It is important to know that the Petunia of here and now was in her early twenties. Thus, Lloyd Farnsworth taking his time looking her over and being a little more hands on than required is not wholly inappropriate. He couldn't be more than forty himself, and Petunia had no problem going to bed with Charles —who was three times her age. However, he was, to her knowledge, her case manager. And so she had a rather poor feeling indeed.
But Petunia would not be denied her ability to be a layabout in Manhattan, fuck all away from the wizarding wars of England. So, should Mr. Farnsworth attempt to cajole her she was prepared to concede. She told herself that he was a rather dashing man, anyway, and were he not her case manager it’s possible they would have rendezvoused anyway.
It did not come to that.
“Ms. Evans, terribly sorry to call you down here,” he smiled gently, “But we must file your family tree with the DMLE and our own Department of Immigration. Once it’s filed, and you provide us proof of residence, we’ll add you to the register and you’ll be able to reside stateside without any worries.”
That was rather simple, Petunia thought.
“That’s all?” She said aloud.
Mr. Farnsworth nodded, “That’s all, indeed.”
And then he continued, a new, malicious glint to his eye, “What were you expecting? Some no-maj amount of paperwork? Houdini, no! It’s barbaric what they require!”
Petunia decided she really rather would have preferred a slimy git over this racist, actually. She was, after all, a mudblood. And she could tell this man would be willing to call her one.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Oh, drat, I don’t actually have a family tree.” Petunia softly exclaimed, “You mentioned a lineage charm?”
“Yes, yes, simply hold out your wand hand—“ Petunia did so as he spoke, “And I’ll cast a light diffindo—“ which he cast as he spoke, “And all it takes is a drop of blood and a quick episkey.”
And the light cut cleared up, meanwhile Petunia’s blood dropped down onto a piece of parchment covering Mr. Farnsworth’s desk. As the red liquid soaked into the paper, it began running in lines —creating portraits and outlines and writing names in cursive. It seemed it was going out three generations in each direction. Petunia even saw James and Harry Potter on her tree.
Mr. Farnsworth hardly even skimmed it before he began frowning, “Ms. Evans, I hardly recognize a name on your tree.”
With a tight smile and a straightened back she waved her hand, “Yes, well, you know how it is in England. Magic can pop up anywhere.”
Mr. Farnsworth glanced back behind Petunia, where he’d closed his office door behind them, before lowering his voice.
“Ms. Evans, it comes to my attention that you may not have registered because you fear you’ll be persecuted. I dare say New York is a place of freedom —your wars ought not touch you here. No matter your blood.”
Though the words were kind, the last sentence was accompanied with a wrinkled nose and really rather pissed Petunia off.
She did not let it show, “No worries on that front, it was more of an issue of history —I simply didn’t know where to go. Now that we’re settled, is there anything else?”
“Not at all, Ms. Evans. Please do not hesitate to reach out if you need help navigating New York. I can’t help much on the no-maj side, but anything wizarding I’m happy to give guidance on.”
He produced a business card, which Petunia tucked into her purse haphazardly before gracefully excusing herself.
As soon as she was past the receptionist and headed down the elevator, she allowed herself a moment.
A moment to swear that bastard out.