Non-stop.
Another owl burst into the tower.
On a night like this, one more owl wasn't anything special.
Sean kept sorting through the mountain of gift boxes.
The Magic Mirror glowed on its own.
The busy little badger paused mid-bake, its flour-dusted face replaced by a very human one.
"Sean…"
Justin's voice cracked slightly, his eyes red-rimmed.
"Evening," Sean said.
"Happy birthday."
Before Justin could finish, the mirror flickered and Ron's face appeared—mouth full of two chicken drumsticks, cheeks bulging.
"Sean, I gotta say—bloody hell, everyone's here! Happy birthday, mate!"
Ron's face practically squished against the glass.
"Right on time—twelve-oh-two. Am I the first?…"
Next came Harry, who jumped when he saw the whole group already chatting, then grinned and jumped straight into the conversation.
It was shaping up to be one hell of a night.
Sean watched Neville and Hermione join in, popped a cherry into his mouth.
Yeah. Sweet.
…
This was the first real party Sean had ever been to.
Wizards were always inviting him to everything, but he'd never gone. Magic had always come first—unshakable.
Tonight was different. Professor McGonagall wouldn't let him leave the villa for even a second.
Fred and George had somehow swiped waiter gigs from other wizards. They clutched homemade seating charts, steering guests to the right spots with theatrical flair.
Under a tree nearby, a crew of servers in crisp white robes and a band in gold jackets sat relaxing, handing out party favors to anyone who walked by.
In the center of the garden stood one enormous round table loaded like the Hogwarts feast—pumpkin juice steaming inside massive hollowed-out pumpkins, every dish imaginable.
Bees and butterflies drifted lazily through the grass and hedges.
For Sean, the crowd blurred into soft shapes and gentle motion. Time slipped away without him noticing.
July 31st.
Sean lowered Tales of Dreams and Mist.
His gaze drifted far away—to Privet Drive in London, where one of his magical creations had just spotted something interesting.
"Will."
"Ready when you are, sir."
A short goblin popped into existence from nowhere.
"London."
Will placed a hand on Sean's arm. The world folded.
When it unfolded again, Hogwarts stone had become asphalt. The brass number 4 on the Dursley door glinted in the sunlight.
Sean looked toward the house.
Inside, a boy with a lightning scar on his forehead was trying very hard to stay calm.
"Remember this, Potter. Marge knows nothing about your… abnormalities. I don't want any funny business while she's here. You'll behave. Understood?"
Uncle Vernon's voice was tight with nerves.
"Yes," Harry answered without hesitation.
Marge's visit was the worst birthday present he could imagine, but he'd agreed anyway.
He needed that Hogsmeade permission slip. Deal was a deal.
He pictured Marge's face and wondered if she'd changed at all.
Marge was Vernon's sister. No blood relation to Harry, yet he'd been forced to call her "Aunt" his whole life.
She lived in a big house in the country with a huge garden and a pack of bulldogs. She didn't visit often—she hated leaving her precious dogs—but every visit left Harry with nightmares he still hadn't shaken.
At Dudley's fifth birthday party she'd whacked Harry's shin with her walking stick so he wouldn't win Musical Chairs.
Years later she showed up at Christmas with a computer-controlled robot for Dudley and a box of dog biscuits for Harry.
The last time—right before Harry left for Hogwarts—he'd accidentally stepped on her favorite bulldog, Ripper. The dog chased him into the garden and up a tree. Marge didn't call it off until after midnight.
Dudley still cried laughing every time he remembered.
She was a mean, heartless cow.
Even Justin had called her that once.
Gravel crunched outside. Vernon's car rolled up the drive. Doors slammed. Footsteps came up the garden path.
"Come on," Aunt Petunia whispered to Harry.
She stepped to the door first. Harry followed close behind.
It was a strange angle—hiding behind his aunt's body actually made him feel… safer.
The door opened.
There stood Marge.
She looked exactly like Vernon: huge, thickset, purple-faced, with a faint mustache.
One meaty hand gripped an enormous suitcase; the other held a bad-tempered old bulldog.
"Where's my Dudders?" she boomed. "Where's my favorite nephew?"
Dudley waddled into the hall, blond hair flat against his fat head, butterfly bow tie almost swallowed by his chins.
Marge shoved the suitcase aside, grabbed Dudley in a crushing hug, and planted a loud kiss on his cheek.
The bulldog glared at Harry. Harry shrank back. The move worked—Petunia's legs blocked his view of the dog, and most of his fear vanished.
Soon they were all drinking. Marge pretended Harry didn't exist (someone must have warned her), but the moment conversation started she loved comparing the boys out loud. Her favorite game was buying Dudley expensive gifts while shooting Harry poisonous looks, daring him to ask why he got nothing.
She also loved dropping little hints about why Harry had turned out so worthless.
"Vernon, you mustn't blame yourself for how the boy's turned out," she said, face flushed with wine. "If something's rotten in the blood, there's nothing anyone can do about it."
Harry forced himself to focus on his plate, but his hands shook and heat flooded his face.
Remember the permission slip, he told himself. Think about Hogsmeade. Don't say anything. Don't stand up…
"It's a basic law of inheritance," she went on. "You see it in dogs all the time. If the bitch is bad, the pups are bound to be—"
Harry's face burned crimson. His eyes stung with angry tears. He couldn't stop shaking.
Think about Hogsmeade—
"Marge…"
"Marge!"
Two voices spoke at once.
But neither could match the deafening crack from the doorway.
The front door flew open on its own.
Marge began to swell like a balloon.
Her red face spread out, tiny eyes bulging, lips stretching tight so she couldn't speak.
Buttons popped off her blouse and pinged against the wall. Her stomach burst the waistband of her skirt. Every finger puffed up like over-stuffed sausages…
"Marge!" Vernon and Petunia screamed together.
Marge lifted off her chair and floated toward the ceiling.
"You can't do that!" Vernon shrieked. "Underage wizards are forbidden from using magic outside school!"
"My wand's my grandfather's," a calm voice answered.
Harry snapped out of his rage and confusion. He looked toward the door.
Sean stood there, smiling faintly.