Magnolia Crescent — Evans Residence
7 August 1971 — Morning
The August sun streamed through the kitchen windows of the Evans household, casting everything in warm golden light that should have felt cheerful. Instead, the atmosphere carried an undercurrent of tension that had been building for months, like the pressure before a storm.
Natalia sat at the breakfast table, her copper-red hair caught back in a neat plait with emerald ribbons that matched her sharp green eyes. She held Ollivander's letter delicately between her fingers, reading with the kind of focused intensity that made her look far older than her eleven years. Laika, her fox-like companion, lay curled in her lap like a furry cushion, occasionally letting out soft whines for attention. The creature looked deceptively like a Shiba Inu to untrained eyes, but Natalia knew better. Those intelligent amber eyes held ancient wisdom, and she could feel the warm thrum of their familiar bond humming contentedly in her chest.
"Listen to this, Lily," Natalia said, her voice carrying that particular tone of barely contained excitement she used when she'd discovered something genuinely fascinating. She cleared her throat dramatically. "Mr. Ollivander has created another wand with a thestral hair core from the same thestral as mine."
She glanced up from the parchment, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised in that way that made her look smugly superior. "He calls it a 'brother wand' to mine. Black walnut, twelve and a quarter inches, belonging to someone called Hadrian Potter."
Lily looked up from where she'd been practicing a particularly complex wand movement, her own red hair escaping from its braids in wild curls that seemed to have a mind of their own. Her willow wand was held with the careful precision McGonagall had drilled into them during her visit, but her grip relaxed as curiosity took over. Hedwig, perched regally on the back of Lily's chair, ruffled her pristine white feathers and fixed Natalia with one brilliant amber eye, as if she too was interested in this development.
"Potter?" Lily repeated, lowering her wand and tilting her head like an inquisitive bird. "That name rings a bell... I've definitely read it somewhere..."
"Son of Charlus and Dorea Potter," Natalia supplied, still reading with that air of someone who'd clearly memorized half the wizarding world's genealogy. "I found references to them in 'The Rise and Fall of Grindelwald' - they were involved in the resistance during the war. Charlus Potter was apparently quite the dueling champion." She paused, tapping the letter thoughtfully against her lips. "Won the Dueling Championship three years running in the thirties."
"Show off," Lily muttered good-naturedly, then brightened. "Wait, does this mean there's a kid our age with parents who fought dark wizards? That's brilliant!"
Natalia folded the letter carefully, her expression taking on that contemplative look she got when she was working through a particularly intriguing puzzle. "It's curious, isn't it? That Mr. Ollivander would write to tell me about another wand. Wandmakers don't usually gossip about their other customers." She stroked Laika's ears absently. "Almost as if he expects us to be friends."
"Maybe we'll be in the same House!" Lily said, bouncing slightly in her chair with excitement. "Wouldn't that be mad? Brother wands and everything!"
Laika whined again, more insistently this time, and bumped her snout against Natalia's hand.
"Yes, yes, I know you want attention," Natalia chuckled, her voice taking on that soft, indulgent tone she only used with her familiar. "But we're having an important discussion about magical coincidences. Have you finished terrorizing your bacon, you greedy little fox?"
"She's had plenty," Lily said with a grin, offering Hedwig another strip of bacon from her plate. The snowy owl accepted it with regal dignity, as if accepting tribute from a devoted subject. "Though I think Hedwig would disagree. She's been giving me the stink eye all morning because I won't give her the entire rasher."
"That's because you spoil her rotten," Natalia observed dryly. "She thinks she's the Queen of England."
"She is the Queen of England," Lily declared solemnly, then dissolved into giggles as Hedwig hooted what sounded suspiciously like agreement.
From across the kitchen, where she stood rigidly by the counter nursing a cup of tea she hadn't touched, Petunia let out a sound that might have been a snort of derision.
"Of course," she said, her voice dripping with disdain, "the freaks have trained animals now."
The words hung in the air like a slap, cutting through the twins' laughter with surgical precision. The temperature in the kitchen seemed to drop several degrees.
Natalia's hand stilled on Laika's fur, her green eyes lifting to fix on her eldest sister with a look that could have frozen molten lava. When she spoke, her voice was silk over steel.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing," Petunia said airily, taking a deliberate sip of her tea with the kind of studied nonchalance that made it clear it was definitely something. "Just observing how... domesticated everything's become around here."
Lily's jaw tightened, her grip on her wand becoming white-knuckled. Even at eleven, she had her mother's protective instincts and her father's temper when pushed too far.
"They're not trained, Petunia," she said, her voice rising slightly. "They're our familiars. There's a bond—it's like... like having a best friend who understands you without words."
"Oh yes, a bond," Petunia interrupted, her voice taking on that particularly unpleasant tone she'd perfected over the past months—the one that sounded like honey poured over broken glass. "How very mystical. How very... special."
The word 'special' dripped with such venom that even Hedwig let out an indignant hoot and ruffled her feathers aggressively.
"Petunia." The voice from the doorway carried a warning note that could have stopped a charging bull. Melanie Evans entered the kitchen with an armload of freshly folded laundry, her dark hair still elegantly arranged despite the early hour. Her expression was carefully neutral in the way that suggested she'd heard more of the conversation than she was letting on, and there was something dangerous in her warm brown eyes.
"What, Mum?" Petunia's voice immediately shifted to that butter-wouldn't-melt tone she used with their parents, as if she hadn't just been hurling verbal daggers at her sisters. "I was just asking about their pets. Surely that's allowed in my own home?"
"They're not pets," Lily said quietly, but her voice carried an edge of hurt that made Natalia's chest tighten with protective fury.
"Of course not," Petunia said with mock solemnity, placing a hand over her heart in exaggerated apology. "Forgive me. Your magical creatures. Your special magical creatures that make you even more special than you already are."
"That's enough."
The voice that cut through the kitchen belonged to their father, who had appeared in the doorway behind Melanie like an avenging angel in pajamas and a dressing gown. Alex Evans looked tired in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion—the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from months of trying to keep peace in a household where peace seemed increasingly impossible to maintain.
"Petunia," he said, his voice carrying that particular parental authority that brooked no argument, "you're being unkind. And unnecessarily so."
Petunia's face flushed pink, but she lifted her chin defiantly, looking for all the world like a general preparing for battle.
"I'm being honest, Dad," she said, her voice climbing higher. "There's a difference."
"No," Alex said, stepping fully into the kitchen and fixing his eldest daughter with a look that would have made lesser mortals quail. "You're being cruel. And I won't have it in this house."
For a moment, the only sounds in the kitchen were the soft rustle of Hedwig's feathers and Laika's quiet breathing. Then Petunia set down her teacup with a sharp clink that seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence.
"Of course," she said, her voice now carrying that bitter edge that had become so familiar over the past months. "Of course you'd take their side. You always do now."
"There are no sides—" Melanie began, but Petunia cut her off with a sharp laugh.
"Aren't there?" Her blonde hair swung as she turned to face her parents, her blue eyes bright with an anger that had been building for months like steam in a kettle. "Really, Mum? Because from where I'm standing, it certainly looks like there are sides. There's the side with the special daughters who get letters from magical schools and wands and owls and familiars and everyone falling over themselves to tell them how wonderful they are."
She paused, breathing hard, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"And then there's the side with the ordinary daughter who gets to watch everyone fawn over how gifted and magical and absolutely bloody perfect her sisters are."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Lily looked stricken, her green eyes wide with hurt and confusion. "Tuney, we never meant—"
"Don't." Petunia's voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "Don't you dare 'Tuney' me. Don't stand there with your precious wand and your snowy owl and pretend you care about what you meant."
She looked around the kitchen, taking in her parents' worried faces, her sisters' stricken expressions, the owl and the fox that seemed to embody everything she could never be or have.
"I'm going out," she announced, her voice returning to that artificially calm tone that was somehow worse than her anger. "To spend time with normal people who don't think they're better than everyone else because they can wave sticks around and make flowers bloom."
With that, she swept from the kitchen with all the dignity of offended royalty, her footsteps echoing sharply on the stairs as she went to get ready.
The kitchen fell into an uncomfortable silence. Laika whined softly and pressed closer to Natalia, as if sensing the distress in the room. Hedwig ruffled her feathers and let out a low, mournful sound that seemed to echo everyone's feelings.
"She's hurting," Lily whispered, and there were tears threatening in her voice. "She's been hurting for months, and we haven't... I haven't..."
"Hey, hey now." Alex moved quickly to place a comforting hand on Lily's shoulder, his voice gentling immediately. "This isn't your fault, Lily-flower. Neither of you asked for any of this."
"But we have it," Natalia said quietly, her voice carrying a weight that seemed far too heavy for an eleven-year-old to bear. "And she doesn't. And there's absolutely nothing any of us can do to change that fundamental fact."
Melanie sank into a chair, suddenly looking older than her thirty-four years. "I don't know what to do," she admitted quietly, running a hand through her hair and messing up her usually perfect arrangement. "I don't know how to help her. How to help any of you, really."
"You can't," Natalia said simply, still stroking Laika's russet fur with mechanical precision. "Some things can't be fixed, Mum. They can only be... endured. And hopefully survived."
The wisdom in her words was unsettling, as if she understood something about the nature of resentment and jealousy that the adults in the room were still grappling with.
From upstairs came the sound of Petunia's door slamming, followed by her footsteps as she stormed around her room, presumably getting ready to make good on her threat to leave.
Lily wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then carefully set her wand on the table as if it had suddenly become too heavy to hold.
"Maybe we should put these away when she's around," she suggested quietly, her voice small and uncertain. "The wands, I mean. Maybe if she doesn't have to see them all the time..."
"No." Natalia's voice was firm, carrying an authority that seemed odd coming from someone who still occasionally needed help reaching the top shelf. "We shouldn't have to hide who we are to make someone else comfortable with their own limitations."
"But if it would help—"
"It wouldn't." Natalia met her twin's eyes steadily. "Hiding it won't make it go away, Lily. It'll only make her angrier that we're hiding it. Like we think she's too fragile to handle the truth, or that we're ashamed of what we are." She shook her head, looking older than her years. "There's no winning with this kind of resentment. Trust me on this."
"How can you be so sure?" Lily asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Natalia was quiet for a long moment, absently scratching behind Laika's ears. When she spoke, her voice was thoughtful.
"Because I can see it in her eyes," she said simply. "The way she looks at us. It's not just anger or jealousy. It's grief. She's mourning something she never had and never will have."
Alex and Melanie exchanged a look that spoke of long conversations held after their daughters had gone to bed, of worries shared and solutions that refused to materialize no matter how many times they talked through the problem.
"You're both going to Hogwarts in three weeks," Alex said finally, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that mirrored his wife's earlier movement. "Maybe... maybe some time apart will help. Give everyone space to adjust to this new reality."
"Or it will make things worse," Natalia said quietly, her voice matter-of-fact rather than argumentative. "When we come back at Christmas, full of stories and experiences she can never share, speaking a language she'll never understand..."
She didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to. The implication hung in the air like smoke.
Laika whined again and nudged at Natalia's hand with her snout, clearly sensing her human's distress. This time, Natalia lifted the fox-like creature and held her close, taking comfort in the warm weight and the steady thrum of their bond.
"I still haven't heard back from Professor McGonagall about bringing Laika to school," she said, clearly trying to change the subject to something less emotionally fraught.
"I'm sure it will be fine, sweetheart," Melanie said, though her voice lacked conviction. "Surely they understand about familiar bonds. McGonagall seemed very knowledgeable about these things."
"McGonagall understood about many things," Lily said, a small smile finally returning to her face as she remembered their deputy headmistress's visit. "Remember how she turned her teacup into a mouse and back again? I thought Dad was going to pass out right there in the sitting room."
"I did not almost pass out," Alex protested, though his lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. "I was merely... processing the implications of living in a world where household objects can spontaneously become rodents. There's a difference."
"You turned white as a sheet and gripped the arm of your chair like it was about to sprout wings and fly away," Natalia observed dryly, a hint of her usual wit returning.
"The teacup had just been a mouse!" Alex said defensively, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "A mouse, Natalia! One minute I'm having a perfectly normal cup of tea, the next minute there's a small furry creature sitting where my beverage used to be. I think a little existential concern about the structural integrity of reality was perfectly reasonable under the circumstances."
"Plus you asked her if she could turn it into a biscuit instead," Lily added with a giggle. "You said you were getting peckish."
"That was a practical question!" Alex insisted, though he was fighting a grin now. "If we're going to be spontaneously transforming household objects, we might as well make them useful!"
Despite everything, Lily burst into giggles, and even Natalia's lips curved in a genuine smile for the first time all morning. Hedwig hooted what sounded suspiciously like approval, and Laika's tail gave a tentative wag.
"Did she ever turn the teacup into a biscuit?" Melanie asked, her own tension easing slightly at the sight of her daughters' smiles.
"She said transfiguration doesn't work that way," Natalia replied. "Something about molecular complexity and the fundamental differences between organic and inorganic matter."
"Which means absolutely nothing to me," Alex admitted cheerfully. "But it sounded very impressive when she said it."
"Everything sounds impressive when Professor McGonagall says it," Lily observed. "She has that voice. Like she's permanently lecturing the universe into behaving properly."
"The universe probably listens," Natalia said dryly. "I would."
For a moment, the kitchen felt lighter. More normal. The kind of easy family banter they'd shared before Hogwarts letters and familiar bonds and the growing chasm between the magical and non-magical members of their household.
But the echo of Petunia's words still hung in the air, and they all knew that the fundamental problem hadn't gone anywhere. It was just waiting, like a storm cloud on the horizon, for the next opportunity to break open.
From upstairs came the sound of Petunia's door opening and closing, followed by her footsteps on the stairs and then the front door slamming with unnecessary force.
Through the kitchen window, they could see her walking down Magnolia Crescent with determined steps, her blonde hair catching the morning sun like spun gold. Her back was ramrod straight, her chin lifted high, every line of her body radiating wounded dignity.
She didn't look back at the house. Not even once.
"She'll be back," Melanie said quietly, more to herself than anyone else.
"Of course she will," Alex agreed, but his voice carried uncertainty. "Where else would she go?"
Natalia said nothing, but her green eyes followed Petunia's retreating figure with an expression that was far too knowing for an eleven-year-old.
---
## Later That Afternoon
The front door opened and closed with deliberate quiet as Petunia returned home just as the afternoon was beginning to fade into evening. She'd spent the day with Helen Morrison and Sarah Fletcher, her friends from the grammar school, listening to them chatter about the upcoming term and their plans for university someday—gloriously normal conversations that didn't involve a single mention of magic or wands or familiar bonds or any of the things that made her feel like a stranger in her own home.
Her cheeks were flushed from walking in the August heat, and her carefully composed mask was firmly back in place. She slipped off her shoes and hung her cardigan on the hook by the door, hoping to make it upstairs unnoticed.
But as she passed the sitting room, her mother's voice called out softly.
"Petunia? Could you come in here for a moment, please?"
Petunia's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but she couldn't very well refuse without seeming childish. She straightened her shoulders and stepped into the sitting room, where she found her parents waiting with the kind of serious expressions that suggested an impending conversation she very much did not want to have.
"Sit down, love," her father said gently, gesturing to the floral armchair across from where they sat together on the sofa.
"I'd rather stand, thank you." Petunia's voice was polite but cool, her hands clasped behind her back in perfect finishing school posture.
Alex and Melanie exchanged one of those parental looks that made Petunia's skin crawl—the kind of wordless communication that suggested they'd been discussing her at length in her absence.
"Sweetheart," Melanie began carefully, leaning forward slightly with her hands folded in her lap, "we need to talk about what happened this morning."
"I don't know what you mean," Petunia said, lifting her chin slightly with the kind of practiced innocence that had served her well in school disciplinary hearings. "I simply went out to spend time with my friends after breakfast. Surely that's not a crime in this household."
"You know that's not what we're referring to," Alex said quietly, his voice carrying that patient tone he used when he was trying very hard not to lose his temper. "The things you said to your sisters—"
"Were honest observations," Petunia interrupted smoothly, her voice remaining perfectly level. "I wasn't aware that honest observations were no longer welcome in this house."
"You're allowed to have feelings," Melanie said, leaning forward even more, her brown eyes earnest and worried. "But you're not allowed to hurt people because of those feelings, Petunia. Especially not your sisters."
Petunia felt that familiar twist in her stomach, that surge of resentment that had become so much a part of her that she wasn't sure where it ended and she began. It sat in her chest like a living thing, feeding on every reminder of what she could never be.
"My sisters," she repeated, and the words tasted bitter on her tongue. "Yes, let's talk about my precious sisters, shall we? Let's talk about how everything in this house revolves around them now. Their letters, their shopping trips to magical alleys, their wands, their precious familiars that apparently understand them better than their own family does."
Her voice was rising despite her best efforts to keep it controlled, and she could see her parents exchanging another one of those looks.
"Tell me," she continued, her words coming faster now, "when was the last time either of you asked me about my day? My friends? My plans for university? When was the last time you spent an entire evening poring over something I'd written like it was the most fascinating document in existence?"
Her parents looked stricken, and Petunia felt a brief, savage moment of satisfaction at having struck home.
"Petunia," Alex said slowly, running a hand through his hair, "that's not fair. We've always—"
"Have you?" She could hear her voice climbing higher, but she couldn't seem to stop it. Years of careful composure were cracking like ice in spring. "Because I distinctly remember the last several conversations at dinner being about Diagon Alley and Hogwarts and magical this and magical that. I remember you spending an entire evening helping Lily organize her school supply list like she was preparing for Oxford instead of some freak school for freaks."
"Petunia!" Melanie's voice was sharp.
"I remember you telling Mrs. Patterson next door about how proud you are of your magical daughters," Petunia continued relentlessly. "I remember you practically glowing when you talked about how special they are, how gifted, how extraordinary."
She paused, breathing hard, and when she spoke again her voice was quieter but somehow more cutting.
"I don't remember you mentioning me at all."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with truths that no one quite knew how to address. Outside, a dog was barking somewhere, and the sound seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
"We are proud of you," Melanie said finally, her voice soft and desperate, reaching out as if she wanted to touch her daughter but didn't quite dare. "Petunia, you're brilliant and accomplished and—"
"And ordinary," Petunia finished with brittle precision. "Don't forget ordinary, Mum. Perfectly, completely, devastatingly ordinary."
She could see the tears gathering in her mother's eyes, and part of her—a small, increasingly distant part—wanted to take it all back, to apologize and pretend everything was fine. But a larger part of her, the part that had been growing stronger and harder over the past months, reveled in finally being able to say what she'd been thinking.
"Do you want to know what's really funny?" she continued, her voice taking on that bright, brittle quality that made her sound older than her thirteen years. "I used to be the special one. I used to be the daughter you bragged about to the neighbors. Top marks in everything, head girl material, destined for university and a brilliant career. I used to be the one who mattered."
"You still matter," Alex said firmly, standing up from the sofa with the kind of desperate energy that suggested he was fighting the urge to shake some sense into the situation. "Petunia, you will always matter—"
"No," she said simply, her voice cutting through his protests like a blade. "I won't. Because they can do magic, and I can't. And that's all anyone cares about now. That's all anyone will ever care about."
She looked at her parents, really looked at them, and saw her own pain reflected in their faces. But instead of making her feel better, it only made her angrier. They looked so lost, so helpless, so completely unable to fix what was broken.
"I'm going to my room," she announced, turning toward the door with the dignity of a queen dismissing her court. "And before you ask, no, I don't want to talk about it more. I don't want family counseling or heart-to-heart conversations or any of the other things parents do when they suddenly realize they've failed one of their children."
"Sweetheart—" Melanie began, half-rising from the sofa, but Petunia was already heading for the door.
She paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looked back at them with an expression that was far too composed for a girl her age.
"For what it's worth," she said quietly, her voice carrying a finality that made both parents flinch, "I don't blame you. Not really. How could you not love them more? They're everything I'll never be."
And with that, she left her parents sitting in the gathering dusk of the sitting room, both of them understanding with devastating clarity that they had no idea how to fix what was breaking in their family.
Upstairs, they could hear her door close with careful, deliberate softness.
Somehow, that quiet click was worse than if she had slammed it.
---
## Meanwhile, in the Garden
Lily and Natalia had spent the afternoon in the back garden, ostensibly practicing wand movements but mostly just trying to process the morning's confrontation and the weight of everything that had been said and left unsaid. The August sun was beginning to slant lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the grass.
Hedwig perched regally in the old oak tree, occasionally swooping down to investigate something interesting with the kind of aerial grace that made Lily sigh with envy. Laika lay stretched out in a patch of golden sunlight, apparently napping but with ears that twitched at every sound—clearly keeping one eye on her human even in sleep.
"Do you think she's right?" Lily asked quietly, lowering her wand after attempting a particularly complex charm sequence that McGonagall had shown them. Her red hair was escaping from its braids in the heat, creating a wild halo around her face. "About us thinking we're better than everyone?"
Natalia considered this with the careful deliberation she brought to all difficult questions, absently weaving together a crown of daisies with the kind of precise, methodical movements that made everything she did look deliberate and purposeful.
"I think," she said slowly, her voice taking on that thoughtful tone that usually preceded one of her more insightful observations, "that we think we're different. And sometimes, when you know you're different from everyone around you, it's easy to slip into thinking that different automatically means better."
"But we don't mean to," Lily protested, sinking down beside her twin and pulling her knees up to her chest. "I don't want to make her feel bad. I love Tuney. I just... I don't know how to love her without also being excited about magic."
"Intention and effect aren't always the same thing," Natalia observed, holding up a daisy to examine its petals with scientific precision before adding it to her chain. "We might not mean to make her feel excluded, but that doesn't mean she doesn't feel excluded. And feeling excluded by the people you love most... that's got to hurt."
Lily was quiet for a moment, picking at the grass beside her with restless fingers. "I miss how things used to be," she said finally, her voice small and wistful. "Before the letters came. When we were just... us. Three sisters who fought over who got the last biscuit and whether Petunia's music was too loud."
"We're still us," Natalia said quietly, glancing up from her daisy chain to meet her twin's eyes. "We're just... more us now. If that makes sense."
"It doesn't," Lily said with a wan smile. "But I know what you mean anyway. We're us, but with extra complications."
"Extra magical complications," Natalia agreed. "The most difficult kind."
Laika opened one amber eye and looked at them both, then stretched luxuriously and padded over to rest her head on Natalia's knee. The gesture was casual, but Natalia could feel the comfort her familiar was offering through their bond—a warm, steady presence that said you're not alone in this.
"Do you think it will get better?" Lily asked, watching Laika with a slightly envious expression. She'd always been a bit jealous of how easily Natalia and her familiar communicated. "When we're at Hogwarts, I mean. When we're not here all the time as a constant reminder of what she can't have."
Natalia's hands stilled on the daisy chain, her expression growing thoughtful in that way that meant she was working through a particularly complex problem.
"I think," she said carefully, "that distance might make the day-to-day tensions easier. But I don't think it will solve the fundamental problem."
"Which is?"
"That she wants something she can never have," Natalia said simply, her voice matter-of-fact but not unkind. "And every time she sees us—with our wands, our familiars, our excited chatter about a world she can never be part of—she's reminded of that. That kind of wound doesn't heal just because the thing causing pain isn't visible anymore. It just... festers. Quietly."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the shadows lengthen across the garden and listening to the distant sounds of suburban life—lawn mowers and children playing and the occasional car driving past.
Eventually, Lily spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I've been thinking about what you said this morning. About the Potter boy. The one with the brother wand to yours."
"What about him?" Natalia asked, though her tone suggested she'd been thinking about it too.
"Just... it's interesting, isn't it? That you'd both have thestral hair cores. Those are supposed to be quite rare. Severus said most people have never even seen a thestral, let alone had one's hair in their wand."
Natalia nodded thoughtfully, her fingers working automatically on the daisy chain. "Ollivander mentioned in his letter that thestral hair is particularly difficult to work with. It only bonds with witches and wizards who have a certain... understanding of death."
"What do you think that means?" Lily asked, genuine curiosity overriding her earlier melancholy. "Understanding death, I mean. We're eleven. What could we possibly understand about death?"
"I'm not sure," Natalia admitted, her voice taking on that slightly unsettled tone she got when confronted with magical concepts that felt too big and adult for her to fully grasp. "But I have a feeling we'll find out eventually. These things don't usually stay mysterious forever."
"Do you think this Hadrian Potter understands death too?"
"If he has a thestral hair core, then according to Ollivander's theory, yes." Natalia looked up from her daisy chain with a slightly wicked grin. "Maybe he's morbid and brooding. All dark and mysterious."
"Like Severus?" Lily asked with a giggle.
"Nobody's like Severus," Natalia said with certainty. "Severus is in a category all his own."
From the house, they could hear the murmur of voices—their parents and Petunia, having what was clearly another difficult conversation. Both girls pretended not to listen, but they couldn't help but catch fragments of familiar phrases carried on the evening breeze.
"...honest observations..."
"...not allowed to hurt people..."
"...everything revolves around them now..."
"...magical daughters..."
Lily winced, her earlier good mood evaporating. "Maybe we should go inside. Try to... I don't know. Fix things somehow."
"You can't fix this kind of hurt with good intentions and sisterly love," Natalia said gently, but with absolute certainty. "Trust me on this one, Lily. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is give someone space to feel what they're feeling, even if what they're feeling is awful."
"Even if what they're feeling is hatred?" Lily's voice was very small.
"Even then." Natalia's voice was soft but certain. "Especially then. Hatred that's forced underground doesn't disappear—it just gets worse."
As if summoned by their conversation, Petunia appeared at the kitchen window. She stood there for a long moment, looking out at her sisters in the garden with their wands and familiars and easy comfort with each other. Even from a distance, they could see the expression on her face—a complex mixture of longing and resentment and something that might have been grief for the relationship they used to have.
Then she turned away, and the window was empty again.
"She loves us," Lily said quietly, and it sounded almost like a question. "Doesn't she?"
"Yes," Natalia replied with absolute certainty, looking up at the now-empty window. "She does. That's what makes it so hard. If she didn't love us, she wouldn't care enough to hate what we represent."
"I wish..." Lily began, then trailed off.
"I know." Natalia reached over and squeezed her twin's hand, her daisy chain forgotten in her lap. "But wishes don't change reality, no matter how much magic we have. We can only work with what is."
As the sun set behind the roofline of Magnolia Crescent, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink, the two girls sat in their garden, surrounded by the symbols of their magical abilities, and felt the weight of all the things that magic couldn't fix.
Above them, Hedwig hooted once, soft and mournful, as if she understood that some wounds ran too deep for even magic to heal.
---
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