And here she was, trembling with terrible comprehension come years too late. She watched Vernon’s backside retreat down the pathway -- watched him yank open the door of his Ford Fairlane – watched him speed away even as the neighbors gaped and gawked at Number Four Privet Drive through their sitting room windows.

A thousand unanswered – unanswerable – questions staggered her. How had it happened? Did it even matter how, really? Her conduct in years past was inexcusable, but somehow, someway, some part of her had always intended to make good with Lily. She stared down into the child’s vivid green eyes – so like Lily’s -- and felt her heart tear cleanly in two. He was living confirmation of a truth too terrible to behold…Too late…

A fistful of porridge soared past her and splattered over a Christmas portrait the family had taken the last holiday season. The implication was clear -- nothing would ever be the same again. It was this thought that recalled her to her surroundings, to the flailing, screaming Dudley “Diddy-Dinkums” Dursley.

That the next hours, months, and years to come would not be easy was a given. She implored herself to think, massaging her throbbing temples. Practicality. Think practically. Crib. Blankets. Lily! Baby. Sleep.

She pushed Dudley’s first (outgrown) crib into the space underneath the stairs and swaddled Harry in one of Dudley’s discarded Thomas the Tank Engine blankets. She watched and waited until his green eyes closed and his breathing slowed to a restful adagio. 

Petunia shut the door to the cupboard under the stairs, bypassed Dudley and the porridge-spattered kitchen, and out the back door, struggling to maintain her composure until she had fallen on her knees beside the dried-up flower bed. Safely out of Mrs.-Next-Door’s line of sight, she broke down and wept, her tears watering the wilted lilies-of-the-valley and drooping tiger-lilies.  

She tore out handfuls of dead stems and petals, stripping the garden bare. Laying her heart bare. Hers would be a life of deepest regret and bitterest sorrow, tainted by the scars of old hate and a well of love tapped into too late. 

The End.