If Harry was expecting anything at all, he was disappointed. The next morning, and the mornings after that, Aunt Petunia pursed her lips in her usual manner and went about her business with absolutely no mention of that evening. Uncle Vernon proceeded to steal anxious glances at his wife whenever he thought nobody was looking; Dudley took it on his part to corner Harry whenever possible. With each slip that he gave Dudley, Harry consoled himself by thinking of ways to hex his cousin. After nearly having his front teeth knocked out, Harry thought darkly that Ginny's Bat-Bogey Curse would not be at all sufficient.

On the morning of July 31st, Harry stole downstairs very early, hoping that he could leave quickly without any confrontations. Each sneer from Dudley fresh in his mind, Harry debated whether to leave a few . . . surprises. (He could think of several ways to scare Dudley out of his wits, starting with his invisibility cloak.) An owl came during the night, dropping off a letter from the ministry:

Dear Mr. Potter,

Congratulations on turning seventeen. Having come of age, you are now permitted to perform magic outside of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This does not mean, however, that you may do so in the company of non-magic people (Muggles). Your new freedoms require much caution as well as responsibility, and we hope that you will not abuse your power.

Happy birthday.

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

Mafalda Hopkirk

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE

Ministry of Magic

The fact that he was now seventeen and a wizard adult did not thrill him as much as he once imagined; perks, of course, included not having to drag around his trunk manually, but the last time he had crossed a hurdle in the wizarding world, a giant—well, half-giant— had smashed down the door and had given him a pink-frosted cake.

Luggage in tow ("Accio socks!"), he crept into the living room. The window curtains were drawn, casting lacy shadows on the carpet from the peeking sun. He pointed his wand at the door.

"Alohomor—"

"Wait." A strained voice came from a high-backed chair turned away from him; Harry nearly dropped his wand.

"Er—Aunt Petunia?" Harry hazarded a guess. The voice seemed thick with emotion, so he wasn't too sure who it was.

"Hap . . . happy birthday, Harry," she said, with a queer choke in her throat. She stood up and faced Harry, wringing a cotton handkerchief in her hands. Harry wondered if he was still asleep, and if a cruel trick of his mind had just occurred. Either that or a Death Eater drank Polyjuice Potion to look like his aunt. Or maybe . . .

"I know that you've come of age, and that you're leaving," said Aunt Petunia slowly. Harry remained silent. She started again, "And—and I am entirely foolish for doing this, but—"

"Are you apologizing to me?" Harry blurted out before he could stop himself. She looked offended for a minute in her characteristic manner, but her eyes softened.

"I'm not so sure," she said, looking at Harry in a strange way, "but I don't think Dumbledore would have wanted for us to part like this."

Harry considered lashing out on her. After all, he endured seventeen years of abuse and hardship at her pleasure, but he relaxed when she mentioned his old headmaster. She was right, for once (in a good way). He sighed, and let his wand arm hang limply.

"I don't hate you, Aunt Petunia." Every memory of injustice and hatred rose up in indignation, shouting at Harry to take his revenge: Just go; ignore her! She doesn't deserve your forgiveness. Remember Aunt Marge and her dogs! Remember Dudley's diet! Remember the cupboard under the stairs! He pushed up his glasses wearily, and leaned against the front door. "I don't think Dumbledore wanted us to forever hate each other, either."

She stepped closer to him, hesitating. "You won't come back again, will you?" It was not a question. Both of them knew the answer to that. Harry shook his head, avoiding her gaze. Aunt Petunia walked to the door and opened it for Harry.

"I think—I know—that you could have opened that for yourself."

Harry walked outside and turned to look back at his aunt. She nodded slightly, crossing her arms, for once not in a forbidding stance. A bird chirped brightly behind him; Harry took the cue and threw his invisibility cloak around him.

Back at the Burrow, Harry found himself whisked away by Ginny, Ron, and Hermione before he could make much sense of what had happened with Aunt Petunia and he.

"Muggles treat you okay?" demanded Ron.

"You can do magic now, like us!" squealed Hermione.

"Well?" At this, Harry grinned and kissed Ginny on her cheek.

"Strangest thing happened there, you know," said Harry, sitting at the kitchen table with the Weasleys around him. "I found out that my aunt was serving a life-debt to Dumbledore."

Ron gaped at him. "A life-debt?"

"Yeah. Oh, and my mum used to work at St. Mungo's."

"No wonder Slughorn went on so much about her potion-making; she was good enough to be a healer!" Hermione said. Ginny looked curiously at Harry, like she was wondering whether to tell him something.

"What about your aunt? What happened with her?" Ron said interestedly. "I mean, I thought she wanted nothing to do with us."

Harry told them, and smiled wanly at their faces. It was not a happy subject. "So that's why she kept me."

Ginny patted his arm absentmindedly, and then broke out into a laugh. "You haven't asked yet about Phlegm's wedding."

"Phlegm?" he repeated blankly. Ah—"Oh, yes, Fleur—how—how is she?"

"She eez fine, thank you." Everyone turned to the doorway. Trust Fleur to make a dramatic entrance, Harry thought, as they watched her pause slightly before entering, as if to punctuate the fact that she was now in their presence. The silver-golden light radiating from her hair filled the room again, making Ron turn pale green. "She eez very excited for 'er wedding tomorrow!"

Fleur beamed at Harry, and hugged him lightly (here a rattling noise came from Ron's throat, and Ginny whispered loudly, "Honestly!"). "You will make a wonderful date with Ginny. She eez, of course, one of my bridesmaids! Gabrielle will come late-air zees afternoon."

"How's Bill?" asked Harry. Beauty and the beast, he thought randomly.

"He 'as healed completely. Although," Fleur said ruefully, "'ee's leg will nevair be ze same."

Ginny giggled. "That doesn't really stop him from chasing after you, does it?"

"My Bill does not chase after me." Fleur drew herself up to her full height and said airily, "He 'as already caught me."

Hermione choked, and Ginny tittered behind a cupped hand, nudging Harry slyly. Ron cracked his knuckles and crossed his legs.

"Are Charlie and Forge here today?" Harry rushed in defense of his best mate.

Ron shook his head, looking peeved. "They're out at the Ministry, getting permission to have a large group of people together in Muggle territory. I think Fred and George just want a chance to promote their new product."

"Really? What is it?" The last time Harry had been to their store in Diagon Alley, he received several pieces of merchandise for free. Harry looked forward to their future inventions with a slight twinge of guilt, knowing that his galleons went to a joke-shop that Mrs. Weasley only just made peace with. There was something brazen and almost repulsive about selling toilet-humor products in the middle of a war against Voldemort. Fortunately, that would have been true for anyone other than the twins.

Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking for all the world like Professor McGonagall. She pulled out a card from her pocket and cleared her throat. "'Ever been caught in a sticky situation? Ever wanted a solution for a hair-raising problem? Then this is the product for you: The Best Get-Away Ever! Befuddle your enemies with a combination of pepper eye spray, authentic-sounding banshee-blaster screams (that only they can hear), and stinkbombs that are nobody's business. We fully guarantee that it will cause stinging and watery eyes, explode ear drums, and make them never want to smell again all at once. While they close their eyes, fold their ears, and pinch their nose in agony, make your unforgettable, Best Get-Away Ever!'"

She looked disapprovingly over the card at Harry, who stifled a roar. Fleur looked mildly impressed. "Zey are very clever and funny, ze boys are."

"Actually, this is another thing that the Ministry is putting orders in for," said Ginny. "It's a quick and quite effective escape if you're ever cornered in some abandoned alley somewhere."

"Guess who their tester was?" spoke Ron moodily, "They told me that if they dropped the ball in front of me, they would give it to me for free. 'Course, I thought that it was just some silly football that tap-danced or something."

Harry silently resolved to ask Fred or George for the full details.

The rest of the Weasleys crowded into the kitchen, looking tired and harassed. Mr. Weasley sat down heavily, casting his newspaper onto the table. Harry looked quickly at him.

"No, nothing happened," said Mrs. Weasley briskly. She sat down, too. "We've been setting up the back meadow for tomorrow since dawn. Oh, and welcome back, Harry." A wave of her wand brought delicious-smelling bread and plump sausages to the table. Looking decidedly cross, she slid plates full of food to each person seated rather wildly.

"Eat."

"I thought she and Fleur were best friends now," Harry whispered to Hermione. She leaned in a bit closer.

"Well—they are, but Mrs. Weasley's been a little busy lately, with the wedding and all." She laughed softly. "And Fleur isn't making it any easier."

"Do you theenk zat ze red roses would look best on moi? Or ze pink roses—tell me, Harry," Fleur said suddenly, preening. "But on Ginny . . . we cannot have her 'air next to ze pink or red. Maybe just white."

Ginny stiffened. "See what I mean?" whispered Hermione back.

"Oh—why don't you ask Ron?" Harry glanced at Ron mischievously. "I don't really know too much about flowers." He watched in glee as Ron's face blossomed into flaming red.

Fleur looked at Ron expectantly, who stabbed clumsily at a piece of ham that had just slid off of his fork. "Yes, Ron, what do you theenk, my new brother?"

Ron dashed his face under the table, chasing after a rolling slice of potato. Hermione sighed in exasperation, and grabbed his shirt collar, vice-like. When he surfaced, Ron didn't look up. Harry wondered if Hermione finally made peace with Ron's infatuation with his future sister-in-law.

"Um . . . any one would look okay," muttered Ron. Fleur stooped closer, trying to hear him, her beautiful curls spilling onto the tablecloth next to Bill.

"Well, we only have white roses in our garden, so we'll have to make do with those," said Mrs. Weasley. She smiled a tiny bit. "You're right—pink and red would be awful."

"But zey are so romantic!" Fleur exclaimed, distressed. Bill put his arm around her and spoke into her ear tenderly:

"The wedding will be romantic either way."

Ginny and Hermione rolled their eyes, while Harry stuffed his mouth with his buttered toast in an effort not to laugh hysterically at the melodrama unfolding in front of him. For a while, as the family ate together in the bright kitchen, Harry forgot that he was going to visit his parents' graves, and that he would have to face Voldemort sooner or later. He squeezed Ginny's hand under the table, looking into her dancing eyes, and felt the burden on his shoulders lighten.

A/N: The wedding WILL HAPPEN in the next chapter. I got carried away a little here.