Petunia Evans loved her sister. She loved her to the point of jealousy. She loved Lily so much, it took over her life.
Lily Evans had magic in her bones. Not only was it a part of her, it was in the way she carried herself, in the way she moved, talked. Petunia Evans felt broken shards where magic was supposed to be. She was uninhabitable, tainted and dark. She was always hopeful for the day her magic would come. She would be just like her sister she adored, but it never came.
So Petunia Evans grew dark, in her own way. She found solace in her prejudice, a sort of cloak of protection over her aching soul.
When Lily Evans had a son, Petunia grew even more restless than before. Her son was destined for greatness, magic lacing his every breath. His lungs were filled with it. He was drowning peacefully, while her own son was sure to thrash in the water.
Her own son was raised to be vile and cruel, she knew. But he knew nothing of jealousy, of being overlooked. Maybe her nephew did, but there was a sort of satisfaction that came with her years of neglect. Her own son received everything she waited for as a child.
Petunia Evans' love was her downfall. She was tangled in a world of knots that she could never hope to undo. Lily Evans was everything that she hoped to be, that she could not be. Magic saw no hope for prosper in her heart.
