Petunia and the Little Monster

February 1976

No one in all of Hogwarts seemed to have anything bad to say about Headmaster Dumbledore.

Hagrid, of course, wouldn't stop singing his praises. "Great man, Dumbledore," he would repeat while they collected the meat for the Thestrals or when they were breaking fast in his hut, his dark eyes wistful and almost teary. Petunia had to listen to the tale of how Dumbledore had saved him, had secretly allowed him to keep part of his wand, more often than she wanted to.

The house elves adored Dumbledore and felt honoured to call him their master, often explaining that it was the greatest glory any house elf could hope for to serve none other than the great Albus Dumbledore himself.

The teachers, when Petunia found the courage to actually initiate conversation during an evening meal instead of sitting quietly and stirring the thoughts in her head, respected and admired him. From the strict Professor McGonagall, whose straight-laced expression and expensive robes usually made for a forbidding picture but whose features now softened fondly to Professor Flitwick who claimed that there had never been a more skilled wizard in all the ages.

No one had anything bad to say about the headmaster, not even an innocent comment about his colourful robes or too-long beard or his clear preference for teeth-rotting sweets.

And Petunia seethed. Quietly, privately, never expressing her concerns to anyone. Of course she didn't say anything openly, Petunia wasn't stupid.

She knew that it was the Headmaster's goodwill that allowed her to be here and she knew just as clearly that his ire would mean that she'd be banished before she even finished complaining. And despite the difficulties she sometimes had with Hogwarts, despite some nights lying awake in bed without finding rest or feeling watched when she walked through the corridors, she was too invested to just leave it all behind. She couldn't imagine being separated from Aspen. And now that she had built a tentative trust with Hagrid, took responsibility for Fluffy and learned more about the house elves, she wasn't ready to let go and return to static staircases and the small kitchen in her childhood home.

But at what cost? Sometimes she wished she had misunderstood the girl at Lily's party, that the girl had never approached her or felt the need to confide in Petunia what she obviously should not know.

But her words had been clear. Once a teacher, always a teacher. The Order. Dumbledore.

Petunia faintly remembered her confusion and quiet shock when Eugene had first mentioned the Order, talking about his friends, about how the graduates were being recruited. She had assumed, in some never acknowledged part of her mind, that older students might be responsible, or maybe vigilantes that attended the graduation ceremonies along with parents and siblings.

She hadn't thought it was a teacher. She would have never assumed it was the Headmaster, the same person responsible for the student's well-being that was plucking them from the vine while they were still green and clueless, throwing them into the maw of war to feed the endless need for fresh bodies.

Petunia couldn't claim that she would have cared as much if it hadn't been Lily. Maybe she would have been taken aback or even silently condescending how eager those conceited wizards were to throw the lives of their students away. But it was Lily, and so all she felt was quiet dismay and horror.

And there was only one person she could think of who would always put Lily above all else.

"I told you not to come here."

Severus looked simultaneously worse and better than she remembered. His frame had filled out a bit and his skin no longer held that yellowish tinge of malnutrition, but his eyes were sunken and dark and the corners of his mouth were permanently skewered in disgust or maybe simple displeasure.