Five years—it had been five years since the end of the war.
Harry Potter had donned his Muggle attire: a black jacket, jeans, sneakers. He looked ordinary, like anyone else on Privet Drive. Yet, when one was a hero in the wizarding world, it was difficult to feel remotely close to ordinary; he felt strangely vulnerable and out of place standing at the door of Number Four.
It had been home—Hell, but still his home.
He knocked.
A blonde, long-necked woman cracked open the door, and instantly, her eyes widened and her mouth thinned. He tried to smile at her, but he couldn't. She looked older and tired, but no less capable of hitting him over the head with a frying pan. Finally, she opened the door all of the way, but made sure to block his way in; he was not welcome.
He never had been.
"Hello, Aunt Petunia," he started awkwardly. "Er—may I come in?"
"No," she spat. "You may not."
"Oh, well," he said, unwilling to look at her directly. Her foot was tapping impatiently, and she was wearing a frilly apron. "I was wondering…you see, I'm getting married…if you would like to come to the wedding. Maybe."
Her foot stopped tapping.
"You're getting married?" she asked incredulously. "To who?"
"Ginny—Ginny Weasley. Do you remember Mr. Weasley?"
Petunia was silent, but then walked to the side of the doorway. He was allowed in—if only so the neighbors wouldn't talk. Clearly, she had assumed by denying him entry that he would leave.
The door shut behind him and Petunia led him into the kitchen. It was spotless as usual, though it appeared the Dursleys had bought a new sink. He sat at the opposite end of the table from his aunt, and for a moment, there was only the sound of a ticking clock in the other room.
"Vernon is at work," she said stiffly. Her eyes flickered to the wall where there was a collection of pictures of Dudley at various ages hung. "And Dudley has moved out. He lives in London now."
"That's—that's great," Harry said. Petunia ignored him.
"He's been wondering where you've been."
The silence was almost suffocating.
"He has?"
"I'm not going to your wedding," Petunia said purposefully. "But I can't say the same for Dudley. He…he might want to come. Invite him."
Suddenly, she pulled out a scrap of paper from her apron pocket and started scrawling out an address for Harry with a pen; she slid it across the table to him, and he placed it in his pocket.
"Thanks," he said, standing up. "Well, I'll be going, then—"
"Do you want some tea?"she blurted out, and Harry froze, about to push in the chair. Petunia was equally stunned with herself, and looked incredibly flustered.
"Sure," he spluttered. Unable to do anything else, Petunia took the kettle off the stove and busied herself in pouring tea for the both of them; Harry sat back down in the chair slowly, not quite believing the turn of events.
He wondered if she would attempt to poison him.
They drank their tea in silence, opposite of one another, neither daring enough to make eye contact. Finally, after a few minutes, Petunia spoke up again.
"So," she said, steadying herself, "he's dead. Lord Voldemort—he's dead, isn't he?"
"Y-yes."
"You killed him." It was a statement, not a question; Harry nodded silently. "I heard—one of your lot said it—Severus Snape is dead, too. I—I knew him. He was friends with your mother."
"He was in love with her." Petunia looked at him almost sadly. "But you knew that, didn't you?"
"I remember he threw pebbles at her window, but she wouldn't go outside," she said hoarsely.
"He hated me," Harry muttered. "He was one of my teachers."
Petunia sat back in her chair, trying to think of something to say. "It's funny," she finally said, mostly to herself. "It's like everyone grew up at once."
He hadn't the faintest clue as to what she meant.
Meanwhile, she leaned over and took his empty teacup. For the second time, Harry stood up.
"Bye, then, Aunt Petunia. Thanks for the tea."
Her back was to him as she stooped over the new sink, but she tensed. When she said nothing, Harry walked quietly down the hall and toward the door. Suddenly her face resurfaced, and conflict was evident on her features.
"Harry," she said, and the use of his name nearly made him jump, "don't—don't come back."
He said nothing and turned away again; his hand rested on the doorknob, and he was about to open the door.
"Harry," she said again, but her voice was stressed, almost broken. He didn't look around to see if he heard those tears forming in her eyes correctly. "I'm sorry."
The kitchen door slammed shut, and Harry Potter took a deep breath.
Privet Drive had never looked so serene in all of his life.