Unseen Path

The car pulled into their street, the familiar crunch of gravel under the tires signaling they were home. Petunia opened her eyes slowly, the headache still throbbing behind her temples, her body heavy as she stepped out, the morning air cool against her skin. Her parents walked ahead, her dad carrying her mum's bag, their voices low as they murmured to each other, their relief palpable after the long, worrisome night. Petunia trailed behind, her steps sluggish, the weight of the night—the locked library, the strange shapes she'd seen—pressing down on her like a heavy fog.

She reached the front door, her hand trembling slightly as she turned the knob and pushed it open, the familiar creak of the hinges a small comfort. Before she could step inside, Lily appeared in the doorway, her green eyes wide with worry, her red hair a tangled mess from pacing. "Tuney!" she cried, her voice thick with emotion, and she launched herself at Petunia, wrapping her arms around her in a tight, desperate hug. "I was so scared—you were gone all night!" Her words were muffled against Petunia's shoulder, her grip fierce, as if she feared Petunia might disappear again.

Petunia froze, caught off guard by the sudden embrace, her arms stiff at her sides. The warmth of Lily's hug, the raw worry in her voice, stirred a quiet tenderness in her chest. Despite the distance between them, Lily's magic, her chatter, the way she seemed to shine in their parents' eyes, Petunia felt a flicker of warmth, a deep, unspoken connection to her little sister. She couldn't help but soften, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. Awkwardly, she lifted a hand, patting Lily's head, her movements hesitant, a bit clumsy, but carrying a gentle care she didn't know how to voice. "I'm… I'm okay," she mumbled, her voice rough, the gesture small but sincere.

Lily pulled back slightly, looking up at her with teary eyes, her face a mix of relief and lingering worry. But Petunia's head throbbed harder, the ache sharpening with every heartbeat, the exhaustion of the night and the morning's intensity crashing over her. She winced, pressing a hand to her temple, her vision blurring for a moment as the pain pulsed. "I don't feel good," she said, her voice low, strained, the words coming out in a rush. "I've got a headache… I just want to rest." It wasn't an excuse, her head genuinely ached, the pain a constant throb that made her want to curl up in the dark and shut out the world.

Lily's expression shifted to concern, her hands lingering on Petunia's arms for a moment before letting go. "Okay, Tuney," she said softly, stepping back, her voice gentle. "You should rest." Her parents, who had stepped inside behind them, nodded in agreement. "Go lie down, love," her mum said, her voice warm, her hand brushing Petunia's shoulder as she passed. "We'll check on you later."

Petunia nodded, her steps slow and heavy as she climbed the stairs to her room, the strange figures she'd seen outside the library flickering in her mind, small, winged shapes darting near a tree, a translucent form drifting by a lamppost. They hadn't noticed her, but she'd seen them, and her parents hadn't. The weight of that realization clung to her, a quiet fear threading through her exhaustion. She closed her door behind her, the silence of her room a small relief, and sank onto her bed, her eyes closing against the ache in her head and the uncertainty in her heart, the world feeling stranger with every passing moment. Petunia lay on her bed, the curtains drawn tight, the dim light of her room a small comfort against the ache in her head. Her eyes stayed closed for most of the day, the events of the night before, the library, the strange figures, her parents' worry, swirling in her mind like a storm she couldn't escape. She didn't dare look outside, the memory of those small, winged shapes and the translucent form by the lamppost too fresh, too unsettling. What if they're still there? she thought, her chest tightening, and she pulled the blanket higher, trying to shut out the world. She rested the whole day, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep, her body heavy with exhaustion, her mind too restless to fully settle.

The next morning, Christmas Day, arrived with the soft glow of dawn creeping through the edges of her curtains. Petunia stirred, the ache in her head dulled but still present, a faint throb that reminded her of the night before. She sat up slowly, her movements sluggish, and glanced at the window, her stomach twisting. She didn't pull the curtains back, didn't want to risk seeing those strange shapes again. Instead, she focused on the familiar sounds of the house waking up, the clatter of dishes downstairs, her mum's humming, the faint jingle of Christmas music on the radio. It was Christmas, a day she'd always cherished for its warmth and tradition, and she clung to that normalcy, hoping it would anchor her.

She pulled on a sweater, her fingers lingering on the soft wool, and headed downstairs, her steps quiet. The living room was already half-decorated, tinsel glinting on the tree, a few ornaments hanging crookedly, her dad's handiwork, no doubt. Her mum was in the kitchen, an apron tied around her waist, her hands dusted with flour as she rolled out dough for mince pies. "Morning, love," her mum said, glancing up with a warm smile. "Feeling better?"

Petunia nodded, her voice soft. "A bit." The headache lingered, but she didn't mention it, not wanting to worry her mum on Christmas. She glanced around, Lily was sprawled on the couch in the living room, a book in her lap, her red hair catching the light as she turned a page. Petunia turned her attention back to the kitchen, focusing on the tasks ahead, the familiar rhythm of Christmas a welcome distraction.

Her mum wiped her hands on her apron, turning to Petunia with a gentle nod. "I could use some help with the festivities, if you're up for it," she said, her tone light but carrying the expectation Petunia knew well. "The dinner needs prepping, and we've still got decorations to finish."

Petunia nodded again, stepping into the kitchen, the routine of Christmas tasks grounding her. "I'll help," she said, her voice steady, though her eyes flicked toward the window above the sink. She turned away quickly, focusing on the counter instead, not wanting to risk seeing anything strange outside. Her mum handed her a bowl of potatoes to peel, and Petunia set to work, the repetitive motion calming her, the sound of the peeler against the skin a quiet comfort.

They worked together in a comfortable silence, broken only by her mum's occasional humming of "Jingle Bells" and the clink of dishes. Petunia moved on to chopping carrots, her hands steady despite the faint ache in her head, while her mum prepared the turkey, stuffing it with herbs and onions. "You're a good help, Petunia," her mum said, smiling as she brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Always have been." Petunia managed a small smile, the praise warming her as she stirred the gravy, the rich scent filling the kitchen.

After the dinner prep, they moved to the decorations. Petunia climbed a stool to hang the last of the tinsel on the tree, her fingers careful as she adjusted the strands, while her mum strung fairy lights along the mantel, their soft glow casting a warm light over the room. "Looks lovely," her dad said, stepping in with a tray of hot cocoa, his smile wide. "You two make a good team." Petunia nodded, stepping down, her hands brushing against the pine needles, the scent of the tree filling her with a fleeting sense of normalcy. The day unfolded with the quiet rhythm of Christmas, her dad putting on a record of carols, the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the smell of roasting turkey drifting through the house. Petunia stayed busy, helping her mum plate the Christmas dinner, golden potatoes, glazed ham, steaming vegetables, and a towering stack of mince pies for dessert. She carried dishes to the table, her movements careful, her eyes avoiding the windows, the fear of those strange shapes lingering at the edges of her mind. The table was set with the good china, the red-and-gold tablecloth a festive touch, and Petunia stepped back, her hands on her hips, a small sense of pride flickering through her exhaustion as the family gathered for the meal.

The dining room glowed with the soft light of candles, their flames flickering against the red-and-gold tablecloth as the family gathered around the table. Petunia sat between her mum and Lily, her hands folded in her lap, the faint ache in her head a constant reminder of the night before. The table was a feast, golden roast potatoes, glazed ham, steaming vegetables, and a platter of mince pies waiting for dessert, all the dishes she'd helped her mum prepare. The scent of the meal filled the air, warm and comforting, and for a moment, Petunia felt a flicker of pride, her earlier efforts reflected in the spread before them.

Her dad carved the turkey, his movements steady, a smile on his face as he passed plates around. "Looks wonderful, you two," he said, nodding to Petunia and her mum, his voice full of appreciation. Her mum smiled, reaching over to squeeze Petunia's hand. "Couldn't have done it without my helper," she said, her tone warm, and Petunia managed a small nod, the praise settling softly in her chest.

Lily chattered through the meal, her voice bright as she recounted more stories from Hogwarts, something about a charmed snowflake that wouldn't melt and a professor who'd turned a desk into a pig. Her parents laughed, their eyes sparkling with delight, hanging on her every word. Petunia focused on her plate, spearing a piece of ham with her fork, the familiar rhythm of Christmas dinner grounding her. She kept her gaze on the table, avoiding the window at the far end of the room, the curtains thankfully drawn, her unease a quiet undercurrent she couldn't fully shake.

The meal stretched on, the clink of cutlery and the soft hum of carols from the record player filling the space. Petunia helped clear the plates when they were done, her movements automatic as she carried dishes to the kitchen, her mum following with the empty gravy boat. "You've been a star today, love," her mum said, setting the boat in the sink and giving Petunia a quick hug. "Why don't you go sit with Lily and your dad? I'll handle the washing up."

Petunia nodded, her body heavy with exhaustion, the faint throb in her head persisting. She returned to the living room, where her dad had stoked the fire, the crackle of the logs a soothing sound. Lily was on the floor by the tree, unwrapping a small gift, a new quill set from their parents, her face lighting up as she held it up. "Look, Tuney, it's for Hogwarts!" she said, her voice bubbling with excitement. Petunia managed a small smile, sitting on the couch, her hands clasped in her lap. "That's nice," she said, her voice quiet, the effort of the day catching up to her.

Her dad handed her a gift next, a new scarf, soft and blue, the color of a clear sky. "Thought you'd like this," he said, his smile warm. Petunia ran her fingers over the fabric, a faint warmth spreading through her at the thoughtfulness. "Thanks, Dad," she said, wrapping it around her neck, the softness a small comfort against the unease that still gnawed at her.

The evening unfolded quietly, the family settling into the familiar rhythm of Christmas night. Her dad read a story aloud, an old tradition, his voice steady as he recounted "The Snowman," a tale they'd heard every year since Petunia was little. Lily curled up beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, while Petunia sat on the couch, her knees drawn up, the scarf still around her neck. She listened, the words washing over her, her eyes fixed on the fire, avoiding the window nearby, the unease still lingering in her chest.

As the story ended, her mum brought in a tray of hot cocoa, the mugs steaming, a plate of leftover mince pies beside them. "A perfect end to the day," she said, handing Petunia a mug, her smile soft. Petunia took it, the warmth of the mug seeping into her hands, and sipped slowly, the sweetness a small comfort. The fire crackled, the lights on the tree twinkled, and for a moment, the warmth of her family wrapped around her, a fragile shield against the quiet fear that still simmered beneath the surface.