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femgenficathon2005-08-16 12:44 am
rosie-red73.livejournal.com) wrote in femgenficathon2005-08-16 12:44 am
Through The Eyes Of Others by Rosie_Red73
Title: Through The Eyes of Others
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rosie_red73
Rating: PG
Character: Petunia Dursley
Word Count: 3964
Summary: When the wizarding world is exposed, Petunia finds herself in the midst of a tabloid scandal.
Warnings: Spoilers for HBP
Author's Notes: Cautious, careful people, always casting about to preserve their reputation and social standing, never can bring about a reform.--Susan B. Anthony. Thanks torosesanguina for the excellent beta and brain poking.
Daily Mail, 12th June 1999:
Wizard Hero Child Abuse Shock
In an astonishing television interview last night, it was revealed that Harry Potter was the victim of prolonged abuse at the hands of his foster parents, Petunia and Vernon Dursley.
Speaking to an undercover reporter, close friend Rubeus Hagrid, 70, condemned the Dursleys as ‘evil, rotten to the core’. Half-giant Hagrid claimed to have witnessed their abuse of Harry on several occasions, giving detailed accounts of imprisonment, starvation and verbal and physical abuse.
Since the shocking interview was broadcast last night on Channel 4, no fewer than eight people have come forward to offer eyewitness accounts of Potter’s abuse, including Vernon Dursley’s sister, Marjorie Dursley. 55-year-old Marjorie claims that Harry’s mistreatment was largely due to Petunia Dursley, Harry’s maternal aunt. She told reporters: “Personally, I always liked the boy and I tried my best to intervene on his behalf whilst visiting my brother and his wife, but Petunia is a formidable woman. She runs her household with an iron rod and poor Harry was her main target”.
When the Prime Minister revealed the existence of the magical community eighteen months ago, Harry Potter quickly shot to fame as the would-be destroyer of the mass murderer ‘Lord Voldemort’. Since his sensational victory last year, Harry, who celebrates his twentieth birthday this month, has become a virtual recluse. Unsurprisingly, he was unavailable for comment on this latest insight into his childhood.
For more details on Potter’s life with the Dursleys, turn to page 4.
Petunia set down the paper, her stomach twisted into a web of knots, her face white with shock.
“Oh Vernon…” she breathed. “What will… can they… even Marge! Oh Vernon.”
Vernon took the paper from the table and pushed it firmly into the bin. “Don’t give it another thought, Petunia. These people have no idea who they’re dealing with. The nerve!” He started to pace the kitchen, his face fit to burst with rage. “Obviously they misquoted Marge, poor dear; she’ll be mortified. No, don’t you worry my dear; I'll have my lawyers breathing down their necks so hard they won’t know what’s hit ‘em. They’ll be a retraction and a full apology by first thing tomorrow morning, you mark my words.”
Petunia stared at the wall, hardly able to will herself to breathe. “Can they prosecute us? Could we go to prison?” she whispered. Images flashed through her mind: standing trial, having every single detail of her family’s life dragged through the press, shunned by everyone, outcasts, wearing a prison uniform, locked behind bars for years and years with the worst kind of people imaginable. How could something like this happen to someone like her?
Vernon snorted. “I’d like to see them try,” he said angrily. “No, Petunia, even if the boy did make a formal complaint the whole case would be thrown out before it ever got to court. There’s not a shred of evidence to prove any of this rubbish.”
He picked up his briefcase and made for the door, taking a last gulp of his coffee on the way.
“Vernon, you can’t!” screeched Petunia as her husband put on his coat. “There are reporters everywhere! The neighbours, Vernon, how on earth will I be able to hold my head up?” She leaped to her feet and clung to Vernon’s sleeve, pulling him back towards the kitchen with all the strength she could muster. “I have my bridge club this evening, Vernon, what am I going to do?”
Vernon shook her off and turned towards her, his face set. “You’re going to go to your bridge club, Petunia, and you’re going to hold your head up high just as I am going to do at work. If we lock ourselves away we will only make ourselves look guilty. We have nothing to hide.”
He opened the door and almost instantly, Privet Drive was lit by what seemed like a hundred flashes of light. A barrage of paparazzi descended on the doorway, each trying to drown out the others with their half-screamed questions.
“Vernon! Vernon! Do you have anything to say about the –“
“Have you heard from Harry?”
“Would you like to make a statement about –“
“What do you think about your sister’s –“
Vernon was not a small man, and he ploughed through the reporters like skittles as he headed for his car. Once safely inside, he rolled down the window and held up his hand. Instantly, the street fell silent.
Vernon spoke in a calm, commanding voice. “I have no comment at this time, except to say that I shall be speaking to my lawyers first thing this morning.”
As the reporters started their yelling again, Vernon pulled his car from the drive sending them scattering behind him. As he disappeared out of sight, Petunia sank down onto the sofa, safely shielded behind tightly drawn curtains.
How could this have happened? She rubbed at her temples, trying to will away the fog in her mind. Over and over, she replayed Vernon’s strong words in her mind as she desperately tried to block out the images in her mind. We have nothing to hide. Nothing to hide. That was the difference between Vernon and Petunia: Vernon truly believed they were innocent, and he would until his dying day.
Petunia, however, was a mother. Somewhere in the cobwebbed corners of her mind she knew she had done wrong.
In the part of her mind that was only a mother, the primal, pure part that could not reason nor act on anything other than instinct, she knew that every single word of that article was true, every single atrocity listed on page four had happened and it didn’t matter how much he deserved it, it didn’t matter whether she had her reasons or whether it hadn’t been as bad as the papers made out. They had everything to hide. Everything and more.
On impulse, she went to the kitchen to retrieve the paper from the bin. It was covered in the remains of last night’s vegetables and she suddenly found herself wondering why she bothered to cook them. Vernon never touched them.
She spread the paper out on the table and turned to page four. The ‘catalogue of abuse’ was laid out in a bulleted list. It made her cringe to read it, but read it she must. If she could find one part that was untrue, if she could just find some justification for it, she knew it would make her feel better, somehow.
She read through the points one by one, trying her hardest to reason them in her mind. Yes, he had slept in the cupboard, but there really wasn’t room for him anywhere else. She certainly wasn’t going to allow Dudley to suffer because he had been forced to share his house with Potter. And they gave him the bedroom in the end anyway. Yes, they had locked him in it, but only after he had proved that he was dangerous and unstable. The papers didn’t mention that, did they? They probably hadn’t treated him with much kindness, but then when had he showed them any gratitude for what they had done for him? It wasn’t as though they had hit him, was it? It wasn’t as though they had hurt him; they just hadn’t loved him. Why should they?
Even as she spoke the words in her mind, she knew she was wasting her time. She could see the judging eyes of her neighbours as they listened to her excuses, she could hear the whispers, and she knew that conversations would forever stop dead whenever she walked into a room.
She slammed her fist down onto her table, suddenly struck with a fury so overwhelming that she felt she might explode. After everything she’d worked for, all her life spent making absolutely sure that her conduct was impeccable in the eyes of others. How proud she had been of her home, her husband and son, even her beautiful china and prize-winning flowerbeds. Her life had been perfect, hadn’t it? And bit-by-bit, every part of it had been destroyed by her damned sister.
“You’ve won, Lily,” she muttered to no one. “You always win. I should have known better than to try.”
She closed her eyes, her sister’s red hair and laughing green eyes burning into her eyelids, a long forgotten memory flooding her mind of a perfect day so very long ago.
“Abracadabra!” Petunia waved her wand in front of her sister with an elegant flourish. “You’re a princess now, see? You have a beautiful gown and glass slippers, just like Cinderella!”
“I have?” Lily stared up at her older sister, then looked down at her clothes incredulously.
“Course you have,” said Petunia, standing back to admire her handiwork. She bent down to her sister and whispered conspiratorially in her ear. “You have to pretend, silly. It’s not real.”
Lily let out a low gasp and twirled around, holding out her skirt. “How did you do that?”
“Magic, of course. Do you want to try?” asked Petunia with a knowing laugh.
Lily nodded, her huge green eyes shining with want as she clasped the pink wand in her hand, running her tiny fingers over the silver star on its end. She gave it a tentative wave. “Like this?”
“You have to say the magic words, silly, or it won’t work. What are you going to magic, anyway?” asked Petunia, watching her little sister with mild amusement.
Lily screwed up her face in thought for a moment. “I know!” she exclaimed. “I'll make us tons and tons of sweets. Shall I, Petunia? Shall I do that? Or I could make some presents, or… or… or give us wings so we can fly!” She jumped up and down with excitement.
Petunia laughed, placing a calming hand on her sister’s shoulder. “You can make anything you want, Lily,” she said softly. “It’s magic!”
How simple things had been when magic was just a fairy tale, before her sister received that fateful letter that changed all their lives forever. Before the letter, her parents loved her. Before the letter, her little sister had admired her and wanted nothing more than to grow up like her. It hadn’t really mattered that Lily was the pretty one or that she did slightly better in school; Petunia had been proud of her. But from the moment their parents read that letter Petunia had been pushed aside like a spare, and for that she could never forgive her precious sister.
Any other family might have been proud of Petunia’s consistently good school work, of her solid, dependable choice of husband, of her wonderful home and beautiful son, but no amount of money or social standing could compare to what Lily was – she was a fairy tale come true. She was magic. How could anyone compete with that?
All Petunia had wanted was for someone to think she was the better one, that magic and witches and wizards were silly and it was better to be her. And then she had met Vernon. Vernon had given her all that and more; he had loved her. He was the only one who hadn’t been taken in by Lily’s charms and it had been so much easier to do things his way, to renounce everything fanciful or romantic. Only children believed in fairy tales, didn’t they?
She knew all too well the looks she would have garnered from even her closest friends had she so much as hinted at her sister’s true nature, and even if they had believed her story or approved of it in the slightest they would only have compared her to her sister, wondered why Lily was the special one and she was not. There was no room for that in her world. She had sweated blood to build up her perfect image and it was on her terms, not Lily’s.
Of course, all that had changed when the secret was out and the boy became a national hero. Oh, they came out of the woodwork then; the invitations to the country club, Vernon’s promotion that came completely out of the blue... Neither of them had been able to do wrong. She ought to have liked it, being credited with bringing up the world’s saviour, but it had never sat easy with her, not like her husband and son. In their eyes it was a reward for putting up with the boy as long as they had. Justified, they said. Might as well reap the benefits after everything we did for him. But Petunia could not bear to smile sweetly as her so-called friends quizzed her about wizards and witches, about Harry and Lily.
“We knew there was something different about him but we never would have guessed,” they said. “How noble of you to keep it hidden all this time, how you must have longed to tell someone.”
That was a joke. She had spent every single day of her life dreading the moment when the world would discover her sordid little secret, when they would find out that she wasn’t so perfect, and that once again she would be living in the shadow of her fairy princess sister.
And now what was she to do?
She lifted the paper wearily from the table and placed it carefully back into the bin. There was nothing to be gained by staring at it. She was desperate for air, but one tentative peek behind the curtains in the living room confirmed that the reporters were still there, trampling her flowers, leaving polystyrene cups on her lawn. She was trapped, but what did it matter? She wouldn’t be going to her bridge club again; she doubted she would go anywhere again.
She had taken the phone off the hook; it had been ringing non-stop since last night but she needed to call Dudley. Her poor, beautiful Dudley. She had known he would suffer, right from the day that boy landed on her doorstep. Dudley had been destined for a life like hers, a life of being defined by someone else’s greatness. She had tried her hardest to stop it. She couldn’t bear the thought of Dudley feeling less than loved, feeling less than Harry as she had with her sister. She had given him everything and Harry nothing but it was all a waste of time in the end. It had made her a child abuser and her son into a spoilt, arrogant young man. Dumbledore had been right when he had said they had damaged Dudley more than they had Harry. She had known it even then.
She pressed the speed dial for his mobile, hoping he wouldn’t be angry with her for calling.
“Hello?”
“Dudders, it’s mummy, darling. I’m sorry to call you –“
“What’s the matter?” he snapped. Petunia felt the panic rising in her chest as it always did when she could sense the irritation in his voice. It was important though, she had to speak to him whether he liked it or not.
“Have you seen the papers?” she asked tentatively.
“Of course I’ve seen the bloody papers,” he said harshly. “My phone’s been ringing all sodding night.”
Petunia sighed heavily. “Oh sweetums, I’m so sorry. There’s no need to worry, Daddy’s talking to a lawyer this morning and this whole mess will be straightened out. If you could just make sure you don’t talk to the press –“
Dudley cut her off. “Like hell!” he said almost jovially. “I’ve got two interviews lined up this afternoon. They’re paying me a mint. If that little git thinks he can get away with dumping all this shit on my family, he’s got another thing coming.”
“Dudders please!” Petunia begged, horror threatening to engulf her. “Dudders, you can’t! What are you going to say?”
“I’m going to tell them what a little bastard he was, how he terrorised us all with his super human powers. Remember when he set that snake on me? He’ll wish he was dead by the time I’ve finished with him.”
Petunia took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm. “Now Dudley, it wasn’t him who spoke to the papers, was it? It was that giant friend of his and everyone knows he’s rather stupid anyway. Daddy thinks it would be best if we all just keep our heads down until –“
“Why the hell are you sticking up for him?” yelled Dudley. “You should be thanking me for backing you up. My agent wanted me to tell them you’d beaten the crap out of me to make sure my hands were clean but I’m buggered if I’m going to make him out to be any more of a bloody hero than he already is. I don’t know what you’re worried about anyway; Potter will never speak to the press. He hasn’t done in eighteen months, he’s not going to now.”
“Dudley, that’s not the point!” cried Petunia. “Please, darling, just think about how this is going to affect Daddy and me. If we allow the press to turn this into a war between Potter and us it will never go away. We have to let it die quietly or we’ll never be able to hold our heads up again.”
“I do wish you’d just stop worrying about your bloody country club for two seconds and think about me,” said Dudley curtly. “This is the sort of thing that could ruin my career; the agency has already cancelled my guest appearance on the Hogsmeade tour. Why do you care so much about what other people think anyway? Why does it matter?”
Dumbledore’s last words to Petunia echoed around head as loudly as they had the day he spoke them, louder and louder until she had to scream to hear herself over them. Something inside her snapped at that moment, a lifetime of resentment and failure exploded within her.
“Because it’s all I’ve got!” she yelled. “Because my cakes win first prize at the church summer fete and everyone in Little Whinging wants to buy my home-made jam and I don’t need my damn sister or her bloody magic to do it! It’s the only thing I’ve ever had that is mine and I don’t want to lose it. I’ve spent my entire life trying to keep our family out of her shadow and all you can do is drown yourself in it”
Dudley fell silent and Petunia felt an instant pang of guilt. “Dudders, I’m so sorry,” she said weakly. “Mummy’s very upset, I didn’t mean to shout.”
After a moment, he spoke. “Look, I’ve got to go. I'll… I won’t do the interviews, alright? Just make damn sure Dad sorts this out or I might just start doing what my agent tells me.”
With a click, the line was dead.
She sat down on the sofa again and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she dropped her head into her hands and started to cry.
“I’m sorry I didn’t love him!” she yelled to the wall. “Lily, please, I’m sorry. Make them stop this, please,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry I hated you and I’m sorry I took it out on him. I’m sorry I ruined Dudley’s life and I’m sorry I brought all this on myself. I just wanted… I wanted…”
She cried until there were no tears left, until all her anger and bitterness and fear had ebbed away, then she stood up, smoothed down her hair, straightened her apron and picked up the phone once again.
Vernon answered immediately.
“What is it, Petunia? I’m just about to go into a meeting with my lawyer.”
“Don’t go.”
Silence. “What?”
“Don’t go.” Petunia’s voice was calm and strong and for the first time in her life she felt… sure. “Don’t speak to the lawyer and don’t press charges. You can’t take this to court, Vernon, you just can’t.”
“Why on earth not?” he asked, a bite of impatience in his voice. “If we don’t press charges then we might as well admit we’re guilty!”
“That’s just it, Vernon, don’t you see? We are guilty.”
“Petunia, you’re upset, you don’t know what you’re –“
“Yes I do, darling. For the first time in twenty years I know exactly what I’m doing. Every word that paper printed was true, with the single exception of your sister proclaiming her innocence. We hated my sister and their world and we resented Harry for being alive. We were terrified of him and terrified of what would happen to us if people found out about him, but none of that was his fault, don’t you see that? We had no right, Vernon. We shouldn’t have done what we did and it’s time we accepted it.”
“But… but… your bridge club, Petunia,” Vernon spluttered. “If we don’t have a solid case behind us by then, what on earth will people think?”
“Sod the bridge club. I’ve had enough, Vernon. I’ve had enough of chasing some ridiculous ideal that nobody cares about anyway. We’ve done enough damage as it is; let’s just let this die on its own. We can never beat it. It won’t matter what we do, people will still whisper and stare and to be honest, we deserve it.”
“But… but…”
“No. No buts. I’m not asking you to drop this, I’m telling you. And if you or Dudley so much as mention this to anybody I'll go to the press and tell them it’s all true. Don’t you understand? I’ve had enough!”
She placed the phone carefully in its cradle, went into the kitchen and started the ironing.
For the next few weeks, Petunia held her head high. She ignored the hate mail that piled on her doorstep each morning; she closed her ears to the whispers and her eyes to the startled looks when she walked into a room. With no counter argument from the Dursleys and no corroboration from Harry, the gutter press soon tired of their story and after a while she was able to reconnect her phone without fear of the press calling to hound her.
For the first summer in years, Petunia stopped feeding and watering her hanging baskets four times a day. They still looked nice but those outside number seven were better. She also stopped her nightly wipe down of all the kitchen surfaces; instead, she read a book. On occasions, she left the house without her makeup and spent many a blissful night without the prickle of rollers in her hair. And none of it really mattered. It was freeing, in a way, to have everyone hate her. It suddenly seemed pointless to waste energy trying to make herself perfect; it wouldn’t make any difference to anyone.
One day in September, long after last of the desperate story hunters left their vigil of her front garden, an owl fluttered to the kitchen window of number four and delivered a letter to Petunia. She opened it eagerly, a slow, private smile forming on her lips as she read it.
Dear Aunt Petunia,
Thank you for your letter. I must say it was a bit of a shock, but I’m glad you sent it anyway. I know it must have been difficult for you to write, and for that I’m grateful. I can’t honestly say that I forgive you (I know you said you didn’t expect me to), though I do understand it all a bit more.
I’m going to see my parents’ grave next week. Would you like to come? I’d like to hear some more about my mum and what she was like when she was young, and maybe we could talk about everything.
Harry.
Author:
rosie_red73Rating: PG
Character: Petunia Dursley
Word Count: 3964
Summary: When the wizarding world is exposed, Petunia finds herself in the midst of a tabloid scandal.
Warnings: Spoilers for HBP
Author's Notes: Cautious, careful people, always casting about to preserve their reputation and social standing, never can bring about a reform.--Susan B. Anthony. Thanks to
rosesanguina for the excellent beta and brain poking.Daily Mail, 12th June 1999:
Wizard Hero Child Abuse Shock
In an astonishing television interview last night, it was revealed that Harry Potter was the victim of prolonged abuse at the hands of his foster parents, Petunia and Vernon Dursley.
Speaking to an undercover reporter, close friend Rubeus Hagrid, 70, condemned the Dursleys as ‘evil, rotten to the core’. Half-giant Hagrid claimed to have witnessed their abuse of Harry on several occasions, giving detailed accounts of imprisonment, starvation and verbal and physical abuse.
Since the shocking interview was broadcast last night on Channel 4, no fewer than eight people have come forward to offer eyewitness accounts of Potter’s abuse, including Vernon Dursley’s sister, Marjorie Dursley. 55-year-old Marjorie claims that Harry’s mistreatment was largely due to Petunia Dursley, Harry’s maternal aunt. She told reporters: “Personally, I always liked the boy and I tried my best to intervene on his behalf whilst visiting my brother and his wife, but Petunia is a formidable woman. She runs her household with an iron rod and poor Harry was her main target”.
When the Prime Minister revealed the existence of the magical community eighteen months ago, Harry Potter quickly shot to fame as the would-be destroyer of the mass murderer ‘Lord Voldemort’. Since his sensational victory last year, Harry, who celebrates his twentieth birthday this month, has become a virtual recluse. Unsurprisingly, he was unavailable for comment on this latest insight into his childhood.
For more details on Potter’s life with the Dursleys, turn to page 4.
Petunia set down the paper, her stomach twisted into a web of knots, her face white with shock.
“Oh Vernon…” she breathed. “What will… can they… even Marge! Oh Vernon.”
Vernon took the paper from the table and pushed it firmly into the bin. “Don’t give it another thought, Petunia. These people have no idea who they’re dealing with. The nerve!” He started to pace the kitchen, his face fit to burst with rage. “Obviously they misquoted Marge, poor dear; she’ll be mortified. No, don’t you worry my dear; I'll have my lawyers breathing down their necks so hard they won’t know what’s hit ‘em. They’ll be a retraction and a full apology by first thing tomorrow morning, you mark my words.”
Petunia stared at the wall, hardly able to will herself to breathe. “Can they prosecute us? Could we go to prison?” she whispered. Images flashed through her mind: standing trial, having every single detail of her family’s life dragged through the press, shunned by everyone, outcasts, wearing a prison uniform, locked behind bars for years and years with the worst kind of people imaginable. How could something like this happen to someone like her?
Vernon snorted. “I’d like to see them try,” he said angrily. “No, Petunia, even if the boy did make a formal complaint the whole case would be thrown out before it ever got to court. There’s not a shred of evidence to prove any of this rubbish.”
He picked up his briefcase and made for the door, taking a last gulp of his coffee on the way.
“Vernon, you can’t!” screeched Petunia as her husband put on his coat. “There are reporters everywhere! The neighbours, Vernon, how on earth will I be able to hold my head up?” She leaped to her feet and clung to Vernon’s sleeve, pulling him back towards the kitchen with all the strength she could muster. “I have my bridge club this evening, Vernon, what am I going to do?”
Vernon shook her off and turned towards her, his face set. “You’re going to go to your bridge club, Petunia, and you’re going to hold your head up high just as I am going to do at work. If we lock ourselves away we will only make ourselves look guilty. We have nothing to hide.”
He opened the door and almost instantly, Privet Drive was lit by what seemed like a hundred flashes of light. A barrage of paparazzi descended on the doorway, each trying to drown out the others with their half-screamed questions.
“Vernon! Vernon! Do you have anything to say about the –“
“Have you heard from Harry?”
“Would you like to make a statement about –“
“What do you think about your sister’s –“
Vernon was not a small man, and he ploughed through the reporters like skittles as he headed for his car. Once safely inside, he rolled down the window and held up his hand. Instantly, the street fell silent.
Vernon spoke in a calm, commanding voice. “I have no comment at this time, except to say that I shall be speaking to my lawyers first thing this morning.”
As the reporters started their yelling again, Vernon pulled his car from the drive sending them scattering behind him. As he disappeared out of sight, Petunia sank down onto the sofa, safely shielded behind tightly drawn curtains.
How could this have happened? She rubbed at her temples, trying to will away the fog in her mind. Over and over, she replayed Vernon’s strong words in her mind as she desperately tried to block out the images in her mind. We have nothing to hide. Nothing to hide. That was the difference between Vernon and Petunia: Vernon truly believed they were innocent, and he would until his dying day.
Petunia, however, was a mother. Somewhere in the cobwebbed corners of her mind she knew she had done wrong.
In the part of her mind that was only a mother, the primal, pure part that could not reason nor act on anything other than instinct, she knew that every single word of that article was true, every single atrocity listed on page four had happened and it didn’t matter how much he deserved it, it didn’t matter whether she had her reasons or whether it hadn’t been as bad as the papers made out. They had everything to hide. Everything and more.
On impulse, she went to the kitchen to retrieve the paper from the bin. It was covered in the remains of last night’s vegetables and she suddenly found herself wondering why she bothered to cook them. Vernon never touched them.
She spread the paper out on the table and turned to page four. The ‘catalogue of abuse’ was laid out in a bulleted list. It made her cringe to read it, but read it she must. If she could find one part that was untrue, if she could just find some justification for it, she knew it would make her feel better, somehow.
She read through the points one by one, trying her hardest to reason them in her mind. Yes, he had slept in the cupboard, but there really wasn’t room for him anywhere else. She certainly wasn’t going to allow Dudley to suffer because he had been forced to share his house with Potter. And they gave him the bedroom in the end anyway. Yes, they had locked him in it, but only after he had proved that he was dangerous and unstable. The papers didn’t mention that, did they? They probably hadn’t treated him with much kindness, but then when had he showed them any gratitude for what they had done for him? It wasn’t as though they had hit him, was it? It wasn’t as though they had hurt him; they just hadn’t loved him. Why should they?
Even as she spoke the words in her mind, she knew she was wasting her time. She could see the judging eyes of her neighbours as they listened to her excuses, she could hear the whispers, and she knew that conversations would forever stop dead whenever she walked into a room.
She slammed her fist down onto her table, suddenly struck with a fury so overwhelming that she felt she might explode. After everything she’d worked for, all her life spent making absolutely sure that her conduct was impeccable in the eyes of others. How proud she had been of her home, her husband and son, even her beautiful china and prize-winning flowerbeds. Her life had been perfect, hadn’t it? And bit-by-bit, every part of it had been destroyed by her damned sister.
“You’ve won, Lily,” she muttered to no one. “You always win. I should have known better than to try.”
She closed her eyes, her sister’s red hair and laughing green eyes burning into her eyelids, a long forgotten memory flooding her mind of a perfect day so very long ago.
“Abracadabra!” Petunia waved her wand in front of her sister with an elegant flourish. “You’re a princess now, see? You have a beautiful gown and glass slippers, just like Cinderella!”
“I have?” Lily stared up at her older sister, then looked down at her clothes incredulously.
“Course you have,” said Petunia, standing back to admire her handiwork. She bent down to her sister and whispered conspiratorially in her ear. “You have to pretend, silly. It’s not real.”
Lily let out a low gasp and twirled around, holding out her skirt. “How did you do that?”
“Magic, of course. Do you want to try?” asked Petunia with a knowing laugh.
Lily nodded, her huge green eyes shining with want as she clasped the pink wand in her hand, running her tiny fingers over the silver star on its end. She gave it a tentative wave. “Like this?”
“You have to say the magic words, silly, or it won’t work. What are you going to magic, anyway?” asked Petunia, watching her little sister with mild amusement.
Lily screwed up her face in thought for a moment. “I know!” she exclaimed. “I'll make us tons and tons of sweets. Shall I, Petunia? Shall I do that? Or I could make some presents, or… or… or give us wings so we can fly!” She jumped up and down with excitement.
Petunia laughed, placing a calming hand on her sister’s shoulder. “You can make anything you want, Lily,” she said softly. “It’s magic!”
How simple things had been when magic was just a fairy tale, before her sister received that fateful letter that changed all their lives forever. Before the letter, her parents loved her. Before the letter, her little sister had admired her and wanted nothing more than to grow up like her. It hadn’t really mattered that Lily was the pretty one or that she did slightly better in school; Petunia had been proud of her. But from the moment their parents read that letter Petunia had been pushed aside like a spare, and for that she could never forgive her precious sister.
Any other family might have been proud of Petunia’s consistently good school work, of her solid, dependable choice of husband, of her wonderful home and beautiful son, but no amount of money or social standing could compare to what Lily was – she was a fairy tale come true. She was magic. How could anyone compete with that?
All Petunia had wanted was for someone to think she was the better one, that magic and witches and wizards were silly and it was better to be her. And then she had met Vernon. Vernon had given her all that and more; he had loved her. He was the only one who hadn’t been taken in by Lily’s charms and it had been so much easier to do things his way, to renounce everything fanciful or romantic. Only children believed in fairy tales, didn’t they?
She knew all too well the looks she would have garnered from even her closest friends had she so much as hinted at her sister’s true nature, and even if they had believed her story or approved of it in the slightest they would only have compared her to her sister, wondered why Lily was the special one and she was not. There was no room for that in her world. She had sweated blood to build up her perfect image and it was on her terms, not Lily’s.
Of course, all that had changed when the secret was out and the boy became a national hero. Oh, they came out of the woodwork then; the invitations to the country club, Vernon’s promotion that came completely out of the blue... Neither of them had been able to do wrong. She ought to have liked it, being credited with bringing up the world’s saviour, but it had never sat easy with her, not like her husband and son. In their eyes it was a reward for putting up with the boy as long as they had. Justified, they said. Might as well reap the benefits after everything we did for him. But Petunia could not bear to smile sweetly as her so-called friends quizzed her about wizards and witches, about Harry and Lily.
“We knew there was something different about him but we never would have guessed,” they said. “How noble of you to keep it hidden all this time, how you must have longed to tell someone.”
That was a joke. She had spent every single day of her life dreading the moment when the world would discover her sordid little secret, when they would find out that she wasn’t so perfect, and that once again she would be living in the shadow of her fairy princess sister.
And now what was she to do?
She lifted the paper wearily from the table and placed it carefully back into the bin. There was nothing to be gained by staring at it. She was desperate for air, but one tentative peek behind the curtains in the living room confirmed that the reporters were still there, trampling her flowers, leaving polystyrene cups on her lawn. She was trapped, but what did it matter? She wouldn’t be going to her bridge club again; she doubted she would go anywhere again.
She had taken the phone off the hook; it had been ringing non-stop since last night but she needed to call Dudley. Her poor, beautiful Dudley. She had known he would suffer, right from the day that boy landed on her doorstep. Dudley had been destined for a life like hers, a life of being defined by someone else’s greatness. She had tried her hardest to stop it. She couldn’t bear the thought of Dudley feeling less than loved, feeling less than Harry as she had with her sister. She had given him everything and Harry nothing but it was all a waste of time in the end. It had made her a child abuser and her son into a spoilt, arrogant young man. Dumbledore had been right when he had said they had damaged Dudley more than they had Harry. She had known it even then.
She pressed the speed dial for his mobile, hoping he wouldn’t be angry with her for calling.
“Hello?”
“Dudders, it’s mummy, darling. I’m sorry to call you –“
“What’s the matter?” he snapped. Petunia felt the panic rising in her chest as it always did when she could sense the irritation in his voice. It was important though, she had to speak to him whether he liked it or not.
“Have you seen the papers?” she asked tentatively.
“Of course I’ve seen the bloody papers,” he said harshly. “My phone’s been ringing all sodding night.”
Petunia sighed heavily. “Oh sweetums, I’m so sorry. There’s no need to worry, Daddy’s talking to a lawyer this morning and this whole mess will be straightened out. If you could just make sure you don’t talk to the press –“
Dudley cut her off. “Like hell!” he said almost jovially. “I’ve got two interviews lined up this afternoon. They’re paying me a mint. If that little git thinks he can get away with dumping all this shit on my family, he’s got another thing coming.”
“Dudders please!” Petunia begged, horror threatening to engulf her. “Dudders, you can’t! What are you going to say?”
“I’m going to tell them what a little bastard he was, how he terrorised us all with his super human powers. Remember when he set that snake on me? He’ll wish he was dead by the time I’ve finished with him.”
Petunia took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm. “Now Dudley, it wasn’t him who spoke to the papers, was it? It was that giant friend of his and everyone knows he’s rather stupid anyway. Daddy thinks it would be best if we all just keep our heads down until –“
“Why the hell are you sticking up for him?” yelled Dudley. “You should be thanking me for backing you up. My agent wanted me to tell them you’d beaten the crap out of me to make sure my hands were clean but I’m buggered if I’m going to make him out to be any more of a bloody hero than he already is. I don’t know what you’re worried about anyway; Potter will never speak to the press. He hasn’t done in eighteen months, he’s not going to now.”
“Dudley, that’s not the point!” cried Petunia. “Please, darling, just think about how this is going to affect Daddy and me. If we allow the press to turn this into a war between Potter and us it will never go away. We have to let it die quietly or we’ll never be able to hold our heads up again.”
“I do wish you’d just stop worrying about your bloody country club for two seconds and think about me,” said Dudley curtly. “This is the sort of thing that could ruin my career; the agency has already cancelled my guest appearance on the Hogsmeade tour. Why do you care so much about what other people think anyway? Why does it matter?”
Dumbledore’s last words to Petunia echoed around head as loudly as they had the day he spoke them, louder and louder until she had to scream to hear herself over them. Something inside her snapped at that moment, a lifetime of resentment and failure exploded within her.
“Because it’s all I’ve got!” she yelled. “Because my cakes win first prize at the church summer fete and everyone in Little Whinging wants to buy my home-made jam and I don’t need my damn sister or her bloody magic to do it! It’s the only thing I’ve ever had that is mine and I don’t want to lose it. I’ve spent my entire life trying to keep our family out of her shadow and all you can do is drown yourself in it”
Dudley fell silent and Petunia felt an instant pang of guilt. “Dudders, I’m so sorry,” she said weakly. “Mummy’s very upset, I didn’t mean to shout.”
After a moment, he spoke. “Look, I’ve got to go. I'll… I won’t do the interviews, alright? Just make damn sure Dad sorts this out or I might just start doing what my agent tells me.”
With a click, the line was dead.
She sat down on the sofa again and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she dropped her head into her hands and started to cry.
“I’m sorry I didn’t love him!” she yelled to the wall. “Lily, please, I’m sorry. Make them stop this, please,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry I hated you and I’m sorry I took it out on him. I’m sorry I ruined Dudley’s life and I’m sorry I brought all this on myself. I just wanted… I wanted…”
She cried until there were no tears left, until all her anger and bitterness and fear had ebbed away, then she stood up, smoothed down her hair, straightened her apron and picked up the phone once again.
Vernon answered immediately.
“What is it, Petunia? I’m just about to go into a meeting with my lawyer.”
“Don’t go.”
Silence. “What?”
“Don’t go.” Petunia’s voice was calm and strong and for the first time in her life she felt… sure. “Don’t speak to the lawyer and don’t press charges. You can’t take this to court, Vernon, you just can’t.”
“Why on earth not?” he asked, a bite of impatience in his voice. “If we don’t press charges then we might as well admit we’re guilty!”
“That’s just it, Vernon, don’t you see? We are guilty.”
“Petunia, you’re upset, you don’t know what you’re –“
“Yes I do, darling. For the first time in twenty years I know exactly what I’m doing. Every word that paper printed was true, with the single exception of your sister proclaiming her innocence. We hated my sister and their world and we resented Harry for being alive. We were terrified of him and terrified of what would happen to us if people found out about him, but none of that was his fault, don’t you see that? We had no right, Vernon. We shouldn’t have done what we did and it’s time we accepted it.”
“But… but… your bridge club, Petunia,” Vernon spluttered. “If we don’t have a solid case behind us by then, what on earth will people think?”
“Sod the bridge club. I’ve had enough, Vernon. I’ve had enough of chasing some ridiculous ideal that nobody cares about anyway. We’ve done enough damage as it is; let’s just let this die on its own. We can never beat it. It won’t matter what we do, people will still whisper and stare and to be honest, we deserve it.”
“But… but…”
“No. No buts. I’m not asking you to drop this, I’m telling you. And if you or Dudley so much as mention this to anybody I'll go to the press and tell them it’s all true. Don’t you understand? I’ve had enough!”
She placed the phone carefully in its cradle, went into the kitchen and started the ironing.
For the next few weeks, Petunia held her head high. She ignored the hate mail that piled on her doorstep each morning; she closed her ears to the whispers and her eyes to the startled looks when she walked into a room. With no counter argument from the Dursleys and no corroboration from Harry, the gutter press soon tired of their story and after a while she was able to reconnect her phone without fear of the press calling to hound her.
For the first summer in years, Petunia stopped feeding and watering her hanging baskets four times a day. They still looked nice but those outside number seven were better. She also stopped her nightly wipe down of all the kitchen surfaces; instead, she read a book. On occasions, she left the house without her makeup and spent many a blissful night without the prickle of rollers in her hair. And none of it really mattered. It was freeing, in a way, to have everyone hate her. It suddenly seemed pointless to waste energy trying to make herself perfect; it wouldn’t make any difference to anyone.
One day in September, long after last of the desperate story hunters left their vigil of her front garden, an owl fluttered to the kitchen window of number four and delivered a letter to Petunia. She opened it eagerly, a slow, private smile forming on her lips as she read it.
Dear Aunt Petunia,
Thank you for your letter. I must say it was a bit of a shock, but I’m glad you sent it anyway. I know it must have been difficult for you to write, and for that I’m grateful. I can’t honestly say that I forgive you (I know you said you didn’t expect me to), though I do understand it all a bit more.
I’m going to see my parents’ grave next week. Would you like to come? I’d like to hear some more about my mum and what she was like when she was young, and maybe we could talk about everything.
Harry.