The End of All Things

Author's Note:

I'M BAAACK!!!

(Cue Psycho Theme)

Man, what a hiatus. In my defense I had my senior year of High School to complete, including two Advanced Placement classes (Biology and Art History) as well as trying to find a job, and going off to my first year of college, which explains my absence.

However, I never called it quits entirely. Every once in a while ideas would pop into my head for a new fanfic. Just random scenes, completely unrelated to each other, but, seeing as how it was too late to put out the plot bunny traps (sigh) I filed them all away in a folder on Microsoft Word I decided to call “Untitled”

This story didn't start out much as a story meant for Portkey. It was more of a personal challenge to put all these scenes together into one story in a way that made sense. Hopefully it won't seem too crammed together.

Those of you who read The Wish List will be pleased to know that in keeping with my tradition for that story, updates will be made every day. (Those of you who haven't read TWL are under no obligation to do so, as it is pre-HBP and in no way related to this story.)

So here I am, nearly two years after my last posting, sitting in a dorm room, completing the story that has taken more time to write than all my others combined.

I hope you think it was worth the effort.

Prologue: I would trust Hagrid with my life

“You think it—wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?”

“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's stone, Chapter 1, “The Boy Who Lived” Paperback first edition, American Edition, pg. 14

....

Their first real shock came when their other knight was taken…Every time one of their men was lost, the white pieces showed no mercy…

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone “Through the Trapdoor” paperback first edition, American edition, pg. 282-3

….

“Professor Dumbledore left ten minutes ago,” she said coldly…

“He's gone?” said Harry frantically. “Now?”

“Professor Dumbledore is a very great wizard, Potter…”

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, “Through the Trapdoor” Paperback first edition, American Edition, pg. 267

***

Prologue.

Approximately half an hour after Dumbledore's death…

Hagrid carried his sad bundle down the stairs to the Mortuary. Few students new about it, fewer still had ever been there.

The last time Hagrid had been down here, it had been to take Cedric Diggory's body two years ago, and he had hoped he would never have to return.

But now he was returning.

With Albus Dumbledore's body.

Hagrid tried not to look at him as he walked, tried not to think about how small, light, and frail his body was, especially compared to the man Hagrid had first met…There was no comparison, really.

Pushing open the door to the Mortuary with his foot, he entered the room, careful not to hit Dumbledore's body against the doorframe.

Stone slabs, much like biers that coffins usually rested on, adorned the room. Shelves against the wall opposite held jars of embalming potions, certain herbs and spices, and winding sheets; some were plain white and unadorned, others elaborately dyed and embroidered.

Laying Albus Dumbledore's body on the nearest bier, Hagrid walked to the shelves. Sobbing, he selected a sheet to cover Dumbledore; one of the white ones for now. The better ones were for the funeral ceremonies. Madam Pomfrey would be down later to dress the body and fill the veins with the embalming potions.

Unfolding the sheet prior to laying it over the body, with his back turned from the bier, Hagrid heard a peculiar rustling.

Mice, he thought turning around slowly.

A few days later.

Hagrid carefully carried the purple and gold spangled cloth bundle to the edge of the lake, as he had been instructed. His orders were clear: carry the bundle to the table, turn around, and sit down. He tried not to look at Harry, Ron and Hermione. What they must be going through now…He retreated down the aisle toward his brother, blowing his nose.

As had been his instructions, he had not told them about the Mortuary, nothing of what had transpired there when Madam Pomfrey had come down to prepare Dumbledore's corpse. Not the events witnessed by him through the course of that night, nothing. Harry and his friends would remain in the dark. The knowledge would be just another burden for them to bear, and may very well hinder Harry in his greatest task.

They cannot know, he thought as he took his seat, barely noticing the pat on the head Grawp gave him, although it nearly knocked him out of his chair.

They cannot know. Not yet, anyway. Harry has to face this alone.

Chapter One: This is Wrong

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky--and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If they motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it…

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me, I've got him sir.”

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, “The Boy Who Lived” first paperback edition, American edition, pg. 14

…

“Here,” said Kingsley brusquely to Mr. Weasley, shoving a sheaf of parchment into his hand, “I need as much information as possible on flying Muggle vehicles sighted in the last twelve months. We've received information that Black might still be using his old motorcycle.”

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, “The Ministry of Magic”, first paperback edition, American edition, page 132.

Harry straightened his grip on the handle of his trunk, ran a hand nervously over his unkempt hair, and set off toward the front door of the Burrow, leaving Sirius's motorbike next to the broom shed.

It was pretty cool, he thought, glancing back at it. The bike's black and silver coloring shone back at him, almost as if it was winking conspiratorially.

The bike had been delivered to Number Four, Privet Drive by a delivery truck. Uncle Vernon had answered the door, obviously believing the very large package on the packing dolly to be for him. Harry grinned as he remembered his Uncle's jaw dropping when the delivery man had said “Could Mr. Harry Potter sign here please?” and chuckled to himself as the rest of the memory replayed itself in his mind…

“What on earth is that thing?” Uncle Vernon demanded, yet again spraying Harry with spit.

“Dunno,” said Harry, even as he noted the envelope on the outside of the large box.

As Uncle Vernon muttered furiously to himself in the front hallway, Harry stepped out onto the front porch, using the shade the large package cast to read the letter, written in a vaguely familiar hand.

Dated 12 July, 1997

Dear Harry,

I discovered this among Sirius's possessions when I was cleaning out his room the other day. After seeing it was addressed to you, I checked it for any hexes or jinxes and sent it on by Muggle Post, as I have yet to see an owl big enough to carry this package.

All the best,

R.J. Lupin

Bemused, and a little sad over the realization that this was a present from Sirius, Harry opened a second envelope, hidden inside the first.

Dated 15 June, 1996

Dear Harry,

Happy 16^th birthday!

The item in this package was very important to me when I was about your age. Your dad and I found it in a Muggle junkyard, took it apart, charmed and transfigured it to within an inch of its life, and put it back together again.

I wish I had time to elaborate on all the fun times we had with it, like when your dad took it out for a solo ride and buzzed Lily as she walked down by the lake one day, especially about how she fell in the water and James had to fish her out. (This was after they had started dating, luckily. Otherwise she might have hexed him even more badly than she did)

Anyway, I've got to hurry and finish this. Remus is coming over for dinner later, and we're going to see if we can help Buckbeack. Something's wrong with him, not sure what.

Hopefully, this should get to you right on your 16^th birthday. If the Muggle post keeps up its end of the deal with the timing of the shipping, that is. It should give your pig cousin something to drool over. Just be careful not to let him touch it, it doesn't take kindly to Muggles that its owner isn't fond of, and I think it goes without saying that your cousin is one of those. It should also give wizards who are on your bad side a little token of your *ahem* regard.

Best wishes for the next sixteen years!

From your loving Godfather,

Sirius

Harry took a few deep breaths before turning to the package. It became apparent after a few moments that the cardboard wasn't going to yield its contents easily. Walking back into the house for a pair of scissors, he discovered all three Dursleys hurriedly backing up from the window. They had evidently been standing with their noses pressed to the glass, spying on him.

He cleared his throat, pretending he had noticed nothing unusual, and said, “I'd like a pair of scissors, please,” before walking into the kitchen for the shears Aunt Petunia had once used to cut off all his hair, years ago.

Returning to the front hallway, he noticed the Dursleys had disappeared from the front window. They all clustered on the porch, staring at the package and whispering together. They fell silent and stepped back as Harry approached with the shears.

Several tense minutes later (made tense from the presence of the Dursleys and the thought that this should have come to him a year ago), Harry stood in the midst of three flabbergasted relatives and a small hill of cardboard and bubble wrap, staring at a motorbike. There was a large red ribbon tied to the handlebars, holding a card and a package in place.

Harry read the card first.

Congratulations! You're 16! It's the year that's supposed to be sweet.

But from now on you're likely to hear:

EVERYONE GET OFF THE STREET!

Happy 16^th Harry!

Sirius

Chuckling, Harry opened the package, which included a thick book as well as a letter.

Harry,

Be sure to read the book and familiarize yourself with Muggle traffic laws. James and I thought we had learned enough just by watching, but (several speeding tickets and many traffic citations later) in the end we decided it would be a good idea to invest in a book on Muggle Traffic laws.

You're probably wondering why I didn't save this present for later, since by Muggle law you're not old enough to own a motorbike, or ride one. Just take a hold of the little slip of paper attached to the bottom of this page, and it'll solve all your problems. Just try not to get pulled over too much…

Harry had done as instructed before reading the rest of the letter, and the bottom of the page had transformed into an official laminated UK Muggle driver's license, with Motorbike entitlement. His hand had tingled briefly, and his signature appeared under the plastic, along with a picture of him staring down, with the sky above. Apparently the picture was of the exact moment that the spell activated. He also noticed that the birth year listed indicated he was over twenty-one, which Muggle law required for him to drive a motorbike of that size.

Wondering vaguely if he should transfigure the picture later, Harry turned back to the letter.

…I hope you can appreciate what I had to go through to get this back. It was impounded after I was arrested, and, though the Ministry tried to auction it off many times, no-one wanted to buy it. Sheesh-- Just because it belonged to a supposed mass- murderer people seemed to think it might be cursed! (I assure you, it is not) After a while, even the Ministry seemed to forget about it. Kingsley Shacklebolt certainly had no trouble convincing everyone I was still using it last summer.

In the end, I had Moody go down to the Ministry impound to get it back for me. Being an ex-Auror, and considering the bike's notoriety, he had to call in surprisingly few favors to get it. Be sure to thank him next time you see him.

Also, be sure to buy yourself a helmet, first thing. I would have given you mine, but I'm afraid it's no longer in very good shape, after the incident with the pine tree and the black ice and-- well, you get the idea.

You might have noticed there's no keyhole for the ignition. I charmed it to respond to the next wizard of the Potter line who touches it; very tricky business, remind me to tell you about it sometime. All you have to do after that is concentrate on what you want it to do, whether start, stop, turn, or ride on its back wheel only! Although I suggest you get a bit of experience before you try that. Remind me to show you the scars!

Also, I don't know if you know this, but this bike is how Hagrid got you to Privet Drive. I charmed it to fit to him for just the one night, and I suppose it's a testament to my `Charming' skills that it was still that same enormous size when Moody brought it back for me.(Get it, `charming'?)Although I might have thought Hagrid would keep it after I was arrested, given that it's probably the only motorbike in the world that would fit him.

Seriously Harry, I hope you have as much fun on this, either with a girl or without, as your father and I did. FYI, it doesn't need petrol. It'll fly you twice around the world with no problems, assuming you'd ever want to stay on it that long.

Any problems at all, see the owner's manual James and I put together. Or you could read it for a laugh or two…

Happy riding!

Your insanely selfless and generous devoted godfather,

Sirius

P.S.-I mean it when I say selfless. Do you have any idea how tempted I was to just keep it?

Harry had done as Sirius said, gotten a helmet and so forth. He'd had more than a few laughs reading the owner's manual (written by The Incredibly Handsome and Daring Wizard Bikers, i.e., James Potter and Sirius Black) and enjoyed the jealous look on Dudley's face and the outraged one on Uncle Vernon's when Harry pointed out that it was highly unlikely that they, being Muggles, would even be able to get it to start, if indeed it didn't turn them into a pile of primordial soup when they touched it. He didn't tell them what Sirius had said about the bike's incompatibility with people the owner disliked.

Aunt Petunia had acted very peculiarly on seeing the bike. Eavesdropping on her talking to Uncle Vernon later, he learned that James had dropped off Lily at her house when Petunia had been home, asleep, and the two had driven past under her window at 4:00 in the morning, talking and laughing loudly and disturbing Petunia's rest. Laughing quietly, Harry had gone back upstairs.

The weeks that followed had been some of the strangest Harry could ever remember having at Privet Drive. Going back and forth between happiness over his bike, and trying to deal with his feelings from the events leading up to Dumbledore's death, Harry felt like an On/Off switch, going back and forth between brooding or meditating a little, to riding the motorbike Sirius had given him.

Whenever he reached the point where his thoughts started chasing around his brain in endless circles, Harry would go out riding to clear his head, meaning he spent more time away from Privet Drive than he had during previous summers.

One of the foremost thoughts in his mind was wondering why Dumbledore's death affected him so. Comparing him to the loss of Sirius more than a year ago, Harry wondered why he was able to get past his godfather's death, by and large, within a few weeks, while he dwelled on Dumbledore's so often. It wasn't even dwelling in sadness or depression, more of dwelling on the question of “What next?”

Perhaps the problem was Dumbledore himself. Perhaps it was because losing Sirius was painful only to him and a few others, while Dumbledore's death affected the entire wizarding world, and not just Harry alone. Perhaps it was because he had no idea what to do without Dumbledore. He knew he had to find the Horcruxes, but without Dumbledore, he had no idea where to start. Any information Dumbledore might have had on the Horcruxes' locations had undoubtedly died with him. Harry doubted that he could win against Voldemort and the Death Eaters without Dumbledore to help him in some way. Whenever this niggling thought crept into his head, Harry would go out riding again.

Despite Harry's warnings, Dudley had tried to ride the bike. This resulted in a full day when Dudley was unable to do anything but oink like an annoyed pig. Harry had evaded punishment by pointing out that it was a wizard's bike, not charmed by him, and since he couldn't really do anything to it until “my seventeenth birthday next week” (putting emphasis on those words) he could neither change the bike, nor restore Dudley's speech. His uncle had paled slightly when Harry had mentioned his birthday.

When Harry woke up on the morning of his seventeenth birthday it was to a feeling of elation. He was free. Free of Restrictions of Underage Magic, and of the Dursleys.

He dressed carefully, whistling to himself, and, pocketing his wand, went downstairs.

The Dursleys were sitting quietly at the table. It gave Harry no small amount of pleasure to see that they were all sporting baggy eyes. Apparently, none of them had slept well the night before.

“Good morning,” Harry said brightly, before sitting down at the table. Aunt Petunia, clearly trying to be nice to Harry this morning, stood up and headed for the frying pan and pitcher of orange juice on the counter.

“Don't trouble yourself, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said, producing his wand. The Dursleys flinched as one. Harry nonverbally levitated the pan and pitcher to the table, where the frying pan tipped its contents of eggs and bacon onto his plate before zooming into the sink, and the pitcher upended itself over his cup, filling it to the brim. Trying his best to behave as though he had done nothing extraordinary or unusual, Harry settled down to his breakfast.

And so the morning went. Harry volunteered to do the dishes, Aunt Petunia agreed, obviously afraid of what might happen to her if she should refuse, and gasped as Harry waved his wand and the dishes started to wash themselves, towels running over them afterwards before they flew into their respective cupboards. Harry volunteered to clean the kitchen floor!” -“Scourgify”—take out the trash -“Evanesco!”—and fix a cracked vase—“Reparo!”

The point of all this was not to terrify the Dursleys, but to show them that magic just might not be as evil as they thought. And although Aunt Petunia winced with every wave of Harry's wand, he saw her casting an interested eye over her sparkling kitchen later that day. She noticed her nephew's gaze, and nodded in curt approval. Harry turned back to the task of running a sponge over the countertops, waving his wand absently.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

Aunt Petunia was looking at him rather oddly. It reminded Harry vaguely of two summers before, after the Dementor's attacked him, and Dudley. It inspired the same thought anyway: Aunt Petunia was his mother's sister.

As if she could tell what he was thinking, she said, “It's a pity you never knew your mother. You look so much like your father. There must be something of her in you somewhere other than your eyes. Sometimes it's like I can see her looking out through them.”

As during her outburst when Hagrid first came to visit, Harry was stunned. Aunt Petunia had never talked to him like this, not this gentle tone of voice, not snapping at him. It didn't sound right and yet…he listened.

Perhaps she could guess what was going to happen. Perhaps his mother had been like this too. Eager to leave, postponing the moment for no other reason than to take a few hours to prove—to himself and others—that he could handle it, could handle being alone, to prove that despite all, he had still managed to grow up well. If so, then Aunt Petunia needed to have her final say as well. No matter how unorthodox it might seem to the both of them.

“I don't think she ever knew this, but I was sorry for the way I treated her. We were very close before, actually.” Harry knew that `before' meant before Hogwarts. “I thought nothing could drive us apart. I wanted to be happy for her, but I was so jealous. And I was sad, as well. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't share her world. I couldn't talk to her about what she did at school, because I didn't understand it. I wasn't a part of her world—your world—and I never could be, no matter how badly I wanted to be, if only it meant I could have my sister back. I could never understand why she chose to become a permanent part of that other world, when she came of age. I thought she was abandoning m—us, when she didn't have to go to school anymore. That was when my sadness at losing my sister to a strange world turned to anger towards her, for her choosing that world over me, which is where all your trouble starts, I suppose.” She sighed and sat down at the table, and Harry, taking the hint and not wanting to leave this story unfinished, sat down across from her.

“When I married Vernon I didn't want to invite her to the wedding, so I told my parents her invitation must have gotten lost in the post. They called her anyway and she came with James. She was engaged to him at the time, and I felt a little bad when she noticed that a chair hadn't been set for her. She tried to talk to me, but I avoided her. She caught me in the church car park as Vernon and I were leaving, and she begged to speak to me. The guests had gone home, fortunately, because James waved his—wand—and conjured chairs for the four of us to sit down. Vernon looked like he'd been hit over the head. He started yelling and waving his fists at James. James waved his wand again and Vernon went all stiff, with his hands frozen in midair. Lily looked at me, stark white and said, `You didn't tell him?' I couldn't answer. So far I had pretended to Vernon that I never cared much for my sister, implying that we had had some sort of falling out. He accepted that, but I just couldn't tell him that my sister was a witch. I thought he would leave me if he knew what my sister was.

“I still regret what I did next. I looked her in the eye and said, `I never want to see you again. I don't want anything to do with your unnaturalness. I'm not like you Lily, and I never will be. Don't come near me again.' ”

Aunt Petunia's eyes had filled with tears. Surprising even himself, Harry stood and got a tissue for her. She nodded gratefully at him.

“James looked just as stunned and hurt as Lily did. He waved his wand again, and Vernon took a step back from them, dragging me with him. Later I would explain to him about Lily, but right then I was just glad that he seemed to lay all the blame on them. We got in the car and drove away. I looked back, in the rearview mirror. Lily was crying, and James was holding her, trying to comfort her. I was amazed at how little guilt I felt then. I thought I had finally gotten my revenge for what I considered to be her abandonment of me. What I didn't realize was that she had never given up on me.

“And she never would, either.

“She tried to write to me. I never opened her letters. She tried to call me. As soon as I recognized her voice I would hang up. She invited me to her wedding to James, a few months later, sending the invitation through our parents. I had the flu at the time, so it wasn't hard to come up with an excuse and avoid going. A month after I found out I was pregnant with Dudley, our parents were found murdered in their home, not a mark on them. I received a letter from Lily the next day. That one, I opened. It explained what had been going on in your world, and the war against that evil wizard with the strange name. She explained that she and James were active members in the fight against him, which is why our parents had been targeted. At that moment, I hated her. I blamed her for their deaths. I told myself that if it hadn't been for her, they would still be alive.

She finished the letter by telling me she was pregnant and that if the child was a boy, they would name him Harry—after our father, and if it was a girl, they would name her Rose, after mother. Lily never wrote to me again. I realize now that she would not have been allowed to.

“Almost two years later, when I saw you lying on our doorstep, I knew without having to read the letter that came with you what must have happened. When I learned of their deaths, in the letter from that professor of yours, I wondered why she would give you to me. She knew I wanted nothing more to do with her, why would she trust me with you, her only son? When I understood that it was necessary for your protection, I couldn't very well get rid of you, though Vernon suggested an orphanage enough times. The thing is Harry-- I didn't take you in out of kindness. I took you in to continue my revenge on her. I thought that if I raised you with an eye to `squashing the magic out of you,' as Vernon put it, that maybe if you grew up to be a—Muggle-- then that would satisfy my anger, and I could forget my sadness at losing her to the magical world.

“I should have realized. Magic could never have been squashed out of you. Know though, Harry, that dressing you in hand--me -downs and making you live in the cupboard was Vernon's idea. He liked the idea of making you grow up normal, although for different reasons than keeping you alive, and he thought that the best way to do that was by keeping you miserable. It hasn't been easy for me, Harry, standing aside these sixteen years, or even bullying you myself. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry, that I didn't mean many things I said to you, and about you. I'm sorry I never treated you as I should have, and I hope that you'll be able to forgive me someday.”

She sat waiting for his reply, staring at the rumpled tissue in her lap.

Harry sat silently at the table for several minutes, trying to take in what he had heard. Part of him wanted to be angry, to finally rage at his aunt after holding his peace all this time. But a larger part of him understood. He understood what it was like to lose someone to forces beyond your control.

And he told her so.

“Aunt Petunia, I understand.”

She looked up in surprise.

“You don't know this, but I've also lost people who were close to me, people who were much more my family than you ever were. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but we both know it's true, that I was never really a part of this family. I wish it hadn't been that way but,” he sighed. “I can begin to see why you might have justified yourself in treating me the way you did, but I can't just forget about it. I have to know something, though…”

Petunia's POV

He looked up, and she was amazed at the loneliness she could see in his eyes. Loneliness that looked so much a part of him she wondered if it had always been there. Had that same expression been on his face every day as he watched her with her husband and son? Had he been hurt by them more than she thought?

“Yes? What is it?” Her voice sounded strange to even her, and yet familiar...the tone of her voice was that of a concerned mother to a child...familiar because she had spoken in that tone before, but not to Harry…never to her nephew.

Never to her sister's son.

Harry himself looked surprised, and she knew he had made the same connection. He was being spoken to by a mother.

Perhaps it was that subtle change in her voice that made the difference, but Harry was never sure if he'd be able to get the words out--until she spoke to him like that. And his words burst from his mouth.

“Did you ever love me, Aunt Petunia?”

Whatever Petunia had been expecting him to ask, it wasn't this.

But at his words, certain memories came back to her.

“It doesn't fit!” Harry cried, trying to push away the old brown sweater of Dudley's.

“Nonsense! If you'll just hold still...”

The sweater had shrunk in her hands until it might have fitted a hand puppet. She stepped back and stared at it in disbelief, realizing what had happened.

Things like this used to happen around Lily, when she was upset, things that weren't explained, until later.

Petunia knew the same thing had just happened here. She looked up, furious, intending to scold Harry and send him to his cupboard without dinner, when she saw the look of shameful defiance on his face, knowing he was about to be punished, and she remembered how Lily's mouth had quivered whenever she was upset, just as Harry's was now, and the rebuke froze on her lips.

“It must have shrunk in the wash,” she said casually, ignoring the look of amazement on her nephew's face. “Go on outside now, and don't get dirty!”…

…Vernon dragging Harry to his cupboard after being found on the roof of the school kitchens, trying desperately to explain that all he'd tried to do was jump behind some trash cans after being chased by bullies….

…Remembering how Lily had jumped over the backyard fence after being chased by a dog... the fence was six feet high, and she was only seven years old...laughing about it with her afterward, trying to figure out what kind of material her shoes were made of that made her jump so high…

…Getting sent home after his teacher's wig turned blue...Lily yelling while being spanked by their father, Harry Evans staring in shock as his skin turned green...

…The glass disappearing from the front of a boa constrictor's cage, after Harry had been punched in the ribs by Dudley...Lily holding up her hands to protect her face from a rock thrown at her by some boys, the rock disappearing....

…Finding Harry crying in the garden after being yelled at by Vernon...fighting the urge to comfort him, as she had comforted Lily so many times. Walking away, when she might have stayed. …

When she should have stayed...

“Did you ever love me, Aunt Petunia?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

“I…” She had to answer. This had to be said. This matter had to be cleared before he left. She was the one who had started this conversation. She couldn't leave it unfinished because it made her uncomfortable. This whole business was uncomfortable.

Coward. Speak and be done with it.

“I…didn't,” she whispered.

Harry's face immediately took on a closed expression, but she knew he wanted her to explain more fully.

“I didn't. I'm sorry,” she spoke still in that whisper. “I know I should have. I never should have blamed you for what your mother did. I never should have held you accountable for her choices. I should have treated you as you needed to be treated. I should have raised you better. I should have explained to you that you were a wizard years before your letter from Hogwarts came. But I didn't, I…didn't…I didn't love you.”

She realized that she was crying again.

“I'm sorry,” she said again.

After what seemed like hours, Harry spoke.

“I know.” He stood slowly, turned, and walked from the table, stopping at the entrance to the front hallway. “So am I.” He said softly.

She heard his footsteps down the hall, up the stairs, and into Dudley's—his room, she corrected her thought in mid-flight. She heard the door close, and the creak of mattress springs.

Then silence.

She laid her head on the table, holding the tissue Harry had given her tight in her hand.

I'm sorry Harry...Lily...I'm so sorry.

Forgive me.

Someday.

The rest of the day, Harry didn't speak to his Aunt again, merely doing what little she asked with nothing more than a nod to show that he had heard. She did try to make her orders sound more like requests, and regretfully acknowledged how strange it felt to say, “Harry, be a dear and set the table would you?” instead of her usual snappish, “Set the table and don't be all evening about it!” She did have to stifle a smile when he nodded quietly and gave his wand a halfhearted wave toward the cupboards, and the dishes flew out of it and arranged themselves neatly on the table.

Lily used to do the same thing.

Maybe this magic wasn't all that bad, she considered. It certainly cut the time and effort for chores, at least.

While Aunt Petunia finally seemed willing to try and make amends with her nephew, Uncle Vernon, however, remained convinced that Harry, and by extension, magic itself were two evils the world could do without.

He snarled at every display of magic, no matter how useful, and exploded that evening. Not literally, but close.

“I will not have any more of this unnatural, evil work in my house boy!” he roared.

“You call washing dishes and scrubbing floors a work of evil?”* Harry said mildly, speaking for the first time since his talk with Aunt Petunia that morning.

“I'll decide what's good and evil around here boy! Now that you're finally of age, you can leave, can't you? The minute you decide to leave, there's the door!” he shouted pointing at the front entrance.

“You know something, Uncle Vernon? You're absolutely right.” Harry said calmly, as though this thought had just occurred to him. In reality, he had been counting down the time until he could leave. His talk with his Aunt had finally given him the closure he had needed, although he knew he would need some time to come completely to terms with everything that had been said that morning.

Harry went upstairs and calmly packed his trunk, removed the contents from under the loose floorboard, checked every corner of the wardrobe and under his bed, tied Hedwig's cage, with Hedwig inside on top of the full trunk. He walked out of the smallest bedroom for the last time, shut the door carefully behind him, and carried his things downstairs. He walked calmly past his aunt, uncle, and cousin, nodding briefly at Vernon, inclining his head slightly to Petunia, who gravely nodded back, and looking at Dudley just long enough to make him uncomfortable, Harry then strode out the door one final time. He collected Sirius's old motorbike, now his, from the side of the house and walked toward the street.

Stopping on the edge of the driveway, Harry glanced back.

The only blood relations he had in the world looked back at him from the doorway.

Dudley blinked once, then turned and strode toward the kitchen, undoubtedly hungry.

Uncle Vernon waved sarcastically and made to slam the door shut, but Aunt Petunia stopped him. He snorted and turned to follow Dudley.

After he had gone, Aunt Petunia and Harry looked at each other for almost a full minute. She chewed her lip, and then raised her finger in a “Wait one moment” gesture before disappearing into the house.

Harry's mind flashed back to the previous summer after the dementors had attacked him and Dudley, and thought of the appreciation he had briefly felt for her that night, when he realized she understood better than the other two in the house what Lord Voldemort being back might mean.

He felt sad as he remembered her seeming appreciation of his magical skills that day, the odd sense of finality hearing her say that she didn't love him had given him, and regretted briefly that their relationship as aunt and nephew might have been better, if not for her husband's prejudice.

Aunt Petunia stepped onto the porch holding a small storage trunk, with an envelope stuck to the top in old cracking yellow tape. She carried the trunk over to Harry, saying, “This was Lily's. She left it when...” her voice trailed off.

Harry waved his wand, and the trunk rose out of her arms, through the air, and fell into his open saddlebag. He closed the bag, and straightened to look at his Aunt, his mother's sister.

Harry smiled gently at her, then lowered his eyes and bowed properly, as he had once to Buckbeack; respectful, determined not to show fear.

Straightening, he caught sight of her look of surprise that slowly turned into a return smile.

She stepped forward and hugged him. Carefully, as though she was afraid he might try to push her away.

Harry didn't push her away. This embrace felt strange. It was nothing like Hermione's hugs, anyway. It was... impersonal, like the hugs received from strangers at funerals, strangers who feel sorry for you, but don't know you well enough to embrace you for more than a few seconds, and who never say anything once they move away, just a final nod, not really meeting your eyes, then they leave.

His aunt patted his back once, and then pulled away, not quite meeting his eyes.

She said, “Goodbye, Harry.” Then she walked back into the house. She turned in the doorway, waved, almost sadly, and shut the door.

Harry mounted his motorbike, checking the ropes that secured his trunks, released Hedwig to follow him on the wing, and rode away. He rode away from Privet Drive, away from Surrey, towards his real home, the Burrow.

He didn't look back.

Now here he stood, on the threshold of the Burrow, the only place that had ever felt like a home to him besides Hogwarts, and rather more like home than the castle now.

He hadn't told Ron or the rest of the Weasley's when to expect him, just around his birthday, either before or after, unspecified. There were lights on in the house, and he could hear the low hum of conversation inside. No one seemed to have noticed him approach the house, either on his bike or on foot.

He raised a hand to knock, and hesitated.

They were all in there, Ron, Mrs. Weasley, and the rest of the family. Fleur and her family were also staying there, making final preparations for the wedding. Undoubtedly Hermione was there as well, and Ginny.

His stomach clenched. Why was he so nervous about seeing Ginny? He had scarcely given her a thought that summer, ever since he had broken up with her. She'd seemed to take it well enough; she hadn't even argued with him, hadn't tried to follow him into danger, as Ron and Hermione had done so many times, so it wasn't as if he was afraid of vengeance.

Maybe that was why he felt nervous though. She hadn't argued with him. Hadn't sent him a letter afterwards, hadn't even behaved as though she was bothered overmuch by it. She hadn't done anything, really.

In retrospect, he supposed it was all for the best. His feelings for her had been rather sudden, and had left just as suddenly. And if she could let him go like that, with hardly a word of protest, then maybe she hadn't cared for him all that much to begin with. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be.

He leaned his head against the door. He realized he could make out exactly what the occupants of the house were saying now.

“…do you think Harry's going to show up?” It was Ron's voice.

“His letter said sometime around his birthday, and that is today.” And that's Hermione.

“Well, I hope he doesn't mind that we kept his presents here for him.” Mrs. Weasley. “But it did seem silly to send them to him when he's going to be here soon anyway.”

“Hey, Mum, I think the clock's broken again.” Fred or George spoke this time.

“What makes you say that, dear?”

“Because Harry's hand was pointing to `Visiting', then `Traveling', and now it says, `Home' but he's not here.”

“Well I can't think why it would be pointing to home if he wasn't here…”

There followed a pause from all inside, then Harry blinked against the light as the door was flung open, and he found himself engulfed in Mrs. Weasley's hug, as the others crowded around.

“Oh, Harry, you are here!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed as she squeezed him tightly.

“You put me on your clock?” Harry said softly in some disbelief as Mrs. Weasley let go of him.

“Of course we did, dear. You may not be blood but you are like family to us, so it seemed ridiculous not to have you on it.” Mrs. Weasley was smiling at him, evidently unaware of the way her words had just made him feel. Like he belonged to a family, actually belonged—

“Hey mate, how's it going?”

Harry turned to Ron, and was given a perfunctory hug…brotherly, not motherly.

Though it was a rhetorical question, Harry answered it anyway.

“I've been pretty lousy. Aside from getting a motorbike for my `sixteenth' birthday, finally getting to use magic on Privet Drive, and coming here, that is.” He didn't think mentioning his discussion with Aunt Petunia was worth talking about with Ron. He would either think it was sappy, or that she wasn't serious. Maybe he'd tell Hermione about it though...

“Oh yeah, where is it?” Ron asked, looking past Harry and out the door.

“Next to the broom shed. But be careful, all right?”

Ron made a hasty exit, followed by Fred and George, who each slapped Harry on the back on their way out.

Turning back to the others, Harry smiled again at Mrs. Weasley before turning to a girl with short, straight brown hair who looked vaguely familiar…

Harry was a lot more familiar to this girl than she was to him, apparently, for she threw her arms around him in a hug that felt a lot like Hermione's, except that if it was Hermione, where was the hair that was usually in his face? The curly brown hair…

“Oh Harry I missed you so much!” the girl said, drawing back to look at him.

What was Hermione's voice doing coming out of this girls mouth? Unless…but no… it was impossible…she would never…

“Hermione?” Harry said, the disbelief evident in his voice.

“Yeah, who did you think it was?” she laughed, apparently thinking he was having her on.

“What on earth happened to your hair?” he blurted, his voice coming out much more horrified than he would have thought possible.

“I cut it and had it straightened, obviously.”

A million things were running through Harry's mind, but foremost was—

“Why?”

“Oh, Ron thought I should get it cut.” Hermione said airily, gesturing out the door.

“Since when do you take orders from Ron?” Harry was shocked. Since when had Hermione taken orders from anyone?

“Well, he didn't actually say I should get it cut. I just got tired of him complaining about it, that's all. I thought it would be a good idea...” she left the sentence unfinished, and didn't quite meet his eyes when she said this.

“You thought? You weren't sure?” Harry prodded.

“Well, you know how we were kind of, flirting, with each other last year?” she said tentatively.

Harry nodded. How could he forget? The backbiting, the sniping, the merciless mockery on Ron's part, like the time he had imitated Hermione in class, the childish jealousy on Hermione's part, pretending to date McClaggen to bother Ron, even though he had seemed happy, for the most part, with Lavender…

Not noticing the look that crossed Harry's face, Hermione went on.

“Well, after he broke up with Lavender, it seemed to be going okay. He did say he loved me when I offered to clean up his homework for him after all, but then there was Dumbledore's funeral, and he comforted me because you were busy with Scrimgeour, and…well… he didn't really write to me after we came home, but he did seem kind of happy to see me when I came here, and then, well…I thought if I got my hair cut, it might be the push he needed to ask me out, so I --”

Whatever Hermione had been about to say was cut off as a voice said from behind her “Hello, Harry.”

Harry looked over Hermione's shoulder at Ginny.

She wasn't smiling, wasn't frowning; she was wearing quite a neutral expression actually.

“H-Hello Ginny,” Harry stammered.

“How've you been?” she asked in a tone as neutral as her expression.

“Um, okay, I guess.”

“Good,” she said simply before walking out the door.

Harry turned back to Hermione, who was looking after Ginny with a slight frown.

Catching his gaze, she smiled, looked at the floor, back at him again, and then ran her fingers through her hair. “So, do you like it?”

“I—“

Harry couldn't answer. He had never realized until a few minutes ago how much he liked Hermione's hair. How much he liked having it in his face when she hugged him, liked the way she looked with it, liked the way it was much more curly than bushy these past couple of years.

And she had cut it off, because Ron hadn't liked it.

At that moment, Harry hated Ron. Only for a second, but it was enough to make him wonder if the two of them being together was a good idea, after all the insults and bad feelings between them.

Harry was saved from answering Hermione's question, because at the very moment that anger surged through him, he heard Ron yell outside.

Rushing out the door, Hermione on his heels, he looked toward the broom shed. Ron was sitting on the ground, and his hair—

Harry closed his eyes, kept them closed for a second, and opened them again. Disbelief seemed to be a recurrent feeling for him tonight, and it was reinforced by what he was seeing.

Ron's hair had lengthened slightly, and frizzed up, had become—bushy.

He was, in effect, now sporting a bright red afro.

He heard a strange sound behind him. Turning away from the surreal scene, he noticed Hermione with her hand over her mouth. Trying to hold in her laughter at her supposed future boyfriend.

Ron stood up and put a hand to his head. He looked from the bike to Harry and then to the twins, who were rooting through their pockets for a camera between guffaws.

Ron looked back at Harry.

“You didn't tell me it would jinx me,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted.

“I—didn't think it would,” Harry said honestly. Ron had never been on his mental list of people who would have trouble with the bike—until a moment ago.

Ron glanced at Fred and George, who were now taking picture after picture.

“It does come off, doesn't it?” Ron asked anxiously.

“Oh yeah, Dudley's only lasted about a day,” Harry assured him.

Ron walked past him into the house. He noticed Hermione behind him, still trying to smother her laughter.

“What's so funny? Yours used to be worse!” Ron snapped at her, before storming across the room and up the stairs.

Hermione's laughter was cut off abruptly. Harry looked from Ron's retreating back, to Hermione, who now wore a very hurt look.

“You thought it would be a good idea, huh?” he said quietly.

She didn't answer, just turned to follow Ron up the stairs, and Harry was sure it wasn't to follow him so much as to get away for a while and think.

Harry watched her go, missing her hair more than ever as he watched the short, straight hair that was so wrong for her sway from side to side.

This is wrong. He thought.

A/N- Don't worry, Hermione's not going to have the new hairdo the whole story, and the OOC Hermione that originated in HPB is not going to last very long in this story either. *evil chuckle*

*-This line is from The Sword in the Stone, Disney's animated version of King Arthur. It seemed to fit. Brownie points if you recognized it.

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