Without stopping for a moment, another owl burst into the tower.
An owl like that wasn't anything especially unusual on a night like this.
Sean was sorting the gift boxes.
The magic hand mirror lit up on its own.
The busy badger stopped baking its dessert, and a face appeared instead.
"Sean…"
It was Justin. His eyes were slightly red.
"Good evening," Sean said.
"Happy birthday."
Justin said it simply.
Before he could add anything else, the image of Ron with two chicken legs stuffed in his mouth vanished, replaced by an excited red-haired boy.
"Sean, I've got to say—ah, everyone's here… Sean, I'm really glad to hear this news. Happy birthday!"
Ron's face was practically pushing out of the screen.
"Just in time, twelve-oh-two. Am I the earliest one…?"
Next came Harry. He looked startled at first when he saw everyone already there, then quickly joined the conversation with obvious excitement.
It was bound to be a strange and wonderful night.
Sean watched as Neville and Hermione joined in too, then popped a cherry into his mouth.
Sweet.
…
This was the first party Sean had ever attended.
Wizards had always been happy to invite him to nearly every party imaginable, but he had never gone to a single one.
Most of the time, magic held an unshakable place in his heart.
But today was different. Professor McGonagall had not allowed him to take even one step outside the villa.
Fred and George had stolen a serving job from some other wizards. Each of them was holding a homemade seating chart and directing guests to the proper tables.
Not far from them, under a tree, a group of attendants in white robes and a band in gold jackets were sitting together, handing out party favors to anyone who passed by.
In the middle of the garden stood an enormous round table.
The food laid out on it was as lavish as a feast in the Hogwarts Great Hall.
Sean could see enormous pumpkins filled with steaming, sweet pumpkin juice.
Around the garden, bees and butterflies drifted lazily through the grass and hedges.
On that day, the people around Sean seemed to lose their sharp outlines. The world itself felt more like a mass of soft, blurry tenderness.
And so the blur became something certain, while time flowed on somewhere beyond Sean's awareness.
July 31.
Sean set down Dream Stories.
He turned his gaze toward the distance. On Privet Drive in London, one of his magical devices had detected some unusual wizards.
"Will," Sean said.
"At your command."
A small goblin-like creature seemed to pop out from nowhere.
"To London," Sean said.
Will placed a hand on Sean's arm, and both of them vanished at once.
When they appeared again, the stone floors of Hogwarts had become asphalt.
The brass number 4 on Privet Drive gleamed in the sunlight.
Sean looked toward the house.
Inside, there was a boy with a scar on his forehead.
"Got that, Potter? Aunt Marge knows nothing about any of your strange… abnormalities, and I don't want there to be any—any funny business while she's here.
For once in your life, behave yourself. Understand?"
Uncle Vernon said tensely.
"Okay."
Harry agreed without hesitation.
Even though Aunt Marge's arrival was the worst birthday present he could have imagined, he still agreed.
He had to get to Hogsmeade. He had made a deal with his friends, and he meant to go with them.
As he imagined Aunt Marge's face, he couldn't help wondering whether she might have changed a little too.
Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon's sister.
Even though she wasn't related to Harry by blood, he had always been forced to call her "Aunt."
She lived in the countryside in a house with a huge garden and kept a number of bulldogs.
She didn't visit Privet Drive often, because she hated leaving her precious dogs, but every one of her visits had left Harry with horrible memories that still felt vividly fresh.
At Dudley's fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge had hit Harry sharply on the shins with her cane to stop him from beating Dudley in a game.
A few years later, she came for Christmas and brought Dudley a computer-controlled robot, while Harry got a box of dog biscuits.
The last time was the year before Harry went to Hogwarts, when Harry accidentally stepped on the paw of her precious dog Ripper.
Harry had been chased out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge hadn't called the dog off until after midnight.
Even now, Dudley still laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks whenever he remembered it.
She was thoroughly, completely awful.
Even Justin had said as much.
In the blink of an eye, there came the crunch of gravel outside. Uncle Vernon's car turned slowly into the drive, then the doors slammed shut, and footsteps sounded on the garden path.
"Come on," Aunt Petunia said to Harry in a low voice.
She went to the door first, and Harry followed behind her.
To be honest, it was a strange feeling.
When Harry unconsciously tucked himself behind Aunt Petunia's body, he actually felt a faint sense of safety.
The door opened, and Aunt Marge stood there.
She looked a lot like Uncle Vernon—big, broad, stout, with a purplish face, and even a little mustache.
She had a huge suitcase in one hand and an ill-tempered old bulldog tucked under the other arm.
"Where's my Dudders?"
Aunt Marge boomed.
"Where's my darling nephew?"
Dudley waddled into the hall, his flat blond hair plastered down against his fat head, his bow tie almost swallowed up by all the layers of his chin.
Aunt Marge shoved the suitcase aside. Then she wrapped one arm tightly around Dudley and planted a huge kiss on his cheek.
The bad-tempered old bulldog stared at Harry. Harry found the look deeply unsettling and shrank back a little.
That trick worked, at least. Aunt Petunia's legs blocked his view, so he couldn't see the vicious dog anymore, and his fear eased by half.
Soon they were drinking, and although Aunt Marge kept pretending Harry wasn't there at all—clearly someone had spoken to her about it—once she started talking, she couldn't resist comparing Harry to Dudley.
Her favorite pastime was buying Dudley expensive gifts while glaring viciously at Harry, as if daring him to ask why there was nothing for him.
She also took every possible chance to hint at why Harry had turned out to be such a worthless person.
"Vernon, whatever this boy has become, you mustn't blame yourself,"
she said, her face flushed red.
"If the stock's bad, there's nothing anyone can do."
Harry forced himself to focus on eating, but his hands were shaking and anger was burning up into his face.
Don't forget the permission form, he told himself. Think about Hogsmeade.
Don't say anything. Don't stand up…
"It's basic breeding, that's what it is,"
she went on.
"You see it all the time in dogs. If the mother's no good, the pups won't be any better—"
Harry's face was burning now, and his eyes were bloodshot.
He was shaking uncontrollably.
Think about Hogsmeade—
"Marge…"
"Marge!"
Two voices shouted at once.
But both were drowned out by the thunderous noise from the front door.
For some reason the door had flown open, and Aunt Marge had begun to swell like a balloon.
Her red face spread wider and wider, her tiny eyes bulging out, her lips stretching so tight she couldn't get a word out.
Then buttons started popping off her clothes and shooting across the room, banging into the walls—she was swelling larger and larger, like a monstrous balloon, her stomach snapping her belt, each finger puffing up like a sausage…
"Marge!"
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia shouted together.
Aunt Marge lifted off from her chair and began drifting toward the ceiling.
"You can't do that! Underage wizards aren't allowed to use magic outside school!"
Uncle Vernon cried in horror.
"It's my grandfather's wand."
The voice cut through Harry's rage and confusion and pulled him back to reality.
He looked toward the door.
Sean was standing there, smiling faintly.
~~~
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