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Petunia Dursley was perfectly normal in every sense of the word. She was happily married to one Vernon Dursley, and the two of them lived a splendidly normal life together with their son, Dudley, on 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.
Her husband worked a normal job with normal hours, and arrived home at precisely the same time each day. Every evening he would hang up his hat and coat by the door and kick off his shoes. (Petunia would put them away for him only to find them on the sofa again sometime later)
Petunia would welcome him with a kiss and the promise of a hot meal, one which was met with gratitude, the other, not so much. Vernon didn’t tend to stick around long after dinner on week days. A wholehearted believer of the notion that a “man needs his space apart from the family,” Vernon would often shut himself away for a while before retiring completely to their shared bedroom.
That was fine though. Great, even. When the man was awake and roaming, no matter how much Petunia cleaned, the messes never seemed to end.
Her son Dudley on the other hand, was a handsome boy of seven. He had begun to grow a bit of a pudge as of late, no doubt thanks to seconds and sometimes even thirds of his meals but Petunia could not bring herself to scold him. Instead, she coddled him, peppering the red faced youth with kisses.
The boy had what most would call generic childish interests. He liked cars that went fast, cartoons that went boom, and, of course, sweets that turned his mouth a rainbow of colors.
In terms of hobbies, Petunia herself had taken up knitting. And from there she had learned to crochet.
When neither of those two things could continue to hold her interest, she’d switched to baking, and even dabbled a bit in confectionery. She stuck to what was known and expected of her as a perfectly normal and respectable housewife. Sometimes, though, often in the dead of night when all in the house were asleep, she found that she could not sleep. She had too much energy, so much so that she could scarcely even think of resting until she had something more to occupy her hands. And by extension, her thoughts.
And Petunia had a lot of thoughts. Many of them lately about one boy. The boy who slept underneath the stairs inside of their broom cupboard, to be precise.
The boy hadn’t always lived in the broom cupboard. It was just… how things ended up. Once, when the boy had just been given to them, he’d slept up in little Dudley’s room. But that had only lasted for about a year or so, until the strange events started occurring.
From Vernon’s hat disappearing from its hook and reappearing in the blender, to Dudley’s toys somehow finding their way into his crib, and from Petunia’s cookies venturing from across the room and into his hands when she wasn’t looking —
It was just enough strangeness for her husband to come to the conclusion that the boy was a freak. A magic freak, like her. And after that, it was into the cupboard he went.
Until recently, Petunia hadn’t thought much of the boy. Being that the boy was only seven, there wasn’t all that much he could do to make himself useful around the house just yet. Petunia had recently taught him how to clean — he had become fairly adept at that, cleaning the areas that he could reach with stubby hands. But as for cooking, there wasn’t much he could do while he couldn’t reach the stove.
Petunia stuck with having him learn simple recipes, ones that did not require heat. For all of his faults, the boy knew how to make excellent egg sandwiches.
The child was her sister’s son, her nephew by blood. And until recently, Petunia had abhorred that fact. That was before she had the dreams. The dreams of a life where the boy had gone from simple household chores to weeks on end without food.
She dreamt of a boy who, upon turning eleven, received a letter to a magic school, much in the same way she had. Who laughed with friends and played ridiculous looking games in the air on a broom. She dreamt of a boy who was made to confront the man who had killed his parents. Killed Petunia’s sister. Not once, but dozens of times.
And lastly, she dreamt of a young man. No longer a boy, her nephew urged her and her family to find refuge. To live somewhere far, where Voldemort wouldn’t find them. That was the last thing she dreamed — the nephew she’d neglected and scorned, through jealousy and through fear, ushering her outside of the house she’d lived in for years, and wishing her well. Wishing her towards safety.
While he stayed behind, preparing to deal with the very evils that had taken her sister away from her.
She didn’t understand it. She didn’t understand how he could treat her, treat any of them, with any semblance of respect after everything that they had put him through. He must have hated them. He must have. And yet…
Petunia rested her forehead against the cool stone of the kitchen countertop, leaning forward in the cushioned stool below her. Her hands itched to do something, anything. Once, she might have picked up her pencil and sketchbook to help her pass the time, but she no longer had either of those.
More than anything, she wanted to believe that these dreams she was having were just that. Dreams. Nonsensical delusions that her brain cooked up just to worry her. To scare her. Heaven knows that Petunia has had her fair share of nightmares. She didn’t remember most of them, which she supposed made them night terrors, but of course she never referred to them as such. Not around her family.
Not around Vernon. Night terrors were… abnormal. And, well. She knew how the abnormal was treated around here. How she had treated —
“Auntie?”
Petunia raised her head. A small shadow pattered into the kitchen, clutching a ratty red blanket between too-skinny fingers. Dwarfed under the folds of a faded bedshirt, with words that were completely faded to time, the shadow wore a pair of unfitted glasses which hung slipping from the bridge of his nose.
A tiny hand shoved the glasses up by the frames, only for the rounded lenses to slither back down to his cheeks a moment later.
A head of dark and untidy hair — hair that stuck up in all directions, nothing like her darling Dudley’s wispy blonde — tottered over to her, coming to a stop just below the countertop. Her sister’s eyes gazed up at her.
“Auntie, what’s wrong?” The boy asked, scrunching his blanket between his hands.
A few days ago, Petunia would have leapt up at once to scold him. To lecture him on the proper use of her name. That’s Aunt Petunia to you, she would have snipped, and grabbing the boy up by the wrist, would have hauled him back to the cupboard swifter than he could blink. Petunia… did none of this.
Instead, she sat. Stared.
She stared down at the boy who, in a dream which had felt more real than her own present life, saved her and her family. Perhaps even more than once. She recalled the face of the man she’d seen. The man who, while looking almost identical to his father, had a distinct fire to him that was entirely her.
Entirely… Lily.
“Harry. What are you doing awake?”
“Hungry,” he replied, face awash with guilt.
“You’re hungry?”
A nod. Petunia sat back.
Again. A few days ago, she would have sent him promptly back to bed. But the thought of doing that now? An unpleasant feeling pooled in her gut.
“Well.” She stood, straightening the hem of her nightgown. “We’ll just have to fix that, then, won’t we?”
. . .
Fifteen minutes later, Harry sat contentedly on the stool adjacent to hers, munching on a bit of buttered toast while Petunia poured him a glass of juice.
“What kind?” She’d asked a moment ago, only to be met with confused silence.
The boy apparently only knew of one kind. Orange juice. And, to her utter shock, he had never even tried it before.
“Can I…I mean, may I have some orange drink? The one that Dudley has in the morning?”
“You mean orange juice?”
“Only if I can, I mean.” The boy had said, curling in on himself the moment her eyes fell to him. “I’d like to try it. If I’m allowed.”
Petunia had been at a loss.
“You’ve never had orange juice before?”
“No, ma’am. Orange juice is for growing boys like Dudley. Not skinny boys like me.”
But why does only Lily get a lemon bar for dessert? Why not me too?”
“Now, Petunia. Your sister spends all year away studying at school. Lemon bars are for good girls, who study hard. Not for girls who doodle carelessly in the margins, like you.”
Petunia slid the glass over to him and Harry took it gratefully, holding it with both hands. Upon taking his first sip, his eyes lit up. And tilting the glass up, the entire cup was drained and set down with a clink.
Harry peered mournfully into his glass, and something in Petunia’s heart constricted a little. He looked so much like his mother. More than she ever let herself realize.
“Would you like another glass?”
“Can I? Is that okay?”
“Yes.” Suddenly, Petunia found it very hard to look at the boy. “You may. If — if you want some in the morning as well, you need only ask.”
The twitch of his lips was slight, and if Petunia hadn’t been looking directly at his face, she would have missed it. “Thank you Auntie.”
. . .
The following morning Petunia awoke before the sun rose to prepare a large breakfast, setting the table for four instead of the usual three. The largest plate of eggs, bacon, and hash went to Vernon, while the second largest went to Dudley. Petunia served up what was left of the pan onto her and Harry’s plates, making sure that Harry got the last bit of hash.
(She had never really liked the stuff and only made it because Vernon insisted on having it each morning.)
By the time Harry wandered into the kitchen, bleary eyed and rolling up his sleeves to help cook, breakfast was already served. Upon seeing the steaming plates of food, the boy’s eyes widened. “You’ve already finished…”
“I have.”
She had contemplated waking him up for a bit of extra help, (old habits died hard, she supposed) but just as she’d bent near the door to the broom cupboard, she decided against it. He was just a boy. The same age as her Dudley. She never would have woken Dudley up early to help her with the cooking. What gave her the right to do that to Harry?
Not like that had stopped her from doing so before the dreams began.
Petunia dropped her pan in the sink harder than intended. The clatter made Harry jump. Petunia’s heart squeezed.
“But mother, if you would just look at it — “
A loud clang as her mother’s cast iron was placed aggressively to dry in the sink.“Oh honestly, Petunia…”
Her mother grabbed her artwork with wet hands. Hardly a second passed before she pressed the dampened paper back into her daughter’s hands without so much as a glance.
Apparently, the second place ribbon wasn’t even worth mentioning.
“If only you put as much effort into your studies as you do your sketches...”
“Are you alright Aunt Petunia?”
Looking away from the greasy pan which had begun to fill with water underneath her empty hands, Petunia blinked. She shut off the tap.
“Quite. Now be a dear, and take these to the table.”
Small hands grabbed the offered napkins and the boy went to the table, folding and tucking one under each plate. When he happened upon the fourth plate, however, he paused.
“Er, Auntie,” he said, propping himself up on his toes to get a better look. “I think there’s an extra plate on the table.”
“There’s no extra. That plate is yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
“You mean I’m to sit at the table?”
“Yes.”
In front of her, Harry stood dumbfounded at the foot of the table, hands scrunched into the folds of his nightshirt.
“Well?” She said impatiently. “Don’t just stand there. Sit down and I’ll get you some orange juice.”
At the mention of his beloved ‘orange drink’ Harry promptly sat, eyes shining. When she returned with his glass he sat properly with his hands folded out in front of him. He quickly abandoned the pretense however when the glass was set in front of him, hands darting out to grab the tall drink with both hands.
Petunia smiled briefly before remembering that until last night, he had never had the drink before in his life. Her smile fell to the floor.
From the foyer, heavy booted steps entered the kitchen. Vernon was already dressed for the office, his brown suit jacket draped over his shoulder as he shuffled in, either missing or not caring that Harry was currently seated at the table, greedily gulping down orange juice.
“Petunia, have you seen my briefcase?”
“I haven’t.” She returned, setting a pitcher of water down onto the table’s middle.
Harry reached for the handle, muttering something about pouring glasses for the rest of the table, but Petunia flicked the boy’s hand away with a frown, filling the glasses herself.
“Where was the place you put it last?”
“I haven’t got a clue.” Vernon huffed. He was just about to sit down when his eyes landed on the messy haired youth across from him. “What do you think you’re doing here?” He asked, voice grave. Then, turning to Petunia, “What’s the boy doing at the table for?”
“I invited him.”
His pudgy eyes widened. “You invited him?”
From his rapidly reddening face and the way he began to flounder, Petunia could tell Vernon was getting ready to argue. Before he could start, she leaned close to his ear. “It’s only right that he joins us for meals. How strange will the neighbors think us if they find out about the boy eating separately from us?” She whispered.
That gave Vernon pause. “That’s, well…”
“It wouldn’t be a good look for us.” Petunia reminded him gently. The shift in tone softened something in his posture, and all at once, the man began to deflate. “Yes…yes I suppose you’re right.”
She smiled. “Of course I am, dear. Now go and sit down, before your food gets cold.”
The mention of food was enough to distract him. He was grumbling when he sat, but said nothing more as he picked up his fork and began to eat. Dudley, who had been hovering in the doorway watching the exchange, waddled over to his seat.
He didn’t seem as put out by Harry’s presence as his father had been, the look he gave him closer to curiosity than disgust.
“Harry’s eating with us today?” He asked, already beginning to tuck in.
“Yes. He’s going to be eating with us at the table from now on, Duddykins.”
Dudley shrugged, curiosity already beginning to dim as he ate. Internally, Petunia sighed with relief. Vernon, she had learned to deal with over the years. By now, soothing his moods and tempering his tantrums had become second nature to her.
But Dudley, her darling Dudley? She hadn’t known what to expect from him. The Dudley she’d seen in her dreams was so incredibly different from the one in front of her now. The Dudley in her dreams had been cruel. Boorish. Her Dudley was harmless. Carefree.
He was perhaps a bit slow when it came to fully understanding and articulating his thoughts and feelings, but that was to be expected of a seven-year-old.
Petunia shook her head. The two were about as different as night was from day, but even then…she couldn’t help but notice the similarities between the two. Both were impatient. Proud. Both of them had very specific tastes and ways of dealing with things that upset them. She really had hoped that the temper tantrums would lessen over time, but…
Finally settling down at her place at the table, Petunia noted Harry’s full plate. It wasn’t until she began picking around at her own dish that he also started to eat.
Foolish child.
“You don’t need to wait for me next time.” She told him quietly. “You’re allowed to eat if you’re hungry.”
He gave her a sideways glance, but otherwise didn’t answer.
Vernon was the first to finish, and he rose grumbling something about finding his lost briefcase before heading off to work. Dudley was second, hopping up from his empty plate to catch the ending to his cartoon that had been left on in the living room. Predictably, both of them left their dirty dishes behind.
At the very least with Dudley, it was more understandable. He was seven, and while he should have been learning to clean up after himself, it wasn’t fully necessary at his age. Vernon, however…
She sighed and moved to grab his plate. Piling each of his and Dudley’s dishes on top of one another, she made it halfway to the sink before being halted by her nephew.
“I can help,” He said, already beginning to reach for the tower of china in her arms. “I’ve seen you wash dishes before. I think I can do it.”
“No.”
Her voice came out sharper than she meant it to. Harry’s reaction was instant. He flushed, dropping both hands to his sides. Regret flooded her heart followed by a swift crack of self-hatred. It was always so easy to speak kindly to her own little Dudley.
So why was it difficult to extend the same treatment to Harry? It didn’t make sense. She took a deep breath, smoothing her expression.
“No. No thank you…I’ll be alright.”
“But…”
“Harry.” She gave him a firm look. “You may go. I’ll finish cleaning up here.
The boy rocked back and forth on his heels. “But…I want to help.”
“You don’t have to,” shouldn’t need to, “I can take care of it.” She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Believe it or not, I did manage to clean up after meals by myself before you came along.”
“But Miss Hadley always tells me that it’s polite to help other people.”
“Miss Hadley?”
“My teacher.”
Petunia gave him a long hard look. Finally, she steadied the pile of china in her hands on the countertop next to the sink. “I can’t have you washing the dishes.”
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off before he could let out a word. “You can’t reach the sink, child, don’t try to argue. Still… if you insist on helping, you may assist me in drying the dishes. It would be… very helpful.”
The boy beamed so brightly at that, it was as if the sun itself had stepped into the room.
“Well?” She said, soaping up the first stack of dishes. “Don’t just stand there grinning, the towel is by the stove.”
The boy continued to grin, unabashed. “Yes Aunt Petunia.”
. . .
Petunia had forgotten all about her sister’s old school letters. She had been cleaning out the little antique desk in the living room, sorting through all the bills and such, when out came a stack of poorly bound envelopes with broken wax seals. The stack flumped onto the floor, some of the contents spilling over the carpet. Lily’s neat handwriting glared up at her from the floor.
She knelt, brushing the corner of the nearest letter with her knuckle. Its razor edge nicked the thin skin above the bone and she recoiled, bringing the rapidly welling line of red to her mouth.
“Are you alright?”
Her nephew, who had insisted on helping to dust the low to reach furniture, abandoned the half-cleaned coffee table and tottered to her side. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine. It’s only a cut. I won’t need a bandage.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Harry bent to retrieve the fallen letters and Petunia’s heart somersaulted in her chest. She swept the letters into her hands, being mindful of the blood.
“I’ll get these.”
“But your hand, you might —”
“I’ll get them.”
Gathering herself, she rose, placing the yellowed stack on the corner of the desk. Harry blinked at them, eyes meeting just above the desktop. “What are they?”
“Letters.” Petunia said. She went back to sorting the bills, pausing every so often to side eye her sister’s carefully addressed stationery.
“To who?”
“Me.”
“Who wrote them?”
Petunia tapped the edges of the papers against the desk, evening them out before shoving them back into the tiny crevice she drew them from. They stuck out irregularly. She sighed.
“Your mother did. Lily.”
“My mother?” The boy stared after the envelopes with newfound fervor. “What do they say? What did she write?”
“Harry.”
The name fell from her, harsh and resolute. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to snatch the old things away and toss them into the fire. She could do it. It would be easy to. The fireplace wasn’t lit, but it wasn’t as if she couldn’t fix that. She wanted to shout at the boy. To tell him that the letters were hers, and that they were none of his business, but she stopped herself.
He wasn’t trying to upset her. He likely didn’t even realize that he was pushing. All he knew was that the letters were written by his mother. The mother he’d never met. The mother he knew next to nothing about.
She dropped her head, cupping her hands around her nose and mouth, gathering her nerves. Finally, she took the stack into her hands. Took them, and held them out to Harry, who didn’t grab them.
“Here. Read them yourself if you’re so curious.”
Harry took the letters, took them, but made no move to read them. He hugged them to his chest, ears reddening.
“Aunt Petunia?”
“What.”
“Could you, I mean…maybe…read…” He mumbled something off to the side, covering a part of his mouth with the letters clutched to his heart.
“Could I what? Speak up.”
“Could you read them to me?”
An emphatic no stuck to the roof of her mouth and she pursed her lips. A single glance down and she found herself making her way to the floral print sofa. She sat holding out her hand. “I’ll read you one. Just the one, you hear?”
Her nephew all but leapt over the coffee table, settling criss-crossed at her left. An envelope was passed giddily into her hands.
“Just one.” She reminded him.
“Okay.”
“I’ll need my reading glasses.”
Quick as a stag, he jumped over the table a second time, disappearing into the kitchen a moment before hurtling back, pink glasses in hand. They slipped down her nose slightly as she unfolded the letter.
Dear Tuney,
It feels strange to be so far away from home. I still haven’t made many friends in my house yet, but I’m not too lonely since I have Sev. I know you don’t like him, but I really think the two of you have more in common than you’d think. If you just gave him a chance, you’d see what I mean. But I know I can’t force the two of you to get along, so I’ll drop it for now.
A few days ago I was sorted into Gryffindor. Sev wasn’t too happy about that. I’m not so sure I am, either. A few of the boys here have already taken to picking on him and no one does anything to stop them. It’s not just him either. Apparently, the house you’re in decides a lot about the kinds of people you interact with. I hope there’s more to this house than bullies. Otherwise, I’m not so sure how long I’ll be able to stand it.
On the bright side, there are plenty of places for me to go to avoid them. The castle grounds are gorgeous, and all around me I see places I know you would enjoy drawing. I’m not as good an artist as you, but I tried my best to sketch the lake. (See below.)
(Petunia snorted at the sight of the poorly drawn body of water. Beside her, Harry brushed a tiny finger over the scrawled lines.)
If you want, I can try and send a few photographs home? I’m not much of a photographer either, but if it helps with your artist block, I don’t mind doing it. Just say the word.
I know we didn’t part on the best of terms. And for that I’m sorry. I’ll try to write as often as I can. Don’t feel pressured to send me a response if you aren’t ready to talk. I’ll wait for you as long as I need to.
Still, I really do wish you were here. You always had a way of helping me feel less alone.
With love,
Lily.
A sickly swoop in her stomach cut her off, and Petunia stuttered over her sister’s name. She had forgotten how that particular letter ended. She should have scanned it first before deciding to read the entire thing out loud. She cleared her throat, folding the paper back up.
“Well? Satisfied?”
Harry pressed his face into her side, skewing his glasses across his face. She froze, trapped between the maternal urge to fix them and the crawling guilt that hissed at her to move away.
“She wrote that she was sorry. Did she do something to upset you?”
“Yes.” Petunia said, then shut her eyes. “No. It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
Harry’s glasses creaked as he craned his head up to look at her, a new question taking his interest. “You like to draw?”
Did she?
Petunia stared hard at the letter in her hand, recalling her sister’s pitiful recreation of what she was sure must have been a wonderfully grand location. Distantly, she wondered where her old art supplies had gone. The specialized pencils she’d saved two weeks to buy when she was twelve. The stacks of expensive sketchbooks, the hard bound ones that her mother had a habit of hiding from her.
Where had they gone? When had they gone? Could they be buried somewhere, hidden in the vast mountain of papers of Vernon’s study?
“I did. I…enjoyed it very much.”
“Do you have any you can show me?”
“I’m not sure. Vernon and I got rid of quite a few back when we were first moving in. There just wasn’t any place for them.”
“There’s plenty of room around the house. They won’t take up much space. Not if you hang them up.”
“Hang them up? Petunia, darling, be reasonable. They’re hardly presentable enough to be showcased around the house. What if we have company over?”
“I can put them away. When we have company over. I can put them away. It wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“Oh Petunia…”
A patronizing pat to her cheek. A disarming smile.
“I couldn’t make you do that.”
Discontent thumped within her, a dull but familiar ache. Five pieces. That was all she had managed to keep. Two paintings. Three colorless sketches. One of which was framed and pushed behind several other knickknacks on the shelf above the fireplace.
That one had no signature. She had taken the sketch from the bin the night before collection and stashed it there, praying, hoping, that no one would notice. And notice they didn’t.
It had taken Vernon three whole weeks to realize it was even there, and when he had, she told him that she’d bought it from the Caragie’s garage sale a couple weeks prior.
“That sketch. The cave, up there. It’s…well it’s mine.”
Harry whipped his head around to see. He frowned. “Where?”
Wordlessly she stood, and he followed her careful steps toward the shelf. Pushing back twin bluebird statues, a picture of Vernon’s grandfather, and a pair of antique stoneware beer steins, she fumbled with the aged paper. It was missing its picture frame.
“Sunny Jim’s Cave. It’s a sea cave in California. I went there once a very, very long time ago. Before I married Vernon, I did a bit of traveling with… a friend of mine. I always hoped I’d go back some day.”
She held the sketch out to him and he took it gingerly, awe dripping from his eyes. “It looks like I could step right out into the water…”
Petunia wrung her hands, a strange nervous feeling wigging its way underneath her skin. “You like it?”
He met her gaze head on, eyes alight with sincerity. “I think it’s wonderful.”
“Really?”
He hummed in affirmation.
“Then… keep it.”
“Really? You mean it?”
“If you don’t want it, I can put it back —“
“No!” He hugged the sketch to his tiny chest and turned his body away from her. “I like it. You said I could have it.”
“I did.”
But that didn’t mean she understood why. That sketch was one of her older works, more than a decade old. She had to have been about eighteen or nineteen when she’d drawn it. Before her sister had even graduated from Hogwarts. Her last trip abroad before her marriage.
As much as she loved Vernon, or really, as much as she tried to love him, she hadn’t been blind to the signs. He was narrow minded, bitter. Stingy with his money. Once they married, there would be no sun filled holidays. No laughter filled trips. Still, she sometimes felt guilty for her secret trip without him. She reasoned a part of her always would.
“I want to write letters too.” Harry said, tugging on the hem of her sleeve. “Could you teach me how?”
“Teach you to write letters? You mean how to address them?”
He nodded once, and Petunia laughed a little through her nose. He looked so utterly determined in that moment, it was hard not to.
“Very well.”
He trailed after her as she rummaged through the half-cleaned out desk, pulling out spare envelopes and old bills. She flipped the documents over so that the pages were blank and smoothed out the lingering creases. She passed him one of Vernon’s good fountain pens, one of the black and gold flex nibs, smiling a little as he inspected it with childish reverence.
Teaching him to use the pen properly was, in short, absolute torture. It wasn’t until around day fifteen that he was able to write his full name without getting splotches of ink everywhere. From there, she moved on to teaching him to write his address, showing him what went where and why.
And all throughout the learning process, Petunia would read. She would read him letters from his mother, show him the pictures that she sent with them. Before long, she found herself talking about the one thing she swore to never discuss within her household.
Magic.
It was inevitable, really. While the first letter she read to him hadn’t mentioned Hogwarts or anything remotely magical, the others certainly did. So rather than step around the subject, she talked him through it.
Admittedly, Petunia did not know a lot. But what little she did, she shared with the boy openly. She didn’t try to hide her dislike of it all, but she didn’t outright shame the boy for wanting to know either. He had the right to know. About the world his mother and father belonged to.
And really, who was Petunia to keep him from them?
. . .
The day after Harry’s eleventh birthday was filled with gritty soot stained clouds and ample rain. Petunia held out an umbrella above them both as they hurried down the narrow walkway.
Mrs. Figg was there also, acting as their guide. Or really, acting as Harry’s guide. It had been a surprise to learn that the woman was a…a… what was it they called them, the non-magic children of wizards? A squid?
Petunia shook her head. No, a squib. Mrs. Figg was a squib. Though the woman lacked any sort of magical ability of her own, she, unlike Petunia, was still allowed in wizarding spaces. A fact that Figg had brought up only a few short days ago, in a silent offer of assistance.
“What if I can’t find what I need?”
“You’ll find everything just fine.”
“What if everywhere I need to go is closed?”
“That is highly unlikely.”
“But what if Mrs. Figg loses her way? She said herself that she hasn’t been to Dimigon Alley — ”
“Diagon,” Figg interrupted him serenely. “It’s Diagon Alley, dear.”
Harry hardly looked at the woman. “Diggion,” he corrected carelessly, "she hasn’t been to Diggion Alley in some time. What if we get lost?”
“That won’t happen.” Petunia assured the boy, though she cast an uneasy glance the old woman’s way. “That won’t happen, the two of you will do just fine.”
“But what if —”
“Harry.” She took him squarely by the shoulders, giving him a gentle yet firm squeeze. “I can’t go with you. I can’t cross over to the platform, and I wouldn’t be of any help to you in Diggen Alley.”
“Diagon Alley.” Figg muttered to herself. “It’s Diagon Alley…”
Petunia ignored her, crouching in front of her nephew. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. But there are barriers in place to keep people like me out.”
“Then I won’t go either.”
“Nonsense.” She said, smoothing out the collar of his coat.
Behind rain speckled glasses, green eyes blazed at her, filled with a stubborn fire. “I mean it.”
“No you don’t. Now go. Go with Mrs. Figg. She’ll take you the rest of the way there. You have your key, don’t you? The one you received in your last letter? Don’t you lose that. You'll need it to access your vault. I don’t know much about wizarding money, but I know your father was on the wealthier side so you should be able to buy all of your books and materials easily…”
She paused. But what if he couldn’t? What if he didn’t have enough? Fumbling with her purse, Petunia dug through the rain slicked leather pulling out a few carefully folded notes. She pressed them into his hands.
“There should be some sort of currency exchange somewhere. There must be. Lily would have used one while she was in school — ”
Before she could get another word out, Harry launched himself into her arms, locking his hands together behind her back. Flustered, Petunia returned the embrace.
“I’ll miss you.” He said, face smushed against her raincoat.
“…I’ll miss you too.”
Not wanting her emotions to get the better of her, Petunia blinked away the rainwater that had somehow dribbled into her eyes, nudging the boy towards their neighbor. Harry begrudgingly took Mrs. Figg’s hand.
“I’ll write.” He said, refusing to budge even as Mrs. Figg took a few aborted steps in the opposing direction. “I’ll write to you every week. Just like my mother did.”
Petunia allowed herself a minute smile. “See that you do.”
.
.
.
Dear Aunt Petunia,
Are you surprised to hear from me so soon? I bet you are. I hope Hedwig didn’t frighten you. That’s the name of my owl. She’s friendly, really.
I got her in Diagon Alley after exchanging the money you gave me. The shopkeep told me I’d need a good strong owl if I wanted to send messages back and forth very often, so he charged me quite a bit. I think she was worth the price though. I like her a lot.
I met another Hogwarts student while getting fitted for my school robes. He seemed a bit unfriendly at first, but after I complimented his ring, he was more open to conversation. He was surprised when I told him my name. Apparently, Potter is a famous and important name. He told me that we were alike and that we should both try and get sorted into Slytherin together. According to him, that’s the best house. Even if that’s true, I don’t think I’d mind being in Gryffindor, like mum was.
Afterwards, Draco (that’s the boy’s name) showed me where to find the best stationery. The old man in charge didn’t seem all that happy to have children in the shop, but his attitude changed rather quickly once he learned that Draco was something called a Malfoy. After that, he was very smiley and happy and showed us all the high end items. Since I’m new to everything, I let Draco choose what I got. He seemed pleased that I wanted his opinion and picked out a nice set of black quills and special no-smudge silver nibs.
I ended up with multiple stacks of differently sized envelopes and parchment types, as well as several shades of wax and even a specialized seal. The price came to about 100 galleons. I’m not sure how much that comes to in pounds, but based on the man’s reaction when I pulled out my pouch, I’m assuming it’s a lot. I never meant to buy so much, but Draco insisted that everything was necessary. At least I won’t have to worry about getting replacements for anything anytime soon.
I’m supposed to go on the train tomorrow morning, though I suppose by the time this letter actually finds you, I’ll already be at Hogwarts. I’m still a bit upset that you and Dudley can’t come through the gate to see me off. At the very least, I’ll have someone to sit with. Draco wants to introduce me to something called a crabbe and goyle. Whatever those are.
Right now, Mrs. Figg and I are staying at the Leaky Cauldron. There’s been a saddening lack of cauldrons around, but the place is certainly leaky. There’s a continuous drip in the corner of my room coming from one of the cracks in the ceiling. It’s vaguely purple and doesn’t smell like water. Mrs. Figg told me not to worry about it though. According to her, no one here has died from mysterious spills or drips in at least thirty years or so.
I’m coming to the end of my page now. Don’t worry though. I’ll definitely write to you again just as soon as I’m settled in.
With love,
Harry.
Petunia folded up Harry’s letter and tucked it back into its envelope, mindful of the palette of paint beside her. She made no attempt to pet Hedwig, who was giving her suspicious glares from where she was perched, overlooking the garden.
“Just a moment.” She told the bird.
If owls could sigh, Petunia was almost certain that Hedwig would have. Gathering her paintbrushes and her canvas, Petunia headed indoors. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, face flushed with health, blonde hair wild from the wind and smudged with red paint, she didn’t attempt to fix it.
It was the most comfortable she’d been with herself in a very long time.
”Now where did I put my envelopes…?”