July 18th, 1997

July 18^th, 1997

As you stand before Voldemort, you cannot keep yourself from being sick all over your clean kitchen floor.

There is no reason you should recognize him; you have never seen photo of him, but you know. You knew the moment he threw open your door and shattered the window. You knew because you felt the evil like she said you would.

You try to run, but you are pulled back into your kitchen, forced to stand in a pile of your own vomit as you struggle against the invisible hand that grips you upper left arm.

Inside you a quiet, irrational voice screams that this is Lily's fault- that Lily led this man into your beautiful home. Another voice angrily asks what right this wizard, this abomination has to be inside your home. And a last voice, the loudest of all, says this is poetic justice.

You hate that voice.

He reaches out with spidery hand gripping a slick piece of wood- the type of thing she brought home after she received that letter. Your terror overwhelms and forces your lead legs backwards, away from this abomination. The invisible grip loosens and you move slowly.

It has only been a moment, but it feels like eternity. It has been enough time for you to call up to Vernon and tell him to run, but you cannot find your voice. Instead you stare at this thing who might have once been a man, and acknowledge that you will die soon. He killed your sister, the strongest person you ever knew. He killed everything - everything except the boy, the boy you hate and resent and wish was standing here instead of you.

You move backwards, and then a contemptuous voice glides through the oppressive silence of your home.

"To think, that Lily was your sister." The voice is not coming from the grotesque man advancing on you; it slithers at you from your behind. You spin and find two men standing in your living room. You are trapped between the murderer of your sister and two men obviously working with him.

The one on the left is beautiful; he smiles evilly and you avert your eyes, terrified, though you can't explain why. You recognize him from the Daily Prophets you used to have secretly sent to your home. He is rich and prominent. Who was he talking about? Lily? Why is he in your home? Is he here to make sure you die? Are you going to die? You don't want to die.

Your hands shake violently.

"She deserved better than you," says the one on the right and his scratchy voice was the one you heard before.

"Do we have company, Poppet?" Vernon calls from upstairs. He's going to come down stairs. You know it. You can't do a thing about it. You can't do a fucking thing about it. Why can't you move? Why can't you scream? Please don't come downstairs!

"Don't," you manage to squeak through the clog in your throat. Don't come, don't die, don't let this thing and these men be the last things you see. Wake me up! Let me escape this nightmare.

But Vernon comes down the stairs. The rich stranger points his stick at him- your husband, your love. You feet carry away from the landing, into a wall, where you slide down to the ground and clutch at your head, trying to protect yourself, trying to escape, trying to not hear the words or see the flash of magic that lashes out at your husband. Still, you hear the crash and feel that Vernon Dursley is gone and you stay in that same position, shrieking.

Why? Why? Why?

He's dead. Oh God, Vernon's dead. Gone. You can't stop the thoughts, the realizations, the irrational questions about what will you do for money, for love, for Dudley, for Grunnings, for the neighbours. You can't breathe properly, can't think.

"Where is Harry Potter?"

This question comes from the thing in your kitchen- the thing with the red eyes filled with the blood of his victims. His voice crawls at you, plunges itself down your throat, choking you. You shake your head wildly, unable to put thought to word. Vernon is dead. Vernon is dead. Your house is ruined.

"You will answer Master!" yells the fat, watery man in his scratchy voice. At the same time, a hand grabs your hair and yanks you painfully to your feet. You claw at the hand to stop the pain, only to find metal instead of flesh. The cold metal feeling makes you yank your hands away from it, yelling even louder. You swing your arms, trying to find the body and when you do, you dig your nails into the skin of the man holding you.

"Silencio," hisses the beautiful voice. And your voice is sucked out of your throat and across the roam. You cry out in fear, only to find nothing coming out.

Warm liquid covers your fingers, you feel it as you are thrown back towards your once-clean floors. You pull your knees up to your chest and rock yourself as you lay on your left side.

You never imagined your sister's death like this. You only saw a flash of a spell and her suddenly gone. You never imagined the torture of watching a husband die or looking into the face of the killer. You read the murderer's name in the letter from the wacko and then never mentioned it again. She was gone. Just like Vernon is gone. But now this murderer stands before you, alive like the boy said. You rock back and forth, back and forth.

Your mind flashes hopes that the boy will leap into the kitchen and save you. But then you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror beside your refrigerator. In that reflection, a woman cries uncontrollably while lying in the middle of her kitchen, all self-respect and honour gone from her life. Her husband lies dead in the adjacent room and she is pathetic.

"Tell me where he is," commands the abomination. You clutch at your throat, his words choking you once more. You try to take in air but can't, and as blackness creeps in around your eyes, you panic. You scratch at the floor with your hands. You need out.

"Give me Harry Potter and I will spare you."

The wooden stick flicks and air races into your lungs. You take long gasping breaths as relief floods into you with the air. You twist your head to look up at the thing in the kitchen- the evil, evil man who steals lives for fun- he offers you life and the price is just the boy. You wonder if your sister died this way: prostate in front of this incarnation of the devil. You wonder if she tried to beg for a deal like the one that he offers you now.

"Your sister died on her knees before me, weak. She gave her life for the boy. Is that what you want- to give your life for your useless nephew? Like your sister? Like your husband?"

You go cold inside. Your sister died for a helpless, useless baby. Your sister died a hero. Would you smite her sacrifice by killing him yourself? Yes, you would. If it meant you would live, you would give him up. You don't want to die.

"Your brother-in-law died a weakling before Master," says the one with the scratchy voice. He hopes to rile you up. You feel only fleeting pleasure knowing that that stupid James Potter died- his proud arrogance broke before the end. He deserved death. Lily didn't. Vernon didn't. Oh, God, Vernon didn't deserve any of this. You don't deserve any of this.

"And the boy lives on," hisses the beautiful blond man. "The boy took your sister's life, your brother-in-law's life, your husband's life, and now your own if you do not tell us where he is. Feel the pain of death and decide. Crucio."

The light hits you faster than the blink of an eye. The pain comes not a moment later. You thrash around on the ground- silently yelling, screaming, and pleading for it all to stop. Your hands involuntarily contort and your eyes roll up into your head as your back arches itself away from the floor.

When the pain is gone, the memory of it leaves you shaking. The smell of your own sickness in your hair is not enough to distract you.

"Where is he, Petunia Dursley?"

The school, you whisper though no words come out.

"He is not there anymore. He came back here for the protection." The man with blood-filled eyes lifts his hand and feels around the air. "But this protection lessens as we speak."

You try desperately to remember where the boy said he was going. He went to visit a friend- a something- said you had to know where he was going, said something about you being the least likely person to be thought of. Why was it all so-

The sound of the doorbell ringing comes. You heart sinks. You try to force yourself off the ground, but you are still too weak with pain to move. All you can do it watch and keep trying, moving your right arm and then your left in a poor imitation of crawling towards the sound.

"Mum? Didn't you hear me?" shouts a voice that sounds too lovely, too beautiful. You can't remember hearing a voice like that before. You shout in your silent way, banging your head against the wall in hopes of scaring him away. A foot steps on your back, preventing further movement. You hit it. You twist under it. You claw at it.

None of that stops Dudley from finding and using the spare key. As the door opens, you're lifted by your hair once more so as to watch as the beautiful blond man points his stick at your son's body.

A flash of green races towards Dudley and then he falls to the ground.

Your entire body tenses, stretching to reach your son, to shake him, to prove that he was not hurt, that these dumb, evil men had done it wrong. The hand releases your hair. You dive across the room with strength you do not have. Dudley has to be all right.

You shake him. He does not stir.

You yell at him soundlessly. He does not move.

You cry over him and hug him. He does not live.

You do not live.

"Do you see what protecting Harry Potter has cost you? Tell me where he is," says the voice of the abomination, but even his overwhelming and oppressive voice cannot hamper your grief. "Harry Potter killed your husband, your son, your sister, and your brother-in-law. Harry Potter took away your family."

You start to speak and he takes off your silencing charm.

"You killed him you killed him you killed him!" you yell hysterically at the three men. "Lily killed you and you killed him and you killed him and it wasn't the boy it was you and you and you and you and you killed him you killed dudley dudley get up get up dudley get up wake up get up."

But he doesn't get up and instead you find yourself flying across the room once more, arms stretched out in front of you, aiming to rip that bastard's throat out of his body- rip out the cause of your son's death- rip him to fucking shreds.

The two men grab you but you yank yourself away, tearing with your nails at their arms, biting, yelling. The evil man looks at you, amused. You wrench yourself out of the grip of his stooges and aim at his head. Faster than you can reach him, a green light flashes towards you.

~*~*~

Almost lazily, the beautiful man stands above you. He shakes his head, points it at your roof and mutters some words that cause a glowing skull and snake to crawl out of his wand and into the air. They are green: the colour of Lily's eyes; the colour of Harry's eyes; the colour, apparently, of death.