Disclaimer: Not mine.
Agapanthus
Halloween night was silent except for the soft rustling of dried leaves blowing along the pavement in the cold autumn wind. The street was empty, and the inhabitants of most houses were already asleep. When a thin man dressed in a long cloak appeared on the street corner, it was clear that he did not belong in the ordered normalcy of the quiet suburban street, with its neat green lawns and curtained windows. He paused at the corner, one hand in his pocket, and seemed to be deeply considering something. Then, he slowly pulled a small silver object out of his cloak. Holding it at eye level, he clicked it once, twice, twelve times, with each click extinguishing one of the twelve streetlamps lighting Privet Drive.
The man proceeded purposefully along the dark street until he reached the only house with a lighted window. Standing on the sidewalk, he regarded the street's only square of light with an inscrutable yet intent expression. Through the window he observed a gleaming kitchen, the stove bearing no trace of the evening's cooking, the sink free from dishes, the counters spotless and the floor immaculate. But his eyes were fixed on the kitchen table, where a woman sat in profile to him. She wore a pink housecoat, and supported her head with one gloved hand while absent-mindedly clutching a thick, yellow sponge in the other. There were soapy streaks along the table; it seemed as if she had stopped cleaning in the midst of her routine, too exhausted to continue.
With the air of steeling himself for something unpleasant, the man advanced resolutely up the walk. He faltered at the front stoop, temporarily mesmerized by the concrete steps and rubber welcome mat. Then he tapped lightly on the front door, not wanting to wake the other members of the household. Hearing a chair scrape against the linoleum floor, he ran a hand through his black hair in a nervous gesture. It seemed to take a lifetime for the woman to approach the door; however, the ensuing silence once she had opened it seemed eternal. Finally, in a small, breathless voice, the woman uttered a single word: "Harry".
Despite the late hour, nothing in her face or tone indicated surprise as opened the door wider and led Harry into the kitchen. In fact, she seemed devoid of any emotion. This was shocking to Harry, as the young man had expected his aunt to be startled at best, angered or disgusted at worst. Though her hands shook slightly as she poured tea, she said nothing as the pair settled, facing each other at the kitchen table with two cups on the still soapy surface.
Several times, Harry or Petunia attempted to break the silence, but faltered and took a sip of tea instead. Harry didn't really know what had brought him to the house. On this particular night, he felt some innate pull; maybe a need for final closure, a formal, unforced, and ultimate departure from the life that, as a child, he had so longed to leave behind. Finally, just as Harry decided that he could no longer stare at the clock above the stove as the minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly, Petunia spoke in the same small, breathless voice with which she had greeted her nephew.
"I've spent twenty years pretending she never existed, or, when I was forced to remember her, pretending that I didn't care. I didn't go to the funeral, or visit her grave, or do anything to help the only true family she left behind. I didn't share her with you" When Petunia raised her eyes from the cup of cold tea, they swam with unshed tears, though her voice remained steady. "I've spent every Halloween night at this table, in this chair, because the last time I saw her she was sitting where you are now. Oh the things I said to her! That was three years before she died, but she was already dead to me. My sister, my best friend –"
Her voice broke, and she hastily fixed her gaze on her teacup once more. Harry didn't know how to respond to his aunt. He couldn't understand how she had kept these emotions buried for twenty years. Even though Harry had spent his childhood oppressed by Petunia and her family, the guilt in her voice was heart wrenching. His thoughts drew his gaze to the cupboard under the stairs, visible through the kitchen door. He supposed that the callousness which had imprisoned him there for ten long years had really originated with his uncle, as he could not contemplate how the fragile shell of a woman seated across from him was the same tyrant he remembered from his youth. Feeling another's eyes upon him, he turned to face his aunt again, where her lips stretched into a barely discernible, but noticeably sad smile.
"Four years since I've seen those eyes. That was the hardest part of having you here; whenever I looked at your eyes, I only saw her." A single tear finally rolled down her cheek, and she hastily wiped it away. Hesitantly, she asked, "Are you going there tonight?"
Instantly, Harry knew she was referring to his parents' graves. "Yes." Then, after a slight pause, he uncertainly began, "Would you…"
Petunia shook her head to stop his question. "It's been too long. It wouldn't be right. To her or to you." Harry nodded, and made to stand up. "But," she continued tentatively, "if you wouldn't mind…"
Harry opened the gate and entered the cemetery. The moonlight lent a solemn glow to the gray headstones. Almost mechanically, Harry navigated through the rows until he found his parents. There, atop his mother's grave, he placed a small bouquet of agapanthus.
"Mum? She says she's sorry."
A/N: The way the final Harry/Petunia scene was written in DH was so perfect in that moment, but we never really learn how Petunia felt about Lily after she died. I've thought Dumbledore's mentions of the agapanthus (which are also known as African Lilies or Lilies of the Nile) are really interesting, so I really wanted to include them. I hope you liked it, thanks for reading!