Loss

Petunia woke up crying. Another dream. Another dream she would lock inside her and never speak of again. She wiped the tears from her face in a swift and almost frantic motion, trapped a sob away, and calmed herself. She didn't want to wake Vernon. He had the rather annoying habit of yelling when woken. And besides, she had a façade of perfection to hold up.

She crept to the kitchen, and began a large breakfast. She poured a couple pancakes onto the griddle, estimated she had a minute or two before they browned, and started to climb the steps to wake Harry. But then she remembered he was at that place, and her breath caught, and she couldn't breathe. But her minute was up, and she forced herself back to "normal," and went to flip the pancakes.

She'd just finished laying out Vernon's breakfast when he came down, all dolled up and ready for work. He barely glanced at her before digging in ravenously. A shiver of disgust went down her spine. He was such a pig. In her more vindictive moments, she couldn't help but be appalled at him. It was so ingrained into her system, years of her and her sister badmouthing him to each other.

He'd always been around when they were younger. The vile little creature was the son of their parents' charming friends, and thus, went everywhere with them. They were cruel to him, she admitted. More so than they should have been. But his had been a rude little weasel.

As her relationship with her sister, which had once been the foundation she based her life upon, crumbled beneath her, he supported her. He was kind to her, even as she sought solitude and detachment. He had intertwined his life with hers, and she had grown to love him. But nothing could replace Lily.

And now here she was, serving her husband breakfast in a Pleasantville manner, smiling and hoping he didn't notice her cracks.

Vernon left for Grunnings, the love of his life, after a quick kiss and a wave goodbye. Petunia folded in on herself, collapsing in a nearby chair and holding her head in her hands. She needed some Advil.

She tried to clean, something that always distracted her with its tedium, but found that she couldn't remember (or didn't care, she couldn't tell which) how or with what one went about doing such things.

She decided to drop in on Mrs. Lindy Anastasia Peirson of next door for tea. Maybe she'd have some gossip or other equally inane and pointless information that would pull her from her heart, and also the void slowly expanding within her, consuming her soul little by little.

Lindy Anastasia greeted with a goofy grin and cold calculating eyes. She was one of those, that despite easy "country" manners, would steal your soul for a leg up. Besides, Petunia was on probation for the letter fiasco. Like she wanted to be part of their vapid little club, she thought contemptuously, ready to tear the botox out of Lindy A's perfect little pores. But she just smiled in a way that expressed her wish to be as little of an imposition as possible.

Lindy Anastasia regarded her carefully, noting her reddened eyes, off-kilter hair, and wrinkly apron. A slight sneer graced her features, but she kept it from her voice as she asked if Petunia cared for some tea.

Petunia sat with Lindy Anastasia, taking blow after blow of backhanded compliments and aggressive commentary of her life. She wished that she wasn't restrained by good breeding and was free to dig out Lindy's heart with a grapefruit spoon and sacrifice it to Satan on a pagan alter in exchange for a swift and painless death. Hell, long and painful would be okay, too. Why was she friends with this empty little...

She shook herself out of it. It didn't do any good to indulge in far-fetched fantasies. She turned her attention back to Lindy Anastasia, who was busy making a dig at her cleaning skills. That's usually where Petunia drew the line, and would politely stomp out and go call Kathleen for a bitching session, but all she wanted to do was cry.

She felt so old. And torn up. And tired. Like she'd been run through a wheat grinding factory or something. So drained... When would it stop? When would she be able to rest? The constant barrage of horrible things and pain and pain and pain and she wanted to die. Or cry until she couldn't feel her eyes anymore. Or go on a murderous rampage and as their blood leaked, so would her pain.

But she knew nothing would come of feeling like this, nothing good anyway, and so she smiled and halfheartedly defended herself, sort of.

When she finally left at Lindy Anastasia's "subtle" urging, she felt as though someone was draining her blood, her life force, slowly from her, whether through tubing or fangs, she didn't know.

She went up to Harry's room and curled up in his bed. It wasn't that she didn't like him. He was fine, nice enough when Vernon scared him into it. But it was just... He was like this little fragment of Lily that she hadn't been able to sweep away. A glass shard embedded into her heart, painful, but without it she'd bleed. She needed him.

Petunia had never especially wanted to keep Harry in the closet. It wasn't very proper. But when he was in there, he was safe from the magic, and she was safe from losing him like she'd lost her sister years ago.

Lily had never really cared for Hogwarts at the beginning. She had plenty of friends, a wonderful life, a loving family. It hadn't been the escape it was for Harry. What got her, though, was the specialness it gave her. The new adventure and excitement it brought. And Petunia, while mildly jealous at being left behind, had been happy for her.

But the friends she brought back during break, they got to Petunia. They took up all her time and acted as though they had a secret membership to a super secret club. A few would complain to Lily about how much of a muggle she was. Lily would defend her, but it was halfhearted, as though she noticed it, too. It just brought a division between them, and Lily slowly faded from her life.

Lily left their world for a new, brighter one, and took a part of Petunia with her. And when Lily died, Petunia's whole world fell, and she had to carefully reconstruct her life. It was fragile, but stable if she could hold it together. She thought faintly about committing suicide there, on Harry's bed, but it was a barely formed thought before she dismissed it.

She had a family to think about, after all. A house to clean, a husband to love/tolerate, a son that, despite his many failings, she was inexplicably tied to. He hurt, too, though it was buried layers and layers deep. And he was her son, her flesh and blood, and anyway, he helped her pretend to be okay.

She lay there for many hours, hugging herself, aching for her sister, her nephew, her husband, her son, and herself. And then Vernon drove up in his nifty little car, and she got up and straightened her dress. She quietly pulled herself together, so that when Vernon walked in demanding dinner, she could smile, and fix dinner, and chatter away without shattering.