House: Hufflepuff! BADGERS FTWWWWW.
Title: What Goes Around Sometimes Doesn't Come Around
Ratings/Warnings: 1st-2nd yr; None
A/N: Hope it fits the prompt!
“Is everything ready?” I ask Ginny.
“Yep,” she says. “Cake. Candles. Food. Drinks. Music… Yep.”
I nod, then go out and start the car. I’m on my way to my cousin’s flat. Dudley moved into a nearby town a few weeks ago. Though he never explained his reasons, I know why. Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon died last year in a car accident. I don’t have the heart to say, “Well, that’s poetic justice for you.” I know what it’s like to not have parents, and I don’t think I ever was the type to say such things.
The door opens after the fifth bell. He’s unshaved and in his pyjamas. “Harry?”
“It’s 3’o clock in the afternoon,” I remark.
“Get dressed. We’re going to my place.”
“Why?” he asks, surprised.
“Have you forg-?”
I pause. What’s the point of a surprise if you’re going to spoil it anyway?
“Ginny fancied a dinner.”
After a solemn nod, he goes inside. When we are in the car, accompanied by a silence that is strangely comfortable, I muse over the irony of things again. Dudley seems to have forgotten his birthday. It was the only thing he ever remembered as a kid. But the man who’s sitting next to me, absent-mindedly rubbing the huge moonstone embedded in his ring with the tip of his forefinger – he doesn’t remind of that boy who used to get excited about the 5th of June from January 1st.
We don’t talk even when we walk up the house. When I open the front door and let him enter, I feel odd. I’m doing something which, fifteen years ago, I wouldn’t have imagined I’d do.
“Happy birthday!” shouts Ginny, along with James, Al and Lily.
Dudley’s mouth falls open, as the kids run to him and pulls him towards the kitchen, where the cake is waiting. He follows them without a word.
“He looks bad,” whispers Ginny.
“He’ll come around,” I whisper back. Kissing her cheek, I tell her, “Thanks Ginny.”
She kisses me back.
When we enter the kitchen, Dudley has a shiny paper hat on his head. It looks out of place, considering he has the physique of a heavyweight boxer, which he actually is, but he’s smiling.
After the children have been shepherded upstairs by Ginny, we sit on the lawn, a drink in our hands.
“You liked the present?” I ask him.
“Great. I didn’t know if they were useless, or something you needed.”
“They’re great quality,” he replies. “Never seen gloves like them before.”
Probably because they’re made by Nimbus and not a Muggle manufacturer, I think, although I don’t tell him. A few moments pass before he speaks up again.
“Thanks, Harry,” he mumbles. “Didn’t deserve it after … after…”
“It’s all right, Big D,” I say, because I don’t really need to hear it, and he doesn’t really need to say it. “It’s all right.”