DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Nada. Zilch.

A/N: This story came to me in the middle of a Maths lesson and demanded to be written. So here it is. :)

Review, please -- it's so dark and I'm lonely.

Petunia pulls up outside the nondescript building, climbs out of her car and closes the door behind her. She taps the keys against her teeth fretfully for a few agonizing seconds before locking the car and striding boldly forwards - across the gravel of the car park which changes to a concrete path -

The click-click of her high heels on the unforgiving stone is far too loud, she thinks, and she wishes that she had worn trainers. It just seemed...less respectful that way.

And then she berates herself; why should she be respectful? The boy wasn't dead!

And -- not for the first time -- she resolves to be less formal on her next visit.

The coffee in this place is vile, yet she always accepts the cup from the receptionists offered hand.

Too bitter, not enough milk and then far too much sugar.

Still, she takes a tentative sip -- her hands shaking a little -- as she waits.

"Hello Mrs Dursley."

Her eyes raise from the clean, black-flecked linoleum that shines faintly in the harsh overhead lights (not that she was focusing on it; she was thinking, merely thinking) and she stands, coffee cup in hand to greet the nurse.

"Hello Mrs. Black."

Her voice shakes a little -- just a little; no more -- and Petunia feels obscenely pleased that she has not cried yet. A record, she thinks; and then is disgusted with herself for even thinking such things.

"No need to stand on my account." The nurse chuckles, and then emphasizes her point by sitting down firmly. Petunia sits beside her and sets the coffee down, twisting her hands together her on her lap. For a while neither speaks and then Petunia ventures out, desperate to break the silence.

"How is little Sirius?" She asks, fighting the tremble in her voice -- stay strong, stay strong for him, for Harry --

"Blooming." The nurse's face lights up when she thinks of her son; it always has and Petunia feels a stab of jealousy for the woman's nice, normal family. "Breaks everything he comes into contact with, of course but he's getting along fine. Just started school."

Petunia smiles -- a weak, watery smile and feels the first tears brim in her grey eyes. "I feel sorry for his sisters." She jokes -- or at least tries to; her voice cracks over the word sister and a chasm opens.

(she will not let herself fall though.)

The nurse flips her hand dismissively. "Annie and Dora can take care of themselves." She pauses, taking in Petunia's expression before reaching over and taking her hand. Petunia's fingers close tightly over the other woman's and her body shudders with suppressed sobs.

"Dudley's just started university." She chokes out. "He's studying engineering -- Vernon and I are so proud."

"Bright little boy your Dudley." Mrs. Black murmurs, her voice gentle -- and soothing.

"Yes - yes he is." Petunia agrees, her tears spilling over and flowing down her cheeks. "Oh -- oh -- Bella, what'll I do? He's - Dudley's doing so well - he's in love and - she's such a nice girl; Ginny, such a dear thing and - and - Harry - "

The dam breaks and Petunia lets out a keening wail before doubling over, sobbing incoherently. Bella embraces her and let Petunia sob onto her shoulder.

"What's happening? You can't take him away! My son! My son!"

"'Tuney, calm down. Just calm down."

"NO! THEY CAN'T TAKE HIM, THEY CAN'T TAKE HIM AWAY! HARRY! HARRY!"

"Look -- there's nothing we can do. It's for the best; we can't take care of him - "

"HARRY! MY SON! MY SON!"

"Please, Tuney, see sense! We can't do anything! We can't!"

"Harry, Harry, Harry -- I promised Lily -- if anything happened to her -- I promised her."

"How could she have seen this? Tuney -- please -- you know we have to do this. You know."

"My SISTER Vernon, my SISTER. I loved her! I love him! Please, please, please -- I need him. He needs me."

"I know -- oh Tuney, I know. I love him too but - "

"BUT NOTHING! YOU DON'T CARE -- THEY DON'T CARE --"

"DON'T YOU DARE SAY I DON'T CARE! I LOVE HIM! HE'S MY SON BUT THERE'S NOTHING WE CAN DO! NOTHING! THAT BASTARD WRECKED HIM -- DESTROYED HIM!"

"My son -- my Harry."

"Oh Tuney, Tuney. It'll get better. I promise. I promise you, he'll get better."

It didn't. He hadn't.

(mummy, mummy, where are they taking me?)

"What's wrong with him?" Petunia's tongue felt wooden in her mouth and a numbness deeper than grief had settled into her bones. She hadn't slept in eighteen hours but didn't feel tired. Her eyes stung with tears yet she didn't think she would ever cry again.

The doctor took a glance at his notes and started to recite in a blank, robotic voice: "Harry has sunk in a deep-seated psychosis; he seems to have -- "

But Petunia didn't hear anymore. The words were static; meaningless. All she could comprehend was that Harry was gone and was never coming back. The doctor didn't seem to notice; he plowed on and on, through more technical jargon.

" -- clearly linked to the trauma he underwent as a child -- "

That cut through Petunia; sliced her to the quick and a brittle sob escaped her bleeding lips. "Lily." She gasped. "Lily and James. He saw them die -- he -- he -- "

She screamed like a wounded animal and slumped into her husbands arms, shaking. "He saw them die." She gabbled. "He saw that man -- that creature -- kill them. He was four years old; he saw his parents die -- "

It was all over the papers of course.

Splashed over every front page; the words bombarding Petunia wherever she went, a constant reminder of what she had lost. Even worse than that was complete strangers approaching her in the street, offering condolences.

Couldn't they see that she just wanted to be left alone?

LILY AND JAMES POTTER MURDERED! Screamed one, FOUR-YEAR OLD SON ONLY SURVIVOR. Accompanying this headline was a photo; the last one ever taken -- Harry smiling on his father's knee, his mother beaming; her red hair framing her face like an angel ablaze.

On the second page of the same newspaper was a slightly blurry picture -- black and white; from a CCTV camera -- of the murderer. Tom Marvalo Riddle. No criminal record, no history of violence or drugs or drink or mental-health problems. Just a normal man; handsome and kind.

But there had to be something, Petunia thought wildly. Something wrong with him. There had to be something; she had been raised to shun the idea of pure evil and found it impossible that someone could coolly murder two people without having something seriously wrong with them.

It was through the papers that she learnt the details of the attack; the ones that the police and her distraught family fought so hard to hide from her.

He hadn't had to break into the house. He had knocked on the door at two in the afternoon, simply a neighbour dropping by.

(James knew Tom; that was what sickened her. They were old friends.)

He had coolly shot James, and then Lily as she tried to shield her son.

Then -- in front of Harry -- he had turned the gun on himself and blew his brains out against the wall.

"When can I see him?" Petunia asks impatiently, drumming her manicured fingernails on the chair's edge.

"Soon 'Tuney." Bella soothes.

"I need to see him." She pleads, her voice cracking again. "I need to see him."

"He's the same as ever, 'Tuney." Her old friend gripped her hand. "He's not changed. He's still convinced that he's -- "

But Bella sees the haunted, frenzied look barely concealed behind Petunia's grey eyes and stops. "Soon 'Tuney." She repeats, trying to sound reassuring but the words ring hollow.

They both know it.

"Why won't he change Bella? Why won't he get better?" Petunia whispered, half to herself. "Why? Why?"

"I don't know. No one does. There's -- " A sickening pause and then Bella steels herself, and blurts out the words she's been wanting to say for well over five years. The truth: at last. "He's happier there 'Tuney." Her friend snatches her hand away and gapes at her in shock.

"How can you say that? How? I love him -- and he prefers his delusions of - of magic?"

"Yes. There -- in his own world -- his demons are corporeal. He can fight them. He can hurt them. He can face them, and he can beat them. Here though -- in reality his nightmares overwhelm them. There's nothing physical for him to fight. He can't cope. So he retreats."

"But he said I locked him in a cupboard. In his world -- in his dreams-- Vernon and I hurt him. We ignore him. We don't love him. Why Bella? Why? Doesn't he understand how much we care -- " Petunia trails off, tears running silently down her face.

"He does. He just doesn't want to acknowledge it." Bella frowns slightly, trying to put her theories into words. The cold, hard language she'd used in her thesis, in her reports on the child were entirely inappropriate to explain to it to his devastated aunt (or mother she amends; the woman had been through so much for him, she deserved to be called his mother now.) "He -- he clings to his world like a life raft. He can't bear anything that might drag him back to reality." She pauses and studies Petunia out of the corner of her eye. Crying silently, but otherwise her face is unchanged. She plows on. "His mind is blocking anyone who cared for him -- it would bring back too-painful memories. He -- he has shaped you and Vernon into different people to avoid how much you mean to him."

Was that enough? Playing back the conversation in her head in was almost incoherent but she doubts Petunia had even heard her. "And me. You know that I crop up."

"Bellatrix Lestrange." She whispers, with a faint trill of near-manic laughter. "A monster. You murdered -- "

"Sirius. My own son. He takes what he hears and shapes it into his delusion."

"At least it shows he has some awareness." Petunia mutters, her voice wrenched with painful hope. "Maybe -- maybe one day -- he'll wake up -- recognize me -- "

Bella takes the other woman's hand once more. "Maybe." She agrees, unable to bring herself to point out the impossibility of this.

She will not cry.

Petunia repeats this to herself, again and again as she stands outside the door of Harry's room. She will not cry, will not cry: not in front of Harry. She has not cried in front of him in nine years.

"Are you ready?" Bella asks. She and a younger nurse -- Cho Chang, she believes her name is -- flank her.

"Yes." Petunia lies. Bella takes a key from her belt and unlocks the door. She hesitates before pushing it open and standing aside to allow Petunia entry. Petunia draws in a deep breath before crossing the threshold and entering the stark white room --

It has padded walls. That detail makes her want to throw up, even though she she should be used to it by now.

Harry sits cross-legged in one corner, by his bed, his eyes half-closed. He looks so dreamy, so blissful.

"Harry?" She calls softly, taking a hesitant step forwards. The nurses are ready in case he flies into one of his rages, babbling about Dementors, or Death Eaters. Sometimes he screams at her, and always he doesn't recognize her.

Today he looks happy; a little smile twitching the corner of his lips.

She takes another step forwards.

"Harry?"

Nothing. She continues to move forward until she is a step from him. Kneeling in front of him she touches his cheek -- hesitantly.

His head snaps up and she gasps; his eyes meet hers, looking directly at her -- not through her, not beyond her but at her, making eye contact for the first time in nine years.

"Harry?"

"It's over." He whispers, his face splitting in a beautific smile. "It's over. He's dead."

"Voldemort? He's dead?" Petunia feels like her heart would break with the sadness and the utter, unendurable hope. Would he recognize her? Would he wake?

"Yes. The war's over. We're safe."

"Harry -- " Her voice catches but she forces herself on. "Harry, do you know who I am?"

He pauses, the smile falters and in his eyes something flickers like a guttering candle. "I -- I -- "

Petunia thinks she might shatter.

"I -- " But then the spark dies and the smile is back in place. "It's over. We're safe."

Petunia cries then -- holds her son close and cries, while the nurses look away and he croons to himself, safe in his own little world.