A Part of Yesterday [Petunia/Severus - NC-17 - 6655]
Title: A Part of Yesterday
Author/Artist: delphipsmith
Pairing(s): Petunia/Severus
Prompt: 2015/53: Petunia/Severus - It's the night before Christmas Eve, and Petunia is in the attic to fetch her boxes of Christmas tree ornaments. She finds a black box containing the small Christmas presents Severus had sent her every year until his death. Her thoughts drift to another cold winter night -- the one night she had with Severus all these years ago. Petunia still dreams of that love which had felt like it was meant to be, but was gone with the early morning's breeze.
Word Count/Art Medium: 6655
Rating: NC-17
Contains (Highlight to view): Angst and bittersweetness. I can't help it, my fics always go there.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: (1) Thank you to ND for her speedy beta, sharp-eyed Brit-picking, and highly encouraging feedback. Thank you to candamira for the unusual, challenging, and ultimately very inspiring prompt; I hope I've done it justice!
(2) On dates: Petunia Dursley was born in 1959; I have chosen February, making her just under a year older than Severus and Lily (both Jan 1960). Harry's son James Sirius was born between Sep 2003 and Aug 2004; I have chosen April of 2004. His son Albus Severus was born between Sep 2005 and Aug 2006; I have chosen October 2005.
(3) The moon was not in fact full on December 23, 1976, but I claim poetic license for that.
Summary: An invitation from Petunia's nephew brings bittersweet memories and a revelation.
A Part of Yesterday
**U**U**U**U**U**
December 23, 2005
Petunia Dursley sat at her kitchen table with a cup of tea and read once more the unexpected letter that had arrived the day before.
Dear Aunt Petunia --
I ran into Dudley in London last week, and he said that he and Deirdre and the twins would be off with her family for Christmas and Uncle Vernon would be on a business trip to Antigua until the new year. If you don't have any plans, Ginny and I thought you might like to come and spend Christmas with us. Of course if you already have something to do, that's fine.
It's been a long time since we've seen each other, and I know we've never exactly been close. But after all, you are my mum's sister. So we're family. And I don't have that much family that I'm willing to give up any of them without at least a try. Dudley and I have got to be friends; maybe you and I can, too.
The owl will come back in the morning for your answer, so you have time to think about it. But I hope you'll come.
Harry
Petunia glanced at the crested owl sitting on the back of one of her dining room chairs. It blinked at her slowly from under bushy white eyebrows and clicked its beak twice. Get on with it, it seemed to say. I can't hang about all day.
She returned her attention to the letter. A long time since they had seen each other, indeed. Seven years now since the May evening Harry had appeared at their bedsit in Torquay, battered and exhausted but calm, to tell them that Voldemort was dead and they could come out of hiding. That had closed a chapter on the worst year of her life -- a chapter which had also opened with a visit from Harry, this time to tell his aunt and uncle that they and their son were in danger of torture and death if they didn't leave their cozy home in Privet Drive. He'd had two others with him that time, she recalled, a tall red-headed man who'd been fascinated with their dishwasher, and a big black wizard whose voice rumbled like a train going through the Underground...Kingston? Kennedy?
She re-read Harry's words about Dudley and sighed. The day they had fled their home, her son had surprised her (a thing she would have sworn was flatly impossible). He had stood up for Harry, and shaken his cousin's hand. Her son's actions had shocked her into questioning her own, and in her weary confusion she had very nearly said something to Harry herself. You didn't just lose a mother than night in Godric's Hollow, Harry. I lost a sister. The words had trembled on the tip of her tongue, but in the end a tangle of grief, anger, envy and guilt had kept her silent.
But he was her sister's son. He was family. Was it too late to mend things between them? Was there even anything left to mend, or would it have to be rebuilt from scratch?
With a sudden decisiveness, Petunia flipped the parchment over and scribbled a brief message. If Dudley could do it, so could she. The owl hopped onto the table, stuck out its leg politely, waited until she had tied the message snugly to it and opened the kitchen window, then with a sharp call it launched itself out into the dull grey winter morning.
Barely an hour later, it was back with Harry's reply.
Dear Aunt Petunia --
That's great! James is excited about meeting you (fair warning: he expects everyone he meets to bring him sweets), plus now we've got the new baby as well, just two months old, so you can get acquainted with both your great-nephews at once.
Oh, and Ginny said to be sure and tell you to bring a Christmas ornament -- it's a Weasley tradition that if you have someone staying with you for Christmas, they put something of theirs on the tree to show that they're part of the family. You're already family, of course, but you know what I mean.
I'll come get you around ten on the morning of the 24th. See you then.
Harry
Petunia felt a flutter of nervousness in her stomach, but she was committed now. She'd never once reneged on a social commitment; it simply Wasn't. Done. And maybe, just maybe, Lily's son would be part of her life again.
She tapped the letter thoughtfully against her cheek. Bring an ornament. What sort of ornament would be suitable? She could buy a new one, but she had a feeling that that would be cheating the tradition a little. Maybe something from when she and Lily were children -- something that Lily had made? Then she could leave it with Harry so he had something of his mother's.
She went up the stairs and down the hall to the closet where the holiday decorations were stored. She hadn't bothered pulling them out this year; with Dudley and Vernon both gone, she'd been enjoying a quiet, low-key December and had mentally absolved herself of any and all requirements involving trees, garlands, tinsel, and angel toppers. Her sole concession to the season was a strand of white fairy lights along the mantel and trailing down both sides. They lent a delicate sparkle to the room that pleased her.
She opened the closet door, pulled out the first box of Christmas decorations, and began to look through it. Nothing seemed appropriate: either they meant nothing (garish pink and turquoise glass balls sold in the thousands at Sainsbury's) or they meant the wrong thing (the lopsided pipe-cleaner-and-glitter reindeer Dudley had made in school, the fragile blown-glass angel Vernon had given her three years ago for their twenty-fifth anniversary). The second and third boxes yielded no better.
An hour later the closet was empty and she was nearly ready to give up. She sat back on her heels and brushed a strand of hair out of her face, noticing as she did so that there was more grey than she remembered. Silver threads among the gold, she thought wryly.
She bent down to peer under the bottom shelf to see if she'd missed anything; sure enough, there in the far corner was one last small box. There wasn't enough light to tell what it was, but by stretching her arm to its limit she was just able to snag the box with her fingertips and pull it towards her.
When she saw what she had discovered, her heart gave a lurch. Severus, she thought. Oh, Severus...
Slowly she folded back the flaps, knowing what she would find, wondering for a moment if she would not be wiser to simply shove the box back where she had found it. The box was filled with small bundles wrapped in white tissue paper, all roughly the same size and shape, each with a numeral written on it in black ink in her own neat handwriting. She brushed her hand lightly across them, the tissue paper whispering against her fingertips, remembering, and then one by one she removed them from the box, laying them out in order. Twenty-one, all told. Twenty-one years, twenty-one Christmases.
The one marked '1' was tied with a ribbon that had faded to pale green. She picked it up, gently untied the ribbon, and unwrapped it. Inside was a small glass globe, black as midnight; tiny glittering snowflakes were falling across its surface, turning and drifting endlessly, just as the snow had fallen that night so long ago...
**U**U**U**U**U**
December 23, 1976
"I hate you, Lily Evans!" Petunia shouted, her voice shaking with rage and pain. "I'd never want to be a freak like you!"
"Tuney, wait! I didn't mean--"
"You're selfish and arrogant and you can go to hell!" Petunia ran from the room and out the front door, slamming it behind her so hard that the glass panes rattled in their frames. She thought she heard her mother's voice faintly calling out to her, but she kept going, her heart hammering. Tears of anger and resentment pricked at her eyes but she refused to cry. I won't give her the satisfaction, she thought furiously. Selfish, arrogant bitch!
She ran down the steps and along the path that led to the front gate, her blonde hair flying, not even noticing the icy chill of the December night. She unlatched the gate and slipped through, not bothering to close it behind her, and jogged on down the dark street. She'd go to the playground. No one would be there at ten o'clock on a freezing-cold night, and that's just what she wanted at the moment: no one.
The playground was unlit but the moon was full and the climbing frame cast crisp geometrical shadows on the frosty ground. Petunia wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, wishing she was wearing something heavier than the emerald-green jumper, chosen less for warmth than because it set off her blonde hair.
She wandered past the wobble bridge and log snake, gave the carousel a desultory shove (the rusty metal groaned like a sick cow), and sat down in one of the swings. The chill of the leather seat seeped through the denim of her jeans, but the chains from which it hung were like blocks of ice; rather than hold them, she tucked them into the crooks of her elbows and shoved her hands into her pockets.
What makes you so special? she thought savagely at her sister. Why do you get everything you want?
Petunia pushed with her toes, moving the swing gently back and forth, as the silence and stillness began to soothe her. She cast an idle glance around the deserted playground, then froze, her eyes wide.
Someone was standing under the old oak tree in the corner of the yard, a bare thirty feet to her left. She could just make out a tall, dark figure, there in the shadows, close to the trunk where the light from the streetlamp outside the fence could not touch him.
Had he noticed her? Was he staring out at the street, or at her? She remained motionless for a long moment, torn between fear of staying and reluctance to go back to the house. Then the figure moved, dappled light fell on long black hair, and she recognized him even though his back was to her. She'd known him since she was ten years old, after all.
"Severus?" she called softly, feeling a lift of anticipation.
He turned, startled. "Tuney?"
She flushed at his use of the family's nickname for her. "You know I hate it when you call me that. It's Petunia, thank you very much. Or Peony, if you like." He'd called her that to tease her this past summer, after an especially loud rant on her part about how much she hated her name, but it had stuck and she liked that she had a name with him that no one else knew. She stood up from the swing and went to join him under the tree.
Close to, she could see that, unlike herself, he was properly dressed for the weather: black jeans, a heavy dark grey jumper, and a green and silver scarf. The scent that was uniquely Severus teased her nose: a mixture of wood smoke, herbs, a coppery tang, and beneath it all something bitter, like unshed tears. "What are you doing here?"
He shrugged, hands thrust deep in his pockets. "Didn't want to be at home."
She gave a quick laugh. "Me either." She hesitated, then added, "I've missed you."
He raised one eyebrow. "I find that hard to believe, Peony" he said, but underneath the lofty indifference she thought she heard something else.
"No, honestly." She bit her lip, wondering if now was the time to tell him how she felt. "Last summer..."
***
When they were young, she hadn't thought much about Severus Snape. He'd been Lily's friend, special the way Lily was special. Freaks, she'd called them both, out of jealousy and hurt. Yet gradually she'd been drawn to the tall, thin boy with his black eyes and bitter tongue. Despite the kinship of magic between Severus and Lily, she'd felt a different bond between him and herself: that of the withdrawn, the unloved, the outsider. Lily had been his best friend, his only friend perhaps, but he'd been only one of many friends for her. Petunia wondered, sometimes, whether Lily fully understood how much she meant to Severus.
She'd watched over the years as, for Severus least, the friendship slowly grew into something else. Lily, by contrast, thought of Severus as an old friend but she didn't love him, that was clear enough: she was too happy, too outgoing, too busy, too Lily to fall in love with someone like Severus. Her sister's blindness to Severus' feelings irritated Petunia beyond belief; there were times she wanted to shake her and shout, "Don't you know he loves you?" But by then she had begun to understand the depth of his pride, and she knew that blurting out his secret was the worst possible thing she could do.
So she had waited in painful expectation, knowing how badly he would eventually, inevitably be hurt. Sometimes -- more often, as the three of them grew older -- Lily would be out when he dropped by, and Petunia grew to savor those times when it was just the two of them. Despite being a year younger than herself, he was far more intelligent than the boys she knew at school, much more interesting, and seemed older than his years.
When Lily had come home from school in July, Petunia had expected Severus would be a frequent visitor at the Evans house that summer, as he always had. But days went by and there was no sign of him. She tried not to notice that she glanced eagerly at every tall, black-haired boy that came walking down the street, only to be disappointed. Finally she had asked Lily about it and Lily, uncharacteristically sharp, had snapped, "We're not friends any more, Tuney. I don't want to talk about it."
Petunia told herself that it didn't matter. He was Lily's friend after all, so what did she care if he came round or not? She had her job at the market to keep her busy, and there were plenty of other things to do. Still, the question of what had happened and why gnawed at her, and she missed his quiet, self-contained presence. She was too shy to seek him out; even had she wished to, she didn't know where he lived. Somewhere near the factory, that was all she knew.
Then, one morning in early July, she'd gone for a walk by the river and nearly tripped over him, lying in the long grass watching a small grass snake coil itself around a twig. He'd put up a hand to stop her falling on him and grabbed her bum by mistake, and they had both laughed, startled. That was how it had begun. Long conversations by the river, the warm sun making them drowsy and too relaxed to keep up their defenses; sitting companionably under a tree in the summer dusk sharing a bottle of wine liberated from her parents' spirit cupboard; midnight walks under the stars, trading their stories.
He was easy to talk to, comfortable with silence, unlike most people she knew. She found that his arrogance covered a deep, almost crippling shyness, and that his pride was as fragile as it was fierce. He was a good listener, too, though by unspoken accord they avoided any mention of Lily. Best of all, when he did magic, her chest didn't go tight with envy and she didn't have to wonder if he was doing it as a kind of boast; with Severus, she was free to enjoy it and marvel at it wholeheartedly.
And somewhere, sometime, during that long, lazy summer, she had fallen in love with him.
***
Now, in the depths of December, those days seemed as distant as the moon.
"Last summer, all that time we spent together..." Had he genuinely enjoyed her company? Or had she been second best, acceptable only because Lily was no longer available? Though they'd held hands occasionally, he'd never gone beyond the bounds of friendship, not even a peck on the cheek. A gust of wind rattled the dead leaves clinging to the branches of the oak, and a shiver shook her so hard her teeth actually chattered.
"Why in Merlin's name did you come outside dressed like this, Peony?" Severus interrupted, reaching out one arm and drawing her close to him. "Here, take this." He tugged the scarf from his neck and wrapped it around hers.
"Had a fight. Didn't think about a coat, I just wanted to get away." Petunia nuzzled her cheek against his jumper, enjoying the solid feel of him underneath the thick wool.
"What about?"
"Nothing. It doesn't matter." Her arms stole around his waist. "I wasn't sure you'd be home for the holidays."
"I almost wasn't. Lucius invited me to spend it with him."
"He's the rich one, right? From Wiltshire?"
He glanced down at her and smiled. "You have an excellent memory, Peony."
"Why didn't you go?"
"Wanted to see my mum. I'm big enough now that Da leaves me alone, and her as well when I'm around." He stared moodily out at the street, fingers absently stroking her shoulder. "But I'm going there right after, for New Year's."
She tilted her head to look up at him. He was taller than she, but not by much. "Severus..."
"Hm?"
She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.
For a long moment he did not move, and fear washed over her that she had overstepped, that he would reject her, push her aside, walk away into the night and she would never see him again. Then he turned his face to hers, and she fell into eyes dark as midnight, wide with surprise, a question in their depths. His lips parted as if to speak but no words came, and her breath quickened as she realized that he was as caught by her gaze as she was by his. "Peony, what...?
"Shh," she said, and kissed him. His lips were warm and firm, and though at seventeen she'd done her fair share of kissing, none had made her feel like this: giddy, dizzy, eager. Tentatively she touched the tip of his tongue with hers, and suddenly his arms were tight around her, holding her, as he responded hungrily to her. Without letting go, he shifted their position so that she was between him and the ancient trunk of the oak, his body pressing hers into its rough bark. His hands came up to cup her face, his long, strong fingers cold on her cheeks as his mouth covered hers, eager, intimate, searching.
The wind rose suddenly in a vicious gust, biting through her thin jumper as if it wasn't there, and Severus broke away with a hiss of annoyance. "Come on," he said roughly, taking her hand. He led her across the park to the far corner where the chain link was bent and broken, leaving a sizable hole in the fencing. She followed him as he slipped through the gap, their hands still linked, and into a stand of trees where a decrepit wooden shack was tucked into a clump of brambles.
It was nearly pitch dark inside, but Petunia was so glad to be out of the wind that she hardly noticed. Severus released her hand and a moment later she heard the scratch of a match and a lamp flared into life, filling the tiny shack with a golden glow. A pile of thick, soft blankets, old but clean and neatly folded, filled one corner, a stack of leather-bound books beside it. In another corner was a teapot, a box of biscuits, and a bottle of something golden-brown.
"It isn't much," Severus said, a bit defensively. "But it's mine."
Petunia took a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying the pocket-sized space. It had an air of sanctuary despite its loneliness, a sense of a mind and heart at peace. "I wish I had someplace like this. Somewhere I could go to get away from everyone."
Her words brought a small smile to his face. "I've never brought anyone here before, Peony," he added, as if to reassure her.
A hot glow of possessiveness rose in her, almost driving out the chill that seemed to have settled in her bones. "Not even..."
He shook his head, watching her intently. "Not even Lily."
She lowered her head to hide the joy his words gave her, that he had invited her into a place that was his alone. She heard the scuff of footsteps and then he was in front of her, his arms encircling her as he shook out a blanket and draped it round her shoulders. "Here, take this. You're freezing..." His voice trailed off uncertainly.
She stepped closer and ran her hands down his sides to his waist, then up underneath his jumper, and heard his quick intake of breath as her fingers touched bare skin. The feel of his body so near to hers made her breath come faster and she met his gaze fearlessly. "I'll be warmer if you're under it with me."
His eyes -- those eyes that always looked as though they held secrets -- were wide and dark, half afraid and half hopeful. "Peony," he whispered, lifting a hand to her cheek. "I don't know..."
"I do," she said, and kissed him.
This time there was no hesitation, he was as eager as she. His arms went around her, at first lightly and then firmly, his hands running up and down her spine, tangling in her hair, his mouth hungry and demanding. Petunia tilted her head and closed her eyes as his lips moved down her neck leaving a trail of fire and sparking sensations in every part of her body.
Holding her close, as if he couldn't bear to lose contact with her, he sank down onto the pile of quilts and pulled her into his lap. His strong, slender hands slid under her jumper to trace up her ribcage and cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples, and she arched her back with a soft sound of pleasure. She could feel how aroused he was; when she dropped her hand to stroke the hardness between his legs he drew in a sharp breath, then twisted his hips to press himself against her questing fingers. The realization that she could reduce him to wordless pleasure was intoxicating.
With a quick movement she tugged her sweater over her head and tossed it aside, inhaling sharply as the cold air struck her bare skin. "Now you."
He raised an eyebrow at her challenging tone and started to take off his own jumper, then paused and shot her a mischievous look. He reached into his back pocket, took out his wand, and with a flick and a whispered "Divestimento!" they were both naked.
Petunia gasped, then laughed softly in delight. His body was slender but well-muscled, and she realized that it was only the ill-fitting clothes he wore that gave the illusion of being over-thin. The light from the lamp washed his pale skin with gold, and then his lips were on hers again, his tongue teasing hers, his hands everywhere, and she was nothing but an exquisite bundle of nerve endings responding to his touch.
She fell backwards onto the pile of blankets, pulling him with her, and he reached back to draw a heavy comforter over them both. He stretched out upon her, skin to skin, and the heat of their bodies quickly warmed the pocket of air beneath the quilts. His weight did not make her feel trapped, rather it gave her a sense of being protected, surrounded. His kisses grew more insistent, more demanding, and she responded with feverish abandon, loving the feeling of his body all along the length of her own. His hands traveled up and down her, touching here, stroking there, lighting a fire everywhere they went, and when he shifted to slide a knee between her legs she willingly gave way, his hardness against her softness making her ache for more of him, all of him.
He paused then, twined his hands in her hair and dropped his head to rest his forehead on hers, and she could feel his heart racing. "If this isn't what you want, for Circe's sake stop me now," he murmured, his voice rough. "I don't think I can bear it any longer."
"I don't want to stop. I never want to stop, not with you. But..."
He lifted his head to meet her eyes, his long dark hair falling in curtains to brush her cheeks. "But what, love?"
She bit her lip, wondering if it would matter to him. "It's just that I haven't...well, I never..."
He flushed as he caught her meaning, then his lips quirked in a half-smile. "Nor have I. Shall we see if we can show each other how it's done?"
His confession made her suddenly, ridiculously, happy, and in reply she reached down and guided him in, her touch drawing from him an inarticulate sound of desire. She couldn't hold back a brief exclamation at the sudden flare of pain as he entered her, but when he made as if to stop, she wrapped her legs around him, holding him hard against her. "Severus, please...I want you so much..."
At her urging he gave a quick, hard thrust, a sharp ache bloomed deep inside her and gave way, and then he was inside her fully, completely. They moved together, slowly at first and then faster, matching each other's pace, and she relished every gasp, every groan wrung from him as proof of the pleasure she was giving him. A sweet tension began to build within her, twisting tight, tighter, and then all conscious thought deserted her as it released in a sudden explosion of sensation that flooded every nerve in her body, and even as she cried out his name she heard Severus' shout of ecstasy.
Afterwards, she lay with her head on his chest, listening drowsily to the slow beat of his heart, knowing that she would have to go home but hating to leave him.
"Severus, you didn't..."
"What?"
She found she couldn't look at him. "Tonight. You didn't...This wasn't partly to get back at Lily, was it? To spite her?" She hated herself for asking, wished she could take it back the moment the words were out.
"No!" He pulled her into a quick, fierce embrace. "Not even a little bit. Don't ever think that, Peony. I'd never use someone like that." He nuzzled her hair and was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, she had the feeling that he was thinking of something very different: "If you're going to do something bad, you should at least have the courage to do it yourself, out in the open."
***
Later, much later, he walked her home. The wind had dropped and the sky was filled with snow. Pure white flakes drifted downwards slowly, lazily, dreamily, landing in his hair like falling stars. She was the happiest she had ever been.
And she never saw him again.
***
The next day was Christmas Eve. Their grandmother arrived mid-morning, and their mother forbade Petunia to leave the house. She didn't mind, not really; her thoughts were so full of Severus that it was almost as though he were with her, and even if they didn't have a chance to see each other before he went to Wiltshire, there'd be plenty of time later. Years of it, she hoped.
Christmas morning she woke in the pre-dawn stillness from a dream of his lips on hers. The faintest movement of air in the darkness made her think someone was there, but when she switched on the light, the room was empty. On the small table beside her bed lay a small bundle wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a ribbon of dark-green silk.
She picked up the packet and opened it carefully. Nestled inside was a perfect sphere of black glass, delicate as a soap bubble. Across its surface tiny, perfect snowflakes were endlessly falling.
***
Petunia left Cokeworth the next month, in January, for a job in London at Grunnings Drills. She knew enough of owls to be certain that Severus could find her wherever she went, and enough of him (she had thought) to be sure that he would.
But the days went by and she heard nothing. She grew angry, then jealously fearful, wondering if he and Lily had mended their quarrel and she had lost him to her sister after all, but Lily's letters were full of nothing but James Potter, and as the weeks ran into months Petunia had to admit that, painful as it was, Severus evidently didn't want to find her. When one of the salesmen at her office asked her to dinner, she accepted. Vernon could not have been more unlike Severus -- beefy, talkative, rosy-faced and golden-haired, his hands rough and thick-fingered -- but that was part of what she liked about him. She didn't need or want to be reminded. After all, it wasn't as if she would ever forget.
The last faint flicker of hope she had cherished was quenched when she went home for a visit in July. It took all her courage to casually bring up Severus' name to Lily, but her sister's face was hard when she answered. "I don't know where Severus is, but he won't be coming back to Cokeworth, I can tell you that. He's no good, Tuney. He's in with a bad crowd. The people he's friends with, they're...well, they're dangerous."
"To him?"
"To you. To me, to James, to all of us. Forget about him, Tuney. You wouldn't want to know him now."
She didn't want to believe it, but unwillingly she recalled his words, almost the last thing he had said to her: "If you're going to do something bad, you should at least have the courage to do it yourself, out in the open."
She married Vernon that autumn. He was a good man, steady, dependable, and there was no point in holding onto dreams. But when she packed her things to move to the house they'd bought in Privet Drive, she took with her the glass ornament Severus had given her.
Their first Christmas together, in 1977, she was unsure whether to hang it on the tree. It was unusual, and what if Vernon asked her about it? In the end she hung it off to one side, tucked a little deeper into the branches than the others, and Vernon never mentioned it. Early Christmas morning, when she came into the parlor with her tea (Vernon was still asleep), another one hung beside it. This one was a pale grey with flecks of rich gold, and when she unhooked it and held it in the palm of her hand, into her mind came a picture of Severus creating it, dark brows drawn in a slight frown of concentration, his lips moving silently in some spell as his wand danced around the tiny grey globe bestowing spangles of gold.
It was beautiful, but what she felt first was not appreciation but anger. Why had he sent her this? Did it mean something? If he wanted to get in touch, why had he waited until now, when she was married? For a moment she toyed with the idea of throwing them both into the hearth, smashing them against the stones. But that would wake Vernon and she'd have to explain, and in her heart of hearts she didn't want to destroy his gifts, her only connection now to that night that already seemed so much longer ago than one short year.
The following summer when Lily left Hogwarts, Petunia knew that Severus must have too, but she asked nothing of her sister and Lily never mentioned him. That Christmas she didn't hesitate, simply hung both ornaments on the tree (one on the left side, the other on the right) and waited. Christmas morning, as she had half-expected, beside the grey one hung a black sphere with delicate lacy tracings of deep green that seemed to undulate sinuously as she watched.
And so it had gone, from one year to the next, each Christmas morning: a new ornament beside the previous year's. Over time she came to accept them simply as a gift of the heart, a sign that she still had a place in his thoughts. After Lily died and Harry came to them, she lost all touch with the Wizarding world and had no way even of getting news of him, but that was perhaps for the best. She was happy, or thought she was. Her time was absorbed with social niceties, raising her son, placating Vernon's temperamental boss and his wife, and the minutiae of being the wife of a successful businessman as Vernon rose to local manager and eventually company director.
But each Christmas morning she became for a brief moment a child again, breathless with the excitement of knowing that something magical awaited her under the tree.
**U**U**U**U**U**
Now, sitting on the floor of the upstairs hallway at Number Four Privet Drive, Petunia put aside the snowflake globe and began to unwrap the rest of the fragile things one by one, remembering when each had come to her. Each was different from the next: deep blue-black with a single vine of silver flowers, iridescent black like oil on water, deep greenish-black studded with scattered swirls of bright emerald like tiny grass-snakes. Ranged together on the pale cream carpet she realized something she had never noticed before: they all shared a common theme, a dark background with a few glimpses of brightness. She wondered what in Severus' life had persuaded him to see so much darkness and so little light.
The last one was matte black with glittering showers of blue and bronze, green and silver, red and gold and yellow joining and expanding like silent fireworks. It had come that terrible year they were in hiding in Torquay, Vernon constantly angry to mask his fear, Dudley surly and uncommunicative, and she herself a welter of conflicting emotions: dread for her husband and son, anger at Harry that he had put them -- however involuntarily -- in danger, and a secret, desperate hope that Severus, wherever he was, was not part of this terrible war.
When they had finally come home to Privet Drive in the spring, she had hoped that life could get back to normal, and so it had for the most part. But that Christmas morning, no new ornament appeared beside the previous one. She'd been surprised by how much that had hurt, this simple but unmistakable sign that Severus had finally forgotten her. She'd tried once more the following year, but again there was nothing, and when they put away the holiday decorations she had pushed the box of glass balls to the farthest corner of the closet and thoughts of Severus to the farthest corner of her mind.
**U**U**U**U**U**
True to his word, Harry arrived at ten the next morning to fetch her. Petunia tucked Severus' first gift, snugly wrapped in tissue paper, into her pocketbook and took her nephew's arm apprehensively. Harry had explained Apparation to her and said that it was completely safe, but it sounded highly unreliable to Petunia. In the end, though, she only staggered slightly as they landed on the doorstep of a neat cottage with a tidy little garden out front and ivy round the windows, its deep green leaves dusted with the silver of a hard frost.
She had been worried that conversation with her nephew and his wife would be awkward, and so it was at first. But they were both so obviously anxious to put her at ease, and little James so funny and charming with his importunate demands for chocolate, hugs, peppermints, and various other treats that her stiffness soon began to dissolve. When Ginny, pleased that she'd satisfied tradition by bringing an ornament, invited her to add it to the tree, Petunia found that it truly did make her feel as if she belonged.
As she looped the delicate thread from which it hung around a branch, she wondered where Severus would be on Christmas morning. It occurred to here that Harry might know; perhaps before she left, she would find a way to ask him.
"He's completely desperate for attention," Ginny explained apologetically, pulling James off Petunia's leg for the third time. "I don't know where he gets it from."
"His mother," Harry said promptly. "An absolute necessity when you're the youngest of seven and the only girl."
"Very funny, Potter," Ginny said, glaring at her husband severely. "I'll just go and get the baby," she added, disappearing into the bedroom where the squalls of an infant could be heard.
When she returned, she was carrying a small, squirming bundle in a red onesie topped with a fuzz of black hair. "And this is the new one," she said with a fond smile, putting the baby in Petunia's arms. "Albus Severus."
The baby gurgled contentedly and Petunia, who had instinctively begun rocking him, went very still. "Albus Severus?" she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "That's an...unusual name."
"He's named after two men who gave their lives to help us defeat Voldemort," Harry said, brushing his son's cheek with gentle fingers. "Albus for Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts and a very wise man."
"And...the other?" she asked, wanting and not wanting to know.
"Severus for a friend of my mother's, and one of the bravest men I ever knew," Harry said quietly. "He risked his life for us, over and over again, and in the end he died for it."
"Snape," she said softly. "Severus Snape." A statement, not a question. Her eyes went to where the ornament hung on Harry's and Ginny's tree, turning slowly. Severus. Dead.
Harry looked up in surprise. "Yes. Did you know him?"
Petunia closed her eyes and swallowed in a throat gone painfully tight. "Once," she said finally. "I -- yes, once."
"Oh, right," Harry said. "Of course. When you and Mum were kids."
She nodded, keeping her eyes on the baby's sweet face. "Yes. And later, in the summers, when he was home from...from school. He used to come and see us. When...?"
"At the very end of the war. Not long before I came to get you in Torquay." Harry shook his head. "None of us knew what he was up to except Dumbledore, not until the end. He had to do...terrible things to keep his cover. I can't imagine how lonely he must have been."
Oh, Severus, she thought, and the baby squeaked a faint protest as a tear fell on his forehead.
She heard Harry's voice as if from a long distance away. "What was Snape like back then? I've always wondered. I mean, I know a few bits of things that happened. But I don't really know what he was like."
Petunia was silent for a long moment, remembering a pale thin face, dark eyes that you could fall into. Warm smooth skin on a cold December night and snowflakes like stars in his hair. "Young," she said finally. "He was young. We all were."
*** finis ****
Author/Artist: delphipsmith
Pairing(s): Petunia/Severus
Prompt: 2015/53: Petunia/Severus - It's the night before Christmas Eve, and Petunia is in the attic to fetch her boxes of Christmas tree ornaments. She finds a black box containing the small Christmas presents Severus had sent her every year until his death. Her thoughts drift to another cold winter night -- the one night she had with Severus all these years ago. Petunia still dreams of that love which had felt like it was meant to be, but was gone with the early morning's breeze.
Word Count/Art Medium: 6655
Rating: NC-17
Contains (Highlight to view): Angst and bittersweetness. I can't help it, my fics always go there.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: (1) Thank you to ND for her speedy beta, sharp-eyed Brit-picking, and highly encouraging feedback. Thank you to candamira for the unusual, challenging, and ultimately very inspiring prompt; I hope I've done it justice!
(2) On dates: Petunia Dursley was born in 1959; I have chosen February, making her just under a year older than Severus and Lily (both Jan 1960). Harry's son James Sirius was born between Sep 2003 and Aug 2004; I have chosen April of 2004. His son Albus Severus was born between Sep 2005 and Aug 2006; I have chosen October 2005.
(3) The moon was not in fact full on December 23, 1976, but I claim poetic license for that.
Summary: An invitation from Petunia's nephew brings bittersweet memories and a revelation.
A Part of Yesterday
**U**U**U**U**U**
December 23, 2005
Petunia Dursley sat at her kitchen table with a cup of tea and read once more the unexpected letter that had arrived the day before.
Dear Aunt Petunia --
I ran into Dudley in London last week, and he said that he and Deirdre and the twins would be off with her family for Christmas and Uncle Vernon would be on a business trip to Antigua until the new year. If you don't have any plans, Ginny and I thought you might like to come and spend Christmas with us. Of course if you already have something to do, that's fine.
It's been a long time since we've seen each other, and I know we've never exactly been close. But after all, you are my mum's sister. So we're family. And I don't have that much family that I'm willing to give up any of them without at least a try. Dudley and I have got to be friends; maybe you and I can, too.
The owl will come back in the morning for your answer, so you have time to think about it. But I hope you'll come.
Harry
Petunia glanced at the crested owl sitting on the back of one of her dining room chairs. It blinked at her slowly from under bushy white eyebrows and clicked its beak twice. Get on with it, it seemed to say. I can't hang about all day.
She returned her attention to the letter. A long time since they had seen each other, indeed. Seven years now since the May evening Harry had appeared at their bedsit in Torquay, battered and exhausted but calm, to tell them that Voldemort was dead and they could come out of hiding. That had closed a chapter on the worst year of her life -- a chapter which had also opened with a visit from Harry, this time to tell his aunt and uncle that they and their son were in danger of torture and death if they didn't leave their cozy home in Privet Drive. He'd had two others with him that time, she recalled, a tall red-headed man who'd been fascinated with their dishwasher, and a big black wizard whose voice rumbled like a train going through the Underground...Kingston? Kennedy?
She re-read Harry's words about Dudley and sighed. The day they had fled their home, her son had surprised her (a thing she would have sworn was flatly impossible). He had stood up for Harry, and shaken his cousin's hand. Her son's actions had shocked her into questioning her own, and in her weary confusion she had very nearly said something to Harry herself. You didn't just lose a mother than night in Godric's Hollow, Harry. I lost a sister. The words had trembled on the tip of her tongue, but in the end a tangle of grief, anger, envy and guilt had kept her silent.
But he was her sister's son. He was family. Was it too late to mend things between them? Was there even anything left to mend, or would it have to be rebuilt from scratch?
With a sudden decisiveness, Petunia flipped the parchment over and scribbled a brief message. If Dudley could do it, so could she. The owl hopped onto the table, stuck out its leg politely, waited until she had tied the message snugly to it and opened the kitchen window, then with a sharp call it launched itself out into the dull grey winter morning.
Barely an hour later, it was back with Harry's reply.
Dear Aunt Petunia --
That's great! James is excited about meeting you (fair warning: he expects everyone he meets to bring him sweets), plus now we've got the new baby as well, just two months old, so you can get acquainted with both your great-nephews at once.
Oh, and Ginny said to be sure and tell you to bring a Christmas ornament -- it's a Weasley tradition that if you have someone staying with you for Christmas, they put something of theirs on the tree to show that they're part of the family. You're already family, of course, but you know what I mean.
I'll come get you around ten on the morning of the 24th. See you then.
Harry
Petunia felt a flutter of nervousness in her stomach, but she was committed now. She'd never once reneged on a social commitment; it simply Wasn't. Done. And maybe, just maybe, Lily's son would be part of her life again.
She tapped the letter thoughtfully against her cheek. Bring an ornament. What sort of ornament would be suitable? She could buy a new one, but she had a feeling that that would be cheating the tradition a little. Maybe something from when she and Lily were children -- something that Lily had made? Then she could leave it with Harry so he had something of his mother's.
She went up the stairs and down the hall to the closet where the holiday decorations were stored. She hadn't bothered pulling them out this year; with Dudley and Vernon both gone, she'd been enjoying a quiet, low-key December and had mentally absolved herself of any and all requirements involving trees, garlands, tinsel, and angel toppers. Her sole concession to the season was a strand of white fairy lights along the mantel and trailing down both sides. They lent a delicate sparkle to the room that pleased her.
She opened the closet door, pulled out the first box of Christmas decorations, and began to look through it. Nothing seemed appropriate: either they meant nothing (garish pink and turquoise glass balls sold in the thousands at Sainsbury's) or they meant the wrong thing (the lopsided pipe-cleaner-and-glitter reindeer Dudley had made in school, the fragile blown-glass angel Vernon had given her three years ago for their twenty-fifth anniversary). The second and third boxes yielded no better.
An hour later the closet was empty and she was nearly ready to give up. She sat back on her heels and brushed a strand of hair out of her face, noticing as she did so that there was more grey than she remembered. Silver threads among the gold, she thought wryly.
She bent down to peer under the bottom shelf to see if she'd missed anything; sure enough, there in the far corner was one last small box. There wasn't enough light to tell what it was, but by stretching her arm to its limit she was just able to snag the box with her fingertips and pull it towards her.
When she saw what she had discovered, her heart gave a lurch. Severus, she thought. Oh, Severus...
Slowly she folded back the flaps, knowing what she would find, wondering for a moment if she would not be wiser to simply shove the box back where she had found it. The box was filled with small bundles wrapped in white tissue paper, all roughly the same size and shape, each with a numeral written on it in black ink in her own neat handwriting. She brushed her hand lightly across them, the tissue paper whispering against her fingertips, remembering, and then one by one she removed them from the box, laying them out in order. Twenty-one, all told. Twenty-one years, twenty-one Christmases.
The one marked '1' was tied with a ribbon that had faded to pale green. She picked it up, gently untied the ribbon, and unwrapped it. Inside was a small glass globe, black as midnight; tiny glittering snowflakes were falling across its surface, turning and drifting endlessly, just as the snow had fallen that night so long ago...
**U**U**U**U**U**
December 23, 1976
"I hate you, Lily Evans!" Petunia shouted, her voice shaking with rage and pain. "I'd never want to be a freak like you!"
"Tuney, wait! I didn't mean--"
"You're selfish and arrogant and you can go to hell!" Petunia ran from the room and out the front door, slamming it behind her so hard that the glass panes rattled in their frames. She thought she heard her mother's voice faintly calling out to her, but she kept going, her heart hammering. Tears of anger and resentment pricked at her eyes but she refused to cry. I won't give her the satisfaction, she thought furiously. Selfish, arrogant bitch!
She ran down the steps and along the path that led to the front gate, her blonde hair flying, not even noticing the icy chill of the December night. She unlatched the gate and slipped through, not bothering to close it behind her, and jogged on down the dark street. She'd go to the playground. No one would be there at ten o'clock on a freezing-cold night, and that's just what she wanted at the moment: no one.
The playground was unlit but the moon was full and the climbing frame cast crisp geometrical shadows on the frosty ground. Petunia wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, wishing she was wearing something heavier than the emerald-green jumper, chosen less for warmth than because it set off her blonde hair.
She wandered past the wobble bridge and log snake, gave the carousel a desultory shove (the rusty metal groaned like a sick cow), and sat down in one of the swings. The chill of the leather seat seeped through the denim of her jeans, but the chains from which it hung were like blocks of ice; rather than hold them, she tucked them into the crooks of her elbows and shoved her hands into her pockets.
What makes you so special? she thought savagely at her sister. Why do you get everything you want?
Petunia pushed with her toes, moving the swing gently back and forth, as the silence and stillness began to soothe her. She cast an idle glance around the deserted playground, then froze, her eyes wide.
Someone was standing under the old oak tree in the corner of the yard, a bare thirty feet to her left. She could just make out a tall, dark figure, there in the shadows, close to the trunk where the light from the streetlamp outside the fence could not touch him.
Had he noticed her? Was he staring out at the street, or at her? She remained motionless for a long moment, torn between fear of staying and reluctance to go back to the house. Then the figure moved, dappled light fell on long black hair, and she recognized him even though his back was to her. She'd known him since she was ten years old, after all.
"Severus?" she called softly, feeling a lift of anticipation.
He turned, startled. "Tuney?"
She flushed at his use of the family's nickname for her. "You know I hate it when you call me that. It's Petunia, thank you very much. Or Peony, if you like." He'd called her that to tease her this past summer, after an especially loud rant on her part about how much she hated her name, but it had stuck and she liked that she had a name with him that no one else knew. She stood up from the swing and went to join him under the tree.
Close to, she could see that, unlike herself, he was properly dressed for the weather: black jeans, a heavy dark grey jumper, and a green and silver scarf. The scent that was uniquely Severus teased her nose: a mixture of wood smoke, herbs, a coppery tang, and beneath it all something bitter, like unshed tears. "What are you doing here?"
He shrugged, hands thrust deep in his pockets. "Didn't want to be at home."
She gave a quick laugh. "Me either." She hesitated, then added, "I've missed you."
He raised one eyebrow. "I find that hard to believe, Peony" he said, but underneath the lofty indifference she thought she heard something else.
"No, honestly." She bit her lip, wondering if now was the time to tell him how she felt. "Last summer..."
***
When they were young, she hadn't thought much about Severus Snape. He'd been Lily's friend, special the way Lily was special. Freaks, she'd called them both, out of jealousy and hurt. Yet gradually she'd been drawn to the tall, thin boy with his black eyes and bitter tongue. Despite the kinship of magic between Severus and Lily, she'd felt a different bond between him and herself: that of the withdrawn, the unloved, the outsider. Lily had been his best friend, his only friend perhaps, but he'd been only one of many friends for her. Petunia wondered, sometimes, whether Lily fully understood how much she meant to Severus.
She'd watched over the years as, for Severus least, the friendship slowly grew into something else. Lily, by contrast, thought of Severus as an old friend but she didn't love him, that was clear enough: she was too happy, too outgoing, too busy, too Lily to fall in love with someone like Severus. Her sister's blindness to Severus' feelings irritated Petunia beyond belief; there were times she wanted to shake her and shout, "Don't you know he loves you?" But by then she had begun to understand the depth of his pride, and she knew that blurting out his secret was the worst possible thing she could do.
So she had waited in painful expectation, knowing how badly he would eventually, inevitably be hurt. Sometimes -- more often, as the three of them grew older -- Lily would be out when he dropped by, and Petunia grew to savor those times when it was just the two of them. Despite being a year younger than herself, he was far more intelligent than the boys she knew at school, much more interesting, and seemed older than his years.
When Lily had come home from school in July, Petunia had expected Severus would be a frequent visitor at the Evans house that summer, as he always had. But days went by and there was no sign of him. She tried not to notice that she glanced eagerly at every tall, black-haired boy that came walking down the street, only to be disappointed. Finally she had asked Lily about it and Lily, uncharacteristically sharp, had snapped, "We're not friends any more, Tuney. I don't want to talk about it."
Petunia told herself that it didn't matter. He was Lily's friend after all, so what did she care if he came round or not? She had her job at the market to keep her busy, and there were plenty of other things to do. Still, the question of what had happened and why gnawed at her, and she missed his quiet, self-contained presence. She was too shy to seek him out; even had she wished to, she didn't know where he lived. Somewhere near the factory, that was all she knew.
Then, one morning in early July, she'd gone for a walk by the river and nearly tripped over him, lying in the long grass watching a small grass snake coil itself around a twig. He'd put up a hand to stop her falling on him and grabbed her bum by mistake, and they had both laughed, startled. That was how it had begun. Long conversations by the river, the warm sun making them drowsy and too relaxed to keep up their defenses; sitting companionably under a tree in the summer dusk sharing a bottle of wine liberated from her parents' spirit cupboard; midnight walks under the stars, trading their stories.
He was easy to talk to, comfortable with silence, unlike most people she knew. She found that his arrogance covered a deep, almost crippling shyness, and that his pride was as fragile as it was fierce. He was a good listener, too, though by unspoken accord they avoided any mention of Lily. Best of all, when he did magic, her chest didn't go tight with envy and she didn't have to wonder if he was doing it as a kind of boast; with Severus, she was free to enjoy it and marvel at it wholeheartedly.
And somewhere, sometime, during that long, lazy summer, she had fallen in love with him.
***
Now, in the depths of December, those days seemed as distant as the moon.
"Last summer, all that time we spent together..." Had he genuinely enjoyed her company? Or had she been second best, acceptable only because Lily was no longer available? Though they'd held hands occasionally, he'd never gone beyond the bounds of friendship, not even a peck on the cheek. A gust of wind rattled the dead leaves clinging to the branches of the oak, and a shiver shook her so hard her teeth actually chattered.
"Why in Merlin's name did you come outside dressed like this, Peony?" Severus interrupted, reaching out one arm and drawing her close to him. "Here, take this." He tugged the scarf from his neck and wrapped it around hers.
"Had a fight. Didn't think about a coat, I just wanted to get away." Petunia nuzzled her cheek against his jumper, enjoying the solid feel of him underneath the thick wool.
"What about?"
"Nothing. It doesn't matter." Her arms stole around his waist. "I wasn't sure you'd be home for the holidays."
"I almost wasn't. Lucius invited me to spend it with him."
"He's the rich one, right? From Wiltshire?"
He glanced down at her and smiled. "You have an excellent memory, Peony."
"Why didn't you go?"
"Wanted to see my mum. I'm big enough now that Da leaves me alone, and her as well when I'm around." He stared moodily out at the street, fingers absently stroking her shoulder. "But I'm going there right after, for New Year's."
She tilted her head to look up at him. He was taller than she, but not by much. "Severus..."
"Hm?"
She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.
For a long moment he did not move, and fear washed over her that she had overstepped, that he would reject her, push her aside, walk away into the night and she would never see him again. Then he turned his face to hers, and she fell into eyes dark as midnight, wide with surprise, a question in their depths. His lips parted as if to speak but no words came, and her breath quickened as she realized that he was as caught by her gaze as she was by his. "Peony, what...?
"Shh," she said, and kissed him. His lips were warm and firm, and though at seventeen she'd done her fair share of kissing, none had made her feel like this: giddy, dizzy, eager. Tentatively she touched the tip of his tongue with hers, and suddenly his arms were tight around her, holding her, as he responded hungrily to her. Without letting go, he shifted their position so that she was between him and the ancient trunk of the oak, his body pressing hers into its rough bark. His hands came up to cup her face, his long, strong fingers cold on her cheeks as his mouth covered hers, eager, intimate, searching.
The wind rose suddenly in a vicious gust, biting through her thin jumper as if it wasn't there, and Severus broke away with a hiss of annoyance. "Come on," he said roughly, taking her hand. He led her across the park to the far corner where the chain link was bent and broken, leaving a sizable hole in the fencing. She followed him as he slipped through the gap, their hands still linked, and into a stand of trees where a decrepit wooden shack was tucked into a clump of brambles.
It was nearly pitch dark inside, but Petunia was so glad to be out of the wind that she hardly noticed. Severus released her hand and a moment later she heard the scratch of a match and a lamp flared into life, filling the tiny shack with a golden glow. A pile of thick, soft blankets, old but clean and neatly folded, filled one corner, a stack of leather-bound books beside it. In another corner was a teapot, a box of biscuits, and a bottle of something golden-brown.
"It isn't much," Severus said, a bit defensively. "But it's mine."
Petunia took a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying the pocket-sized space. It had an air of sanctuary despite its loneliness, a sense of a mind and heart at peace. "I wish I had someplace like this. Somewhere I could go to get away from everyone."
Her words brought a small smile to his face. "I've never brought anyone here before, Peony," he added, as if to reassure her.
A hot glow of possessiveness rose in her, almost driving out the chill that seemed to have settled in her bones. "Not even..."
He shook his head, watching her intently. "Not even Lily."
She lowered her head to hide the joy his words gave her, that he had invited her into a place that was his alone. She heard the scuff of footsteps and then he was in front of her, his arms encircling her as he shook out a blanket and draped it round her shoulders. "Here, take this. You're freezing..." His voice trailed off uncertainly.
She stepped closer and ran her hands down his sides to his waist, then up underneath his jumper, and heard his quick intake of breath as her fingers touched bare skin. The feel of his body so near to hers made her breath come faster and she met his gaze fearlessly. "I'll be warmer if you're under it with me."
His eyes -- those eyes that always looked as though they held secrets -- were wide and dark, half afraid and half hopeful. "Peony," he whispered, lifting a hand to her cheek. "I don't know..."
"I do," she said, and kissed him.
This time there was no hesitation, he was as eager as she. His arms went around her, at first lightly and then firmly, his hands running up and down her spine, tangling in her hair, his mouth hungry and demanding. Petunia tilted her head and closed her eyes as his lips moved down her neck leaving a trail of fire and sparking sensations in every part of her body.
Holding her close, as if he couldn't bear to lose contact with her, he sank down onto the pile of quilts and pulled her into his lap. His strong, slender hands slid under her jumper to trace up her ribcage and cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples, and she arched her back with a soft sound of pleasure. She could feel how aroused he was; when she dropped her hand to stroke the hardness between his legs he drew in a sharp breath, then twisted his hips to press himself against her questing fingers. The realization that she could reduce him to wordless pleasure was intoxicating.
With a quick movement she tugged her sweater over her head and tossed it aside, inhaling sharply as the cold air struck her bare skin. "Now you."
He raised an eyebrow at her challenging tone and started to take off his own jumper, then paused and shot her a mischievous look. He reached into his back pocket, took out his wand, and with a flick and a whispered "Divestimento!" they were both naked.
Petunia gasped, then laughed softly in delight. His body was slender but well-muscled, and she realized that it was only the ill-fitting clothes he wore that gave the illusion of being over-thin. The light from the lamp washed his pale skin with gold, and then his lips were on hers again, his tongue teasing hers, his hands everywhere, and she was nothing but an exquisite bundle of nerve endings responding to his touch.
She fell backwards onto the pile of blankets, pulling him with her, and he reached back to draw a heavy comforter over them both. He stretched out upon her, skin to skin, and the heat of their bodies quickly warmed the pocket of air beneath the quilts. His weight did not make her feel trapped, rather it gave her a sense of being protected, surrounded. His kisses grew more insistent, more demanding, and she responded with feverish abandon, loving the feeling of his body all along the length of her own. His hands traveled up and down her, touching here, stroking there, lighting a fire everywhere they went, and when he shifted to slide a knee between her legs she willingly gave way, his hardness against her softness making her ache for more of him, all of him.
He paused then, twined his hands in her hair and dropped his head to rest his forehead on hers, and she could feel his heart racing. "If this isn't what you want, for Circe's sake stop me now," he murmured, his voice rough. "I don't think I can bear it any longer."
"I don't want to stop. I never want to stop, not with you. But..."
He lifted his head to meet her eyes, his long dark hair falling in curtains to brush her cheeks. "But what, love?"
She bit her lip, wondering if it would matter to him. "It's just that I haven't...well, I never..."
He flushed as he caught her meaning, then his lips quirked in a half-smile. "Nor have I. Shall we see if we can show each other how it's done?"
His confession made her suddenly, ridiculously, happy, and in reply she reached down and guided him in, her touch drawing from him an inarticulate sound of desire. She couldn't hold back a brief exclamation at the sudden flare of pain as he entered her, but when he made as if to stop, she wrapped her legs around him, holding him hard against her. "Severus, please...I want you so much..."
At her urging he gave a quick, hard thrust, a sharp ache bloomed deep inside her and gave way, and then he was inside her fully, completely. They moved together, slowly at first and then faster, matching each other's pace, and she relished every gasp, every groan wrung from him as proof of the pleasure she was giving him. A sweet tension began to build within her, twisting tight, tighter, and then all conscious thought deserted her as it released in a sudden explosion of sensation that flooded every nerve in her body, and even as she cried out his name she heard Severus' shout of ecstasy.
Afterwards, she lay with her head on his chest, listening drowsily to the slow beat of his heart, knowing that she would have to go home but hating to leave him.
"Severus, you didn't..."
"What?"
She found she couldn't look at him. "Tonight. You didn't...This wasn't partly to get back at Lily, was it? To spite her?" She hated herself for asking, wished she could take it back the moment the words were out.
"No!" He pulled her into a quick, fierce embrace. "Not even a little bit. Don't ever think that, Peony. I'd never use someone like that." He nuzzled her hair and was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, she had the feeling that he was thinking of something very different: "If you're going to do something bad, you should at least have the courage to do it yourself, out in the open."
***
Later, much later, he walked her home. The wind had dropped and the sky was filled with snow. Pure white flakes drifted downwards slowly, lazily, dreamily, landing in his hair like falling stars. She was the happiest she had ever been.
And she never saw him again.
***
The next day was Christmas Eve. Their grandmother arrived mid-morning, and their mother forbade Petunia to leave the house. She didn't mind, not really; her thoughts were so full of Severus that it was almost as though he were with her, and even if they didn't have a chance to see each other before he went to Wiltshire, there'd be plenty of time later. Years of it, she hoped.
Christmas morning she woke in the pre-dawn stillness from a dream of his lips on hers. The faintest movement of air in the darkness made her think someone was there, but when she switched on the light, the room was empty. On the small table beside her bed lay a small bundle wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a ribbon of dark-green silk.
She picked up the packet and opened it carefully. Nestled inside was a perfect sphere of black glass, delicate as a soap bubble. Across its surface tiny, perfect snowflakes were endlessly falling.
***
Petunia left Cokeworth the next month, in January, for a job in London at Grunnings Drills. She knew enough of owls to be certain that Severus could find her wherever she went, and enough of him (she had thought) to be sure that he would.
But the days went by and she heard nothing. She grew angry, then jealously fearful, wondering if he and Lily had mended their quarrel and she had lost him to her sister after all, but Lily's letters were full of nothing but James Potter, and as the weeks ran into months Petunia had to admit that, painful as it was, Severus evidently didn't want to find her. When one of the salesmen at her office asked her to dinner, she accepted. Vernon could not have been more unlike Severus -- beefy, talkative, rosy-faced and golden-haired, his hands rough and thick-fingered -- but that was part of what she liked about him. She didn't need or want to be reminded. After all, it wasn't as if she would ever forget.
The last faint flicker of hope she had cherished was quenched when she went home for a visit in July. It took all her courage to casually bring up Severus' name to Lily, but her sister's face was hard when she answered. "I don't know where Severus is, but he won't be coming back to Cokeworth, I can tell you that. He's no good, Tuney. He's in with a bad crowd. The people he's friends with, they're...well, they're dangerous."
"To him?"
"To you. To me, to James, to all of us. Forget about him, Tuney. You wouldn't want to know him now."
She didn't want to believe it, but unwillingly she recalled his words, almost the last thing he had said to her: "If you're going to do something bad, you should at least have the courage to do it yourself, out in the open."
She married Vernon that autumn. He was a good man, steady, dependable, and there was no point in holding onto dreams. But when she packed her things to move to the house they'd bought in Privet Drive, she took with her the glass ornament Severus had given her.
Their first Christmas together, in 1977, she was unsure whether to hang it on the tree. It was unusual, and what if Vernon asked her about it? In the end she hung it off to one side, tucked a little deeper into the branches than the others, and Vernon never mentioned it. Early Christmas morning, when she came into the parlor with her tea (Vernon was still asleep), another one hung beside it. This one was a pale grey with flecks of rich gold, and when she unhooked it and held it in the palm of her hand, into her mind came a picture of Severus creating it, dark brows drawn in a slight frown of concentration, his lips moving silently in some spell as his wand danced around the tiny grey globe bestowing spangles of gold.
It was beautiful, but what she felt first was not appreciation but anger. Why had he sent her this? Did it mean something? If he wanted to get in touch, why had he waited until now, when she was married? For a moment she toyed with the idea of throwing them both into the hearth, smashing them against the stones. But that would wake Vernon and she'd have to explain, and in her heart of hearts she didn't want to destroy his gifts, her only connection now to that night that already seemed so much longer ago than one short year.
The following summer when Lily left Hogwarts, Petunia knew that Severus must have too, but she asked nothing of her sister and Lily never mentioned him. That Christmas she didn't hesitate, simply hung both ornaments on the tree (one on the left side, the other on the right) and waited. Christmas morning, as she had half-expected, beside the grey one hung a black sphere with delicate lacy tracings of deep green that seemed to undulate sinuously as she watched.
And so it had gone, from one year to the next, each Christmas morning: a new ornament beside the previous year's. Over time she came to accept them simply as a gift of the heart, a sign that she still had a place in his thoughts. After Lily died and Harry came to them, she lost all touch with the Wizarding world and had no way even of getting news of him, but that was perhaps for the best. She was happy, or thought she was. Her time was absorbed with social niceties, raising her son, placating Vernon's temperamental boss and his wife, and the minutiae of being the wife of a successful businessman as Vernon rose to local manager and eventually company director.
But each Christmas morning she became for a brief moment a child again, breathless with the excitement of knowing that something magical awaited her under the tree.
**U**U**U**U**U**
Now, sitting on the floor of the upstairs hallway at Number Four Privet Drive, Petunia put aside the snowflake globe and began to unwrap the rest of the fragile things one by one, remembering when each had come to her. Each was different from the next: deep blue-black with a single vine of silver flowers, iridescent black like oil on water, deep greenish-black studded with scattered swirls of bright emerald like tiny grass-snakes. Ranged together on the pale cream carpet she realized something she had never noticed before: they all shared a common theme, a dark background with a few glimpses of brightness. She wondered what in Severus' life had persuaded him to see so much darkness and so little light.
The last one was matte black with glittering showers of blue and bronze, green and silver, red and gold and yellow joining and expanding like silent fireworks. It had come that terrible year they were in hiding in Torquay, Vernon constantly angry to mask his fear, Dudley surly and uncommunicative, and she herself a welter of conflicting emotions: dread for her husband and son, anger at Harry that he had put them -- however involuntarily -- in danger, and a secret, desperate hope that Severus, wherever he was, was not part of this terrible war.
When they had finally come home to Privet Drive in the spring, she had hoped that life could get back to normal, and so it had for the most part. But that Christmas morning, no new ornament appeared beside the previous one. She'd been surprised by how much that had hurt, this simple but unmistakable sign that Severus had finally forgotten her. She'd tried once more the following year, but again there was nothing, and when they put away the holiday decorations she had pushed the box of glass balls to the farthest corner of the closet and thoughts of Severus to the farthest corner of her mind.
**U**U**U**U**U**
True to his word, Harry arrived at ten the next morning to fetch her. Petunia tucked Severus' first gift, snugly wrapped in tissue paper, into her pocketbook and took her nephew's arm apprehensively. Harry had explained Apparation to her and said that it was completely safe, but it sounded highly unreliable to Petunia. In the end, though, she only staggered slightly as they landed on the doorstep of a neat cottage with a tidy little garden out front and ivy round the windows, its deep green leaves dusted with the silver of a hard frost.
She had been worried that conversation with her nephew and his wife would be awkward, and so it was at first. But they were both so obviously anxious to put her at ease, and little James so funny and charming with his importunate demands for chocolate, hugs, peppermints, and various other treats that her stiffness soon began to dissolve. When Ginny, pleased that she'd satisfied tradition by bringing an ornament, invited her to add it to the tree, Petunia found that it truly did make her feel as if she belonged.
As she looped the delicate thread from which it hung around a branch, she wondered where Severus would be on Christmas morning. It occurred to here that Harry might know; perhaps before she left, she would find a way to ask him.
"He's completely desperate for attention," Ginny explained apologetically, pulling James off Petunia's leg for the third time. "I don't know where he gets it from."
"His mother," Harry said promptly. "An absolute necessity when you're the youngest of seven and the only girl."
"Very funny, Potter," Ginny said, glaring at her husband severely. "I'll just go and get the baby," she added, disappearing into the bedroom where the squalls of an infant could be heard.
When she returned, she was carrying a small, squirming bundle in a red onesie topped with a fuzz of black hair. "And this is the new one," she said with a fond smile, putting the baby in Petunia's arms. "Albus Severus."
The baby gurgled contentedly and Petunia, who had instinctively begun rocking him, went very still. "Albus Severus?" she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "That's an...unusual name."
"He's named after two men who gave their lives to help us defeat Voldemort," Harry said, brushing his son's cheek with gentle fingers. "Albus for Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts and a very wise man."
"And...the other?" she asked, wanting and not wanting to know.
"Severus for a friend of my mother's, and one of the bravest men I ever knew," Harry said quietly. "He risked his life for us, over and over again, and in the end he died for it."
"Snape," she said softly. "Severus Snape." A statement, not a question. Her eyes went to where the ornament hung on Harry's and Ginny's tree, turning slowly. Severus. Dead.
Harry looked up in surprise. "Yes. Did you know him?"
Petunia closed her eyes and swallowed in a throat gone painfully tight. "Once," she said finally. "I -- yes, once."
"Oh, right," Harry said. "Of course. When you and Mum were kids."
She nodded, keeping her eyes on the baby's sweet face. "Yes. And later, in the summers, when he was home from...from school. He used to come and see us. When...?"
"At the very end of the war. Not long before I came to get you in Torquay." Harry shook his head. "None of us knew what he was up to except Dumbledore, not until the end. He had to do...terrible things to keep his cover. I can't imagine how lonely he must have been."
Oh, Severus, she thought, and the baby squeaked a faint protest as a tear fell on his forehead.
She heard Harry's voice as if from a long distance away. "What was Snape like back then? I've always wondered. I mean, I know a few bits of things that happened. But I don't really know what he was like."
Petunia was silent for a long moment, remembering a pale thin face, dark eyes that you could fall into. Warm smooth skin on a cold December night and snowflakes like stars in his hair. "Young," she said finally. "He was young. We all were."
*** finis ****