I flicked my fingers, and the silencing charm unraveled like a pulled thread. Petunia jolted in her chair, hands flying to her throat. Air rushed over vocal cords, but it took several false starts before sound returned to her.
Her first words came out like broken glass. "What… what have you done to me?"
"Nothing permanent," I said softly, folding my napkin with deliberate care. My voice was calm, steady, almost too adult for the small body I wore. "Merely a precaution until we could speak."
Her hand still at her throat, she glared at me with brittle fury. "Speak? About what?" Her voice was sharp, jagged—fear trying to disguise itself as anger.
I leaned back, teacup cradled in both hands, letting the silence grow heavy. "About who you are, Aunt Petunia. About who we are."
Her sneer deepened. "We? Don't you dare—"
"You and I," I interrupted, my voice quiet but weighted like a hammer, "are the last living members of the Pureblood House of Evans. Once, long ago, we were known as the Emrys—the ruling bloodline of magical Britain. The true descendants of Hecate herself."
She froze. Just for a second. But enough.
I smiled faintly. "Ah. You've heard the names."
Her fingers dug into the edge of the table. "Fairy tales. Nonsense. Old stories from my grandmother when I was a girl. Merlin, Hecate—just stories. That's all they were. Stories for children."
"Stories," I echoed softly. "Yes. And who better than Dumbledore to ensure that's all they ever were to you? A clever lie to tell you that you were born without magic, that you were lesser. A lie to keep you weak, bitter, resentful. Because you and my mother held more power in your fingers than he could ever dream."
Her lips thinned. Her knuckles went white where they gripped the table. "I have no power. I'm a Muggle. He told me so himself. That's why—" she faltered, swallowing hard, "that's why Lily got to be special. And I didn't."
I let the silence press down on her until she couldn't bear it. Then, slowly, deliberately: "No. That's why he wanted you to believe you weren't special."
Her head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing, jaw trembling.
And then it happened—my magic flexed without my willing it. The kitchen seemed to dim and sharpen all at once, colors bending. For the first time, I could see it—magic itself, flowing like rivers of colored light through the air. Pink and white, red and gold, shimmering threads lacing through everything.
And in Petunia… there it was. Weak. Twisted. Like a star half-buried under ice. A block, a dam choking off what should have been a torrent.
"You were born with magic," I said quietly.
The color drained from her face. "Liar."
"You were born with it," I repeated, my voice carrying no hint of doubt. "I can see it now. You're full of it, but something—someone—has bound it, sealed it away from you."
Her chair screeched as she surged forward, palms slamming onto the table. "Don't you dare toy with me like this!"
I didn't even blink. My five-year-old face remained still, but my eyes—cold, adult—pinned her where she sat. "Why would I waste the effort? You think I need to convince you? I'm telling you what I see. What I know."
Her breath came ragged, fury and confusion twisting her features. "No… no, he said… he said I was nothing, I was ordinary, I was—"
"Dumbledore," I said, and the name came out like venom.
She stilled.
"Of course it was him," I continued, voice soft but sharp as a knife. "He needed you weak. Powerless. Resentful. A perfect jailer for the nephew he intended to break. Do you really think it coincidence that the boy who carried such destiny ended up in your home, under the roof of a woman who hated magic? No, Petunia. That was orchestration. Manipulation. The so-called 'Greater Good.'"
Her hands clenched into trembling fists. "So he… he did this? To me?"
I tilted my head. "Who else?"
For a long moment she said nothing. Then, barely above a whisper: "Can it… can it be undone?"
Her eyes lifted to mine—raw, unguarded, desperate. The mask had fallen. There was a hunger there now, sharp and aching.
"Yes," I said simply. My child's voice held an adult's certainty. "But not for free. Not without cost. Not without change."
She swallowed hard, lips parting, and I saw the tears begin to rise.
I leaned forward, the small hands of a five-year-old folded neatly on the table but the weight of an ancient predator behind my eyes. "Now you begin to understand, Aunt Petunia."
She gasped, the sound half-sob, half-laugh. Her eyes flooded, tears slipping down cheeks too proud to ever welcome them. She pressed trembling hands to her mouth as if to hold back the storm breaking inside her.
"All these years," she choked. "All these years I hated her because she had what I didn't. Because she was chosen and I wasn't. I thought… I thought something was wrong with me. That I was broken. That I was nothing."
Her shoulders shook, tears falling freely now. "And all the while it was stolen from me. Stolen, locked away, smothered—Merlin help me, I…" She buried her face in her hands, sobbing in earnest.
I watched her carefully, not unkindly. There was no triumph in this, only confirmation. The woman who had been my jailer, my tormentor's accomplice, was herself a prisoner. A puppet dancing on Dumbledore's strings.
And oh, how sweet it was to cut the strings.
When her sobs quieted into shuddering breaths, I spoke again. "You are not broken, Petunia. You are not powerless. You are Evans blood—part of the Imperial blood-line."
She lowered her hands slowly, eyes red, cheeks wet. She stared at me as if trying to measure the weight of my words against the years of lies she'd swallowed.
Finally, her voice cracked, fragile and yearning. "And… you'd help me? You'd… free it?"
I smiled faintly. "In time. But know this, Aunt Petunia—I don't give without cost. I have plans. I will tear down the rotted corpse of the Wizarding World and rebuild it anew. Their history is lies, their power corrupted, their so-called leaders blind men steering a sinking ship. I will not let their decay drag us down. When I rise, it will be different."
Her lips trembled. "And you want me to… what? Join you?"
I set my teacup down with a soft click. "I want you to choose. You can embrace what you are, stand with me, carve a place for yourself in the world that denied you… or you can continue the path you've walked—fear, bitterness, denial—and be left behind. Abandoned again. Forgotten."
Her fists clenched on her lap. For a long moment she said nothing. Then, almost fiercely: "I'll join you."
The conviction in her voice surprised even her. She blinked, as though realizing what she'd said, then nodded quickly, as if to cement it. "Yes. I'll join you. I'll… I'll talk to Vernon. He has always trusted and supported me, taken my own anger for the magical world. Should I tell him.. he will support me in my choice to join you."
I arched an eyebrow. "Will he? Or will he cling to the petty comfort of normalcy, the delusion of superiority he wields over you and the boy? I will say this only once, Petunia: I will have no qualms killing those who stand in my way. Family or not."
She flinched, the blood draining from her face. Meekly, she nodded. "I… I understand."
"Good."
I flicked my hand, loosening the invisible bindings. She startled as sensation returned, muscles trembling with the rush of freedom. Slowly, she rose to her feet, wavering slightly.
At the doorway she paused, turning back. Her eyes, still damp, held something I hadn't expected: regret.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "For everything. For what I did to him. To you."
I regarded her in silence, face unreadable. After a moment, I inclined my head once.
She swallowed, then slipped out of the kitchen, her footsteps fading into the hall.
I sat alone at the table, the remnants of breakfast before me, the air still humming faintly with power.