The Witching Hour

      Number 14 Maplebridge Crescent stood at the edge of a quiet town of Cokeworth, where chimney smoke still mingled with the fog, and the trains groaned like giants in their sleep just beyond the hill.       Petunia Evans had always considered herself a sensible girl. Not sensible in the way mothers meant when they told their daughters not to wear skirts in the cold or to write proper thank-you notes (though she did those things too), but sensible in her bones. She had no time for nonsense, no patience for fantasy, and certainly no affection for magic.       She was seventeen, which meant the world didn't know what to do with her just yet. Too old for dolls, too young for mortgages, and balanced between wanting to impress her parents and pretending she didn't care what they thought. Petunia had long ago dyed her hair a deep walnut brown, a decision made in the confines of a cramped upstairs bathroom one September afternoon when Lily had gone off to Hogwarts for the first time. Their parents had said nothing about it at the time, though her mother did pause for just a moment, as if trying to decide whether to comment, before smiling awkwardly and asking if she wanted help rinsing the dye out.       The kitchen of the Evans household smelled like nutmeg and lemon zest that morning. Heather Evans was humming softly as she rolled dough out onto the floured countertop, her cheeks flushed from the oven's heat. Her hair was tied up in a scarf, and a small radio buzzed faintly on the windowsill, playing some chirpy melody that sounded like it belonged in a cheerful wartime film.       Petunia sat at the breakfast table, bent over a copy of Wuthering Heights, underlining something in the margins. She looked up only when her mother set a steaming plate in front of her, with two slices of toast, buttered and topped with sliced bananas and a drizzle of honey.       "You didn't have to," Petunia murmured.       "I wanted to," said Heather, brushing flour from her hands onto her apron. "You've been up for hours, haven't you? Studying again."       "It's not studying if I like it," Petunia said, though her voice was flat, almost distracted. "It's just reading."       Her mother smiled and wiped her hands. "You're so clever, darling. Just like your father."       At that, Petunia frowned slightly. She never quite knew how to take that sort of compliment. Clever, yes, but never special. Never magical.       The air turned still for a moment, as though the house was listening. Outside, a distant train blew its whistle.       "He called last night, you know," Heather said, returning to the dough. "Your father. Said he might be home late again."       Petunia nodded without looking up. Of course he would be.       "And..." Mrs Evans hesitated a moment too long, her rolling pin poised midair. "And Lily sent an owl."       Petunia's stomach clenched with a sharp, familiar tightness.       "She's doing well. Professor McGonagall said she's made the shortlist for a special Charms competition. Something very prestigious. She was so excited she couldn't stop writing about it." Heather laughed, soft and proud. "She even sent a few of those little drawings she does. Remember the ones with the moving flowers?"       The girl stabbed her toast with unnecessary force.       "Lovely," she said, her voice clipped. "More magic, then."       Heather looked up at that. "Darling..."       "I just think it's rather unfair," Petunia said, trying to keep her tone calm, even as her cheeks burned. "She gets to live in castles and send owls, and what do I get? Banana toast."       There was a silence, thick as toffee.       "You get us," the woman said, her voice gentle as always. "And we're very lucky to have you."       Petunia didn't respond. She wanted to believe it. But the truth lodged in her chest like a thorn: no one ever called her special. Not the neighbours, who always asked after Lily when they stopped by with borrowed sugar or new baby photos. Not the teachers at school, who scribbled "Excellent!" and "Remarkable analysis!" across her essays and never once invited her to any kind of competition. And certainly not her father, who worked longer hours than ever, who had Lily's photograph — waving and laughing in midair — pinned to the dashboard of his work van, and not a single one of Petunia.       Petunia Evans knew she was ordinary. And the worst part was, she was beginning to think the world didn't see that as enough.

***

      The bell above the flower shop door tinkled with a soft, cheery chime that seemed at odds with the gray drizzle soaking the Cokeworth pavement just outside. It was mid-afternoon on a Thursday, and the street outside was almost empty, save for the occasional umbrellaed figure trudging past the shop windows.       Petunia Evans glanced up from behind the till, where a battered copy of Jane Eyre lay open beside the receipt book. She was alone in the shop. Mrs Hughes, the plump and slightly forgetful owner, was off delivering a wedding arrangement.       The man who entered was tall, perhaps a few inches over six foot, with dark, close-cropped hair that curled slightly where the rain had dampened it. He wore a charcoal wool coat, the collar turned up against the chill, and a scarf slung carelessly around his neck. Water glistened on his shoulders, and his boots left faint footprints on the linoleum floor as he stepped further inside.       Petunia straightened instinctively, brushing a curl behind her ear and flipping the book shut. Most customers didn't notice her beyond the standard pleasantries, like "Where's the tulips?" or "Do you deliver to the hospital?", but there was something about the way this man's eyes flicked around the shop that felt... different. He was looking, but not just at the flowers.       His gaze settled briefly on the counter, then on the now-closed novel beside her, and finally on her face.       "Hi," he said. His voice was low, unhurried, with a kind of quiet hesitation behind it, like someone unused to speaking unless necessary.       "Hello," Petunia said, with what she hoped was a professional smile.       A pause.       "I, uh..." he glanced at the nearest bucket of sunflowers, then rubbed the back of his neck. "I need to buy flowers. For someone."       Petunia arched an eyebrow. "Then you've come to the right place."       He chuckled once, short and unexpected, and looked down at the floor. "Right. Yeah. I'm hopeless with this sort of thing. It's my aunt's birthday. She's turning... I think sixty. Or sixty-one. To be fair, I probably should've asked."       The girl stepped out from behind the counter. "Well, that helps. Is she the loud, flamboyant type? Or more of a... knitting and gardening type?"       "She raises goats," he said seriously, then added. "...but she listens to jazz. If that helps?"       Petunia blinked, then let out a soft laugh. "Goats and jazz. That's a start."       The young man shrugged, a twitch of amusement passing through his features, and his eyes, dark brown and unusually steady, met hers again. "She's complicated. Kind of like you, I guess."       Petunia faltered. "Me?"       He vaguely gestured to the counter. "You were reading Brontë. Most people behind a till would be sketching daisies on a receipt pad. You were underlining things."       She flushed, caught off guard. "Well... it's for school," she lied quickly. "A-levels."       He tilted his head. "You like it, though. I can tell."       Petunia found herself unusually tongue-tied, the tips of her fingers tingling. She wasn't used to this: being noticed, properly noticed, not for her relation to Lily or because someone wanted change for a twenty. She cleared her throat.       "You didn't tell me what kind of flowers you're after."       "I was hoping you could help with that," he said. "You seem to know what you're doing."       She moved to the first row of vases. "Okay, so, for a jazz-listening goat enthusiast, you probably want something warm. Nothing too formal or fussy. Maybe a mix of golden alstroemeria and coral snapdragons? Throw in some green amaranth for texture, and... some cream stock, maybe?"       He was silent for a moment. "You made that sound like poetry."       Petunia glanced at him sidelong, brushing her hair back again. "It's just flowers."       "No," he said. "It's how you talk about them."       Petunia could feel her face growing warm again. She busied herself with selecting stems, trying not to fumble them. Her fingers moved quickly, trimming leaves, gathering the stalks into a neat spiral.       "Do you want it wrapped or in a vase?" she asked, trying to sound brisk.       "Wrapped is fine. I'll be carrying it."       "Right."       The silence that followed wasn't awkward, just... quiet. He stood near the counter, watching her work with something that wasn't quite admiration, but definitely wasn't indifference.       "So," she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. "Do you always wander into flower shops and talk to strange girls about goats and novels?"       He gave a half-smile. "No. Just today."       "I see."       "I'm Shawn, by the way."       She hesitated, then set the bouquet on the wrapping table. "Petunia."       "Like the flower?"       She winced a little. "Yeah, like the flower."       "That's nice," he said. "Though you don't seem much like a flower."       "Oh?"       He shrugged. "You seem like someone who doesn't wilt easily."       That gave her pause. She didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever said anything like it. She wrapped the bouquet in soft brown paper, tied it with twine, and handed it over with both hands.       "Here you go. That should last about a week, if you keep it in cool water."       He looked at the bouquet, then at her. "Thanks."       She nodded, still holding his gaze. "Enjoy the party."       "I'll try. If I survive it." He turned to leave, but paused by the door. The bell above his head jingled faintly. "Petunia?"       She looked up.       "Would you mind if I came back sometime? I don't need another bouquet. I just... liked talking to you."       Her lips parted in surprise.       "Okay," she said softly. "I wouldn't mind."       And then he was gone, stepping out into the drizzle, scarf fluttering behind him. The door swung shut, and the flower shop was silent again, except for the gentle hum of the refrigerator and a breeze from the open vent.       Petunia Evans stared at the empty doorway, her heart oddly light, her mind unusually quiet. For the first time in ages, she wasn't thinking about Lily, or Hogwarts, or the aching ordinary of her life.       She was thinking about someone who cared to notice her.       And she was smiling.