Author's Note

As you'll be able to gather, this rather brief scene takes place shortly after The Half-Blood Prince. I'm not altogether sure of what else to say, except that I am enthusiastically waiting for the arrival of The Deathly Hallows in July! If a scene somewhat similar to this fanfiction should appear, I hope that it will be even better.

In closing, and with eager anticipation for Book 7: COME O-O-O-O-O-ON, PETER PETTIGREW!

Orchids, Lilies, and Petunias

Only three days had passed since Harry had returned to number four, Privet Drive, and already books were strewn unceremoniously across his bedroom floor. The tomes blanketed the floorboards, the shelves, the bed, and even the windowsill. And they weren't just Harry's either; parts of Hermione's and the Weasleys' collections had ambled there as well.

Harry himself had his nose buried into the cover of a red leather-bound volume at the corner of his bed. More than anything, frustration now lined his face. He never would have believed that he would be paying so much attention to the history of magic, and yet here he was, stretched out upon his tousled bed reading the chapter about Hogwarts's founders for the eleventh time.

For the past three days, he, Ron, and Hermione had camped out in his room while trying to do two things. One was to find something that might point in the direction of another Horcrux; another was to steer clear of the Dursleys as much as possible. The threesome was having difficulty with the former, but the latter actually seemed to be working out remarkably well on its own.

Ron and Hermione had opted for a walk around the muggle neighborhood because, as Ron had put it, "Our brains are about to explode with all this bookworming; I swear I heard it hissing a second ago."

Harry wasn't worried. Both were dressed in inconspicuous muggle clothing, and the sun was only just beginning to set. Harry, however, felt that he still had work to see to. The more he stared at the crinkled pages of these history books, the more frustrated he became, and the more frustrated he became, the more determined he was that he read something important between the lines.

And not once had the Dursleys interrupted him.

It was amazing, really. When Harry, Ron, and Hermione had arrived, Harry had announced that they would only stay for a few days, and hardly a word had been uttered on the Dursleys' end. Uncle Vernon had turned purple as usual while Dudley had gone pale, and Aunt Petunia had merely sucked in her breath and dizzily clamped onto the couch's arm. Even when Harry went down to the kitchen to pilfer enough food for breakfast and dinner each day, no one even glanced at him. During the day, the Dursleys often sped off in their car to tend to some nameless affair.

Harry found, though, that it suited him just fine. When he and his friends left number four for the last time, Harry was sure he wouldn't feel regret. Just being in this house made him irritable, despite Ron and Hermione's best efforts to cheer him up. Harry had an inkling that another reason the two had decided to go for a walk was to give him some time to himself.

Presently, as Harry turned the page after re-reading about Godric Gryffindor, a soft knock came from the door. Harry looked up from the book and glanced at the door.

"You don't have to be so shy about it, Hermione, just open it."

Yet even after Harry had extended the welcome, there was a long pause at the door before another voice whispered softly, "…Harry?"

But it was neither Hermione nor Ron.

It was an unexpected, very different tone of voice. Harry rose from his bed after he had closed his book and strode to the door, past the sleeping figures of Hedwig, Pigwidgeon, and Crookshanks. Cautiously, he turned the knob and creaked the door open.

"…Aunt Petunia?"

She stood rigidly with her fingers nervously woven together. Her hair was tied back in her tight, prim bun just as before, but she looked far paler than usual, and perhaps even thinner as well.

"Good eve…good evening, Harry," she murmured.

He glanced uncertainly behind him at the mess. Books, clothes, feathers, and assorted dining utensils lay strewn about the area. Nonetheless, Harry stepped aside with a sigh and offered, "Would…do you want to come in?"

Aunt Petunia reddened slightly, but she stepped into his room. As Harry slid the door open wider, she tried to avoid looking at the mess on the floor, as though glimpsing its filth would scar her eyes or make them water. Instead she timidly examined the walls, which were peeling and undecorated (except for a gaudy, moving poster of the Chudley Cannons that Ron had tacked up).

"Thank you, Harry," Aunt Petunia said, still with a wavering whisper in her voice.

There was a pause where Harry wondered why she was here, for it seemed Aunt Petunia was trying to get her thoughts together, even as she tried to avoid making eye contact with an inquisitive Cannon.

"So you're leaving this week?" she said finally, in a slightly stronger voice, as if she had gotten up her nerve. Her gaze was now fixed upon the messy bed and its dog-eared books.

"Yes."

"Then you're going back to…back to school?" Again Aunt Petunia's voice began to waver again.

"No. We're not going back to Hogwarts."

"…Then where?"

Now it was Harry's turn to falter. "…To Godric's Hollow. And before that we're going to Ron's brother's wedding…"

As if she had not heard him at all, his aunt made no movement in response, and continued to stare at the grungy bed sheets.

"…I see." And slowly she turned partially towards Harry, now looking at the sleeve of his shirt. "…And what will you do…there?"

By now, Harry felt exasperated and uncomfortable. Why was his aunt here? Why wouldn't she at least look at him, instead of avoiding his eyes like Dumbledore had in Harry's fifth year at school?

Gritting his teeth slightly, he answered, "We're hoping it'll be a step to defeating Voldemort."

Finally, though, Aunt Petunia glanced nervously up into Harry's eyes.

"Yes," she murmured, softer than any noise she had made thus far.

And amidst Harry's bewilderment, she seated herself promptly on the side of his untidy bed. And Harry, rather unsure of what to do with himself, decided to sit down beside her.

"You have your mother's eyes," Aunt Petunia whispered, mostly to her hands in her lap.

"Yeah, that's what I've been told."

"They didn't always look like hers…but now I see that they truly are…Lily's."

Struck by momentary confusion, Harry probed her face for an answer. "What do you mean?"

Aunt Petunia, however, did not respond to his question. "I was always, always so jealous of those eyes."

Surely Harry had misheard her.

"I always tried so hard to fit in and blend in," she continued. Her words suddenly came in great, crescendo-like gushes, similar to ocean waves. "But no matter how I tried, your mother always stuck out—standing up for people, always being so talented…later toying with her—her ghastly—her wand!

"But still everyone liked her. It was always "Lily this" and "Lily that" and people praising her, especially our parents. And while I tried to settle down into a nice lifestyle where the neighbors wouldn't glare at me twice, she gallivanted off on her adventures while the world got more dangerous…. She told us not to worry, not to worry, she would be fine, and her new husband seemed just as reckless, if not more so.

"And yet despite how hard I tried, when things went right for me, I was brushed off because everything turned out right for her, too. So eventually I concluded that it must have been her fault that everyone saw her as better than I was; perhaps, I thought, she had jinxed me. A gap separated us, and I widened it more and more every time I saw her. I tried very hard over the years to shut her out completely: her, her husband, her f-flying teacups, her hissing cat, her ever-blooming orchids, everything! I never wanted to hear about magic again.

"But then…." Aunt Petunia paused. Harry was now listening with a mixture of rapt attention and total bewilderment. Yet even as she caught her breath, her gaze never wavered from her hands in her lap. "But then it happened, and she and everything she had was gone…except for one thing."

"…Me," Harry finished soberly. His mind, meanwhile, was rummaging through his moving photo album of his parents' pictures. He had never wondered if for every smiling, waving photo of his parents, elsewhere there may have been another frowning, frozen photo of his grim aunt and uncle.

"Yes," Aunt Petunia whispered. "It was you. I tried to shut you out completely too. The cupboard was well suited for the son of someone I presumed had ruined my life…and Dudders really needed that room upstairs.

"And sometimes, I'd look at you with disgust because you were like a little hanging reminder of what I'd tried to forget. Sometimes I'd see a glimmer, just a small glimmer, of Lily's eyes. Dudders got everything he wanted because I felt that then he would finally be better than you, and I might have at last beaten my sister at something. I thought maybe we would be lucky too, that we'd be able to suppress any magical powers you might have, that you wouldn't have your parents' lingering tendencies…but you did. You had it all, and that simply was not tolerable. I never wanted the neighbors to start staring at us the way they started staring at Lily; that would have been the utmost insult….

"…But you went on, went on the same school, got away from Privet Drive no matter what we did…." With slightly red eyes, Aunt Petunia finally looked up at Harry. "And it seems that your mother's eyes are really there. Stubborn, reckless, unwilling to be defeated. Abnormal, abnormally green—but those are Lily's."

Harry found himself staring at his aunt. He had never once heard her use this sort of tone of voice before.

Shakily, it seemed, she rose to her feet from the side of Harry's bed. "Sometimes, though," she said, "I did get letters from her in the mailbox. She sometimes told me what she was doing and what was going on. And that man…"

"Voldemort?"

"Yes. No matter how well off my sister seemed to be or how much better she was than I was…" Glancing out the window (perhaps at the neighbor's lawn), Aunt Petunia was silent for some time. Harry waited patiently for her to go on.

"And now," she squeaked shrilly, finally turning back to him, "you're doing just what she probably would have done. Often I wish that she had never been my sister. But…before you go, Harry…I want to tell you to be careful. I've decided not to be jealous of her any longer."

She began teetering slowly towards the door, and Harry followed. "Aunt Petunia…" he began.

She stopped in the threshold and swiveled around, looking up very earnestly into his face.

"So be careful," she said in a less squeaky voice. "Be stronger than how I've encouraged you. Be stronger than my sister. That would make…Lily and James very proud, I think."

Amazed, Harry opened his mouth. When no words came, he smiled feebly and nodded.

Before she left the room, Aunt Petunia gave him a watery smile as well, one that previously would have been absurdly out of character. But as Harry watched his aunt hurry down the stairs and back into her tidy kitchen, it did seem as though perhaps a minute piece of his mother was left behind with him in a sigh of relief and a swelling wake of hope.