Petunia carried the tray back into the living room, the teacups clinking softly against the saucers as she moved. A plate of shortbread biscuits sat in the centre, their edges slightly burnt and the chocolate chips melted into dark, irregular smears.
She set the tray on the coffee table, where the plastic cover crinkled under the weight of the teapot, and took her seat in the armchair across from Jane. Her back was perfectly straight and her hands were folded tightly in her lap.
Jane began to pour the tea, the steam rising in a warm cloud between them.
"You said you wanted to talk about the family," Petunia said, her voice thin.
Jane passed her a cup and settled back. "What do you know about our family? Of where we come from?"
Petunia's fingers curled around the porcelain. "Not much. My mother told me once that we weren't exactly... native. That was all she ever said."
Jane nodded understandingly. "Have you heard of Morgana LeFay?"
Petunia blinked in surprise. "Morgan le Fay? The sorceress from the Arthurian legends?"
"The very same. In Welsh, she was often called Morgan, but 'istory softened ze name over time, you understand?" Jane paused to let that sink in. "The Evans family are her direct descendants."
Petunia's cup stopped halfway to her mouth. She set it back down, the porcelain clicking sharply against the saucer. "You are saying that she was a real person."
"She was real. She had children, and those children had children of their own. For a long time, the family name was LeFay."
Petunia stared at her, her brow furrowing. "LeFay. Like the..."
"Like the legend, yes." Jane continued the explanation. "Centuries ago, the LeFay name was hunted, and those who carried it were killed. Only two survived—a brother and a sister. They changed their names to hide their identities. The brother took the name Flamel, and the sister took the name Evans."
"Flamel. Like Nicolas Flamel?"
"The same."
"But he is a legend. A story. The philosopher's stone..."
"They are real people," Jane said firmly. "Nicolas Flamel is alive. He even attended my daughter's birthday party a few months ago. Nimue met him herself."
Petunia pressed her fingers to her temple, looking overwhelmed. "I need a moment." She picked up her tea and drank half the cup in a single go rather than taking a sip.
Morwenna watched her closely. The woman's hands were shaking, though she didn't think it was from fear. It looked more like the world was simply rearranging itself too fast for her to keep up.
"Does Nicolas Flamel look like a thin old man?" Petunia asked.
Morwenna decided to answer that one. "No. He looks like he is in his late fifties."
Petunia choked on her tea. It went down the wrong way, and Jane had to lean over and pat her back with firm, quick strokes until the coughing fit subsided.
"How?" Petunia's voice was rough and strained. "His story has been around for centuries. If he is still alive—"
"We age slowly," Morwenna said, keeping her voice calm and level. "The first LeFay was born from two magical creatures—a high elf and an elder dragon. Such child was called Firbolg-Born. Those with this blood can live for a very long time."
She paused, watching the shock play out across Petunia's face.
"When a Firbolg-Born has children, the descendants are called Olde Ones. Grandpère Nicolas is from the main branch, which is why he still looks young. All LeFay descendants age more slowly than most."
Petunia pressed her fingers to her temple again. "My mother died at eighty. She was normal. Ordinary."
Jane's voice was incredibly gentle. "She was a squib."
Petunia flinched at the word as if it were an insult.
"A squib is a child born into a magical family whose magic never manifests. It is not gone — it is simply dormant." Jane paused, making sure Petunia was following. "The longest a squib from an Olde Ones family has lived is around one hundred and fifty years. The active magic is what sustains us."
Petunia looked down at her hands, her knuckles white as she gripped her teacup. "I see," she whispered.
Jane let the silence settle for a few moments before she spoke again.
"The Evans family has four branches in our world. One main branch and three side branches. I belong to the main branch. My mother is the current matriarch."
She paused, then continued.
"Your branch came to Britain eight generations ago. We stayed in contact for three generations, until war broke out in France. By the time we could reach out again, the connection had been lost. We believed your line had simply... ended."
Petunia's grip on her cup loosened slightly.
"We have never disowned squibs," Jane continued. "We never believed they were lesser. But each time a squib descendant married a mundane person, the magic diluted further. Generation by generation, until it faded completely. That is why we thought your line had died out entirely."
She looked directly at Petunia.
"I only learned about Lily after she died. I saw her photograph in the newspaper and recognised the Evans eyes immediately. I knew she was family."
She took a steadying breath.
"I asked the French side for information, searched the records, and once I had proof, Jack and I petitioned the Ministry for guardianship of Harry."
Petunia's mouth pressed into a thin, hard line.
"Four months later, they rejected the petition. The letter said Harry had been placed with closer blood relatives, and that we could meet him when he turned eleven."
"The reason we did not come sooner is not because we did not care," Jack said, his voice low and serious. "Dumbledore placed strong protections on Harry and on this house. They are still active. That is why we could not reach you before."
Petunia went pale, the colour draining from her face until her skin looked ashy.
"The wards are not harmful," Elara said, leaning forward slightly. "They have no negative effects on those inside the house. Their purpose is secrecy, protection, surveillance and acting as an alarm."
Petunia swallowed hard. "An alarm?"
"To know who comes near the house and who tries to find him," Elara clarified.
Petunia looked toward the window. The curtain was still drawn, and the street outside remained quiet, yet the room suddenly felt much smaller.
Jane reached across the space between them, not quite touching Petunia but holding her hand out, palm up and open.
"Cousin," she said softly. "Would you mind if we tested something, yes?"
Petunia pulled back, her shoulders going rigid with suspicion. "What kind of test?"
"Lily had magic, and you are her sister. That means you carry the bloodline, even if the magic is dormant. We can confirm it with a single drop of blood. You would only need to prick your finger, and the blood would mix with a special ink so you could write a few words."
Petunia's eyes narrowed. "What is this really for?"
Jane's voice remained soft and reassuring. "It is to confirm how strong the blood connection remains and to include you in the family records. The main branch provides a stipend for every squib household — for every Evans who carries the blood. It is not charity. It is care."
She held Petunia's gaze firmly. "We should have been taking care of you all along, but we did not know you existed. Now we do."
She paused for emphasis. "You are family, even if you cannot do magic. Family doesn't abandon family."
Petunia's face suddenly crumpled. She covered her mouth with her hand, then her eyes, until her entire face was hidden. Her shoulders shook with small, wet, muffled sobs.
Jane moved to the armchair and sat on the arm, placing a comforting hand on Petunia's back.
Petunia cried.
She cried for the years when Lily had been the special one—the one their parents looked at with wonder, the one who received all the attention and love.
She cried for the confusion she felt when her sister started talking about things that made no sense and frightened her.
She cried for the jealousy she had never admitted and the bitterness she had carried for so long, as well as the guilt that had always sat beneath it all.
But mostly, she cried because someone had finally told her it didn't matter that she couldn't do magic. She was still family, and they wouldn't abandon her.
She cried until there was nothing left to give.
Jane pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it into Petunia's hand. Petunia wiped her face, and the fabric came away streaked with dark mascara.
"I'm sorry," Petunia said, her voice raw. "I have made a mess of your... "
"It's fine."
Petunia took a shaky breath, then another, trying to steady herself. She looked at Jane, Jack, Elara, Viviane, and Morwenna. No one was looking at her with pity, and no one was looking away in embarrassment. She nodded slowly.
"Very well," she said, her voice still shaky but steadier. "I will do the test."