter that accompanied me when I was placed on your doorstep?” His third question, “Even though I was just a baby?” remained unspoken, but she heard it as loudly as if he’d screamed it.

“Don’t presume to know my motives or my grief,” she objected quietly, unable to summon more than weariness at his accusatory tone. “I have mourned Lily every day since learning of her murder. She didn’t deserve that ending, and neither did your dad.”

She saw Harry twitch a little at the last bit, for Petunia rarely acknowledged her late brother-in-law. “I didn’t have a proper chance to digest any of the information in that letter, you know.” Remembered anguish made her chin wobble. “Speaking of undeserved things, why did Dumbly-door think that leaving a letter was suitable given the circumstances? Why couldn’t he bother to say those things to me in person? Instead of offering up condolences or even solutions, the boy who lived was placed in my care without a by-your-leave, and no indication of how Vernon and I were to stretch our budget to feed another mouth. How was that fair?” she barely croaked out.

“Sorry if my becoming an orphan ruined your life,” Harry cut in, his eyes watery and jaw tight with old anger.

With a graceless shrug, she sniffled, “Be cross all you want about that, it’s fine; still doesn’t change how I felt then.” Her eyes lost focus, and she looked at her empty drinking glass, tapping its side absently with her fingernails. “In less than two years, my family was gone, save for you. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t separate you—a frightened, wounded baby—from the tangle of negative emotions surrounding Mum and Dad’s deaths, and all the things that came before.

“It seemed to me that time was looping in on itself, except now it was to be a contest of favoritism between Lily’s son and mine. So, yes, I was weak and petty, and I treated you horridly whilst you lived here, because I wanted my boy to receive the attention I’d been denied.”

Her nephew ran a hand through his hair, the emotions drifting across his face too fleeting to identify. “Did you ever care for me?”

“What a barmy thing to ask,” Petunia replied, frowning. “For heaven’s sake, put that letter on the table before you destroy it, and sit back down.”

“That is not an answer,” Harry ground out through clenched teeth, though he acquiesced to her demands.

She made a small noise in her throat. “Yes, lad, I do care for you, and I have done all along. I wouldn’t have adopted you otherwise.” She could see he was going to argue and held up a hand to stay his protest. “In spite of what you may think, Dumbly-door didn’t coerce me into keeping you. You’re my nephew, Harry. Whilst I couldn’t bring myself to shower you with affection, I wasn’t going to let you perish in a foster home that lacked protection wards.” Absently, she divulged, “Vernon fought me over it, no surprise there, but I prevailed. As Mum always told me and Lil, ‘Marriage consists of quarrels and compromises, and you can’t engage in either without someone being displeased.’

“After letting him name our son Dudley Denholm Dickie Dursley, I figured he owed me this much.” Her nephew balked and Petunia arched her brow, smiling wryly. “Indeed. Over the years, I assured Vernon that with all the odd things happening around you, there was an excellent chance you’d be sent an admission letter from Hogwarts. When that day came, then we could live as a family of three, the way we’d always dreamt of.”

“If that’s the case, then why did Uncle Vernon work so hard to prevent me from attending Hogwarts? Wouldn’t it have been better for him, for all of you, to drop me off at Kings Cross and be done?”

 “You’ll have to ask him, Harry. His reasons aren’t mine to share.” Petunia allowed a hint of apology to creep into her voice, but she refused to expose any more of her husband’s secrets. “I can say that he wanted to keep you near, whereas I wanted you to go.”

“That eager to be rid of me?” 

She shook her head. “Not that. You’re the wizard. Isn’t it obvious?”

“I wouldn’t ask if it was,” her nephew countered grimly. “Be blunt.”

“I kept you alive, and gave you a place to sleep, but you were Lily’s son. You had magic, and I knew you needed to be trained. During her third or fourth year, Lily told Mum, who in turn told me, about case studies she’d read involving five Muggle-born persons who lacked formal magical education, due to their parents or guardians denying them access. Once these individuals hit puberty, the darling hocus-pocus of their childhoods took on a wild element. With no wands or spells to channel the magic inside of them, they caused accidental harm to themselves and others.

“Mum had an excellent memory, and she was able to recall the details of each incident precisely. If you’re wondering why she would tell me, well, I had occasionally remarked that Lily didn’t need Hogwarts, because she had been so good at using magic without being taught.”

“Only occasionally?” Harry broke in.

“Perhaps incessantly, depending on your view,” she grudgingly conceded. “At any rate, by the time Mum had finished her recitation, I accepted that I was wrong, and I was glad for Lily’s education even as I resented it.” She shivered thinking about the fates of those unfortunate Muggle-born.

“When your letters started coming in, Vernon was bullish about letting you go, and I couldn’t reason with him at all. The worry that you’d burn down our house, or worse, burn yourself up, often jerked me awake at night. I began to ponder drugging my husband and shutting him in a cupboard until I got you away, but I’m pretty sure that would have resulted in divorce. Thank goodness for your Haggar! (“Hagrid,” Harry corrected reflexively, but she ignored him.) Mind, I still don’t appreciate him jinxing a pig tail onto Dudders’ bum in that ramshackle cabin, but it was a massive relief that he spirited off with you. It was important for you to gain control over your talents.” Petunia paused. “And I also got rid of you for the school year,” she admitted sheepishly.

Harry was silent for several beats and looked as if he could be knocked over by a feather. “There’s documentation out there about what can happen to untrained Muggle-born people?”

“A-are these case studies not taught in class?” she asked tentatively. “I thought if Lily knew about them, surely you would, too.”

“No. At least, they were never discussed in any of my classes,” her nephew responded. “Maybe they would have been addressed in Muggle Studies? I didn’t bother taking that elective since I grew up in Muggle society. Hermione might know about them, though. She’s more bookish than me.”

“Mm,” Petunia hummed. “Lil was a smart girl and loved doing research for fun. She probably came across the information whilst visiting the library. I bet she and your friend Har—Hermione would have got on.”

Harry gave her a flat look. “You know my mum wasn’t researching that stuff for fun.”

She crossed her arms and leaned back into her chair, scowling. “Fine. I was obnoxious and persistent, and Lil wanted me to put a sock in it. Pleased now?”

“Over the moon. Three more,” her nephew demanded abruptly, without context.

Strangely, Petunia thought she knew what he meant but made him verify. “Three more what?”

“Give three more examples where you showed care for me when I was growing up.”

“Setting the bar low, aren’t you?”

“I think it’s too high,” he shot back. Hope and cynicism warred for dominance on his face.

Petunia sat forward, resting her arms on the table. She’d never realized how uncomfortable these upright spindle-backed chairs truly were until this evening! Maybe she should invest in padded chair covers… Refocusing her thoughts, she said aloud the first thing that came to mind. “I made sure you got dessert when we celebrated special occasions.”

“Now that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” she asked lightly. “Did you never stop to consider why the cupboard door would be cracked open the night after a party at home or dinner at a fancy restaurant?”

Harry stirred, his eyes widening behind the round lenses. “I—I guess I thought it was just carelessness on your part, since Uncle Vernon always remembered to lock the cupboard door…” He stopped speaking, mouth agape.

“Oh, so you thought it was mere coincidence that there was always a large slice of cake or pie wrapped in cellophane, placed at the front of the fridge? Were you also too busy relishing victory and sugar to realize that neither my husband nor son punished you for stealing a treat? You know they would have done if it’d been theirs.”

“You saved me a piece of dessert every time.” A statement, not a question.

She nodded. “I couldn’t make it seem that way to Vernon and Dudders, of course. At home, I’d cut myself an extra portion, and eating out, I’d order two desserts. My boys tend to eat three or four servings of sweet treats, so I knew they wouldn’t think anything was amiss. I’d hide the dessert in the oven or microwave whilst they were still awake, and then spend an hour or two cleaning after they’d gone to bed to discourage them from sneaking downstairs.”

“You are keen to enlist others into doing chores,” Harry noted dryly. “All right, that’s one. What’s two?”

Petunia braced herself, for she knew this story was unlikely to be well-received. “Shortly before the start of summer holiday in 1986, you contracted the flu and chickenpox from a Year One classmate.”

“I did?” He seemed genuinely astonished.

“Yes. You looked a misery, covered in itchy red dots and coughing all hours. You were poorly for nearly a month, in part because the flu became pneumonia.” She looked away from him as she murmured, “Our pediatrician was quite displeased. She said that if you weren’t underweight and I’d taken you in sooner, the flu would’ve passed on its own instead of turning into something more serious.” Petunia could hear Dr Willoughby’s tongue-lashing echo through her ears.

“I see,” her nephew stated, conveying a wealth of betrayal in two words. “This is caring how?”

‘Buck up.’ She regarded Harry directly and replied, “You’re right. It wasn’t caring. I was responsible for you, and through my neglect I’d endangered you. Therefore, I took it upon myself to nurse you back to health. I packed off Vernon and Dudley to visit with Marge until you—”

“Wait, that doesn’t make sense,” he interjected. “That was the summer when Aunt Marge’s awful dog Ripper chased me up the tree!”

Petunia bit back a sigh. Here it was. “Aunt Marge wasn’t there, lad, and neither was her snorty, farting dog,” she corrected gently.

“That’s not how I remember it,” he said, his green eyes sharp as daggers.

“I know, Harry. You’ve been convinced the incident happened no matter how many times I’ve tried telling you the truth.” She swallowed indignation, rubbed her nose. “Really, I can’t blame you for thinking me a liar and trusting your own version of events. However, I’m telling you now, again, it was a fever-induced hallucination.”

“No. I felt the slobber of Ripper’s tongue on my ankle, and the breeze from being up in the tree, and I heard mocking laughter,” her nephew insisted.

“The slobber of Ripper’s tongue was me running a wet flannel over your body to cool you down. The breeze in the tree was air circulation from the floor fan. The mocking laughter was the laugh track from Holding the Fort; ITV was airing a marathon of that old sitcom, so I kept it on as background noise.”

Harry sat back, looking less certain. “Are you going to tell me that all of my recollections of Aunt Marge and her dog are wrong?”

Petunia felt her eyebrows rise to her hairline. “Now that would be lying. Though I am loath to defend Marge or any of her yappy little mongrels,” she sniffed disdainfully, “I can assure you that my sister-in-law isn’t producing an army of killers. English bulldogs only look vicious. Those grumpy faces and muscly bodies are deceptive. Ripper was unusually cranky for the breed, but he would still die of heat exhaustion if he’d rushed you ‘round the garden and held you hostage in a tree. They’re pretty frail dogs, and that’s the result of breeding for aesthetic over health.”

“Uh-huh.” Her nephew looked at her curiously. “How often did Aunt Marge hold you hostage for you to know all this?”

“More than I care to recollect,” Petunia answered promptly, with such contempt that Harry chortled faintly. “Marge is Vernon’s sister, so I will always open my home to her, even if his loyalty to her exceeds my understanding.”

“I imagine my dad thought the same about you.”

She flinched at the casual nature of Harry’s observation. “I’m sure you’re correct.” Petunia grabbed her glass and pushed away from the table, suddenly needing water and a little distance.

“That was unfair,” her nephew murmured after a long pause.

“No, it wasn’t,” she replied, carefully keeping her gaze on the water filling her glass. “The truth just stings, is all. Lil was kinder to me than my behavior merited, and James certainly knew it. Small wonder he often antagonized me. On some level, I understood his displeasure. I wish I could’ve been nicer to both of them.” Another bout of silence ensued as Petunia guzzled the water. She longed for the end of this conversation, to be on the other side of it regardless of outcome. Setting the glass in the sink, she looked over at Harry. “What?”

“You mean that?”

Petunia rolled her lips into her mouth, breathing deeply through her nose as she fought the urge to cry. What did he want her to say? ‘Yes, nephew. I am, in fact, a despicable human!’ Wasn’t it enough that she admitted her flaws? Why would she have said as much if she hadn’t meant it?! “I haven’t finished giving my second example,” she finally said.

Harry frowned, probably at her non sequitur. “Go on.”

Before continuing, she walked back to the table and plopped into her seat. “For a fortnight, it was only you and me in the house. I kept you in Dudley’s room, so you were as comfortable as possible. During those first four days, you were groggy and feverish. Pretty sure that’s when you dreamt of Ripper, for you whinged and shook and cried aloud, but I couldn’t understand anything you said. It was difficult getting you to sip water, let alone take medicine. Your eyes were open, but you didn’t really see me, and when you did, I wasn’t welcome.”

“Could you blame me?” he asked tersely.

“No. I generally didn’t make your time in my presence enjoyable. Why would illness make me treat you any nicer, yeah?” She stared at a spot between Harry’s jaw and shoulder, recalling the distress etched on the face of his younger self. “I hope you’ll never be in a position where a child in your home needs comfort and you can’t provide it. The helplessness you feel is unlike any other, and I’m fully aware I caused the predicament.” Her vision clouded and she blinked.

She could feel the weight of his assessment upon her, though he didn’t speak it. “Did my fever break after four days?”

“Yes, thank heavens. I doubt I was ever more relieved to see someone drenched in sweat than I was that day! Had to change out the bedding, as well as give you a bath and fresh pyjamas. You were quite knackered and still coughing, but you slept easier once I started applying mentholatum rub on your chest. Your appetite slowly came back, too. I made a few of your favorites to tempt you, foods like chicken noodle soup, Yorkshire pudding, bangers and mash, and bacon with cheese toasties.”

“I sort of remember eating cheese toasties and watching Coronation Street together,” Harry said hesitantly.

“Yes,” she replied, flashing a brief smile. “I wasn’t a regular viewer of the program, but there was an interesting storyline going on, where the local pub caught fire and a major character was trapped on the upper floor. Big drama!”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Harry’s forehead was puckered. “D’you know? For all of these years, I was convinced that your mothering me was the dream part. You were kind—loving, even—but once I was on the mend, you were content to shove me back into the cupboard under the stairs.”

Petunia felt irritation creep along her spine. “What do you want from me, retroactive contrition?”

“I want you to say it was wrong,” he said hotly.

“Yes, it was wrong. I was wrong! Do you feel lighter now?”

“Yes. In fact, I could practically soar on a broom. Oh, wait, I can do. I’m magical.”

The sarcasm of Harry’s response, combined with her frayed nerves, triggered an eruption of hysterical giggles. The lad’s confounded expression only served to fuel Petunia’s humor, and after a few minutes, he joined in. They sat at the table, howling like hyenas, releasing their built-up tension.

“Th-this doesn’t change anything,” her nephew wheezed, his green eyes wet and crinkled.

“O-oh, I kn-know,” Petunia hiccupped, her ribs and stomach aching, fighting down another wave of laughter.

Harry noisily inhaled, slowly expelling his breath. “S-so, what’s number three?” he asked, the question ending on a soft snort.

Fanning herself to cool her heated face, Petunia cocked her head to the side. “Y-you’re… accepting the nursing story as m-my second example, then?”

He seemed to sober up at her question. “I didn’t say it had to be a perfect instance of care, did I? You brought me through a bad illness, and honestly, I don’t remember being poorly any other time.”

“Supplements,” she murmured. “I’d give you gummy vitamins at breakfast and chocolate-flavored nutritional drinks at dinner.”

“Clever,” Harry conceded, with mild surprise in his voice, before repeating, “What’s number three?”

Petunia had always known, ever since her nephew started visiting her a year ago, that she’d tell him this part. Of course, she’d anticipated different circumstances, like being on her deathbed and disclosing it as her last secret. Delicately clearing her throat, she replied, “I kept a journal on your development from your arrival until your eleventh birthday.”

“How come I’ve never seen it?” he grumbled.

“Actually, you have done, you just didn’t know it. If you look on the middle row of the bookshelf in the sitting room, it’s the plain green leather-bound volume to the right of Dudley’s First Five Years and School Days memory book sets.” Seeing her nephew’s expression, she amended, “I didn’t say the treatment was equal, but I did do it.”

Harry quirked an eyebrow skeptically. “You just happened to have a blank journal lying around on the day you took me in?”

“It was Dad’s,” Petunia said softly. “He’d always joked about penning the next modern British classic, but he rarely took the time to sit down and eat, let alone write. I tucked it away without a firm idea for its usage, so when Dumbly-door placed you in my care… It seemed fitting to use that journal for your milestones. You’re Jack’s grandson, after all, and the both of you have green eyes.”

Without a word, Harry rose from his chair and strode away into the sitting room. Petunia’s guts twisted and lurched, and her hands went clammy. She’d told him only half the truth about the journal. He was about to learn the whole truth of its purpose. As his footsteps neared the kitchen, she wondered if it were possible to fake a seizure, a heart attack, or maybe even the plague. ‘Cough, cough, I feel lurgy. I fear I’m beset by sudden devastating illness, lad! Go on, be away from here lest you perish with me!’ (What was she, a bad Shakespearean parody?!)

Harry didn’t bother to sit down, opting to stand by her chair.  He flipped open the cover and began reading aloud.

“’Dear Lil,

Today is All Saint’s Day 1981. I opened my front door to retrieve the milk bottles from the porch, and I stepped into the morning after. You died last night. You’re dead. I keep repeating these words inside my head. I speak them aloud when Vernon’s in another room. They make less sense the more I do. You died last night. You’re dead. I’m writing this to a dead person.

A long time ago, you told me that you conversed with ghosts at Hogwarts. Are you a ghost now, watching me pen this entry? I don’t know, and I don’t know if I like the idea of you in a spiritual in-between. You should be with our parents, fishing with Dad or helping Mum wind a hank of wool. You should be with James, whom you love dearly. If you can read this, though, I am so sorry for all I said and didn’t say, and sorry that you had to leave your baby.

Your boy has grown since the last I saw him. Still has that wild shock of hair, but the wound on his forehead is new and horrible. I took him to A&E for an evaluation. The on-call doctor didn’t question the circumstances surrounding his injury or that I was his legal guardian; I guess that means Dumbly-door’s magic was at work. He did promise to sort out some of the logistics, even if money wasn’t part of that deal.

Anyway, Harry is smaller than Dudders, but he is healthy. His lungs in particular are quite healthy. The poor lad screamed himself hoarse whilst enduring the doctor’s ministrations. Thankfully, Harry didn’t require stitches, but I was given instructions on how to clean the wound and apply the salve. I wish I had something better for his pain than paracetamol drops. He’s still whimpering a little as I rock him back and forth in the pram Dudley outgrew.

For sake of posterity, Harry’s twenty-nine inches tall and weighs seventeen pounds, and the doctor observed that he’s myopic—near-sighted. (I know you know… knew… this, but I thought if magic healed broken bones and sleeplessness, surely it’d fix this?) I’ll take Harry to an optometrist soon. I’m sure we’ll get a voucher to cover the price of glasses since your poor lad struggles to see beyond his nose.

I don’t know how we’re going to make this work, but Harry is your son. He looked at me with your eyes, and I had to bring him in. Vernon is furious—at me, at you, at magic in general—but he saw that I wasn’t backing down. He knows when I’ve made up my mind. I suppose Dudley is furious, too; he’s never had less than my full attention and now it’s divided between him and Harry.

It’s just twelve hours into this new reality, and I already wish it were different. You died last night. You’re dead. I’m sorry.’”

When her nephew finished reciting the entry, Petunia didn’t dare look up. She felt too raw, enveloped in the memories of that day. She could hear Harry flipping through several pages of the journal, randomly selecting another entry.

“’Dear Lil,

Today is Easter Sunday 1984. Vernon, Dudley, and I went to church services this morning, per my husband’s request. Grunning’s has a new district manager, a devout man with a large family who started attending Vernon’s parish. I only went along to further his business ambitions, though I personally agree with Mum regarding Matthew 6:5-8. Does… that make me a hypocrite? (Forgive me, Mum.)

During this time, I left Harry with Mrs. Figg; I let Vernon think that was for his benefit, too, but you know the real reason. After what happened to you upon receiving your acceptance letter to Hogwarts… no. We knew those people, and it didn’t make a difference. What if Harry came along and Vernon let it slip that my nephew’s parents were magical? He deserves better treatment than the sort you got.’”

Harry stared at her, dismay writ clearly on his face. “What treatment did my mum receive?”

Petunia shook her head. “Another time.”

“But—”

“Not now,” she said emphatically, glaring up. She was at the end of her emotional tether already. Her nephew glowered in turn, and she could tell he was going to rebut. “Please,” she whispered, slumping.

His eyes narrowed, but after a moment he relented and continued reading. “‘Harry deserves better than me, period. I know you’re frowning at me from your heavenly perch, Sis. I feel you judging me sometimes, and I am guilt-ridden. Why am I like this? Your boy is so sweet, and he needs me to stop favoring Dudley. Words are easy to write, but change is harder to enact. I doubt anything will change soon. I digress, though.

After we came back from church, I collected your son, and our boys had an Easter egg hunt in the back garden. In the beginning, I noticed that Dudley waited for Harry to find an egg, and then he’d grab it away. Sort of reminded me of how certain male birds lie in wait for another male to build a nest and then swoop in to claim it as their own handiwork. However, after the fourth incident of Dudders robbing him of his egg, Harry shouted, “Stop!” He then stamped his foot and the ground shook hard enough for my son to end up on his bum. Dudley started looking for his own eggs at that point.

I knew the lad had your magic. Those curious little happenings—misplaced objects, a teacup shattering in my grasp, the area rug rucking up and causing Vernon to trip—were him! I simply couldn’t prove it until now. I snuck Harry an extra Cadbury egg and packet of jellybeans once Vernon and Dudley went to bed.

Just to let you know, I weighed and measured both boys this morning. Harry is thirty-eight inches tall and weighs thirty-six pounds. He’s better at recognizing letters of the alphabet than Dudley and knows some basic addition thanks to a children’s show called Rainbow.’”

Petunia hazarded a glimpse. Harry was turning pages of the journal, eyes moving rapidly over the contents. She watched his face, how it changed colors and expression.  He looked at her abruptly, his eyes sharp. “They’re all written as letters to my mum.” It sounded almost like an accusation.

“Yes,” she acknowledged. “I wanted to keep a connection with her in some way, even if it was all one-sided. I just… I would want to know how Dudley was faring if our positions were reversed. Seemed proper,” Petunia mumbled, her hands fluttering in an aimless gesture.

Her nephew said nothing, instead flipping closer to the end of the journal.

“’Dear Lil,

Today is Wednesday, 2 August 1995. Or… perhaps I should date it 3 August? It’s late in the night and I haven’t a clock nearby. Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Your son rescued mine from Dementors earlier this afternoon. Dementors. I let slip that I knew what they were and where I gleaned the information, but Harry assumed the ‘horrible’ boy I referenced was James. I suppose he would be ignorant of your friendship with Severus. I certainly haven’t told him.

Oh, dear, I’ve gone off on a tangent. Let me get back to the point. Harry’s in a bad way with the wizarding world, Lil. I don’t think I can help him. Clearly I can’t. I’m a Muggle with limited knowledge of magical laws. Judging by the barrage of letters received tonight, the Ministry doesn’t seem concerned about why Harry summoned a Patronus (I’m not clear what a Patronus is, beyond some sort of defensive magic). Shouldn’t the circumstances be important? Instead, it sounds like they’d have been fine if Dudley had died, so long as an underage wizard didn’t lift his wand to stop the attack. Bollocks to them, I say!

What also shocked me was Harry calling The Dark Lord by his true name. No cutesy distortion like Moldy-vort (the way you and I referred to him during those long-ago phone chats), or even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Your boy is terribly brave, and perhaps a little bonkers.

Goodness, I just felt ice water go through my veins! Are you nearby, Sis? Maybe James is, he seems more the type to prank me with ghoulish chills. Well, you can’t scare me more than I already am, ya prig, so knock it off!

Anyway, Vernon attempted to throw Harry out of the house. I’m ashamed, Lil. Harry saved my boy, and still I only stood by, wringing my hands as my husband screamed and screamed in your son’s face…’”

Harry frowned. “The next five lines are all scratched out.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed. “That’s what you do to prevent other people from reading your words.”

“Then why write them out in the first place?” her nephew asked, with some asperity.

“Those words were meant for Lily.” Petunia replied, a bitter smile twisting her lips. “If she cared to read them, she saw them.”

To her amazement, Harry dropped the subject, his eyes returning to the page. “’I feared Dudley and I would have to intervene--until an owl delivered the Howler, that is.

Yes, Dumbly-door, I REMEMBER THE LAST, all right?  He is my nephew, he is Lily’s boy, he is potentially the savior of wizards everywhere. Yes, you bloody, self-righteous old windbag, I remember. I would never permit Harry’s eviction from the one place with blood-protection, even if Vernon’s rage briefly cowed me. Your message did give my husband a fright and allowed me to put my foot down, so thanks for that, at least.

Lily, I can’t stop shaking. I pretended to get back to normal when everyone was milling around in the kitchen, but Dementors are loose in the Muggle world and your murderer is back. What is normal anymore? How will your son defeat the likes of him? And why is such an awful task heaped upon a child’s shoulders? I don’t understand.

… Though I am long past measuring height and weight for either boy, I will say that Harry is a clone of his father, down to that ridiculously scruffy black hair, but his eyes and mannerisms are all you.’”

“I was several years older than eleven when that happened,” Harry noted, his voice rough.

Petunia lifted a shoulder. “I wrote about you at least twice a month whilst you lived here. When you left for school, the updates became sporadic. I often only wrote one entry a year, which tended to be during summer holiday. Occasionally I’d make note of your marks during the school year, and I even received a special flyer when your sports team won. It’s taped to the back cover.

“What the journal illustrates, Harry, is that I cared for you. Not perfectly or fairly, I know, but… you are family,” she finished, lamely. How brilliant, she thought morosely, that all of her concerns and feelings for the orphaned child were addressed to his dead mother. “Go ahead and keep that journal. You can also read about all the things I noticed when you thought I didn’t.”

“Like what?”

She winced. ‘Oh, hell.’ Sod’s Law struck again. One of these days, she’d learn to stop babbling like a nitwit. It only landed her in more trouble. “Like… when you were so desperate for a toy that you pinched the replacement mop-head and called it Eighty-Legs Octopus.”

His face went completely blank. “You knew.”

Petunia bit her lip, feeling remorseful for mistreating Harry in the past and unsettling him in the present. “I did. I let you keep it, but I realized you needed an actual plaything.  Over the next week, I sewed you a doll out of fabric scraps during my spare time. I sat it on your bed whilst you were cleaning the bathroom mirrors one day. Never saw it again, come to think of it.” Not, she admitted to herself, that she had thought about the doll in ages.

“Jumble,” he muttered, running his hand through his hair.

“What?”

“The doll’s name is Jumble,” Harry said, slowly and deliberately. “Had a whole story about how he came to be there.”

‘Is?’ she marveled. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Shifting a little on his legs, he regarded her warily. For a moment, Petunia thought that was all Harry would say about the matter, and then, “A good fairy made him out of old clothes and placed him on my bed. The fairy told Jumble that he could become a real boy if he obeyed her and kept on the bed at night with me. However, he liked playing on the floor with his friend Eighty-Legs Octopus more than obeying the fairy, so every morning she turned him back into fabric and stuffing, which I shoved under my pillow,” Harry said, his face flushed.

Petunia rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Borrowing heavily from Pinocchio, aren’t we?”

“I was four,” he groused, “and you’re missing the point. I thought a good fairy giving me a toy made more sense than my aunt doing so.”

Petunia averted her gaze at his censure, studying her nails. “What, em, became of the doll?”

“I took him with me to Hogwarts—I was afraid Dudley would rip him up or Vernon would bin him if I left him here. He stayed at the bottom of my trunk for years, until Ginny discovered him. Jumble’s currently in her room at The Burrow, sitting on a shelf with her stuffies.” He gave a soft sigh, and added, “Thank you for making Jumble. He didn’t mind my hugs.”

A hush settled over the kitchen, and she became painfully aware of her hitched breathing and the tingling sensation in her nostrils. Gazing up at her nephew, this impossible person who had been a thorn in her side and was kind beyond reason, Petunia’s head filled with a thousand words she wanted to say and couldn’t articulate. Pride and shame were powerful motivators to remain silent, yet… was she content to end their relationship this way? Seemed a pity when they were finally being frank.

“Read the last three pages of the journal.”

Harry twitched a little, his lips pressing together, but he obliged her. Turning the volume in his hands, he opened the back cover, turned back a few pages, and read.

“’Dear Lil,

Today is Hallowe’en 1997. I should have written you months ago, when Harry turned seventeen, but everything went mad. As you know, the protection charms that kept him safe at my home dissolved when he came of age. Moldy-vort’s return necessitated us—Vernon, Dudley, and I—to go into hiding for the duration of… what remains of your son’s life? (NO.) I’m not sure. At any rate, Harry feared we would either be killed outright for being his family or used as bait to force the confrontation before he was ready.

Several members of the Order of the Phoenix took us to a lovely homestead in a rural area. We’re surrounded by countryside, Sis; I can’t see another home even when I stand near the main road. I suspect, though I can’t be certain, we’re in that strange overlap place you tried explaining to me, how magical people live just a little west of the Muggle world. I get the impression there should be other homes along this stretch of land, and we’re each unseen by the other.

This is unimportant. I’m always focusing on the unimportant. We’re protected and well-supplied, whereas your boy is risking life and limb to bring down your murderer. I’ve been praying he’ll succeed and can go on to live a normal life afterward. Whatever passes for normal with magical people.

I didn’t thank him. I didn’t wish him good luck. I didn’t encourage him to keep faith, or stay strong… Harry thought of us, and I couldn’t say a thing to him. If he survives, Lil, I’ll make an effort. I don’t know how that’ll look, or what I can do—why would he bother with me? At best I’ve only ever been civil—but if he shows up, I’ll not turn him away.

Sixteen years to the day since you died. You were barely older than your son, and he might join you any time now. It’s horrifying to think about. I can’t apologize to another ghost.’”

Harry sucked in a deep breath before reading the last entry.

“’Dear Lil,

Today is Sunday, 3 May 1998. According to the scroll we received, the Battle of Hogwarts, waged yesterday, ended in victory. Voldemort is dead. Your son was also dead but resurrected (no explanation; does it truly matter?). He is the boy who lived and lived again. My heart is glad.’”

“’The boy who lived and lived again’?”

“Haven’t I said it before? It’s fitting, don’t you think?” Petunia made a face. “Ugh, I must needs get that eye exam soon. My sight keeps going wobbly… What?”

“Do you not know you’re crying?” Harry asked softly.

“What?” She repeated stupidly. Touching fingertips to her cheeks, Petunia was surprised to discover that tears saturated her skin. That explained her blurry vision, then. “Oh,” she breathed.

Her nephew closed the journal and set it on the table. “Stand up,” he ordered.

Rising on trembling legs, Petunia didn’t bother to swipe her eyes (they kept leaking), but she sniffled mightily as she rubbed her nose against the lapel of her dressing gown. “Harry,” she croaked, not even sure why she spoke or what more she could say.

“Quiet,” he snapped, and swept her in a hug.

The shock of his embrace caused gooseflesh to erupt all over her body, and she remained rigid for a full thirty seconds before her muscles began to relax. Another thirty seconds went by, and she cautiously curled her arms around his back. Petunia catalogued other details: his hair smelt of baking spices and woodsmoke, his shirt was soft, and the grip of his hands was firm yet gentle. She closed her eyes and leaned into his body, just a little, just for a moment. She was so tired, and he was warm…

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She startled at the sudden words, at the sorrow they held. Petunia didn’t deserve his compassion, but he gave it anyway. “Thank you,” she said thickly. “It’s your loss, too. I wish you had more of them than photographs and my memories.” 

“Me, too, but some wishes can’t be granted,” Harry replied, his breath fluttering her hair.

Gently, Petunia pulled back and asked, “Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know,” her nephew admitted quietly, letting her go. “I understand you better, but it doesn’t change our past. I—I still can’t forgive how you treated me growing up, and I don’t know if I ever will.” To her astonishment, Petunia saw regret in his eyes. Lily’s eyes, tender and green.

Tentatively, she reached out and cupped his face. She could feel the faint hint of stubble along his jawline, the smoothness of his cheeks. In the end, he was just a young man, mortal like any other regardless of magic. Harry’s eyes went wide, for she rarely (ever?) touched him so familiarly. Petunia did it now, for she needed him to look in her eyes and understand. “You owe me nothing, not even to return. You have the truth, and I accept the consequences of my actions.” She dropped her hands, stepped away, and waited. It was his choice.

There was perfect silence for a few heartbeats, and Petunia, feeling sick with nerves, reminded herself that she was being noble, and not to botch it up by bursting into sobs or begging for absolution. Her nephew didn’t deserve such manipulation.

Finally, he groaned a little and murmured, “No pressure or anything.” Rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze focused somewhere over her shoulder, he looked torn between his old and new perceptions of her.

She gave a soft huff of laughter. “You don’t have to decide here, numpty. Go home and think it over. Maybe have a chat with your fiancée and get her input.”

“That’s a terrible suggestion,” her nephew said with a rueful shake of his head. “Ginny hates you. The idea of you, anyway. I think she would agree with Vernon about us cutting contact.”

Petunia grimaced. “Oh. Well… that is a perfectly reasonable outcome,” she offered, hoping it sounded sincere.

The wry twist of his mouth assured her it did not. Licking his lips, Harry said, “I have an idea.”

“Go on.”

“I want to know everything you can tell me about Grampy and Nana Evans, in addition to the stories about my mum.” He held up a hand before she could agree. “Hang on, I’m not finished. Since you’re not writing in that journal anymore, I want you to resume drawing. Think of it as your means of staying connected with my mum.” Bashfully, he added, “Maybe I could try animating some of your drawings, the way she did. I’d like to practice. Sounds like a nice diversion for children.”

‘Children? You’re already thinking of having children?’ “Y-yeah,” she stuttered, her head spinning at this revelation. “Harry—”

“One more thing,” he interrupted. She stopped talking. Solemnly, her nephew declared, “I want to call you Aunt Nia. I’m Lily’s son, so that has to count.”

She almost scoffed with relief at such a small request but refrained. She didn’t want him to misunderstand. “You may call me Aunt Nia if you wish.”

He nodded, appearing satisfied. Stretching his arms over his head, he grunted, “Don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. I can’t remember the last time that we’ve been in each other’s company this long.”

“Ages,” she agreed, trying unsuccessfully to hide a yawn behind her hand. “We’re well into Saturday, aren’t we?”

“I think I heard the grandfather clock strike three a while back. Will you be going to bed after I leave?”

“Em, yes and no. I’ll be sleeping on the sofa. My room’s in disrepair and I don’t want to step on glass.”

Harry’s eyebrows quirked. “I can fix that.” Producing his wand, her nephew pointed it at the upper floor and uttered, “Reparo locus.” Turning to her, he said, “Let’s go have a look.”

He followed behind her as they climbed the stairs and turned toward the first bedroom on the left. Petunia twisted the knob on the door, pushing it open, and flipped the light switch. She gasped. It looked as if the row never happened: the wall was intact, the turquoise vase was whole and returned to her nightstand, and the quilt looked as beautiful as the day she brought it home.

Harry was staring at Rosie’s creation with a strange look on his face. “It’s got a lot of red and gold to it, and there are deer in the center of each square.”

“I know,” she said, not seeing the cause for his reaction.

“You wrote in one of your journal entries that you didn’t know what a Patronus is,” he began, seemingly sidetracked. “A Patronus is a defensive charm against Dementors. They take the form of animals. My mum’s Patronus was a doe and my dad’s was a stag. Red and gold are the colors of Gryffindor House.”

Petunia goggled at her nephew as realization washed over her. “It’s Lily’s present,” she whispered, tracing the whorls of golden quilting thread that covered the fabric. “I’ve had Lily’s congratulations-on-motherhood present all these years. It was the last quilt Mum ever made, but she was always making quilts as a matter of course. I never thought…” Impulsively, she started folding the quilt, first in half, then in quarters.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, bewilderment in his tone.

“This was never mine,” she answered, continuing to fold. “Obviously I can’t give it to your mum, therefore, it’s yours. Consider it an early wedding gift. I-I think Nana Rosie would want you to have it,” she explained, handing the bundle to him.

“You’re sure?” He seemed uncertain even as he cradled the quilt to his chest.

“I have several of Mum’s quilts, lad. This one has meaning for you. Please, take it.” Petunia gently patted his hands. She felt awkward touching her nephew; demonstrable affection would have to be practiced, she supposed, the same as any other endeavor. If he allowed it.

“I broke the vase you made my mum,” Harry blurted suddenly, his eyes troubled. “That’s what the letter to my godfather said. I was flying on the toddler broom he sent for my first birthday, and I crashed into it. When she wrote that the ‘ugly vase’ you’d sent her was destroyed, and added ‘no worries,’ I thought she felt fine about it—was amused, even.”

“She probably was, Harry,” Petunia assured him. “You were her baby, and Lily was fantastic at that reparastorative spell thingy.”

“Reparo,” he helpfully supplied.

Petunia gave a crooked grin. “What I said.”

“You’re not cross?” he pressed.

She took a shuddering breath. “A vase is just an article. It doesn’t feel anything when it breaks. If I could wave a wand and fix all the times I broke your heart whilst I raised you…” she shook her head. “I don’t know why you want to come back.”

Harry studied her intently, and she fought not to squirm under that measured stare. “Everyone changes. I may not forgive who you were, but I’m willing to try knowing who you are. It won’t be easy, I don’t think. Are you all right with that?”

He was correct: regardless of tears shed and a hug shared, their contentious history wasn’t erased over the course of an evening. Moreover, their significant others disapproved. All the same, Petunia needed to remember her family, and neither her husband nor son seemed willing to listen. Her nephew was receptive—eager, in fact—and he always asked questions. She reminded herself that these sessions were for Harry. If they provided her some selfish benefits, well, what was good for the goose was good for the gander. Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

A smile ghosted Harry’s mouth. “Right then,” he said, tightening his grip on the quilt. “I’ll see you on Monday, same time as always. You can go to bed, Aunt Nia. I know my way out.”

“Oh—the journal!” she exclaimed. “Don’t forget it.” She later reflected that he could have waited until his following visit, but it was the principle of the matter.

“Wasn’t going to,” he responded in a sanguine manner.

Her nephew turned on his heel and walked out of her bedroom. She listened to his footfalls as he descended the staircase, detoured to the kitchen, then made his way to the sitting room. Finally, the familiar bang and whoosh of floo powder activating reached her ears. Petunia pulled back her covers and slipped into bed. Before sleep overtook her, she reflected that Harry’s love was one of many undeserved things he’d given her, and she was grateful for it. Someday, she hoped to repay the favor.