Daddy's Favorite

I don't want to go to sleep tonight. He will be there. And I can't stand to face him.

We picked up the boy at King's Cross today. Several of them were waiting for us. They told us that if they didn't approve of how the boy was being treated we would have them to answer to.

Vernon is about to work himself into a stroke. He's been purple ever since the station. When we got home I thought he would actually hit the boy. Honestly, as much as I love Vernon, he can be so incredibly stupid sometimes. Does he really think those people would sit still for that? Does he really think he can put his hands on the boy and get away with it? He tried it last summer and I almost died of fear. Luckily all he got was a shock.

I had to make sure I stayed between them all night. And Dudley was swelling like some sort of poisonous reptile. I have him to worry about as well. He hasn't forgiven the boy for what happened last summer. Why should he after all? And he doesn't realize, my dear Dudley, that he is too old now - too old for those people to overlook him and excuse his behavior as childish naughtiness.

I don't know how to explain the truth to Vernon and Dudley. I don't know how to tell them without revealing far, far too much.

You see, the ones at the station aren't the ones we need to be afraid of. None of them, not even the one with that terrible, awful eye, hold a candle to the ones we really should fear. None of them even approach the horror of the Dark One and the Old Man.

Vernon might be able to understand the Dark One, if I could get him to calm down long enough. After all, he understood about the boy's murderous godfather well enough, and the Dark One is just like that only written much larger. If I could get Vernon to quit huffing and muttering and pacing about, I might be able to make him understand about the Dark One - or at least understand well enough.

But I can't explain about the Old Man. I can't let Vernon know the truth about that.

The boy has gone upstairs. Vernon is sputtering something about putting him back in the closet and I am trying to get him to shut up before it's too late. Dudley is just pouting and cracking his knuckles. How am I ever going to head off that disaster?

Why did they ever bring the boy here? They had no right to bring him here! They had no right to persecute me again; to pull me back into their world after I had escaped! They had no right to start it all again!

But then they care nothing for rights - not even the rights of there own kind. Why should they worry about me?

I wonder if they are born that way? Lily certainly was. From the time she came out of the womb, she was utterly convinced that the world revolved around her.

Not that she was mean or cruel or arrogant. She was kind and sweet, in fact. But she was also utterly and totally oblivious to the idea that other people were entitled to their boundaries. I remember once, long before the letter came, she decided to "help" me with a cooking project. She remixed the entire recipe without even asking me if I wanted help. And it was good. It was very good. She was five years younger than I was, and yet she completed the task with more style than I could ever have mustered.

When I got angry about it my parents, as was typical, chastised me for my lack of gratitude. After all, did I want my cooking to turn out badly?

Or I should say Daddy chastised me. Mum was so under his sway she might as well have not existed, for all practical purposes. Daddy had a way of doing that to people. He was so intelligent, so rational, so reasonable, that other people just lost all will to oppose him. And his eyes were the worst. They were always filled with kindness and pity. To be corrected by him was an experience from Hell itself, because his voice was so calm, so controlled, and his eyes so kind that you inevitably found yourself filled with guilt and humiliation to have done something so stupid, so downright evil, as to oppose him. That was doubtless the reason he was always winning awards from the various schools at which he worked. Daddy was a teacher of English and Literature at a number of rather good institutions over the years, and he was renowned for his ability to control students.

The answer, by the way, was that yes I did want my cooking to turn out poorly. Because it would have been my cooking, not hers. But when I said that, Daddy just looked at me with those kind eyes and asked very calmly and rationally if I knew how immature I sounded. And so, as usual, I ended up feeling stupid as well as ungrateful.

It was worse when she went off to that school, of course. As her powers waxed her desire to "help" grew exponentially. For instance there was the time she re-arranged my entire rock garden with a flick of her wand. The rocks were ugly, it was true. They were ugly and arranged in ragged, crooked patterns. But they were mine. I had spent hours on end in the heat placing them. And if the garden was unattractive it was nevertheless my own accomplishment.

And then she came home on holiday, took one look at the rock garden, and said "I can help you with that dear." With one flick of her hand and few Latin phrases everything I had done - all the work and pain, was made worthless. Oh, the garden looked much better, arranged as they now were in sweeping elegant curves and balanced geometries. And my parents gleefully acknowledged that fact. And of course they acted like I should be eternally grateful to Lily for lending a hand - or a wand as the case may be. But not once did any of them ever ask what right Lily had to interfere. Never once did anyone but me bother to wonder why she thought she had the privilege of "helping" even when her aid had not been requested.

After she married Potter I could barely stand to be in their presence. He didn't mind smirking, I can tell you that much. Every time Lily would embarass me in that sweet way of hers - that is every time she would exclaim over something I had done or was wearing or was planning and rush to help with her damnable powers - he would grin at me in amusement, his arms folded and his eyes dancing with contempt. He might have been handsome and brave and charming, but in his opinion the whole world suffered from the abominable disadvantage of not being James Potter. He was willing to overlook that disadvantage, but only if the rest of us would be so tasteful as to accept his pity. Daddy was the only one who could wipe the smirk off his face, and even the Devil himself would have been hard put to sneer in my father's presence.

After I married Vernon and became pregnant I thought I had actually achieved something that she couldn't help with for once. But Lily could not be defeated. Since she could not interfere with my pregnancy, she arranged one of her own.

She didn't do it deliberately of course. But nevertheless I almost accused her of it. For the first time in more than twenty years I had something that was unique to me, something that Lily didn't share in and couldn't meddle with. Then she called me (she knew how to use a phone, of course, even if James wouldn't be caught dead near one) and announced in ecstatic tones that not only was she pregnant but our babies would be almost exactly the same age. I wanted to strangle myself with the phone cord.

The worst of it was how she kept prattling on about what she and James would do for MY child. She kept on and on about how they would "help" Vernon and me (James being wealthy) and how they could arrange for all sorts of advantages for my baby and how if the child turned out to be like her (and wouldn't that be WONDERFUL she kept saying) that they would take my baby "under their wing" and see to all its needs - because after all her child was practically guaranteed to be like them (I know about squibs and I also know they are rare) and having two magical children around would be no particular trouble. Finally I told her to sod off and, with a feeling of immense relief, closed that chapter of my life forever.

Or so I thought.

Then she and James went and got themselves killed fighting the Dark One and the boy showed up on MY doorstep. What's worse, he showed up with a long letter explaining how important he was and how it was critical that he be treated well. It also went into detail about the type of protections he would need, and how by living with us he would have those protections because of an "ancient magic."

But the worst of it was that they obviously thought I would be glad to take in the child. After all, hadn't Lily been a wonderful sister? Hadn't she helped me so much over the years? Didn't I feel gratitude towards her and Potter for ... oh for being wonderful?

I had never been so angry and insulted in my entire life as the night the boy showed up with that letter tucked in the basket. After twenty years I had managed to extricate myself from Lily's spiderweb of sisterly concern and conceit, and now they were dragging me back in. They had no right!

I looked at the child with pure loathing. I had never felt such dislike for any living thing in my life. I almost called the authorities and turned the disgusting thing over to them that very night.

But there was a problem you see. Lily really was sweet and kind and meant well. She had managed to make my life utterly miserable, but with all the best intentions. Damn it, she was wonderful. And despite everything I had loved her, at least long ago.

And the child had her eyes. Her eyes which, by the way, were also Daddy's eyes.

So I took Harry Potter into the house and sealed the charm (never telling Vernon about that part of it). He would grow up to be like Lily, of course. I knew in my heart he would. But I took him in anyway.

And for a while it looked like everything might actually be all right. Vernon was angry and insulted at first, but the fact is that as much as I love him he hasn't got the strongest mind or the stiffest backbone, and I browbeat him into sullen acceptance rather easily. Although I know the boy doesn't remember it - I almost don't remember it - the first two or three years weren't so bad. I did not love the child. I still resented him deep in my heart. But the active dislike I felt at first went away. We heard no more from the world of magic, and I began to think that, over time, I was actually becoming rather fond of the boy. And to be honest, I think I could have been fond of him. I could even have come to accept him having those freaky powers. Yes, I might have, if not loved, at least been on peaceful terms with a wizard nephew. If only he had continued to look as much like Lily as he did that night.

But of course he turned out to look exactly like James. And that was the last, the most unforgivable insult. I had taken in Lily's child, and ended up with a reincarnation of that arrogant, insufferable bastard.

And so it all came to naught. My dislike returned with full force, he went into the closet, and I went into denial about what was going to happen come his eleventh birthday. It was wrong. I knew in my heart it was wrong. But every time I looked at him any regret I had was blown right out of my mind by James' hateful face looking back at me.

It also didn't help that Potter had Daddy's eyes. Every time my heart told me what I was doing was wrong, I had only to look at Potter's face to hear what Daddy would say to me about this situation. He would doubtless look at me with those pity- filled eyes and ask me if I really thought I was acting like an adult.

Then the letter came. Vernon was determined to prevent him from going to Hogwarts. I knew it was futile, of course, but I didn't have the heart to argue. The sight of the letter brought back too much.

And so Harry Potter went to Hogwarts. The day we left him at the station the first time we laughed as we drove away. He seemed so ridiculous standing there. But I knew it wasn't ridiculous. I knew he would find his way to the school. I think I knew even then that things were about to change.

It was on Christmas night of Harry's first year that I first met the Old Man. And that's when my I truly began to understand what a dangerous line I walked.

We had had a very busy day. Vernon and Dudley were bursting with happiness to be able to celebrate without the boy around. And I was relieved to be rid of him as well. An unwanted shadow had been lifted from our lives and would not return for several months yet. I fell asleep feeling happy and content.

"Petunia Dursley." I woke with a start to find myself in a very different place than my bedroom. Wherever it was it was dark and cold. I had the sense of a tall ceiling and stone walls in the darkness. As soft sphere of light shone in the middle of the chamber, where the Old Man sat in a large chair, fingering a thick, leather bound book. He looked at me mildly. "You are Petunia Dursley, are you not?"

He rose and I see he is dressed in wizard robes. He is wearing half-moon spectacles, and he looks over them at me with an expression like an owl sizing up a mouse for its lunch.

"You are a wizard." My voice was shaky. I wanted to believe this is only a dream. But he was stunningly real.

"Yes, I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

The school the boy went to. "Then you already know who I am." In my dealings with James Potter, I generally found it best to be aggressive.

Dumbledore did not deny my accusation. He put his book on a shadow-shrouded table and took a few steps toward me. His expression conveyed sympathy, concern, and intelligence. "I am have been anxious to speak with you Mrs. Dursley. I am worried about the environment Harry Potter experiences in his home life."

I let myself sneer. "Why, because we handled that thing you left with us a little roughly? Does he have some dents?"

"Oh, I am well aware of how you have handled Harry," he said quietly. "I was watching."

I'm not surprised.

His expression had changed. There was still concern there, but also a stern hardness rising from the kind demeanor like a submarine surfacing from the deep ocean. "I know this has been hard on you, Petunia."

"Do you now! Do you indeed!" I wanted to laugh but my throat felt dry.

"Yes it has been very difficult for you indeed," those awful blue eyes were filled with understanding and - pity? "But do you really think it is proper to punish a child for what happened to you so long ago? Harry was not even born when you lived with Lily."

Of course it isn't proper. Thank you for reminding me. Wicked Petunia! Bad Petunia!

"What business is it of yours?" I snarled at him, refusing to be put off or intimidated. Or at least I tried to refuse.

"A Headmaster must look out for his students' welfare. And Harry is a special case." He sat again and folded his hands, but he kept me transfixed with his gaze.

"So your letter said. Well, you don't seem to have been very concerned these past ten years!"

Something passed over his face then - regret, grief, shame? "I have felt it necessary to remain in the background of Harry's life, for his own protection."

"And so I would bear the burden of raising him, no doubt!"

"In a way you are right, Petunia," he said in a low voice. "The magic that protects him relies on you allowing him to stay willingly and without undue coercion."

"In that case," I half yelled, "leave me alone! I have taken the boy in willingly. I will raise him as I see fit!"

"Why did you take him in Petunia?" His voice was sad, so very sad.

I just stared at him. Why did I?

Because damn it all, he was Lily's child and, even though I hate the sight of him, she was my sister and I can't bring myself to turn him out in cold blood to die.

But I said nothing. After several minutes of silence, he heaved a heavy sigh. "Very well Petunia. We will speak again."

I awoke feeling anxious and fearful. I tried to believe it is just a dream, but I knew better.

I saw that dreadful old man again four months later. It was another dream, this time I was walking along the upstairs hallway. He was standing in the door of Dudley's second bedroom, his eyes filled with sorrow.

"Why Petunia," he asked gently, "must Harry sleep in a closet while an entire bedroom is used for a junk closet?"

"Because Dudley is my son, that's why! He belongs here! Potter is a freak you forced on us!"

He looked at me with those kind, cruel, gentle, judgmental eyes. "Petunia, please listen to yourself."

I wanted to keep screaming, to order him out of my house, out of my mind. But I did hear myself, whether I wanted to or not. Petulant, vicious, petty and unreasonable described me. All of the things everyone said I was toward Lily.

The next day I began working on Vernon to offer the boy the bedroom. He had developed a vicious dislike for Potter, and it took several weeks. But early in the summer I had him.

By then I had also realized something about Dumbledore - he was just like my father. Oh, there were plenty of physical differences. Dumbledore was tall where Daddy was round, the wizard's eyes were blue and my father's were emerald green. Where Dumbledore's voice was deep and mellow, Daddy's was squeeky and wheezing from the cigarettes he smoked constantly. But beyond that they were exactly the same. Two male schoolteachers with a frightening knack for domination - such a powerful knack in fact that to be around them too long would mean a profound destruction of self.

Daddy was better at it though. I am sure the wizards would be shocked to hear me say that. But it is true. Dumbledore had the advantage of his props - his robes and his wand and his spectacles. Daddy could dominate you every bit as thoroughly as Dumbledore, and he never carried a wand and rarely wore anything more elegant that faded cardigans or casual jacket and tie combinations.

When I realized whom Dumbledore reminded me of my hatred for Potter increased markedly. When Vernon decided to bar his windows and lock him in his room I rejoiced, even though I knew in my heart it was a dreadful mistake. The night Potter escaped I began to wait.

Sure enough, about four weeks later, I suppose the very night Potter returned to that wretched school, Dumbledore visited my dreams again. We were in the dark space again, but the door to Potter's room stood in the middle of the floor like some stage prop. The wizard looked at the many locks and bolts, then looked at me sadly. "Do you really think that was necessary Petunia? Do you really think that was right?"

Once again I decided to try an attack. "How old are you?"

I expected that such a non sequitur would surprise him, but instead he just looked at me again, this time with a shine in his eyes that I could not classify completely as either humor or anger. "I am 142 this year. Thriving middle age!"

I felt a stab of deep fear at that news, but I pushed it aside. "Where is this place?"

"Why Petunia, this is your mind! Specifically the part of your mind where your higher emotions and instincts dwell." He gestured about and smiled.

"But it is empty!" It was also cold.

"Yes." His eyes filled with more pity than I had ever seen.

I felt bile rise in my throat along with - sadness. I suddenly felt sad and tired and defeated.

"We will get rid of the locks."

"And the bars Petunia. If I try to send an owl to Harry next summer and the windows are barred, I will be most annoyed." His voice was still gentle, but his expression had suddenly hardened - hardened into planes of cold determination.

I knew better than to argue with someone who was wearing a look like that. It was exactly the expression Daddy used to have when he was set on something.

And so the years progressed, with Dumbledore dropping into my dreams to pour guilt on me whenever he disapproved of something - which was always. Daddy and Lily, Dumbledore and Harry, my life had come in a full, cruel circle.

But now there was yet another reason to hate Potter - perhaps the worst reason of all. And it all hangs on that simple answer the old man gave. 142. Lily had told me of wizards living into centuries, but I had never believed her.

From then on whenever Vernon started to rant and rave about Potter, I would look at him and feel like a sword of ice had been run through my heart. He did not know the worst, not the true horror of it. He did not realize that one day he would be old and decrepit - a wheezing mass of flesh enclosing a bad heart and failing lungs, me clinging to one hand with dear Dudley standing at my side, balding and wrinkled. And when the boy comes to gloat over him he may well look much the same as he does now.

Even worse will come a day when Dudley is an ancient wreck, dying in some hospital with Mummy and Daddy long gone. And when Potter comes to enjoy his triumph I bet everyone will think he's Dudley's grandson.

Or maybe it works another way. Maybe Potter will age like we do, but at some point he'll just stop, while we continue on to dust.

In any case, I don't think the boy has thought of it yet. That is bitter irony for you. I look into his eyes, filled with helpless rage toward me and Vernon and Dudley, and realize he doesn't know. He doesn't know that he is going to get a good nine generations of gloating victories.

Thus it was that I was filled with deep hatred for Potter when he returned home from his fourth year. And thus it was that when I met Dumbledore in my dreams the night Potter returned I spat at him "I hate you all."

For once his eyes were not twinkling. For once he looked at me sternly and without mercy. "Harry is wounded now Petunia. He is wounded and alone and we must leave him with you for safety. I have warned you many times. This is my last."

"Or you will do what?" My heart was pounding and I could only think of hate and anger and injustice. "If I put Potter out, he will die!"

"So he will, and I cannot force you to keep him." His expression did not soften.

"So I protect Potter! What will you do if we handle your precious boy a little roughly?" I was spitting with hatred.

"I will do nothing. Lily might have something to say, however." His face was completely devoid of mercy or pity.

"Lily! She is dead!" I found myself looking around, just to be sure.

"You will be as well, one day." He spoke softly and earnestly. "Not by my hand, but one day it will come. And death is a most permanent condition Petunia. Whatever Lily and James have to say or do, they will have all eternity."

"I am too old to be frightened by fairy tales! Honestly, who these days believes in ghosts and divine vengeance?" I was filled with contempt for such childish mind games.

"Who these days believes in wizards and witches?" His smile was slow and terrible.

And then I was more afraid than I had ever been. What if he is right? What if Lily and James have been watching, just as he has watched?

What if they are waiting?

I could not get that thought out of my head all summer. What if they are waiting?

Even worse, what if Daddy is waiting?

I only saw my father genuinely raging once. I was sixteen and Lily was eleven. She had just got her letter from that school. She and I and Mum were trying to get her packed and I was seething with anger and jealousy. Lily said something - I don't remember what it was - and we began to argue. Finally I pushed her. The silly thing caught her feet in that ridiculous robe she was wearing (an adult witch had come by a few days before to take her shopping for school things) and down she went, banging her head against the bed rail. She started wailing then, more frightened than hurt. I was shocked and ashamed but I never had a chance to say anything. As luck would have it, Daddy had entered the house and was just in time to see me push Lily.

There is something terrible about hearing shouts from a normally quiet person. It is like the laws of nature have been repealed briefly. My father began to shout. He was a freethinker, and we never had much to do with church, but I knew what he sounded like. He sounded like an angry God.

My mother tried to calm him down. It was the first and last time I can ever remember her taking my side. Even Lily was stunned by his rage and tried to protest. But he sent them both out of the room.

And then he shouted. He shouted for most of an hour. And the things he said...

Let's just say when he died, two years before Lily and I both became pregnant, I did not attend the funeral.

I had thought never to hear that voice again. But I did. I heard it from a smoking red envelope the night the Dementors came and almost took my Dudley. The night I heard that the Dark One had returned.

Remember my last, Petunia.

The voice of an angry God. The voice telling me that life is short, and that vengeance may be waiting. The voice of wizard and father and conscience and scourge all combined in one.

And now the boy is back. He is back and I think that he is hurt even worse than before. I can see it in his expression. I can tell by the way his friends watched him as we walked away.

The Old Man will be waiting for me. He will be there when I dream. If not tonight, then soon. Soon he will come.

I lie in the darkness of my house and feel the seconds slipping away. Each tick of the clock, each breath brings me closer to the Old Man.

Brings me closer to death.

Brings me closer to Lily.

Brings me closer to Daddy.

Brings me closer to Hell.