"Harry, what's going on?" Dudley followed Harry down the hall to the bathroom, frowning. "Who was at the door?"
Harry glanced at him, but he couldn't bring himself to answer. "Uncle Vernon!"
Uncle Vernon stepped out of the bathroom, tie still slung over his shoulder. He was holding a comb, which he stuck in his back pocket when he saw Harry and Dudley.
"You need to come downstairs. Someone's at the door for you."
Something must have shown on Harry's face, because instead of blustering, Uncle Vernon just nodded and followed them.
"It's," Harry paused, but he couldn't let Dudley and Uncle Vernon open the door blind. "Well, it's Aunt Petunia. At the door."
Uncle Vernon paused on the staircase for half a second. "Petunia?" he repeated. Dudley's eyes went wide, and he practically picked Harry up in his haste to get past him as he barrelled down the stairs.
"Dad, it's mum!" Dudley said as he reached the door. The call snapped Uncle Vernon out of his uncertainty, and he pounded down the stairs after Dudley. Harry took a moment to be glad he didn't live in the cupboard anymore. It would have taken hours for the dust to settle after all this stomping. Harry proceeded down the steps at a much more hesitant pace.
Dudley pulled the door open before Uncle Vernon could stop him, and his face lit up when he saw his mother.
"Mum, you came back!" he exclaimed, beaming. "Did you get my letters? Why didn't you ever respond? I missed you!"
Aunt Petunia, who had taken a small step back when the door opened, smiled a shaky sort of smile at Dudley and looked past him.
"Diddykins," she said, though she was looking at Uncle Vernon. "Mummy and Daddy need to talk, sweetums."
Dudley continued to stare at her with cow eyes, though he stepped aside.
"Ah," Uncle Vernon coughed. "I suppose you should come in, Petunia."
After Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia went into the kitchen and shut the door behind them, Dudley glared at Harry, who stepped back without being asked, hands raised, and let Dudley listen at the keyhole. He took the crack at the bottom of the door as usual, and they listened.
"...your son," Uncle Vernon was saying. Harry watched his feet as they paced the linoleum.
"I know," Petunia said. "But I was wrong, Vernon. I was so wrong. I want to make amends. I want my family back."
"What you wrote-" Uncle Vernon began. His voice was gruff, and he cleared his throat several times. "Petunia, what you wrote... the things you said about him!"
"I know, Vernon, and I was wrong!" Aunt Petunia's feet crossed the linoleum, her heels clicking with agitation. She came to a stop in front of Uncle Vernon's wingtips. "I don't feel that way anymore, Vernon. I've changed, I promise."
Harry glanced up at Dudley. He may not have read the letter Aunt Petunia had left, but he had to have some idea of what they were talking about. But Dudley's face was unusually impassive. Harry couldn't figure out what he might be thinking until he glanced down and caught Harry's eye. The raw hope and anxiety Harry saw made him look away, embarrassed.
"It'll be just like it was before," Petunia promised in a soft voice. "I've missed you so much, darling."
Uncle Vernon was silent for an interminable moment. Harry glanced up at Dudley again, who was burning a hole through the wood panelling with his stare.
Finally, Uncle Vernon answered. "I've missed you too, Pet."
Dudley let out a whooping shout and burst through the door, barely giving Harry time to scramble out of the way to avoid being trampled. Harry climbed to his feet and brushed himself off as he stumbled back toward the staircase, watching through the doorway as the three Dursleys had their reunion.
'Just like it was before' sounded great, for everyone but Harry.
It took Harry several days to get used to coming around a corner and seeing Aunt Petunia, dusting the mantelpiece or baking biscuits. Harry couldn't figure out how to interact with her now. It had been an unspoken assumption made by Uncle Vernon, Dudley and Harry that Harry was in charge of the brunt of the chores over the holiday. Harry didn't exactly look forward to it, but it wasn't surprising. Now, though, Harry would go into the kitchen to mop the floor and find it sparkling already. He'd finally motivate himself to get started on the laundry, only to find it folded and ironed, waiting only to be put away.
It was strange. Even when Aunt Petunia had lived with them, Harry had done the majority of the housework. This wasn't 'just like before'. This was something else entirely. Harry almost felt like she was infringing on his place in the house, which was an absurd notion that he ignored as best he could. He didn't mind at all if Aunt Petunia wanted to scrub the molding in the bathtub. More power to her. Harry had more time to do his own thing now, like write letters to his friends, talk with Hermione and Dudley, sort through the nasty letters in his room, do his summer homework, lie on his back and stare at the ceiling after a nightmare...
It was just strange, that's all.
"Harry!"
This was strange, too.
Harry walked into the kitchen where Aunt Petunia was wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
"Harry- oh, there you are," she said, and smiled at him. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like for you to keep an eye on the wash. It should be finished soon, and I want it hung out to dry before it wrinkles."
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said.
"I'll be upstairs doing a bit of tidying up before your uncle gets home," she said, straightening the pleats of her housedress. "Call me when the oven timer beeps, would you, dear?"
"Er, yeah, okay," Harry said, and leaned over to peek at the turkey through the oven window. "No problem." She beamed at him and bustled out of the kitchen, humming.
Harry went back into the living room and lugged his school bag into the kitchen. He and Dudley had made a habit of doing their summer homework at the kitchen table while Uncle Vernon was at work, and Aunt Petunia hadn't yet objected. She hadn't objected to anything at all, as a matter of fact.
Harry set up his quill and ink, frowning absently. He didn't like the way the house had felt since Aunt Petunia returned. He especially hated it when, like now, Uncle Vernon was at work and Dudley was off doing something with his old gang. Harry stayed inside when Dudley decided to hang out with Polkiss and that lot. Old habits die hard, and Harry didn't want to test the limits of Dudley's decency.
Point being, it was just Harry and Aunt Petunia in the house, and she was still acting sugary sweet and treating Harry like a... like a...
Well.
Harry wasn't sure what he was being treated like. He wasn't being treated like the house servant, or an unwanted guest, at least. It was positively disconcerting. Pulling out his books and parchment, he straightened them out and stared down at his own handwriting, feeling his mouth twist.
What really grated at him was the question of why. Why had she come back, out of the blue? Why was she being so kind to Harry? Why was she suddenly okay with Dudley's magic, after she'd said all those awful things in her letter and ignored every attempt at communication from him? Why could Harry practically taste the tension in the house, when he couldn't spot it in anyone else's faces? Was it just Harry? Maybe he'd gotten too used to her being gone. Maybe he was being selfish. Maybe the Dursleys were happy, and Harry just couldn't handle it because of how miserable he'd been, lately.
He straightened his parchment again and nearly tipped the ink all over the table, only saving it at the very last second. Sighing, Harry capped the bottle and rubbed his eyes. The laundry buzzer went off, and Harry got up to take care of it. Once they finished the blackmailing of Skeeter, Harry would feel better. He'd sleep better, at least, without a new pile of nasty letters to sort through every week.
Uncle Vernon called Harry downstairs one day, just as Harry was finishing a letter to Pansy about Skeeter. The group of them had put together a missive for her explaining the situation, and her response had been immediate and grudging. Now was the time to make demands.
Harry signed the note to Pansy and left it to dry while he went downstairs.
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were sitting in the front room, reading together. Uncle Vernon had his paper, and Aunt Petunia had one of her novels.
"Did you need something, Uncle Vernon?" Harry asked, leaning on the doorframe. Aunt Petunia beamed at him from her armchair.
"Could you check on the biscuits, Harry?" she asked. "If this batch is done, just put the next sheet in."
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said, trying to ignore how eerie he found it when she directed a smile at him.
"Lawn'll need mowing in the next few days," Uncle Vernon said, flipping to a new page of his paper. "See that it gets taken care of."
"Yes, sir," Harry agreed. Aunt Petunia stayed out of the yard work, at least.
"And remind Dudders about the dinner tonight, if you see him," Uncle Vernon added. "You should both be dressed and ready by six."
"Yes, sir," Harry repeated, and went into the kitchen to check on the biscuits. Dudley was there, peering into the oven hopefully.
"Biscuits, Harry?" he asked, bouncing up and down a little. "Are they done yet?"
Harry grinned. "Don't know. These are for dessert, anyway."
"I just had lunch," Dudley shrugged. "Lunch can have dessert."
"Hang on." Harry opened the oven and prodded at the biscuits thoughtfully. "Get me an oven glove."
"Yes!" Dudley found the glove and handed it over. "Mum won't notice if one or two are missing."
"Like you thought I wouldn't notice if you ate one of the raw ones?" One of the rows of uncooked biscuits was indeed missing a pile of batter. Dudley was unrepentant.
"I've missed mum's biscuits," he said cheerfully. "Go on, let's have one."
"Don't touch, they're hot," Harry said, tipping them one by one on to the cooling rack. "They'll fall apart, and I'm not getting blamed for the mess." He used the spatula to lever one into Dudley's waiting hands instead.
"Ah, damn," Dudley tossed the biscuit from palm to palm, blowing on it.
"Oh, Uncle Vernon said we need to be ready by six tonight for the dinner," Harry remembered, watching as Dudley stuffed half the biscuit in his mouth at once and chased it with a glass of milk.
"Sure," Dudley said, panting. "I think I just burned the roof of my mouth."
"Oh, Harry-" Aunt Petunia swept into the kitchen and stopped when she saw Dudley. "Dudley, darling, there you are. Your father wants you to be ready for dinner tonight before six, sweetums."
Dudley gave her a nod and a close-lipped smile, which didn't do much to hide the biscuit crumbs on his chin.
"Harry, how is the roast looking?"
Harry put the second sheet of biscuits in the oven and eyed the roast on the middle rack while he was there. "It's been about an hour. Do you want me to add the-"
"No, no, I'll get it." She took the oven glove from him and bent over to look inside herself. "You two run off and play."
"Okay, come on, Harry," Dudley said, heading for the front room. "We should play wizard chess. I'm getting better!"
Harry almost missed it. If he hadn't glanced up at that exact moment, he would have. But he did, and Aunt Petunia's disgust reflected garishly in the oven's stainless steel backsplash.
"Have fun, dear," she called, and her voice betrayed nothing but good cheer. Harry stared for a moment longer at her reflection, calm again as she straightened the rows of biscuits on the cooling rack.
Harry spent a lot of time in his bedroom over the next couple days, sorting through the most recent additions to his letter mountain. Things with Skeeter were going well, and he hoped to be rid of the constant influx of mail soon. In the meantime, he had stopped opening anything from anyone he didn't know. Dudley did the majority of the sorting these days, and Harry read only the ones Dudley marked as not being explicitly hateful, or from an actual friend.
Sifting through a pile of his pre-screened letters, Harry found a note from Blaise. He opened it immediately, hoping for more insight into Skeeter's last letter.
Harry, it said. Pansy and I agree that you've definitely got the advantage right now, and Skeeter knows it. You need to send this out as soon as possible. Your draft is enclosed, along with a few notes...
Blaise detailed a few more suggestions which Harry nodded over, but the next paragraph made him pause.
I don't want to get involved with the situation between you and Draco any more than I have to, so I'm only going to say this once.
Harry scowled, but read on.
Draco asked me to confirm that you've at least been receiving his letters, even if you won't respond. I assumed you were chucking them in the bin, honestly-
Harry glanced at the bin under his desk, which contained at least three letters with the Malfoy crest, unopened.
-but I'm not going to tell Draco that, even if you want me to. He's sorry. He's having screaming fights with his father over you, and he spends most of his time in the floo with Pansy and I. He's miserable. I'm not saying you should forgive him. I'm just asking you to read his bloody letters.
There wasn't much left to Blaise's note, as though he had (correctly) assumed that Harry wouldn't finish it after reading that entreaty. Harry tossed the letter on his bed, where it teetered in a gust from the window and fell on a stack of hateful Slytherin notes. Harry stared at the pile, his face set, and determinedly started rooting through the unopened letters again. He thought he might have one from Sirius. He'd written about the Aunt Petunia situation, and he hoped Sirius would have some insight.
He tossed a bulky envelope into the 'risky' pile in the far corner of the room, and picked up another one. It took him a second to realise what the expensive parchment and elaborate seal meant. Dudley knew better than to put Draco's letters in the 'to read' pile, but he always did it anyway, because he was a prat.
Harry flipped the letter across the room like a frisbee, still feeling unsettled by Blaise's words and too upset to deal with it at the moment. Blaise could make Harry feel guilty for breathing if he wanted to, and Harry didn't want to feel guilty about this. He had every right in the world to not respond to Draco's letters.
Harry rubbed his eyes as the letter sailed through the air on a breeze, straight out the open window. He ran his hand through his hair and stared at the spot where the letter had disappeared.
"Well, damn," he muttered. He couldn't leave it outside in the front garden where anyone could find it.
He stood, plucking Blaise's letter out of the wrong pile and dropping it on his desk next to Stormageddon's cage. His owl hooted at him from his perch, and Harry patted him fondly as he passed on the way to the window.
Ducking his head out, he peered around at the grass below for the square of parchment. It had landed in the neighbor's azaleas. Harry groaned. There would be no getting it later. Privet Drive was a notoriously nosy neighborhood, and next door was a prime example. They'd open it in a heartbeat if they found it.
The Dursleys were all in the front room, watching the telly, so Harry ducked out through the kitchen door and went around. The letter was resting precariously on top of the azalea bush, and the least disruptive way to reach it was through the Dursley's hydrangeas. Harry managed to get to the letter with minimal fuss as the neighbors weren't out and about. Harry was good at crawling through bushes.
He sat under the hydrangeas, flipping the letter over and over in his hands, staring absently at the veins on the underside of the leaves in front of him.
What would reading it do, really? Aside from distressing Harry more? He didn't want to think about Draco at all. It inevitably led to thinking about Draco's father, and what he'd said in the graveyard, which was awful enough, but then that led to thinking about what had happened in the graveyard, and that led to worse nightmares than usual. The articles in the Prophet and the resultant mail were bad enough. Harry didn't want to think about any of it. Avoiding Draco, who had rejected him months and months ago anyway, was the best way to do that.
On the way back inside, Harry tossed the letter in the bin.
Harry's birthday started out well. He got a letter from Skeeter, acquiescing to his demands (one year without publishing anything, in return for Harry's silence). There were also letters and presents from Neville, Hermione, Pansy, Blaise, Luna, Anthony, and even the Weasleys. The letter from the Weasleys seemed to mostly be from Fred and George, who also enclosed a small box of pranks, though Ron was noted as wishing him a happy birthday too. The closing was somewhat ominous: 'See you very very soon!'
Harry received a letter from Sirius and Remus as well, which instantly made Fred and George's letter less alarming. It was an invitation for him (and Dudley, if he was allowed) to come visit in two weeks' time. Sirius owned a house in London, and the group that supported Dumbledore and believed Harry (or believed that Dumbledore believed Harry, to Harry's reckoning) was using it as a headquarters. The Weasleys would undoubtedly be there as well, judging by the twins' letter.
Also enclosed was a package, which, according to Sirius, Remus had not allowed him to withhold in the hopes of further encouraging Harry to visit, because, "Remus has no sense of fun."
Harry penned a note back immediately, thanking Sirius and Remus for the invitation and the Kestrels poster, which was signed by Aidan Kiely, the Seeker. There was another note attached to the poster, promising that next time they went to a game, Harry could come too instead of just getting a souvenir, though he saw absolutely nothing wrong with his present. He grinned over it and decided not to hang it up just yet, as he'd hopefully be on his way to London soon anyway.
"We've been invited to visit, er, the Weasleys," Harry told Dudley over breakfast, stumbling when he remembered Uncle Vernon's feelings about convict godfathers. "In two weeks, actually. They're staying in London."
Dudley made a thoughtful face over his kippers. "Maybe," he said. Harry gaped at him. "No, I mean, you should go for sure if you want," Dudley added. "But I don't know if I will. Mum only just got back." He smiled at her, and she responded without missing a beat. The more Harry thought about it, the more he wasn't sure what he'd seen in the kitchen that day. Maybe it really was all in his head.
"I don't want to keep you from your friends, darling," Aunt Petunia said. "You should go if you want to."
"No," Dudley said decisively. "I'll stay. Have fun, Harry!"
After breakfast, Harry finished and sent off his letter to Sirius. He also penned a few letters to his friends, thanking them for his presents. In fact, the day continued on in an almost idyllic fashion, at least until he went out into the back garden after lunch.