Chapter Text
·Funny Games·
Petunia sat curled on the sofa in their childhood home. Their parents were in London for the weekend, leaving the sisters alone together.
She had a magazine open on her lap, pencil scratching notes beside a neat square of fabric scraps. They were pinned in rows like rare butterflies—soft pinks, navy prints, ivory lace—while she muttered about patterns and pleats.
From the kitchen doorway, Lily watched her with a half-smile, a cup of tea steaming in her hand.
“You still wear that?” Lily asked at last, nodding toward the dragonfly glinting at Petunia’s throat.
Petunia had hooked two fingers around the chain, twisting it absently. The pendant rocked against her collarbone, amber wings catching the lamplight.
“It matches things,” she said briskly, eyes on the page.
Lily’s chest tightened. She nearly added ‘I’m glad’ but swallowed the words. The memory of the young vendor came back to her instead: hands stained with glue and brass filings, a tray of trinkets slung at his hip. He couldn’t have been much older than fresh out of Hogwarts, just another artist scraping by. He’d smiled when he pressed the dragonfly into her palm and told her, “They’re for change — for seeing what others can’t.”
Petunia had rolled her eyes at the gift at fifteen, claiming she was too old for charms. And yet she had never taken it off — even changed the chain when it broke last summer.
Lily crossed the room, and settled down into her fathers chair. “You’ve been muttering at those patterns for hours. I thought you had plans tonight.”
Petunia sniffed, tugging at the hem of her skirt. “I did. But really—what good is a late night before an interview? Better to look fresh on Monday.”
“Oh?” Lily tilted her head. “That clothing store?”
Petunia’s chin snapped up. “Lily, Liberty is — and always has been — more than a store.” Her voice carried a touch of offense, as though Lily had blasphemed. Then, with a brisk wave of her hand: “But if you have to know, it’s a receptionist job. A drill company. Grunnings. Proper security, locked doors, sign-ins, the whole thing. Very respectable.”
Lily caught the flick of her eyes toward the open magazine — the Liberty adverts spread bright across the page, all silk skirts and clever tailoring. Petunia’s pencil hovered there as if she wanted to step straight into that world. For a moment, Lily almost smiled. Of course she’d rather be greeting customers in Liberty’s marble foyer than at the desk of some dreary drill firm. But Petunia pressed on, brisk and determined, as though saying it firmly enough might make Grunnings sound like the better prize.
Lily smiled faintly. “Sounds important.”
“It is,” Petunia said briskly, though her fingers lingered nervously at the edge of her fabric swatch. “Not like a silly summer job. This is permanent. Good pay. People take you seriously if you’re behind a proper desk.”
Lily hesitated, watching her. “And you want people to take you seriously.”
Petunia’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “Better than being… laughed at.” She didn’t say by whom. She never had to.
Lily opened her mouth, half a mind to argue, half a mind to comfort—but the words tangled. All she could manage was: “You’ll do fine. They’d be lucky to have you.”
For the first time, Petunia’s mouth softened, the line between her brows easing. She sipped her tea, trying to hide it.
··⌖··
The sound came sharp, unnatural — a pop from just beyond the garden hedge. Not a car backfiring. Not the pipes. Something wrong.
Lily’s breath snagged. Before she could move, the front door swung open.
No knock. No rush. Just the creak of hinges and the scrape of shoes on the mat.
They walked in as though they owned the place — three shadows stretching across the sitting room floor. No masks. No shouting. Just smiles.
Petunia looked up, pencil arrested mid-stroke. Her skirt — pale cotton, patterned with navy flowers copied from the glossy pages — fanned across her knees. Chic, neat, girlish in a way that made her look like she’d stepped straight out of a magazine.
All three men halted just inside the doorway. Their eyes fixed on her, pinning her like one of the fabric swatches laid across the table. For a beat the silence felt obscene — as though they’d come home and found her waiting. They hadn’t expected Petunia; Lily saw it in the way their stillness stretched, their gaze turning sharp, calculating. She wasn’t meant to be here — and Lily knew that made her the easiest target.
One of them shifted, his glance flicking to the man on his left. A moment’s pause, like a thought passed between them without speech. Then the grin came — sharp teeth flashing under a sweep of fair hair.
“Well… Two for one.”
Lily’s skin went cold. Beside her, Petunia’s breath caught; the pencil slipped from her fingers and hit the table with a tiny clatter.
Too well-dressed. Too calm. That stillness made Lily’s skin crawl.
“Excuse me,” Petunia said, sharp but wavering. “You’ve come to the wrong address. We’re not expecting company.”
Her voice snagged, then stiffened. “You can’t just walk in like that.”
Lily almost choked. Wrong address. As if these men were neighbors who’d wandered into the wrong house. Petunia didn’t see it. Couldn’t. These weren’t ordinary men — they were grown wizards. Predators.
She stayed frozen. The mug trembled in her grip, tea sloshing against the rim. The smell of it turned bitter in her throat. Her pulse beat hard in her ears, drowning the hush of the room. Three men, smiling as though time belonged to them alone.
Every part of her body knew it at once: this was bad.
Her wand was upstairs.
In the desk drawer.
Too far.
··⌖··
A sound broke from the scarred one — not quite a laugh, something darker, like a wolf clearing its throat. He glanced toward the man on his right, half-smiling. “Listen to that. She squeaks like a mouse.”
A tiny sound slipped from Petunia — half gasp, half scoff — offended at the gall of them, to barge in and throw out such an insult.
Something in her recoiled. A burn marked the side of his face—long and warped, a wand-scorch that trailed from the curve of his jaw to the edge of his cheekbone. The skin was tight and ridged, like old wax.
He tilted his head slightly, the scorched skin catching the light. A silent reminder. Not fresh, but not forgotten.
The blond one stepped further inside.
He moved like he was used to being obeyed—shoulders straight, unhurried, his wand tucked loosely in one hand like he didn’t need to raise it to be dangerous.
“We’re expected,” he said at last. His voice was soft. Too soft. Like someone whispering to a caged animal. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”
Lily’s heart jumped. Something about him snagged at the edge of memory—a hallway in Hogwarts, maybe. A duel in the distance. A sneer behind someone's shoulder. She couldn't place it. He was older than her, probably in his early twenties, but there was something familiar in the angles of his face. His voice.
She forced herself to step forward, only half a pace, instinct clawing at her to put herself between them and Petunia.
The third one was silence. Not glancing, not surveying. Watching her.
His eyes didn’t move from hers. His wand hung down by his side, but she didn’t mistake it for passivity. No, he was still. Coiled. Listening, maybe, or waiting for a reason.
She had seen him before. Hogwarts, definitely. Slytherin, almost certainly. A seventh-year when she was maybe a second. The silver badge on his chest — Prefect — had caught the torchlight as he passed her in the corridor. His robes never seemed to wrinkle, hanging in sharp lines that made him look carved from stone.
She remembered thinking he looked through people. Not past them — through. He wasn’t looking through her now.
The man with the ugly facial scar smelled the air. “Smells of supper.”
Petunia made a move to get up from the sofa.
The blonde one, “No, no miss. Don’t trouble yourself. We’ll help ourselves.”
Petunia made a sharp little sound — “Excuse me? This is our home. You can’t simply barge in and… and talk as though you’ve been invited.”
PPetunia’s voice sharpened, brisk as if scolding a rude salesman. Lily’s pulse spiked. God, Tuney, don’t — don’t provoke them. But the words tangled in her throat, useless.
She smoothed her skirt with brisk fingers, as if the neatness of her hem could restore order. “If you’re hungry, there are proper places to eat. We don’t serve strangers supper like some common boarding house.”
Her voice wavered, but the offense in it was real.
They were all looking at Petunia now, not her. For one heartbeat, hope flared sharp and wild — she could run, she could make it upstairs, she could grab her wand—
Her foot shifted before she could stop herself.
Then the blond one’s gaze snapped back, sharp as a hook. Petunia stiffened under it, exposed, the focus of their amusement.
Lily froze. If she left her now, if she even tried—
Her wand was too far. And Petunia was too close.
··⌖··
Petunia flinched as the blond one stepped closer.
Lily opened her mouth — to speak, to cast, to scream, she didn’t know —
—and then came the sound.
A sharp smack. No spell — just the back of his hand, smooth and practiced, catching Petunia’s cheek with precise, effortless force. Her head snapped sideways. The pencil slid from her lap and hit the floor.
Lily froze. Not because she couldn’t move. Because she was meant to. She watched Petunia sway, wide-eyed and silent. No blood. No scream. Just the shock of it, ringing louder than any spell.
The blond one turned to Lily then — not with threat, but with certainty. “You moved,” he said.
Almost lazily, he reached out again. His hand glided down the same cheek he’d just reddened, fingers brushing Petunia’s skin like a lover’s. His eyes never left Lily.
“Any move, Evans,” he murmured, “…and she suffers.”
··⌖··
The blond one turned toward her again, suddenly animated — all showman’s smirk now, like he was about to open a game of charades at a dinner party.
“So Evans,” he said brightly. “Let’s see if you’re still the star pupil Hogwarts says you are.”
He gestured lazily toward Petunia without looking. “One question. One answer. One consequence.”
Lily shifted — oh, if only she had her wand. But there had seemed no reason to keep it on her at all times. Not here. Not at home. This was not a situation she had ever thought possible.
As if hearing her thoughts, the blond one’s grin widened.
“Where’s your wand?”
Lily’s heart jolted. She didn’t answer.
The man’s smile sharpened as his gaze slid over her — neat as a measuring tape, lingering at her sleeves, her pockets, the line of her skirt. He looked her over the way a tailor sizes up fabric, certain he’d find the flaw in the stitching.
“Not on you, is it?” he said, mock-disappointed. “And here I thought Gryffindors were always prepared.”
The scarred man gave a low breath of amusement. The third still hadn’t moved.
Then — quick, cruel — the blond one turned and struck again.
This time harder.
Petunia cried out. Her hands flew up, instinctive and useless, the sound sharp and high in the room like glass under pressure.
Lily flinched.
The blond one didn’t even look at her. “Wrong answer,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Or no answer. Same thing.”
Petunia had shrunk down against the armrest now, one hand curled over her cheek, the other fisting in the hem of her skirt.
Lily’s stomach heaved.
“Get it wrong…” He shrugged. “Let’s see how she bleeds.”
Something in her cracked. “Upstairs,” she blurted, hoarse.
The blond one’s smile sharpened like a blade. “Ah, a quick learner.”
He paced a slow circle around the coffee table, eyes flicking between her and Petunia.
“So you’re unarmed.”
“And she still thought she stood a chance.” He let his attention drift back to Lily, lazy as a man admiring a painting. “I saw the way you looked at the door — you wanted to run?”
His fingers brushed Petunia’s cheek, slow, deliberate — as though he were smoothing silk instead of skin.
She gave a strangled gasp and slapped his hand away. Reflex, sharp and small, like shooing off a fly.
For a moment, the blond one only looked at her. His smile didn’t falter.
Then the second strike landed. Harder.
Petunia cried out, the sound sharp and high, hands flying up to shield herself, useless.
“You should’ve lied, Evans.” His voice was soft now. Almost kind.
Lily whispered, “Please… no—”
The third blow never landed.
His hand slowed, brushing her cheek again — tracing the mark he’d made, as though admiring it.
“Shame to ruin a pretty face like yours,” he murmured.
Lily’s throat closed around the raw realisation: there were no rules. Only performances. And Petunia was the stage.
··⌖··
“Let’s test her schoolwork,” the blond one said brightly, then tipped his head at the scarred man.
The scarred one grinned, wand rapping lazily against his palm. “Basic curse theory,” he drawled. “Which hex makes the tongue useless in speech?”
For one wild moment, Lily’s mind slipped — back to the Great Hall, parchment spread out, quill scratching. She’d written that answer in tidy script only last spring.
“Silencio,” she said at once.
A pause. The blond’s smile thinned. He shook his head, almost pitying. “Dull, Evans. Any third-year could manage that.”
The scarred one’s grin widened, ugly. He leaned in, voice low and mocking. “I was thinking of Oscausi .”
The blond one looked at Petunia, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of Petunia’s skirt. “Which one, pretty thing? The skirt, or the blouse?” His tone was mocking, playful, as though he were offering her a choice of sweets.
Petunia’s voice cracked. “No, don’t — it’s Liberty fabric!” Her hands flew to the hem as if shielding it meant shielding herself. For a moment it sounded less like a protest than a bargain: cut me, bruise me, do what you will — but not the skirt. Not Liberty.
The scarred one scraped his thumb along the knife handle, voice low and ugly. “You’ve no liberty here, girl.”
The third tilted his head, watching her with that same strange quiet. His hand lifted, fingers brushing lightly over the line of her blouse until they caught at the first button, holding it out.
The scarred one slipped out a knife, sliding the point beneath the top button of her white blouse. With a flick, the thread snapped, the button was lose, still in the fingers of the quiet one.
The game continued, they asked, and Lily answered. Every reply was wrong, every consequence fell on Petunia. The rules shifted with their whim, and each turn left her more exposed, more undone.
“This you will surely remember? What’s the incantation to make a feather float, first-year spell”
Lily’s pulse thudded in her ears. She saw flashes of her first Charms lesson, a feather on the desk, Flitwick’s squeaky encouragement. ‘Swish and flick.’ She forced the word out too fast, too loud: “Wingardium Leviosa!”
The scarred one flicked the blade. A single slash, quick and careless, severed the whole row. The blouse gaped wider, fabric straining in her fists. The buttons scattered across the carpet, vanishing into the weave as though swallowed whole. Lily’s breath hitched. Nothing held it together now.
“What? That was right!” Her chest heaved, voice breaking with fury. “You know it was!”
The blonde one wagged a finger. “Sloppy, Evans. Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa — make the ‘gar’ nice and long.”
And Lily understood with a sick jolt: there was never going to be a right answer.
Petunia clutched the fabric to her chest, trembling as though her own skin had been torn open. Her eyes found Lily’s — wide, wet, desperate. For one sickening heartbeat, Lily thought she saw something else there too: accusation. Why aren’t you stopping this?
The look speared through her worse than any curse. She dug her nails into her palms, useless claws. If she could have torn the room apart with her bare hands, she would have. Instead, she only sat frozen, drowning in her sister’s shame.
“Now an easy one…” The scared one leaned forward, teeth flashing. “What’s her name?” pointing his name at Petunia.
Lily’s chest seized. It wasn’t a riddle. It was a snare. If she spoke, they’d twist it. If she stayed silent, they’d punish her for defiance. Her fists tightened, nails biting deep. She opened her mouth—
With a stiff force of dignity, Petunia sat up. “My name is Petunia.”
“Petunia…” the smirker drew it out, savoring the sound. He tilted his head toward her sister. “Pretty little flower. How fitting.”
Petunia flinched as the knife thudded into the sofa arm, the scarred one’s laugh breaking sharp and ugly in her ears. He leaned back, grinning at her fear. And still, beneath it, Lily caught the absurd twist of it — her sister’s horror at the ruined sofa, as if that were the greater crime.
“Petunia.” The quiet one said it once, almost tender, his gaze fixed on her as though the name itself were a toy he meant to dismantle.
His eyes didn’t move from her, as though the name itself were something fragile to toy with. His mouth curved faintly. “Say it again.”
Petunia’s gaze flicked up, bewildered — for a heartbeat Lily thought she must have misheard him. Say it again? Even that, they could twist into something else.
The thought struck her like a blow: not even her sister’s name was safe.