"I'll always worry," she says, voice sharpened by stubbornness. "You shouldn't have died in the first place!"
Don't worry, he tells her. How can she not worry when--when he's seen so many things? When he's been forced to live through all these wretched things as a boy? How is he so calm and self assured when he's talking about dying? Once they're seated in the library, her hand in his, fingers tightly gripping a hand she can still recall so vividly as being much teensier, she twists to face him and reaches over to cup his cheek. Thumb tracing the arch of his cheekbone.
There's not just sadness in her eyes, still slightly glassy, but there's a fierce pride as well. Wonder.
How is it fair that he know so very much more about her, and she knows so little about him?
She blinks, torn from her thoughts when he mentions memories. Of an old friend she wishes she could have made amends with, in retrospect. "Severus did? You saw his memories of us? I can't imagine they were very favorable." Until the very end... Does that mean...
Speaking with Harry really does give her the sensation of a tree slapped around by hurricane winds. Death, epiphanies, and then her question about her sister is being answered, before she truly has time for anything to sink in.
No, Petunia wasn't. Of course she wasn't. Her own sister raised her son, but wasn't kind? A little boy? With a long inhale, she finally asks, "You lived with her? And Vernon?" That wretched whale of a man. "What--" Something hardens in her eyes. Her voice grows firmer again. "What did they do?"
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Don't worry, he tells her. How can she not worry when--when he's seen so many things? When he's been forced to live through all these wretched things as a boy? How is he so calm and self assured when he's talking about dying? Once they're seated in the library, her hand in his, fingers tightly gripping a hand she can still recall so vividly as being much teensier, she twists to face him and reaches over to cup his cheek. Thumb tracing the arch of his cheekbone.
There's not just sadness in her eyes, still slightly glassy, but there's a fierce pride as well. Wonder.
How is it fair that he know so very much more about her, and she knows so little about him?
She blinks, torn from her thoughts when he mentions memories. Of an old friend she wishes she could have made amends with, in retrospect. "Severus did? You saw his memories of us? I can't imagine they were very favorable." Until the very end... Does that mean...
Speaking with Harry really does give her the sensation of a tree slapped around by hurricane winds. Death, epiphanies, and then her question about her sister is being answered, before she truly has time for anything to sink in.
No, Petunia wasn't. Of course she wasn't. Her own sister raised her son, but wasn't kind? A little boy? With a long inhale, she finally asks, "You lived with her? And Vernon?" That wretched whale of a man. "What--" Something hardens in her eyes. Her voice grows firmer again. "What did they do?"