The Nightmares of Petunia Dursley

It was clear from the first days that little Harry would face many unusual problems. Petunia suspected that the boy had the same flaws as her wayward sister. He babbled not like Dudley – silly pleasantries, but strange words, fragments of whole sentences. As if he had forgotten how to speak after a severe illness. "Infants don't talk like that," she thought. Little children should behave like little children, but everything was going awry with Harry Potter. If he wanted to eat, cookies from the top shelf would fall into his hands on their own. The foam from the shampoo never got into his eyes; instead, it turned into little horses and donkeys, swirling around the room, frightening Vernon. Oh, her poor husband. He so wanted a son, and now, looking at the two children, he couldn't help but compare them. Chubby, cheerful, "normal" Dudley clearly wasn't scoring points against smart, attentive, "abnormal" Harry, whom Vernon began to dislike. It started with Vernon buying two packs of cookies for Dudley and only one for Harry. Then in economizing on clothing - going to the cheapest stores and buying the cheapest trousers and bodysuits. Alas, even in these dreadful outfits, Harry managed to look brighter. Other parents during holidays or in stores would invariably approach him and say, "What a cute boy you have! Oh, and the other one is so chubby!" Or: "Just look. Twins, but how different!" Or, worse: "You'll look after your chubby silly brother, won't you, little one?" Petunia tried to cope. She read fairy tales to the children at night, covered them with blankets, hung up toys. She tried her best to make Dudley and Harry alike. Looking at the sleeping babies, Petunia remembered her sister. Their games in childhood. Before it all happened. Just raise the children right, and nothing bad will happen. No letter will arrive, Harry will stay home, become a normal boy, get married. Maybe move to the City? Why not. "Everything will be fine," she reassured herself, covering them with a second blanket. First Dudley, then Harry. The plan was going to hell, like everything related to magic in her family. Harry was the first to learn to talk. He said, "Daddy." There was something good and right about it, but Petunia knew Vernon would be angry. She was angry herself. Why couldn't Dudley say, "Harry"? Was it that hard? By a year and a half, Harry confidently stood on his feet and ran as if he had done it a hundred times before. Dudley watched him distractedly and demanded cookies, screaming hysterically. She realized she hated her own son. Could anyone be so stupid? "No! No!" Petunia immediately caught herself. She shouldn't think about such things. She would be better off hating Harry Potter, because of whom her cozy family was falling apart like an old doll. The next day she decided not to give Harry cookies until he stopped boasting about walking. She explained the conditions to him and, to her horror, saw that he understood. He nodded seriously, jumped off the chair, and went to play with a plush monkey. She took the monkey away a week later and gave Harry an old tattered ball that Dudley had thrown away after puncturing it. The boy seemed not to care. Monkey, ball, old soldiers. "Sweetie, want a cookie?" she asked, realizing that another plan had failed. Harry still ran around the house from corner to corner, annoying Dudley with his games. Her wise-beyond-his-years nephew shook his head and ran out of the room – to play in the corridor. She could swear he understood everything – every last letter, though he wasn't even two years old yet. The difference, initially noticeable only externally, worsened with each year. Harry could read – Dudley couldn't. Harry could do sums – Dudley didn't even try. Harry coped with household chores and, sitting in the cupboard, played games with old soldiers – Dudley demanded new toys every day and refused to clean up the mess. Petunia began to think that the better one boy became, the worse the other became. At night she couldn't sleep, listening for footsteps. Maybe Harry Potter was using black magic? Why was her beloved Dudley getting stupider every day? Why was he getting fatter? They went to school. Harry in a cheap second-hand uniform, Dudley in the best custom-tailored set. Harry had library books, Dudley had beautiful editions in expensive covers. Leaving the children in the care of teachers, Petunia sat on a bench in the nearby park and thought about wanting to smoke. Drink brandy. Travel to the ends of the earth and not return. She was seized by despair. Of course, Harry was not to blame. How could he be? He was just a child. It was all the fault of his brainless parents, who thought too highly of themselves. It was all Vernon's fault, who spoiled Dudley. If only everything could be put back in its place. She picked up the children from school. Dudley, her beloved son, held her right hand, and Harry Potter, whom Petunia hated with all her heart, held her left hand. Then it occurred to her that it would be a great plan to send Harry to a boarding school. One of those where you hardly had to pay anything. Vernon liked the idea, and together they began to wait for this golden time. It was just a matter of enduring a few more years. A trifle. Perhaps it all started after they decided. Maybe a little earlier? Petunia couldn't remember. Just one day, she heard a conversation in the cupboard. "Hey, cavalry on the right flank!" "That's not fair! My tanks are here!" "Don't you remember? Cavalry can jump over a tank. Look, like this." Petunia abruptly opened the door and saw Harry, holding a toy knight in his hand. The paint was worn, the knight looked tattered. "Who were you talking to?" Petunia asked. "No one," Harry replied, looking at her in surprise. "Just now. You were talking to someone!" "I was just," he shook the knight in his hand, "playing. Is that not allowed?" "It's allowed," Petunia hissed. She closed the door and went to the kitchen, but she thought she heard quiet laughter behind her. The voice of Harry's mysterious friend began to haunt Petunia in different rooms. Sometimes it came from the hallway, sometimes from the staircase to the second floor. Sometimes, while working in the garden, she heard the laughter of an unfamiliar boy. "Look. Look what I can do!" "Ha, is that supposed to be cool? Look at this." "Wow!" Petunia ran, tucking up her apron, from the kitchen to the cupboard. Harry was lying in bed, reading a book. "What's this conversation? Who are you talking to?" Harry looked at her with an anxious expression and replied: "Aunt Petunia, I'm reading a book. Are you alright?" "Am I alright?" she asked herself. No, things hadn't been alright for many years. The boy's voice, quiet but... insidious, gave her no peace. Sometimes, standing in the shower, she feared that the curtain would be pulled back, and she would see... What? A monster? Dudley liked horror films, and Vernon encouraged his son, but Petunia couldn't bring herself to watch even the beginning. None of them understood what was happening - only she did. Only she knew that her precious sister, the pride of the family, had died at the hands of a dark wizard. Only she knew that any minute, the dark magic that killed Lily Potter's family could reach the Dursleys. The pillow whispered to her: "Kill the boy." The kitchen towels, twisting into ominous smiles, said: "Poison him." The knives in the stand sparkled encouragingly. Petunia secretly went to the doctor and got a sedative. Five drops were enough for a healthy sleep. She took them at night. The first week. Then she started taking them three times a day. It was better to want to sleep than to want to kill her own nephew. "Aunt Petunia, are you okay?" Harry Potter asked at breakfast, placing a couple of eggs and bacon in front of her. She thought, "He wants to poison me." She pushed the plate away. There was a crash. "I'll clean it up," Harry said and ran for a cloth. "What am I doing," Petunia murmured, poured herself more sedative, and drank. An empty brandy glass remained in her hand. Was she drinking? When did she start? "Aunt Petunia, do you want to eat?" Harry Potter asked, smiling broadly at her. He had Lily's eyes. Eyes... a dark swamp around a black pupil. Lily's eyes were different. "Who are you?" she asked, backing away to the knife stand. They gleamed invitingly. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter - your nephew. What's wrong with you, Aunt Petunia?" The smile on his face belonged to someone else. Petunia screamed, grabbed a knife, and lunged at the boy, to rid herself of the obsession forever. At her scream, Vernon ran in from the next room. He grabbed her hand and managed to stop her before the blade reached its target. "Petunia? What's wrong with you?" her beloved husband asked, looking at her with horror and concern. Of course, they didn't want to air their dirty laundry. She said she was going off to recuperate in the south of France, but Vernon brought her pastries from the local bakery every week, while the doctors stuffed her with porridge and bitter mixtures. "Tell me about your sister, Petunia," the doctor suggested. "She was a witch. She... she received a letter, you understand?" "Yes, of course," the doctor agreed, smiling kindly. "She... we were always close, but then she got the letter, and she... she became different. She drifted away from me. I wanted to write to them. To ask them to take me too. Our parents were so hopeful. So happy that she was a witch. And I wanted it too! But then..." "What happened next, Petunia?" "Her boy. The child. He's strange. Wrong. Sometimes I heard voices. I heard him talking to his friend, but there was no one in the cupboard." "You kept the child in a cupboard? Gary, check their house again." She was forced to smile at the furious Vernon, forced to listen to accusations. She had to talk to relatives who cast angry glances her way. Open disdain and rage - she couldn't protect herself from them. The cursed voice whispered to her from all sides: "Kill him."