Petunia and the Little Monster

August 1971

The strange, magical letter had arrived this morning, causing her parents to break out in laughter and Lily's pretty face to be wreathed in smiles.

It didn't look that extraordinary, the paper already yellowing and the contents lacking any personal touch, simply an admission paper and a list of necessary items to be bought.

But it had been brought by an owl. An actual, living owl, an animal unsuited to the Evanesses domestic kitchen, its bright eyes and sharp talons belonging to the nighttime wilderness - and fairy tales.

And now Lily's life had turned into exactly that, a tale of wonder and magic, while Petunia was a forgotten footnote of mundanity and bitterness, maybe serving as a shadow to contrast Lily's brightness. The boring, elder sister ... maybe even the evil sister.

Her knife sunk into the warming butter, gliding easily, the lack of resistance unsatisfying. Petunia glared at it in resentment, pulling her rounded knife free and carving into the smooth surface, again and again, until it had lost its form, too marred to be disfigured further, nothing left to serve as an outlet for her frustration. For just a tiny fraction of a second, Petunia wondered if the knife would sink as easily into her own skin.

The happy chattering of her parents and Lily became too unbearable, and Petunia pushed her chair back with a clatter, fleeing up to her room, hoping to leave her thoughts with the destroyed block of butter in the kitchen.

The expensive piece of paper was where she had left it, centre-stage on her desk, catching a stray beam of early sunlight and gleaming like ivory - a lot better looking than that yellowed piece Lily had been clutching like it was made from spun gold.

It was the most expensive paper Petunia had found, one she had bought with her little pocket money for a future special occasion, maybe a letter to someone important. The idea of a pen pal had always appealed to her, the distance and cloak of paper and ink allowing for anonymity that was tempting to someone who liked to hide her weaknesses.

But now Petunia had a new use for her parchment. Contemplating, she sat down at the desk she shared with Lily, twisting a pen between her fingers. She wanted the letter to be perfect and so wrote a few drafts, discarding and starting anew multiple times. Finally she reached for the nice paper, which felt unduly heavy in her pale hands. Taking a deep breath she started writing.

Most honourable Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry,

My name is Petunia Evans and I am twelve years old. My younger sister recently received a letter to attend your school and I wanted to let you know that I dearly wish to be a witch as well. Though I might lack my sister's natural talent, you have my honest promise that I will be the most hard-working student in school. I will dedicate myself to the magic studies and make you proud if you give me this chance.

Please Mister Dumbledore let me attend your magic school and learn how to become a real witch.

Sincerely,

Petunia Evans

Finished with her work, Petunia read it over one last time before she carefully blew the ink dry and folded it up. Surely the headmaster would not already be biassed towards Lily - he hadn't even met her yet. He would be fair and give Petunia a chance. She hadn't done anything to not deserve it after all.

❀

Lily and the wretched boy were ridiculing her.

"You begged to be a witch? Thought you said Lily was a freak!"

"You snooped through my mail?" Enraged, Petunia glared at Lily, who was once again standing behind the wretched boy.

"Lily didn't snoop, I saw the letter myself!" The wretched boy sneered, his thin lips appearing even more bloodless as they stretched. Like a pair of wiggling maggots in his thin face.

Liar.

"I can't believe a muggle actually managed to get a letter to Hogwarts!" He laughed, but it was grating and metallic. "You don't even have an owl! Must be a magical postman working somewhere around here who didn't know it was you who had written the letter."

Petunia stayed silent, not willing or knowing how to refute. All she knew was that she had done something with hope in her heart and with her best effort - and now her sister's best friend was mocking her for it. Laughing at her. And Lily just stood next to him and looked at her with her typical pitying eyes.

And that look fanned Petunia's fury, even more than the wretched boy's words.

What right did Lily have to pity her? Just because she inherited the nice hair and unique eyes and Petunia hadn't?

Just because Petunia wasn't special and no one was even willing to give her a chance, no matter how hard she tried?

She hadn't done anything wrong. None of these were her fault, it was simply as if a greater power was set against her in all things.

She felt the burning behind her eyes but willed herself not to cry. She hadn't cried when the headmaster's letter of rejection glared back at her and she wouldn't cry now because of these stupid children. When everyone was against her she had to stay strong and take care of herself.

And 'strong' in Petunia's mind was often equal to 'angry', as she allowed its heat to burn heavier emotions like sadness and vulnerability to ash. Instead of crying she preferred to fight, always with venom-laced words, because her arms were too weak and thin for conventional defence. But her mind was agile and worked quickly. She had always noticed things, picked up on subtle signs or simply been quiet and well-behaved enough that no-one realised she was listening to their gossip. And this helped her to determine her opponent's weak spot.

Like right this moment. The wretched boy was not only smitten with her sister but the whole town liked to talk about his family, usually with a hand pressed to their chests in shock but spiteful glee in their eyes ...

When the words burst from her clenching throat they weren't elaborate or subtle, but a blunt knife could hurt just as much as small needles if one pressed it into the wound with enough determination. "I might not have an owl, but at least my father doesn't hit me! At least my mother loves me!"

The last line was a lie in Petunia's mind, but the wretched boy wouldn't know that. His usually sallow face had turned red in rage and his dark eyes were wide open, their black depths spelling death. With trembling lips his hands flew up, as if someone pulled the strings of an especially skeletal puppet, jerky and abrupt.

Petunia didn't stick around to find out how he wanted to punish her. Instead she whirled around and once again ran away, her longer legs letting her escape his wrath, the only price she paid were smudges of dirt on her shoes.

Sometimes, the wretched boy and Lily liked to rely on their specialness too much. Hurting him wasn't something Petunia needed magic to do. And reality wasn't something magic would protect them from.

And even though Petunia was disadvantaged, she was never weak.