Days passed into weeks. Weeks blurred into months. Michael had never known himself to have a better summer. Soon, the bright, burning month of July arrived, tingeing the air with the heady scent of summer primroses. Michael opened his eyes and blinked up at the calendar propped against the books on his desk. His stomach gave a little jolt. It was his birthday today.

Michael had never really had much of a birthday back when he lived with the Dursleys. They generally ignored him and forced him to make their breakfasts. Whenever Dudley got presents on his birthday, or during Christmas, or just because the Dursleys loved rubbing it into Michael, Michael could not suppress a tiny regret that he was not with his real parents. Of course, that was before he knew Albus and Minerva. Thus, Michael was slightly hopeful to see what Albus and Minerva would do for him today.

He swung his legs over his bed and quickly got dressed, scrutinizing himself in his mirror. Michael smiled at his reflection when he saw how clearly he resembled Minerva. His green eyes raked his messy black hair and rested on his jagged lightning-bolt scar. As he traced the pale pink scar, he could not help feeling that his two worlds-the life he had with the Dursleys versus the life he cherished now with Albus and Minerva- had come to a merge and reconciled themselves.

As he pulled a T-shirt over his head while descending the stairs, Michael stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the kitchen. His green eyes widened at the sight of a towering mountain of presents . . . presents he dared not hope were for him. Instantly, he was transported back to the day of Dudley's birthday one year ago: Michael remembered cooking the bacon for breakfast, pouring Vernon's coffee, trying not to spill it as Dudley hammered the table bellowing that he only received 36 presents . . .

Michael sighed into the silence that pervaded the room and headed to the kitchen to prepare this morning's scrambled eggs. He had to smile slightly when he remembered the charred remains of Albus' disastrous attempt at cooking the first day he got to their cottage. He whipped the eggs and poured it into the pan. While adding the seasoning, Michael sensed, rather than heard, Minerva's soft presence. He turned around and, indeed, there she stood, looking like a goddess with her black hair flowing around her shoulders.

"Uh . . . hi, Mum. I . . . "Michael stared down sheepishly at his shoes, feeling her intense gaze on him.

"Happy Birthday, Michael love," Minerva said softly, crossing to where he stood and lifting his chin. As she did so, a streak of golden sunlight fell across her son's face, over one of his eyes, edging his green iris with golden streaks. She stroked his cheek affectionately and turned to see Albus grinning face emerging from behind a Muggle camera.

"Albus! I thought I told you no pictures . . ."

"But it turned out wonderfully!" Albus protested, clutching the developed photo to his chest. Michael turned off the flames on the stove and walked over to see the picture. He smiled when he saw the picture: it did not move like the wizarding pictures, but there was a certain magic about it nonetheless. Michael tentatively held out the picture to his mother, who took it with a slightly mollified expression. Her keen eyes softened into love when she saw the picture. Turning around quickly, she tried to pass off brushing her slightly wet eyes by smoothing her sleeves. Albus, having known her for as long as he had, approached her hesitantly and gently touched her hand.

Minerva took a deep breath and turned around, making a mental note to add the newest photo to the photo album she intended to give Michael today later. She waved her wand and instantly, kippers, toast, and marmalade appeared. She set the table and soon called for her husband and son to sit.

"Save some room for dessert, Michael," Minerva said, giving him a gentle pat on the hand.

Michael opened his mouth in confusion. "Dessert after breakfast?"

"Your mother and I made . . . " Albus started to say, but quickly shut his mouth as Minerva gave him a piercing, dagger-like glare.

"Not now, Albus!"

Michael grinned, watching as his Dad hung his head in embarrassment.

"Thank you," Michael replied, his emerald eyes sparkling happily.

Minerva gave him a tiny smile in return and raised her cup of tea to her lips.

A small silence ensued. Michael watched his mother eating, wondering if what he was about to say would make her uncomfortable. He finally decided for it and screwed up his Gryffindor courage.

"Mum?"

"Hmmm?"

"You, ah,…look different."

"What? Has my face suddenly turned green?"

Michael giggled. "No, Mum, don't be silly. I mean . . . your hair . . . it's different."

Minerva blushed deeply and lowered her eyes. A small smile began to curve the corners of her lips. Albus reached over and gave her hand a light squeeze.

"No, it's looks nice! I . . . I didn't mean. . . "

"You're right, Michael," Albus replied with a twinkle. "I've been telling her for years to . . . er, let her hair down once in a while. She's very lovely, isn't she?"

"Now, really, that's quite enough, both of you!" Minerva's Scottish lilt tinged her voice, as it always did when she was either very angry or very flattered. Albus smiled inwardly, thinking that he was the only one capable of making her feel both ways quite frequently. "I willna stand for it, especially from you, Albus. Michael, I thank ye for the lovely compliment."

"What? I don't get thanked for complimenting my lovely wife?" Albus feigned offense, melodramatically putting his hand over his heart.

"It remains to be seen, Albus, if ye do. Are you finished, dear?"

Albus smiled at her and nodded. She rose to gather their three plates and brought back three dessert plates. Michael looked up hopefully and felt his throat constrict when he saw Minerva carrying an iced, chocolate cake. She set it down in front of him and waved her wand to light the candles.

"Make a wish, darling."

Michael closed his eyes and thought momentarily. Then, leaning closer, his eyelashes fluttered up as he prepared to blow. The candles all went out at once. He turned his face to his parents, who were watching him lovingly. Minerva sliced the cake magically and distributed the plates.

"I iced the cake, Mikes," Albus announced proudly, grinning widely at him. Minerva gave her head a single shake and scraped off a tiny bit of frosting.

"I had to watch that your father didn't eat all the frosting himself. There were several times when I had to . . . I can't believe what a sweet tooth you have, Albus."

"Thank you. For everything." Michael took a small bite and smiled at his parents.

"You're welcome, love." Minerva gave her son a long look before squeezing Albus' hand underneath the table.

/-/-/-/-/

A couple hours later, Michael walked into the living room and saw Minerva curled up on the couch, turning the pages of a handsome leather-bound photo album. He cleared his throat awkwardly, not sure if she wanted to be left alone.

"Hi," she said warmly, straightening her legs and brushing her loose strands of hair away from her face.

"May I ask what you're looking at?"

"Why don't you come sit here . . . next to me?" Minerva patted the seat by her and waited for him to sit down. Michael snuggled into her side; she put an arm around his thin shoulders.

"This is a photo album that I've put together for you . . . over the years. Look," she said, pointing to the very first picture. "The day you were born was the best day of our lives. And here, on your second birthday, I made a similar chocolate cake to today's one . . . you have chocolate frosting on your nose . . .

"Can I see?" Michael slid the album to his lap and slowly fingered through the photographs, which were a mixture of both the wizarding and the muggle kind. As he gazed into his forgotten childhood, painful memories gushed up inside him, and his eyes burned from unshed tears. Minerva understood how he felt; she swallowed and rested her cheek on his untidy black hair. Albus called them softly.

"Michael? Er . . . if you want, I think a trip down a Pensieve might explain things more clearly."

"Sure, Dad." Michael gave a last glance at the picture Albus took today and gently closed the album. He crossed over to where Albus stood, waiting. Then, together, the three of them, Michael, Albus, and Minerva, linked arms and approached the great stone Pensieve sitting in the corner of the room.

A/N: Well, my readers, how do you like this so far? Please review! (Okay, please please with Albus' chocolate frosting on top…)