Two songs did it for me with this chapter: You Are My Sister (Antony and the Johnsons) and My Sister (Juliana Hatfield). Now can you guess who it's going to be about?

Disclaimer: I'm just using JK Rowling's universe and characters and really messing them up.

Chapter 13
29th August, 1998

Lilies

He had wanted to come back.

Last time, he'd been here with Hermione. That had been difficult enough. He couldn't separate that memory from the one of Bathilda Bagshot and Nagini, from cold fear and horror. That wasn't what he'd expected to feel for the place his parents had lived in. It wasn't what he wanted to feel for the place. Every time he thought of it, images of Nagini and Voldemort, sometimes a hint of a tingling behind his scar – he knew it had to be his imagination – assaulted him. Voldemort is gone, Voldemort is gone, Voldemort is gone. The realisation left him feeling rather empty, not euphoric and victorious as he felt it should, as everyone else thought it should. Empty of fear, empty of hate, empty of passion, empty of feeling. For a few days after the Battle, he had felt almost devoid of purpose, though the gruelling restoration of Hogwarts had quickly put an end to that.

He hadn't been sure he could face going back here by himself. And yet the idea would not leave him alone, and he knew he was going to have to go eventually. He knew Hermione and Ron would have said Yes without thinking, even if they really didn't want to go, so he hadn't asked them. He had asked Ginny. There was nothing fair about asking Ginny, whom he didn't know where he stood with at the moment and who had suffered so much from Fred's loss. But he had asked her because he knew she would refuse if she felt like it.

He had been very afraid she would say No, but she hadn't. She had looked at him very hard when he asked, but she hadn't said No. She had said Of Course and When? He had said "Tomorrow" and now here they were, walking through Godric's Hollow. It wasn't the same thing without the snow – warmer and duller at the same time. It wasn't the same thing without Hermione – less comfortable and yet more right somehow. They passed the ruins of his parents' home; Ginny smiled and he stopped to trace the encouraging graffiti with his fingers: We believe in you. Two more recent ones read Knew you could do it, Harry and Victory!

"It's beautiful," Ginny said quietly.

He had known she would understand, as Hermione hadn't been able to.

Ginny seemed content to wander around, so that was what they did. Something invisible seemed to be pulling him to the cemetery – he knew that was what he had come for –, but he resisted it at first. Instead they slowly walked around the village, her hand in his, looking at the houses and trees and streets. Everything was eerily silent: the streets empty, the curtains drawn in every house. Hogsmeade was something like this now, too. At one point he said something and Ginny laughed, a high, clear laugh which seemed to linger in the air long after it had ended. For the most part they had both been silent, breathing in the air of the place – fresh and terribly sad at the same time –, but when Ginny laughed he found his strength.

He led her to the cemetery, which again without the snow looked different. He could have found the grave in his sleep; the memory was etched into his mind forever. So he knew he wasn't mistaken when he saw a figure already leaning over his parents' grave. A woman in a Muggle clothing, with blond hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Harry pulled up short and froze; Ginny almost ran into him.

"Harry, what –" She followed his gaze and frowned. "Oh! Is that –?"

The figure looked up and Harry backed away a step or two.

"Aunt Petunia?"

Damned if she knew why exactly she was here – laying flowers on his grave. She hadn't been here since the funeral, which she had attended, despite what Vernon thought of it. She had organised it and she had insisted on attending, without her family. She remembered Vernon's face when she had said, "She was my sister!", remembered thinking it was a reflection of her own shock at the words. The air of the place hadn't changed since then: suffocating and unwelcoming. She had hated the village on sight, had thought the church ugly and plain and the houses too old to be called quaint. Still, she had felt the need to come back. So suddenly, after so many years – almost twenty – away, she had wanted to come back.

She had seen the memorial for the first time that morning. She had almost screamed when she saw the simple, sober obelisk waver, than shift into a statue of three people smiling down at her. Then she had gone to their house, not really knowing why. As she traced the bars of the rusty gate with her fingers, a sign appeared – again, she leapt back in fear. Invisible to Muggles... It was Lily's blood which had woken the magic up for Petunia, so that she could see the sign. The inscriptions for the boy had shocked her: If you read this, Harry, we're all behind you! or We can do this, Harry! Some had been written years ago. The war had been such a serious thing, and he had been right in the middle of it. Why hadn't she ever realised that?

Why hadn't she cared?

She had found the grave easily. So many years later, she still remembered exactly where it was.

She had brought lilies, a flower her sister actually despised with a passion, but that the Potter boy (how did she know this, why did she remember it?) had been rather fond of and that Petunia had once loved. She set them down on Lily's side first, and stayed there for a moment, kneeling on the cold stone which even the midday sun could not warm. Then she impulsively reached out, unwrapped the ribbon tying the lily stems together, and set half of the flowers below his name. After all, he would have appreciated them more.

"Hello, Lily," she said softly. "Your son is alive. That's all you would want to hear, isn't it? He's alive and well as far as I know. I haven't seen him since last year, but they said he was alive and the war was over. That means you've won, I think."

Then she heard the voice and she looked up.

And she started and felt herself go quite faint because though Lily had assured her that ghosts were real, she had never expected to find herself face to face with one.

The ghost said, "Aunt Petunia?" and she realised it was Harry.

It was the hair. She was sure of it. He had grown taller still and looked almost exactly like his father; a girl with red hair beside him and the breath was knocked out of Petunia because – because – Lily. It had to be the hair – red hair as bright as fire, and hand in hand as they were, and he so much like his father... And the grave, the fact that she was kneeling on their tomb.

For a second, she could have sworn her sister and her murderous husband had come back. But it was only Harry. Just Harry, with Lily's eyes.

"Harry," she said, standing up.

She saw his gaze flick to the flowers, then back to her, his expression unreadable. The girl holding his hand looked somewhat apprehensive.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.

A harsh, cold tone which, despite everything, she had never heard in Lily's voice. The spell was broken; she flinched.

"I brought them... flowers," she said.

"Lilies."

She snorted at that, thinking of what Lily would say: How terribly thoughtful of you, Petunia; you'll never change, will you? That had been the essence of her thank-you letter for the vase Petunia had sent her for Christmas.

"I... er..."

Harry didn't really say anything, but she could tell he wanted her to leave. He probably wanted nothing more than to forget her and Vernon, and forget especially that she had ever been here, in this village. This cemetery. Standing before their grave.

"I never liked your father," she said, looking sideways at the flowers.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry's jaw clench.

"I never really knew him," she said. "By that time Lily and I weren't really talking. But what she would say... it was all wars and deaths and danger and always, always that Potter boy lurking in the shadows.

"I blamed him for her death."

Harry looked sharply at her.

"I still think that if she hadn't met him, she wouldn't have died like this," she said quietly. "Maybe you'll say I don't understand how that sort of thing works – and you're right, I don't. But I can't help thinking that – that – that it was his fault she died.

"I didn't go to their wedding, and I never invited them over once they were married. I saw them only twice; once when he stopped by to pick her up after her seventh year of school, and once right after you were born. She didn't send a card, you know. She just showed up on our doorstep and said this was Harry and she thought I might like to know I had a nephew even though he was likely to be as abnormal as her. I didn't let her in, because Vernon would have had a fit if he'd seen them... Your father was with her then, and..." She shook her head. "You look so much like him. The way you're looking at me right now – he hated me. He was about as tall as you were..."

"I know," he said shortly.

He looked at her, searching her gaze; it hurt to meet his eyes.

Then he said, "This is Ginny. My... friend. You've met Mr Weasley; he's her father. Ginny, this is my aunt Petunia."

Ginny reached out with her free hand cautiously, a guarded expression on her face. And Petunia took her hand and shook it very quickly, and let go just as quickly. Something flickered in Harry's expression.

"I'm sorry they're dead, you know," she said quietly. "And I'm sorry we lied to you – not about being a wizard, but about them. They weren't lazy or useless or good for nothing. They weren't worthless or jobless. They probably had more money than Vernon and I ever will."

"I know," he said again, but his tone was less harsh this time.

She glanced at the lilies again, fresh and white against the stone. "And I think they were happy."

"They were."

She hesitated. "How did..." She faltered, stopped, then started again, her voice steadier. " How did they die?"

He looked startled. "You never knew?"

"I know that Dark Lord of yours – Voldemort – killed them. But they never said... no one ever told me why. Why they were fighting him in the first place, why they were killed by him personally. And why you were so involved in all of it. Why we – " she gestured at herself – "Vernon, Dudley and I had to go into hiding. We didn't really understand... still don't."

Harry looked off into the distance, his lips pressed together in a thin line. "It's a long story," he said after a moment.

"I've waited almost twenty years to know."

"I..." He looked back at her, looking indecisive. "I don't know if I'm the best person to be telling you this. But I suppose I'm one of the few who knows everything..." He paused. "All right. You know who Voldemort is?"

She nodded. "He killed your parents. He had lots of followers..." She struggled to remember. "Death Eaters."

His eyes widened slightly. "How do you know that?" Then he shook his head. "Never mind. The word 'Muggle' means something to you, too, right?"

"Yes."

"Voldemort was the child of a pure-blood witch and a Muggle. Pure-blood means with no Muggles in the family. Voldemort's Muggle father, Tom Riddle, abandoned his pregnant mother, Merope, when he realised she had used magic to get him to love her. Merope died in childbirth and Voldemort was left an orphan, but not before his mother had named him Tom after his father. Tom grew up in a Muggle orphanage. He was a gifted wizard and he was a very bitter person. He took to using his magic to hurt others, steal things, or get people in trouble. When he was eleven he discovered he was a wizard and went to Hogwarts. He was an excellent student and very interested in the Dark Arts."

"He was in Slytherin house, wasn't he?"

Harry looked startled again, but he nodded. "Yes, he was. When he learned the truth about his parents, he hunted down his father and killed him. Then he killed what remaining family he had on his mother's side, the pure-blood side. After Hogwarts, he started styling himself 'Lord Voldemort' and amassed a following of Death Eaters. He also started creating Horcuxes – it's a sort of Dark Magic which allows you to store a part of your soul into an object so you never die, but it's horrid. And..." He paused. "I'm not sure how to say this, but it was war. It wasn't like war on the telly, with soldiers laying traps and risking their lives for the country. It was these Death Eaters going around terrorising, torturing, and killing people. The Ministry started locking people up without trial, or having them Kissed by Dementors... That was when my parents joined the Order of the Phoenix. It was created by Dumbledore and was supposed to fight Voldemort – Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones, who saw you off to safety last year, are part of it.

"Then there was this prophecy."

Petunia frowned.

"I know, I know," Harry said quickly. "I've always thought Divination was rubbish, too. But it's an important part of the story. There was a prophecy about a child who could defeat Voldemort... It went, 'either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.' And Voldemort decided that child was me, because my parents had defied him three times... And that was when he decided to kill me." His hand rose, absent-mindedly, to his scar. "My parents went into hiding, but their friend betrayed them. Voldemort killed my father, and then he gave my mother a choice. If she had stepped aside and let him kill me, she would have lived."

Petunia gasped. "She died... for you?"

"It wasn't my father's fault," Harry said softly. "It was mine."

Petunia digested this. "The two you spoke about, earlier... of your kind. Diggle and Jones. They came back for us. We're back at Little Whinging now."

"I know," he said yet again.

"You won't be coming back?"

He looked at her oddly. "I don't think so."

"But you won, right? The war."

"Yes."

"So he... Voldemort?"

"He's dead. For good."

She thought she might have sighed.

Harry looked at her curiously and said, "Ginny, maybe –"

The red-headed girl dropped his hand and backed away a little, as though to give them privacy.

"You know..." Petunia said. "I didn't hate them."

"Didn't you?"

"I don't think so. And I never hated you, either."

"I'm not sure I can believe that."

"Well, I don't think I did."

She was looking straight at him, staring avidly into green eyes. When Lily and James had brought their baby over that first time, she hadn't looked at it, really. She had more or less shut the door in their faces. So she hadn't seen his eyes until the day he appeared on her doorstep, all by himself. His eyes were what had decided her to take him in.

"No," she said, more decisively, "I don't hate you."

"I don't hate you, either." He paused for a second. "How's Dudley?"

The question surprised her.

"He's fine. He's at college. He'll be fine."

"So will I," he said, as though he knew she had wanted to ask. "I have a job – I mean, I'm in training right now. I won't bother you anymore. The war is over and Voldemort is dead. You don't have to hear from me ever again."

"I don't need to hear about... magic," she said. "But sometimes... maybe you could just send a letter. By the post. Our post, I mean."

He smiled a little. "Maybe." His eyes dropped to the lilies again. "She loved you."

"I know."

He nodded, like he wasn't surprised.

"Harry..."

She probably should have hugged him, or kissed him on both cheeks. This felt like it was good-bye, really good-bye.

She held her hand out and said, "Good luck."

"Good-bye, Aunt Petunia."

He took it.

Like it, hate it?

(Like the songs? I do.)

Next chapter is Hermione... and Draco. ^^

Note: I am growing more and more annoyed with spell-check because even though I add words ever day it keeps nagging at me when I run it through fanfiction. For this chapter, for example, I had to add Bathilda, Bagshot, Merope, Horcruxes, Dedalus, Diggle, Hestia, Whinging, and fanfiction.

Argh.

So anyway, typos, etc, etc, are to be expected. Feel free to point them out.