November 1st came and went.

There was no baby on Petunia’s doorstep. Nor was there a change in her magic.

There was, however, an ache in her chest.

Lily Potter was dead. She knew it was going to happen and still she did nothing. She was selfish and cruel and was all the thing Petunia of then was.

And then November 2nd came, and it was chilly. So Petunia and Ursula opened the windows just slightly —just enough for the whipping wind to spread through the high rise and bring a refreshing coldness to the home.

And then there was a knock on the door.

Petunia was not one to answer doors, but it was November 2nd and there was a story she knew. So she slowly, with great caution, opened the door.

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“Shit.”

Petunia was looking down at a baby with a lightning bolt scar and her sister’s green eyes.

There was, of course, Dumbledore’s note. But that was the least of Petunia’s worries. What was Ursula going to say?

“Ursula!” Petunia shouted, “I’m giving you a raise!”

Petunia, who really only like Dudley when he wasn’t crying, made a sound only a truly aggrieved woman would make.

“Fine. Fine. Fine!”

Petunia, after having a calming glass of Moscato, reminded herself she always knew this was the plot. Sure, she ran away across an ocean, but of course the story would follow her. Petunia was Harry’s last living relative.

She stared at the baby, now in Ursula’s arms. At her flat look, Petunia whipped around and just grabbed the whole bottle of wine.

“He’s my nephew, Ursa, I didn’t abduct him. Calm yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ursula nodded sharply, peering at the baby whose name she didn’t know before asking, “Name?”

“Harry. Harry Potter.” Petunia sighed, “And he’s rather famous where we’re from.”