For years, our Petunia led an undeniably “ordinary” life. She wed -- not for love, but for normalcy -- for Vernon Dursley, however unpleasant and disagreeable he undoubtedly was, was also as “Muggle” as it was possible to be. If it was not for the tragic circumstances that befell the Evans family in the spring of 1979, the two sisters’ divergent paths might not have crossed again for many years. As it transpired, the unfortunate Mr. and Mrs. Evans were among a score of Muggles marked for death by the roving legions of Lord Voldemort.

The grievous tidings came to Petunia Dursley one foggy Saturday morning; a tawny owl flitted through the window and deposited a letter atop her precious potted plants. She broke the seal reluctantly, for nothing but bad news had ever come by owl post –

“”Urgent! Alastor Moody will come by to collect you within the hour. Do not be alarmed. Do not leave your home. All will be explained in due time.“”

Needless to say, this letter only served to alarm the unsuspecting Petunia further, and the sudden appearance of a battle-scarred man with an electric blue eye on her doorstep at a quarter to eleven startled her more severely than the news he brought with him did. He informed her that, in the early hours of the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Evans had been found dead in their home in Surrey. The funeral, he said, would be a hushed affair – it had already been arranged for that very eventide. If she would only dress in black, they might be going.

She hurried to the bedchamber and roused her husband, Vernon. Normally, she would not dream of asking him to accompany her – for she knew he despised the Magical World even more than she herself did – but the strange man waiting on the landing frightened her, and, as she changed into a dowdy black housewife’s dress with slingback shoes, she had a creeping suspicion that he could see through doors…

* * * * *

As twilight fell, rain pattering gently down on the assembled mourners and the smell of freshly-tilled earth permeated the damp air. Petunia hovered by the gravesite as waves of sorrow and disbelief washed over her. Her own prophetic words resounded in her numbed brain…Lily, nothing good can come of this!

A rustle of chiffon and the warm weight of an arm around her shoulders recalled her to her graveside vigil, but it was not enough to dispel the allegations of guilt from her mind.

“Won’t you even look upon your own sister, Petunia?” Lily asked sorrowfully; her lovely countenance was veiled in black and Petunia could make out damp trails – the remnants of tears – against her fair skin. A strikingly handsome young man, Lily’s fiancé, stood at her elbow, looking appropriately aggrieved.

“You, Lily. You did this!” she gestured wildly at the twin mounds of dirt.

“Petunia—”

“Not what you expected? Now that you’ve reaped the harvests of your unforgivable error—” but she did not finish. The young man stepped between the two sisters and Petunia felt heavy hands clamp down on her shoulders and drag her away from the graves, away from Lily.

“Get the Muggle,” a callous voice said, and one stout, beady-eyed man ran to fetch Vernon Dursley. She watched in anguish as Lily and her handsome suitor faded from sight, for Lily – witch or not – had something Petunia knew she would never have with Vernon – bumbling, chain-smoking, insensitive Vernon, drunk on the funeral punch.

Lily brought this on us…, Petunia raged, as Alastor Moody frogmarched the Dursleys deep into a shadowy forest. As the cumbersome trio set off for the distant Privet Drive, Petunia sought her sole consolation – father will never walk her down the aisle!