Magnolia Crescent — Evans Residence
30 January 1971 — Lily & Natalia's 11th Birthday
The Evans kitchen was a symphony of birthday morning chaos. Melanie Evans stood at the stove, her dark hair pinned back in an elegant twist that somehow remained perfect despite the culinary whirlwind around her. She moved with practiced grace, flipping pancakes with one hand while pulling cinnamon rolls from the oven with the other.
"Mum, you're going to burn something if you keep trying to do everything at once," Natalia observed from her seat at the table, her red hair perfectly braided with emerald ribbons that matched her eyes. She cut her pancakes into precise geometric shapes, each bite calculated and deliberate.
"I never burn anything," Melanie replied with mock offense, her British accent carrying that warm, maternal authority that could simultaneously comfort and command. "Twenty years of marriage to your father has taught me to juggle fire and chaos quite effectively."
"That's because Dad provides plenty of both," Lily chimed in, grinning as she reached across the table for the syrup. Her own red braids were already escaping their ribbons, wisps of hair framing her face in wild curls that seemed to have a mind of their own.
Alex Evans snorted behind his morning paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. "I heard that, Lily-flower. And for the record, I prefer the term 'controlled chaos.' It sounds more professional."
"There's nothing controlled about the way you nearly set the garage on fire last week trying to fix the lawnmower," Petunia said dryly from across the table. At thirteen, she carried herself with the affected sophistication of someone desperately trying to appear older than her years. Her blonde hair hung in perfect waves, and she wore a cream-colored jumper that screamed 'responsible eldest daughter.'
"That was a minor miscalculation," Alex defended, folding his paper with theatrical precision. "And technically, I put the fire out before any real damage was done."
"The fire brigade might disagree," Natalia murmured, not looking up from her systematic pancake consumption.
"The fire brigade was being dramatic," Alex waved dismissively. "One little smoke cloud and suddenly everyone's an expert."
Lily dissolved into giggles, nearly choking on her orange juice. "Dad, the smoke cloud was visible from three streets over!"
"Details," Alex said grandly, then glanced at his watch with studied casualness. "Speaking of details, it's nearly nine o'clock. Are we certain these Hogwarts people have their timing sorted? Because if they're late, I might have to write a strongly worded letter about punctuality and birthday protocol."
Natalia fixed him with a look that was far too knowing for an eleven-year-old. "They'll come. Severus explained everything about how owl post works. They're very reliable."
"Severus Snape?" Petunia's voice took on a distinctly unpleasant tone. "That strange boy from Spinner's End? The one who wears those awful black clothes and lurks around like some sort of—"
"He's our friend," Lily interrupted fiercely, her green eyes flashing. "And he's brilliant, and he knows more about magic than anyone our age. So don't call him strange."
"Everything about him is strange," Petunia shot back. "His clothes, his hair, the way he stares at everything like he's planning something sinister—"
"He stares because he's observing," Natalia said coolly. "It's called intelligence, Tuney. You might not recognize it."
Petunia's cheeks flushed pink. "I'll have you know I'm perfectly intelligent, thank you very much. I get top marks in all my classes."
"Getting top marks in Muggle school isn't quite the same as understanding magic," Lily said with the casual cruelty that only sisters can achieve. "You wouldn't understand."
"I understand plenty," Petunia snapped, her voice climbing higher. "I understand that you two think you're so special with your freaky tricks and your magical friend, but you're just weird. All of you."
"Petunia," Melanie's voice carried a warning note as she set down the serving platter with just a bit too much force. "That's enough."
"It's true though, isn't it?" Petunia continued, emboldened by what she perceived as maternal support. "They go around making flowers bloom and moving things without touching them, and everyone just pretends it's normal. But it's not normal. It's freaky."
Alex set down his paper entirely, his expression growing serious. "Petunia Elizabeth Evans. Your sisters have been blessed with extraordinary abilities. They didn't ask for them, and they certainly don't deserve to be called freaky by their own family."
"But Dad—"
"No buts." Alex's voice carried that particular parental finality that brooked no argument. "Magic or no magic, they're your sisters. They're brilliant, they're kind, and they love you. The least you can do is show them the same courtesy."
Petunia's mouth opened and closed like a fish, her face cycling through various shades of pink and red. Finally, she settled on a mutinous silence, stabbing her eggs with unnecessary violence.
Lily and Natalia exchanged a look across the table. It was one of those twin moments, an entire conversation passing between them in the space of a heartbeat. Natalia gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, and Lily's shoulders relaxed slightly.
"It's fine," Lily said quietly, though her voice held an edge. "We know not everyone understands."
"Some people," Natalia added with razor-sharp precision, "prefer to fear what they can't comprehend rather than try to learn about it."
The kitchen fell into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the clink of cutlery and the distant sound of morning traffic.
Then, as if summoned by the tension itself, a shadow passed by the window.
Followed by another.
"There," Natalia said with quiet satisfaction, setting down her fork. "Right on time."
Two owls appeared at the kitchen window, one sleek and tawny with intelligent amber eyes, the other a somewhat disheveled barn owl that looked personally offended by the morning in general. Both carried thick parchment envelopes sealed with deep red wax.
"Bloody hell," Alex breathed, then immediately looked apologetic. "Sorry, love. Language."
Melanie was already moving toward the window, her movements quick and graceful. "It's quite alright. I think the situation warrants a bit of colorful language."
She opened the window wide, and both owls hopped inside with the kind of professional efficiency that suggested they'd done this thousands of times before. They extended their legs in perfect synchronization, revealing the letters tied with thin leather cords.
"Miss Ramonda Natalia Evans and Miss Lily Marie Evans," Melanie read from the elegant script on the envelopes. "The Second Bedroom, 14 Magnolia Crescent, Cokeworth."
Lily let out a little shriek of excitement, bouncing in her chair. "It's really happening! It's really, really happening!"
Natalia was more controlled, but her eyes were bright with anticipation as she carefully untied the cord from her owl's leg. "Of course it's happening. Did you think Severus was making it all up?"
"No, but—" Lily fumbled with her own cord, fingers trembling with excitement. "It's different when it's real, you know? When it's actually here."
Both girls broke the wax seals simultaneously, unfolding the thick parchment with reverent care. Even though they knew what the letters would say, even though they'd spent hours discussing their future at Hogwarts with Severus, seeing the words in official script felt like magic itself.
"Dear Miss Evans," Lily read aloud, her voice growing stronger with each word. "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—"
"—Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment," Natalia continued seamlessly. "Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st."
"Yours sincerely," they finished together, "Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress."
Alex leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Well, I'll be damned. It's really real, isn't it?"
"Language, dear," Melanie murmured, but she was smiling as she moved to kiss both girls on the tops of their heads. "We're so proud of you both."
"This is mad," Alex continued, shaking his head in wonderment. "Completely, utterly mad. My daughters are going to wizard school. With wands and potions and—do they really have flying broomsticks?"
"According to Severus, yes," Natalia said, already pulling out parchment and ink from seemingly nowhere. "And Quidditch, which is apparently some sort of sport played in the air."
"Flying sports," Alex repeated faintly. "Right. Of course. Why wouldn't there be flying sports?"
Lily was already scribbling furiously on her own piece of parchment, her reply letter taking shape in her enthusiastic handwriting. "We should write back right away. They're waiting for our responses."
Both girls worked quickly, their acceptance letters written and sealed within minutes. They'd clearly prepared for this moment, their replies ready and rehearsed.
As they tied their letters to the owls' legs, Petunia watched from across the table with an expression that was carefully blank. But her knuckles were white where she gripped her fork, and there was something desperate in the way her eyes followed every movement.
"There you go," Lily said to her owl, a bright barn owl with soft brown markings. "Take this back to Professor McGonagall, please."
Natalia's tawny owl hooted once, as if acknowledging the instruction, while Lily's owl merely ruffled its feathers in what might have been agreement or annoyance.
Both birds took off through the open window, disappearing into the gray January sky with powerful wingbeats.
The kitchen fell quiet again, but this time it was the satisfied quiet of a moment perfectly completed. Lily was practically vibrating with excitement, while Natalia wore the kind of smile that suggested all her careful planning had come to fruition.
"So," Alex said eventually, "I suppose we'll need to start planning trips to this Diagon Alley place, then? For all the books and... wands and cauldrons and such?"
"Severus said he'd help," Lily said eagerly. "He knows where everything is, and his mum is going to take him shopping there soon."
"Mrs. Snape seems like a lovely woman," Melanie said diplomatically. "Very... knowledgeable about magical matters."
Natalia snorted quietly. "That's one way to put it."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Petunia demanded, speaking for the first time since the owls had arrived.
"Nothing," Natalia said smoothly. "Just that magical families have their own... complexities."
Lily shot her sister a warning look, but Natalia's expression remained innocently neutral.
"Right," Alex said, clearly sensing undercurrents he didn't understand. "Well, regardless of complexities, we'll need to sort out shopping trips and train tickets and—wait, do wizard trains take normal tickets?"
"Platform 9¾," Lily said with delight. "You have to run at a wall between platforms 9 and 10 at King's Cross Station."
Alex stared at her. "You have to run at a wall."
"That's what Severus said."
"Run at a wall. At King's Cross Station. One of the busiest stations in London."
"A magical wall," Natalia clarified helpfully. "Not just any wall."
"Oh, well, that makes perfect sense then," Alex said with the kind of strained cheer that suggested he was rapidly reaching his limit for magical revelations. "A magical wall. At King's Cross. Of course."
Melanie patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Perhaps we should take this one step at a time, love. First this Diagon Alley place, then we'll worry about magical train stations."
"You're right," Alex said, taking a deep breath. "One impossible thing at a time. That's perfectly reasonable."
Petunia pushed back from the table abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "May I be excused? I have... homework to finish."
"Of course, dear," Melanie said, though her eyes followed Petunia's retreating form with concern.
They all watched as Petunia left the kitchen, her footsteps quick and sharp on the stairs. A moment later, her bedroom door slammed with enough force to rattle the windows.
"She's upset," Lily said quietly, her earlier excitement dimming slightly.
"She'll come around," Melanie said with the kind of forced optimism that mothers specialize in. "She just needs time to adjust to... all of this."
Natalia said nothing, but her expression was thoughtful as she stared at the ceiling, where muffled sounds suggested that Petunia was moving around her room with considerable energy.
"She wants to go too," Lily said suddenly, the words falling into the quiet kitchen like stones into still water.
"What makes you say that?" Alex asked gently.
Lily shrugged, but her green eyes were sad. "I just... I know her. She pretends she thinks it's all freaky and weird, but really she's just scared she's being left out."
"Magic doesn't work that way, Lily-flower," Alex said carefully. "You can't just decide to be magical. It's something you're born with."
"I know," Lily said miserably. "That's what makes it so awful. She wants something she can never have, and there's nothing any of us can do about it."
Natalia reached over and squeezed her twin's hand. It was a simple gesture, but it carried the weight of shared understanding and mutual support.
"We'll figure it out," she said quietly. "We always do."
Above them, Petunia's footsteps had gone quiet, but somehow the silence felt even more ominous than the noise had been.
---
Meanwhile, in Petunia's bedroom...
Petunia sat at her desk, staring at the piece of parchment she'd been working on since before dawn. Her handwriting, usually so careful and precise, was slightly shaky from nerves and determination.
Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,
I believe there has been a mistake with the Hogwarts letters. Both my sisters received their acceptance letters this morning, and I'm quite certain I should have received one as well. I'm very intelligent (top of my class in everything), and I'm sure I would do excellently at your school.
I don't know why my letter didn't arrive with theirs, but I would be very grateful if you could send it as soon as possible. I promise I would work twice as hard as anyone else to prove I belong there.
I've enclosed this letter with my sisters' replies. Please don't tell them I wrote to you. I want it to be a surprise when my own letter arrives.
Yours truly,
Petunia Evans
P.S. - I know about Platform 9¾ and Diagon Alley and everything. I've been listening.
She folded the letter carefully, sealing it in an envelope she'd taken from her father's desk. Then she crept downstairs, moving as quietly as possible past the kitchen where her family was still talking about shopping lists and school supplies.
The two owls were perched on the garden fence, as if waiting for something. Petunia approached them cautiously, her heart hammering in her chest.
"Excuse me," she whispered, feeling slightly foolish for talking to birds. "Could you... could you take this to Hogwarts as well? Please?"
The tawny owl fixed her with a stare that seemed almost pitying. But it extended its leg anyway, allowing her to tie her letter alongside the others.
Both owls took off immediately, disappearing into the cloudy sky.
Petunia stood in the garden for a long time, watching the empty sky and telling herself that everything would be fine. That her letter would arrive any day now. That she'd get to go to Hogwarts with her sisters, and they'd all be special together.
She told herself this so convincingly that she almost believed it.
Almost.
—
Headmaster's Office — Hogwarts
30 January 1971 — Afternoon
The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of the Headmaster's office, burnishing the stacks of books and the brass contraptions on the shelves in a warm golden glow. Fawkes dozed lazily on his perch, letting out the occasional contented trill, while the portraits of former headmasters murmured faintly among themselves like gossiping crows.
Professor McGonagall sat rigidly behind the great oak desk, quill poised as she reviewed the roll of parchment before her, the faint scratching sound filling the otherwise quiet room.
"Evans, Lily Marie," she murmured, writing in her usual neat, no-nonsense hand. "Evans, Ramonda Natalia."
She set her quill down for a moment and regarded the two opened envelopes beside her with a brisk nod of approval.
"They're early," she declared, glancing at the letters. "That's a pleasant change. Shows character. Half these Muggle-borns wait until July thirty-first before they can be bothered to reply. You'd think they were being asked to appear before the Wizengamot."
Behind her, Albus Dumbledore stood by the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his half-moon spectacles slipping a little down his crooked nose. His blue eyes twinkled faintly as he gazed out over the snow-covered grounds.
"Mm," he said vaguely, rocking slightly on his heels. "Yes. A certain promptness does speak well of them, doesn't it? Very… Gryffindor."
McGonagall's lips thinned into what, for her, passed as a smile.
"I shall visit the Evans household during Easter, as usual," she said briskly, reaching for the next name.
"Of course," Dumbledore murmured, still peering out at the Forbidden Forest. "Nothing like a quiet cup of tea with bewildered Muggle parents, eh, Minerva? I do hope Mr. Evans is the sort to offer biscuits."
She shot him a sharp look. "They always offer biscuits. You've trained them into it."
"Quite right," he said mildly. "Terrible habit of mine."
McGonagall sniffed and moved to pick up the next envelope — and froze, frowning faintly.
"Albus," she said after a moment, holding the final letter aloft with a puzzled expression, "there's… a third one here. From the Evans household."
"Ah?" Dumbledore finally turned from the window, his eyebrows arched in polite curiosity.
"Addressed to you," she went on, her frown deepening, "from… Petunia Evans."
"Petunia?" Dumbledore repeated, tasting the name. He tilted his head slightly, a faintly mischievous look crossing his face. "The elder sister, I presume?."
McGonagall ignored this. "She's written to you, Albus. Personally."
"Has she really?" he said, sounding as though this were an amusing novelty rather than the breach of protocol she evidently considered it. "Well now. How very enterprising of her. Shall I?"
She handed the parchment to him without comment, though her lips were pressed together in a tight line.
Dumbledore read it slowly, the faint twinkle in his eyes dimming as his expression softened into something closer to sadness. By the time he finished, he was staring at the last few words for some time, his fingers absently smoothing the page as though to comfort it.
"Ah," he said at last, with a long sigh. "Oh, my dear girl."
McGonagall arched an eyebrow at him.
"She sounds," Dumbledore went on gently, "like a child who does not quite know whether to love or to hate her sisters… but who knows very well that she does not wish to be left behind."
"She is being left behind," McGonagall said crisply. "And you won't…?"
"Wave my wand," he supplied, giving her a faintly rueful smile. "And conjure magic where there is none?"
He shook his head, sitting at last in the high-backed chair behind his desk.
"I'm afraid not, Minerva. You and I both know that magic is not something that can be taught or borrowed. She… she is an ordinary Muggle child."
"She doesn't sound particularly ordinary," McGonagall muttered under her breath, glancing at the letter.
"No," Dumbledore agreed softly. "No, she does not. She sounds… rather extraordinary. In her longing, in her love. There's nothing very ordinary about wanting something with your whole heart and knowing you cannot have it."
McGonagall's face softened, just a little.
"She'll resent them for it," she said after a moment. "She already does."
"Oh, most assuredly," Dumbledore said, with the faintest sigh of regret. "But resentment is a funny thing, Minerva. It twists us in ways we cannot quite foresee."
He reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, drew his quill, and paused.
"She deserves a reply," he said at last. "One that does not crush her completely. Don't you agree?"
McGonagall gave a small huff of agreement.
"She deserves honesty," she said, but her voice was gentler than her words. "And a touch of kindness wouldn't go amiss, either."
"Ah," Dumbledore said with faint amusement, "and you accuse me of sentimental tendencies."
"I accuse you of worse," she said, her mouth twitching into something that might have been mistaken for a smile.
Dumbledore chuckled softly and bent over the parchment. The quill scratched across the page in graceful loops as he wrote.
Dear Miss Evans,
Thank you very much for your letter. You strike me as an exceptionally clever and determined young woman, and I have no doubt you shall go on to accomplish great things in your life.
It grieves me, however, to tell you that the ability to perform magic is not something that can be learned or earned — it is something one must be born with. Your sisters both possess this rare gift, and though I can see how deeply you wish to join them, I'm afraid that no amount of effort can create what does not exist within you already.
But please know, Miss Evans, that this is no failing of yours. You are remarkable in your own right — not for what you can do, but for who you are. That is no small thing.
I trust you will keep what you know about our world in confidence, as you have so far. That discretion speaks highly of your character.
With warmest regards, and my very best wishes,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
He set down his quill and read the letter over once, his blue eyes a little dimmer than before. With a faint nod to himself, he folded the parchment and sealed it with a quick tap of his wand, pressing the Hogwarts crest into the wax.
"There," he said at last, placing it into the outgoing tray. "I've done what I can."
McGonagall watched him a moment, then inclined her head slightly.
"You did what was kind," she said softly.
"Perhaps," he said, steepling his fingers under his chin as he stared out at the window. "But somehow… kindness does not always feel like enough."
There was silence then, broken only by the faint crackle of Fawkes shifting his wings. Even the portraits behind them stayed quiet, as though they too understood that something fragile had just been broken.
—
Magnolia Crescent — Evans Residence
2 February 1971 — Late Afternoon
The pale winter light fell cold and sharp through the lace curtains of Petunia Evans's bedroom, painting her carpet in fractured, delicate patterns. Outside in the garden, she could hear them — Lily and Natalia — their laughter spilling upward like bells, bright and shrill and mocking.
Petunia sat rigid on the edge of her bed, back ramrod straight, ankles crossed neatly as though posture could steady the tremor in her hands.
The Hogwarts envelope lay in her lap, creased now from how tightly she clutched it.
For hours she'd waited — pacing at the window, pretending to polish her mirror, pretending not to care if the owl came. When at last she'd heard the sharp tap on the pane — the same tawny owl that had brought her sisters' letters — she had felt her chest clench, and for one blessed moment she had believed.
She had actually smiled when she untied the parchment from the owl's leg. She had whispered thank you to the bird like a prayer.
And now…
She read it again. And again. Each time hoping she had simply missed it the first time — the one line she needed to see.
"It grieves me to say that magic is not something that can be learned or earned… it must be born within you…"
Her eyes skimmed desperately for some exception. Some loophole.
"No amount of intelligence or hard work can create what does not exist already."
Her breath hitched, but she swallowed hard, forcing the sound back down where it belonged.
It wasn't fair.
Her sisters were out there — spinning in the winter garden like fools, twirling imaginary wands in their fingers, waving at the air as if it had any business answering them.
Lily's wild hair glinted auburn-gold where it caught the sun. Natalia's emerald ribbons flashed against her braid as she laughed.
They had everything. Everything.
And she — she was nothing.
Her jaw clenched, her mouth hardening into a thin, white line.
She spoke aloud, softly, her voice clipped and precise.
"It's their fault. All of it. If they hadn't been born this way… if they didn't show off, prancing about like they're so special…"
She stood abruptly, the envelope slipping from her knees to the floor. The parchment inside rustled faintly, but she didn't look at it.
Her hands hovered at her sides — fingers curling, uncurling.
She crossed to the window, staring out at them.
They were laughing.
Did they even know what they were laughing at?
Natalia tripped over a tuft of grass, and Lily nearly fell into the hedge, both of them shrieking with mirth at the sheer hilarity of it all.
Petunia's throat burned.
She pressed her palms flat against the windowsill, forcing her breathing to steady.
"They've ruined everything," she said under her breath. Her voice came out lower now, like something cracked. "They've ruined me."
Something hot and tight coiled in her stomach — something ugly, sharp, bitter as bile.
Resentment.
She recognized it now.
Her fingers were trembling again. She spun from the window, grabbed the envelope and letter, and shoved them into the desk drawer so hard the wood splintered at the corner. The inkwell rattled on her blotter.
She stood there for a long moment, staring at her reflection in the mirror above the vanity.
Her cheeks were flushed high, her eyes wide and glassy, but she refused to let even a single tear fall.
She sat at her vanity and picked up her brush, yanking it through her blonde hair in long, furious strokes.
Her reflection watched her back — pale, composed, cold.
"I don't need them," she murmured. "I don't need their stupid owls, or their wands, or their freakish spells."
She set the brush down with a click, smoothing her jumper. Her voice grew quieter then, almost thoughtful.
"Someday… someday I'll show them. I'll be better than all of it. Better than them. And then…"
She didn't finish. She didn't have to.
They'd see.
She forced herself to smile — a slow, brittle smile that didn't reach her eyes — and tucked her hair behind her ears with deliberate care.
There. Perfect.
Petunia Evans did not cry. Not for them. Not for anyone.
She rose, checked her reflection one last time, and turned her back on the window.
Outside, the laughter still rang through the air.
And for the first time, she hated the sound of it.
—
Petunia sat at her vanity, still for a full minute, staring at her reflection in the soft glow of the bedroom lamp.
She smoothed her skirt again, then her jumper, then ran the brush through her hair one last time until not a strand was out of place. Her cheeks were no longer flushed. Her breathing was even. Her lips curled into that polite, proper little smile she had perfected over the years.
She lifted her chin and practiced the words under her breath.
"Did you two have fun?"
Another smile — just sharp enough to pass for teasing, not so sharp it would be noticed.
"It's nice to see you enjoying yourselves. Really."
And there it was — her mask, polished to perfection.
Not too warm. Not too cold.
Just… right.
She rose gracefully, as if nothing in the world could rattle her. Crossing to the desk, she tugged the drawer shut, just in case the edges of that horrid envelope peeked out. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing it — of seeing her.
She checked her reflection one last time and practiced her smile.
"There," she murmured. "Perfect."
Her footsteps were light but deliberate as she made her way to the bedroom door. She opened it and slipped into the hallway, closing it softly behind her.
From the landing she could hear their voices floating up from the kitchen now — Lily and Natalia chattering to their mother about Hogwarts shopping lists and spellbooks, their words tumbling over one another in their eagerness.
Petunia placed her hand on the banister, took a slow breath, and descended the stairs, each step measured.
By the time she reached the bottom, her mask was firmly in place.
In the kitchen, the scene was warm and golden. Lily was perched on a stool, swinging her legs and grinning as she spoke. Natalia leaned against the counter, arms folded, smiling in her calm, knowing way. Melanie stood at the stove, listening indulgently as she stirred something fragrant in a pot.
They all looked up when Petunia entered.
Lily's face brightened immediately.
"Oh, Tuney — come sit! We were just telling Mum about all the things we'll need for Hogwarts. Did you know there's a whole alley just for magical shopping? And brooms, and robes, and even wands—"
"It's called Diagon Alley," Natalia interjected smoothly.
Petunia let out a delicate laugh — practiced, not too sharp.
"Well," she said lightly, moving to the table, "it sounds like you two have it all planned out already. That's lovely. Truly."
Melanie smiled at her eldest, though her brow furrowed faintly as if sensing something off.
"How was your afternoon, Petunia?"
Petunia clasped her hands on the table and smiled sweetly at her mother.
"Perfectly fine, thank you. I finished my French essay and then tidied up my wardrobe. Productive."
Lily's face scrunched slightly — she clearly hadn't expected Petunia to take the news of their magical shopping trip so… calmly.
"We're sorry you can't come to Diagon Alley with us, Tuney," Lily said softly.
Petunia's smile never faltered.
"Oh, don't be silly, Lily," she said, voice light and airy. "It's your thing. Not mine. Why would I need to go?"
Her fingers tightened slightly in her lap where no one could see.
She watched them — the way their eyes sparkled, how they leaned toward each other like conspirators in some secret adventure — and behind her smile, behind her polite calm, she felt it all bubbling up again.
That sharp, hot resentment.
That quiet, burning thought:
One day you won't laugh like that. Not at me. Not ever again.
She smoothed her skirt and tilted her chin just slightly higher, listening to them chatter on about wands and broomsticks as if she weren't even there.
She would play her part — the dutiful elder sister, polite and proper.
For now.
—
The house was quiet now.
Downstairs, there were faint noises — a clatter of crockery in the kitchen, the rise and fall of her parents' voices, and that laugh of Lily's, light and bright and unbearably happy. Natalia was probably making one of her dry little comments to make everyone laugh harder.
Petunia closed her bedroom door carefully behind her, turning the knob until it clicked softly into place.
And then she let her smile drop.
The tight, fake little grin she'd been wearing at supper melted off her face, leaving something harder underneath. Her spine stiffened; her hands curled into fists at her sides.
She crossed the room and sat at her vanity, staring into the mirror. The girl who stared back at her looked… ordinary. Her blonde hair was neat and shiny, her jumper still pressed, her cheeks still touched with a natural, pretty pink.
But she looked… small.
And she hated that.
With a sharp motion she pulled open her desk drawer and dragged out the envelope. She unfolded the parchment for what had to be the tenth time that day. Her eyes went straight to the words she hated most.
"…it is something you must be born with… no amount of effort can create what does not already exist…"
Petunia let out a little laugh. It sounded bitter even to her own ears.
"Oh, of course," she muttered, glaring at the page. "Of course it doesn't matter if you're clever. Of course it doesn't matter if you try harder than anyone else. That would be too fair, wouldn't it?"
She pressed her lips into a thin line and set the letter down on the vanity with unnecessary force.
"Fine then," she whispered through her teeth. "They can keep their silly world. Their owls and their wands and their… freakishness. I don't want it. I don't need it."
Her hand smoothed over her skirt, her motions tight and mechanical as she sat up straighter.
She stared at her reflection again.
Her sisters — laughing in the garden with that strange boy and his black robes — looked so full of something she couldn't name. Something she wasn't allowed to touch.
Well.
Let them have their little fantasy world. Let them run off to their castle and pretend they were better than everyone else.
Petunia would show them.
One day, she'd have something even better.
One day she'd be the one everyone admired. The one with her own house, her own proper family. People would look at her and think, now there's a respectable young woman. Not like her sisters.
She'd make sure of it.
She picked up her hairbrush and started running it through her hair, long hard strokes, as if she could brush out the knot in her stomach.
In the mirror she could see her own eyes.
Not quite as green or bright as Lily's. Not as sharp as Natalia's.
But steady.
Determined.
She let out a breath through her nose, almost like a laugh, though it wasn't a happy sound.
"You can keep your little wands," she murmured at the mirror. "I don't need them. I'll have something better. You'll see."
She folded the letter again, carefully now, and tucked it back into its envelope. Then she slid it deep into the very back of her drawer, under a stack of school papers, where no one would ever find it.
Out of sight.
But she couldn't stop hearing the words.
Couldn't stop imagining her sisters at their strange, magical school.
And she couldn't stop imagining the day she'd show them all.
That she didn't need magic to matter.
That she'd never needed them at all.
She put her brush down neatly, straightened her jumper, and forced herself to smile faintly at the girl in the mirror.
Even if the girl didn't smile back.
---
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