Disclaimer: World of Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. You know the drill.
A/N: Well, I seem to be in a "writing about Dursleys' reactions to Harry's death" phase. Don't blame me. It just happened. I originally wrote this in past tense, but it was begging to be put in the present tense, and who am I to deny a fic's wishes? So here you have it. Set in St. Mungo's, I guess.
"Harry?"
"Hm — wha?"
"Your aunt's here to see you."
"Aunt Petunia?"
"Yes. Your uncle and cousin didn't come. Can she come in?"
"I suppose."
Molly turns to the door, holding in tears. It hurts her that Harry, the boy she's come to regard as one of her own, is slowly dying, and there's nothing to be done. She wonders how much longer she can stay together like this — Harry has about half a day left of life.
She opens the door, and the thin, blond woman walks in. Her lips are pursed, and she looks nervous.
"Should I leave the two of you alone, then?"
Petunia looks uncertainly at her nephew. He nods slightly. Molly shuts the door gently, leaving them alone.
Harry's aunt stares at him for a moment, then abruptly sits in the chair next to the bed. A very awkward silence follows.
"So — it's true, then?"
"That I'm dying? Yeah, it's true."
"And — the whole thing about — about that Lord — and a duel —"
"Lord Voldemort, yeah. I was fighting him, and I guess I won, except he got me with a curse that kills the victim, slowly and painfully, over the course of twenty-four hours." He sounds so detached, almost mechanical. There is weariness in his eyes.
"It — hurts, then."
"Like hell." The answer is pure and simple, so frank that it takes Petunia's breath away.
"I'm sorry." It isn't what she meant to say. She isn't sure she meant to say anything, really, and certainly not that. And yet, it is so sincere, so truthful, and she knows it.
"For what?"
". . . everything."
"I believe you."
Another unexpected answer. It makes sense, of course, but it's just so straightforward that it somehow doesn't. Life is all about dancing around the topic at hand, being diplomatic.
Petunia supposes that when life is nearly over you don't care about that so much.
"Aunt Petunia?" the boy says suddenly. There is a startling urgency in his tone.
"Yes?"
"Will you remember us? I mean, I know the entire wizarding world will remember me and mourn for me and write about me in history books, and all because of one stupid prophecy, but will you remember me, me and my mother? Will you remember us?"
To Petunia's surprise, there are tears in her eyes, and she has difficulty forcing out the word in a choked whisper.
"Yes."
Please review? -Puppy eyes-