Petunia simply popped the bubble and sound filled the apartment again. It was horrible.
“Dudley Evans,” Petunia hissed, “Silence!”
Dudley, being a baby, continued to cry.
It was at this moment, Petunia knew she was screwed. And as such, she chose the path of least resistance: ignoring the problem for as long as it would allow her to. Thus, she promptly put any magic she may or may not have performed out of her mind.
You see, it is once again important to note that this was no longer Petunia of then. Petunia of then may have written to Dumbledore pleading entry to Hogwarts, but Petunia of now and here would really rather not be called a mudblood and be hunted for sport, thank you very much. And, should anyone be curious, Petunia of now is not of the belief that knowing makes saving her responsibility —so she really is quite fine. Again, ignoring that she may or may not be magic.
Petunia fought the urge to scream and, instead, called the concierge at her building and requested the name of a nanny. A good one —one that was Eastern European and didn’t believe in anything but tough love. She would not be raising a brat, no matter how much she wanted to abandon the parasite. Especially because, for the first time, Dudley had smiled at her. To say Petunia felt warm would be a lie, but she did feel attached. And that was as close to a maternal feeling as she has felt in three weeks. So, to her, it was progress.
It was three more weeks before an owl appeared.
Three glorious weeks of mid morning naps, and brunch at La Fuél, and dinners prepared by a woman named Ursula who could mean mug Dudley into silence while muttering to him in what could have been any of the Slavic languages but Petunia thought was Latvian.
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It was early afternoon, and it was blasted hot out, so Petunia had the air con running at full blast and the ice box open to pull out ice when the predator knocked on the glass. It caused Petunia, already jumpy from something she swore never occurred, to yelp and vanish the glass in her hand. Again.
This didn’t happen, she swore to herself as she narrowed her eyes to look at what once was a glass but was now an empty palm.
Tap. Tap.
“Oh, right,” Petunia sighed, “Very well. Hold on.”
Fiftieth floor apartments are not meant to have windows that open easily —and this one didn’t. It took Petunia several minutes to locate the keys, unlocked the glass pane, and push it open. The owl had been disturbingly understanding of the whole endeavor.
Taking the letter, Petunia had only a single guess as to who it could be. And she pursed her lips as she realized she was right.
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Tuney,
Congratulations! I have also given birth to a brilliant boy —his name is Harry and he has his father’s dashing good looks. One day, I hope you will meet him.
How is Vernon handling fatherhood? Is Dudley the spitting image of you?
I cannot wait to hear back.
Your little sister,
Lilypad
P.S. Please let me know why your post has been stamped “international mail”? I had to use a special delivery service!
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Lily,
Don’t worry about it. Congratulations.
Petunia
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It was a cold day in hell before she planned on returning to Britain —with its war and its wizards.