matril

This idea has been floating around my head for a while, and I feel like writing today, so I'll just start and see where it goes.

Immolation

Vernon paced the room angrily while Petunia held the letter as far from her face as was possible while still being able to read it. As always, she wondered why her people couldn't just use ordinary paper, or simply make a call on the telephone, for that matter. Her expression of distaste quickly slipped away, however, as she read the contents of the letter. Vernon's mutters, their little boy's quiet whimpers, and even Dudley's furious howls from the kitchen all become distant and muffled, as if someone had wrapped a blanket around her head. In fact, she felt as if she might be suffocating, unable to breathe properly, completely forgetting how her lungs worked...

"Well?" Vernon was demanding, his voice startlingly loud. She looked up blankly; he had ceased his pacing and stood beside her with an indignant expression. "I suppose they've fled the country and dumped their brat on us? Expect us to care for the little freak, do they?"

The letter had slipped from her hand; it seemed to stare up at her with unblinking eyes. "Vernon," Petunia said faintly, "my sister is dead."

Her husband blinked rapidly a few times. He was clearly attempting to find the right words to say, uncertain whether Petunia would be seeking comfort. She wasn't sure herself what she wanted or needed; it seemed that she had gone numb and the only thing certain in her mind was a budding headache. Wordlessly she left Vernon and the whimpering child, entered the kitchen and lifted Dudley from his chair. His sobs had briefly subsided upon her entrance, but then it appeared to occur to him that he had been badly wronged, neglected for ten whole minutes, and he resumed his shrieking directly in Petunia's ear. "Poor Dudders," she murmured absently, all while thinking of the other little boy in the other room, wondering if perhaps - just perhaps - he had more cause for sobbing than Dudley. She didn't want to go back in there, she didn't want to look at the boy and the gruesome mark on his forehead and think about what it meant. But the contents of that letter kept running through her mind as if its writer was speaking directly inside her head - she shuddered to realize that such a thing might very well be possible for their kind - and would not be ignored. Resignedly, she returned to Vernon and the other boy.

"Petunia -" Vernon's consternation was evident; he hadn't budged from the spot where she had left him, and he still couldn't seem to decide what to say. It hardly mattered, since the presence of a second parent had caused Dudley to renew his crying at top volume. Hastily Petunia gave him to Vernon. For the first time since their son was born, she hadn't the energy to attempt to soothe him. Vernon, on the other hand, seemed relieved to be doing something he could understand, and devoted his attention to Dudley. Head throbbing, Petunia sank into a chair and put a hand to her forehead. A few feet away, the letter lay on the floor, demanding her attention no matter how she avoided looking at it.

Dudley had calmed down now that attention had been restored to him. He slid from Vernon's lap and took a few toddling steps. His eyes fell on the other boy, and then he turned and looked questioningly at his father. Vernon hesitated.

"Yes," Petunia said quietly. "He'll be staying." She was surprised and unhappy to hear the words coming from her own mouth.

Dudley couldn't possibly understand the full meaning of her words, but somehow he sensed that something was about to go terribly wrong in his little world. His face screwed up and he let out fresh howls. "Mine!" he cried, the only word he could use to make sense of things. "Mine!"

Petunia swallowed hard. The other boy's whimpers were becoming more frantic; sooner or later someone would have to pick him up, probably feed him and change him. She cringed to imagine how Dudley would respond to that.

It was all her fault for getting messed up in that world in the first place. She should have known that nothing good would come from living such an - abnormal life. Murdered in their own home - that never happened to respectable, normal people. And leaving a baby behind for her sister to trouble herself over - why, it was positively selfish. Petunia nodded to herself, feeling some of the numbness lift as her anger rose. Her own Dudley deserved all her attentions; it wasn't fair to think she should devote any of her care to someone who was hardly related. That letter might stare at her balefully, but she had every right to be aggrieved. They might find a place at an orphanage or -

No. The boy was staying. The numbness began settling over Petunia again. Dudely's cries hardly reached her ears. Vernon was saying something; he was about to be late for work and he really hated to leave things this way but one had to make a living, particularly if one was about to have another mouth to feed -

"Oh. Yes." Petunia rose and took back Dudley, who was nearly purple-faced by now, pointing furiously at the other boy. "You'd better go. See you tonight, dear."

Vernon gave her an anxious look, but again the right words did not come. "Right, then." She hardly noticed as he left.

The day passed in a blur. Dudley was at last consoled with a considerable handful of sweets, and while he was distracted with those, Petunia gave the other boy a quick breakfast. He ate hesitantly, with many a confused look at Petunia that she had no answer for. She supposed he would want to be cuddled or cooed at, but to her immense relief he seemed reasonably content to wrap himself up in the blanket he had come wrapped in, sucking one finger and gazing out the window. She made sure to keep the boys separate, different mealtimes, never letting Dudely see the other boy getting more attention. Vernon came home with the look of someone stepping around a bomb, but when he saw that the house was still standing, and no howls were issuing from Dudely's mouth, he sank into his habitual chair and offered Petunia a smile that was almost normal.

After their dinner, and after the other boy's dinner, Dudley had his bath, which he always took willingly as long as he was permitted to splash water everywhere, particularly in his mother's face. She realized as she dressed her son in his pajamas that the other boy would likely need a bath as well, after traveling by who knew what means yesterday night. She made it as quick as possible, after Dudley was already asleep amid his bounteous piles of stuffed animals.

He was so small, much smaller than Dudley. He laughed a little at the bubbles on his skin, though it was far from Dudely's gusty guffaws. His own splashes in the water seemed almost pitiful. Petunia felt something hot behind her eyes and sniffed mightily.

She hadn't touched his forehead, and hesitated to do so now, but it was terribly dirty. With the lightest possible touch, she put the washcloth above his eyes.

A whimper. She had steeled herself for a howl, but it was nothing more than a whimper. And a plaintive look at Petunia, as he placed his hand over the dreadful mark. She bit her lip.

"Well, then. It'll just stay filthy," she said, more sharply than she had intended. She paused, then added, "I suppose you've - been through enough, Harry."

Nasty name, she told herself as she dried him off and wondered just how badly he'd fit in Dudley's old pajamas. Nothing to be done about that. They certainly wouldn't be buying a whole new set of clothing just for him.

And there wasn't room for him upstairs, certainly not. Dudley's toyroom had no place for a crib even if they had a second one. For now he'd just have to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs.

He fell asleep surprisingly quickly for being in a strange place. Petunia was glad she hadn't had to do any rocking or soothing. The more she held him - Harry - the more a writhing sort of pain grew inside of her, and she didn't want a thing to do with it. She went to bed early, never having been so exhausted.

She woke in the middle of the night. The writhing pain had grown, clutching her middle. She got out of bed, left Vernon to his snoring, and stumbled downstairs. In the kitchen, she found she couldn't walk anymore and fell to the shining floor just as the first sob broke from her lips. She cried with a violence that horrified her, great wrenching wails and tears. Each one seemed to rip itself from her like a part of her body, and the heaving motion spread from her chest to engulf her entire form. Never in her life had she lost control so completely, certainly never since marrying Vernon and devoting herself to their perfect, ordered world. She was ashamed and aghast and utterly, utterly grief-stricken. It was all the pain of the past ten, fifteen years, mercilessly forcing itself to the surface. The confusion at having a sister so different; the fear of what her strange powers could do. The shameful jealousy that she had no part of this secret world; the embarrassment, then fury, at her sister's pity...And the last day they had seen each other, it seemed ages ago, before either of them had been married...Petunia's shoulders shook convulsively, and she huddled on the floor like a lost child.

When at last her sobs had worn out from sheer exhaustion, Petunia rose shakily and stared around her, not knowing what to do or where to go. The spot on the floor where she had lain could use a cleaning now...and she must look a dreadful sight herself, blotchy and tear-stained....

Instead she went to the cupboard under the stairs, not to look at Harry - no, the tears would just come again at that - but to pull out a small box that had been pushed to the very back of the cupboard. Harry was sleeping peacefully. She avoided looking at him as she carried out the box and shut the door behind her. The box was filthy with dust and cobwebs; she sneezed several times before opening it. Inside were a handful of pictures, a dozen at most. Two girls appeared in most of them, a blonde one and a younger redhead. The redhead was nearly always grinning cheerily; the blonde tended to be a bit more serious. Petunia stared long and hard at one of the photographs. She was wearing a very neat school uniform, the skirt carefully pressed, her hair in precise braids. Lily was dressed in a long black robe and excitedly clutching a stick of wood in her hands. Young Petunia was keeping her eyes carefully averted from that stick.

Petunia shut her eyes, taking a long breath. Then she pulled out the final picture. Lily was older, nearly an adult, still dressed in robes, though these appeared to be more like regular wear than a uniform - if any such thing could be called regular. Petunia had her arms folded very tightly and appeared quite reluctant to appear in the picture. In fact, she was so reluctant that she kept moving toward its edge before Lily laughingly pulled her back again. Slowly Petunia flipped the photograph to its back.

Tuney, I know magic makes you uncomfortable, but isn't this picture hilarious? You have to admit, it captures both of us quite accurately. I do wish you'd come to visit more often; James isn't always over here, and really, he's not as bad as you think. I'll even talk to you on the telephone if that makes you feel better. I want to hear all about this "Vernon" that Mum keeps mentioning!

Love,
Lily

Petunia stared at the words for a long time. She could almost hear Lily speaking the words, laughing and teasing and loving. Her chest was tightening again. She couldn't bear another bout of racking tears. She couldn't do this every day, every time she looked at Lily's son.

The fireplace wouldn't work; they never made real fires in there. At last she decided to use the outside dustbin, setting each photograph aflame and watching them curl up and blacken and turn to ash. She couldn't watch the final one; she imagined that its inhabitants might let out silent screams and run about in terror while the flames devoured them. Foolish nonsense. But in Lily's world, who knew what was possible? Petunia shut the possibilities away; they were too frightening. She turned back to the dustbin and saw that the final photograph was gone.

She blinked away the last stubborn tears. "Good-bye," she said quietly. And went back to bed.