Disclaimer: J.K Rowling owns everything you recognise.

A/N: I think that, despite the way she treated Harry, he still feels some sort of love for Petunia. She is his aunt, after all.

Petunias and Lilies

Harry stared down at the letter, written on paper, not parchment, in shock.

'Harry?' Ginny let herself into his study, frowning, and he realised that he'd been sitting here for almost an hour.

'Harry, is everything alright?'

'Dudley sent me a letter,' his voice was hoarse from misuse.

'What about?' Ginny asked carefully, handing him a glass of water which he accepted without thanks.

'Read it,' he told her and she glanced at him, troubled, as she took the letter from him, eyes growing wide as she scanned the typed writing.

'Your aunt?'

Harry nodded and Ginny sighed, pulling him up out of his chair, hugging him hard.

'Should I let the team know that I need a day off?'

Harry pulled away, surprised, 'You-You want to go with?'

'She was part of your family, Harry, if you want to go, then I'll go with.'

Harry smiled weakly and pulled her into another hug, nuzzling into her neck, mumbling.

She giggled, 'I love you too.'

If Dudley was surprised to see Harry and Ginny walking toward him he didn't show it.

'Thanks for coming,' he mumbled when they reached him, shaking Harry's hand and giving Ginny a rare hug, then led them to the grave where Petunia Dursley would be buried.

It was a mercifully short service and Harry stayed beside Dudley through it, a hand on his shoulder.

'I'll get you back at the car, alright?'

Ginny kissed her husband's cheek without protest, giving his hand a small squeeze before walking away, leaving Harry alone beside the grave of his aunt.

'There are so many things we should have told one another,' he whispered, a single tear sliding down his cheek.

He hadn't seen his aunt since they had parted ways in July so many years ago and now Harry regretted it. She may not have treated him like a son, or even a nephew, but she had still been his aunt, the only link to his mother, his only remaining family, and Harry found himself wishing that he could talk to her, coax tales of his mother out of her, and mend their relationship.

'I'm sorry,' he mumbled, not bothering to wipe away tears that now flowed freely. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching he conjured a bouquet of flowers, lilies and petunias to be exact.

Harry lay the flowers atop the grave, sighing.

'Good-bye, Aunt Petunia.'