Petunia’s voice kept rising.
Snape didn’t react at all, just stood there in silence, as though none of it had anything to do with him.
The rage inside Petunia blazed hot and tight.
[Still wearing that insufferable expression!] [Does lacking magic — being a Muggle — really mean you’re inferior?
Filth?
Something lesser?] [wizards.
Nauseating, every last one of them.] Her hands clenched into fists.
She was close, very close, to hitting him.
But then she caught his face.
That expression of strained, careful endurance.
And her fury wobbled.
She remembered it too clearly: the moment Snape had effortlessly used magic to send a branch crashing into her.
That helplessness.
That complete loss of control over her own body, her own fate.
She hesitated.
Then she turned to leave.
There was no shame in knowing when to walk away.
“I can tell, without even needing to think about it, that Lily has grown to despise you.” She couldn’t resist getting the last word in, even as she turned her back.
“A cunning little wretch like you — my sister was young and naive once, so perhaps you fooled her.
It seems I was the one with clear eyes all along.
From the very first moment I saw you, I knew you were no good.
Not worth knowing.” Then she jogged away.
The moment Petunia disappeared from view, another figure lurched toward Snape: slovenly, reeking of alcohol, the kind of man who made you want to take a step back.
His name was Wilbur, and he was a Death Eater of considerable notoriety.
Wilbur sidled up close, a mocking smile pulling at his mouth, tongue clicking.
“Tsk tsk.
So our dear Mr.
Snape has been keeping a Mudblood close to his heart.” Snape’s expression darkened.
But he didn’t look especially rattled at being found out.
He knew Wilbur well enough: the man was shameless, but he needed something from Snape, and he wouldn’t push too far.
Wilbur rubbed his chin, something sly flickering in his eyes.
“That Lily Potter, she’s a hot potato right now.
Not easy to get at.” His gaze slid toward the direction Petunia had gone.
“But that Muggle woman, though.
She’d be far easier.” He narrowed his eyes at Petunia’s retreating figure, and the look on his face turned leering.
“A bit thin.
Face isn’t as pretty as the Mudblood’s.
But those eyes, they’re quite similar, aren’t they.
She’d do as a substitute.
Something to take the edge off.” Snape gave him a cold sideways look.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Wilbur.
Rein in those filthy thoughts of yours.” He turned and walked away, leaving Wilbur standing there with a dissatisfied curl to his lip.
Wilbur cursed Snape inwardly for putting on airs.
But he didn’t dare push it.
Potions were valuable, not the kind of thing you could always just buy when the need arose.
Snape was a man worth keeping on good terms with.
“You sure you really don’t want her?” Wilbur’s tongue slid over dry lips.
Snape’s footsteps slowed, just barely.
He felt the probe in those words.
He went quiet.
If Petunia were just some unrelated Muggle, he would have kept walking.
But Petunia was Lily’s sister.
He didn’t answer.
Wilbur didn’t wait for one.
He grabbed Petunia.
Petunia was dragged away from the wedding, helpless against his grip.
She wanted to scream.
She opened her mouth, and what came out was barely a hiss, thin and strangled, like something invisible had closed around her throat.
Confusion and fear flooded through her.
She didn’t understand what was happening to her body.
Her limbs had gone crushingly heavy.
Her heart sank with them, falling somewhere dark and bottomless.
Her clothes were being torn at roughly.
Each pull sent fresh terror spiking through her.
She already knew what was coming.
Tears slid down from the corners of her eyes.
She closed them.
“Stupefy!” The weight bearing down on her vanished without warning.
The figure collapsed, limp and lifeless as a dropped puppet, and crumpled to the ground beside her.
A bony hand shot out from the darkness and seized the unconscious man by the collar.
Snape.
Always that grim, brooding presence.
He lifted the man without effort and tossed him aside like a bag of rubbish.
The wand in his hand flickered with cold, pale light.
He murmured something under his breath.
Petunia couldn’t make out the words, but she felt it: a current moving through her body, steady and spreading, slowly dissolving the restraints and the sick heaviness that had gripped her.
It had all happened so fast.
“Thank you.” Petunia’s head was bowed, voice thin with trembling and the catch of quiet sobs.
Tears fell like beads snapped from a broken string, each one striking the cold ground and leaving a small dark stain.
Snape watched with cold eyes.
The corner of his mouth curved.
“Miss Evans, 18 years old.
It seems these years have taught her only how to expand her frame.
As for her mind, it remains as hollow and empty as ever.
Not the slightest sign of improvement.” He had just saved her.
There was not a trace of warmth in any of it.
Petunia lifted her head and glared at him, raw and fierce.
Those eyes, wet with tears a moment ago, burned now.
But the instant she met his gaze, that deep and utterly indifferent stare, the anger went out of her.
Just like that.
What rushed in to replace it was something she couldn’t name: a sudden, welling grievance that caught her off guard.
“Tsk tsk.” Snape crouched down until he was level with her, his expression unmoved.
“Miss Evans, sitting on the ground weeping, it seems she still hasn’t learned her lesson.
Right now, you should be spending your energy figuring out how to get yourself back to the safety of your cradle.
Not wasting it here.” ➤ Next: Meeting Snape (3)