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Dark grey clouds had threatened all week, but the morning of the barbeque dawned with that still, stale air that promises scorching heat. Still yawning, Harry plodded onto the patio and looked glumly at the garden shed, and then around the rectangular garden. The perfectly green lawn stretched from one perfectly straight border to the other, the bushes neatly shaped and the agapanthuses flourishing. Yellow carnations shone prettily in the sunlight.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘It’s all done.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Aunt Petunia snapped. Her hair was still in rollers, and her long neck was strained unpleasantly as she stood in her dressing gown, hands on her hips. ‘It’s a state.’
‘Where?’ asked Harry flippantly, throwing an exasperated hand at the immaculate garden. ‘There’s nothing - OW!’
She had grabbed him by the hair to manoeuvre his head as she spoke. ‘Don’t question me, just look - weeds,’ she said, forcing his gaze down to the stubborn dandelions forcing their way through the concrete slabs of the patio. ‘That hedge-’ a few stray branches stretched rebelliously beyond their boundary - ‘leaves-’ a handful of amber coloured leaves from the neighbour’s silver birch had daringly settled on the lawn - ‘and don’t get me started on the state of the shed!’ The few spiders that did not reside in Harry’s cupboard with him had spun their own homes along the base of the garden shed, which needed repainting. ‘And the table and chairs probably need oil applied too. Do that first, and do it quickly, there’s not much time.’
‘There’s loads of time-’
‘It takes at least four hours to dry, you stupid boy. Just get on with it, I really don’t have time to waste, I need to marinate the chicken.’
‘What does marinate mean?’
She ignored him, released him from her grip, and stalked back inside. Harry obediently fetched linseed oil from the garden shed, and applied it to the wooden garden dining set on the patio, beside Uncle Vernon’s gleaming new barbeque.
The temperature climbed swiftly up as Harry worked, the patio acting as a little sun trap that soon had Harry’s head aching. By the time he had finished the table and chairs, pulled up the weeds from the patio, and begun trying to transport spiders to new homes in the hedgerow, his uncle had come out carrying a small bag of coal, which he poured into the barbeque with a clatter. He paid no attention to Harry, nor did he give any indication that he knew he was there as he snapped pieces of firelighter and placed it strategically.
‘Uncle Vernon?’ Harry began cautiously. ‘Uncle Vernon.’
Still his uncle ignored him.
‘Uncle Vernon?’ Harry tried again, a little louder.
‘For heaven’s sake, what is it, boy?’
‘When we have the barbeque-’
‘I hope you remember that you’re staying out the way,’ Uncle Vernon interrupted, rounding on Harry and pointing a splintered piece of wood at him.
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Harry distractedly, ‘I was just going to ask-’
‘Well, I don’t want to hear it. Haven’t you got work to be getting on with? This garden’s a state.’
So Harry continued, the air now shimmering with the heat from the barbeque, and the smoke stinging at the corner of his eyes. Every now and then Aunt Petunia would hurry out, now dressed in a flowery sundress, to bark orders at him and criticise his efforts so far. Eventually, Dudley pulled himself away from the telly to waddle outside too, and he stood by his father as Vernon talked him through how to get a good fire going.
At last, as Harry was raking the lawn to remove any semblance of colour but green, he heard the distant merry tune of the doorbell. ‘That’s them,’ said Uncle Vernon, poking the glowing embers of the barbeque.
‘I’ll take him inside,’ said Aunt Petunia swiftly, having just laid a large bowl of salad on the table. She seized Harry by the upper arm and dragged him back towards the house.
Harry, who had expected this, was unbothered as he was led to his cupboard, but his question now felt more urgent than ever. ‘Can I have some of the food?’ he asked. ‘And some water?’
‘I’ll bring you a burger if you stay quiet,’ she hissed, and then he was ushered inside. The door was closed, and though his aunt did not lock it, Harry knew not to venture out until told he could do so. He sat on the bed, and listened to Aunt Petunia’s fake laugh as she greeted their guests, and the clinking of bottles as they all walked past his door to head into the garden. His stomach rumbled, and his head throbbed.
***
He wasn’t exactly sure where he had seen these things, whether they had been old telly programmes or films he had watched, or whether it was just one of those cultural things everyone picked up, but Harry was sure grief was portrayed all wrong. Grief felt like something that should have grey, damp weather, people gathered around a grave with black umbrellas, dead leaves squelching underfoot, branches bare, icy tears.
Grief, Harry had come to learn, was sweaty, sticky skin and the smell of stale air in the bedroom he never left. It was horribly long days that stretched in endless boredom and despair until finally night came, still humid and sticky, still long and despairing, but at least there was some respite from the glare of the sun burning through the windows.
Summers were a world away from the joviality of Christmas - the comfort of it. All thick Weasley jumpers and an appetite to match the frankly ridiculous amount of food and decorations adorning the welcoming halls of Hogwarts and even brightening the dark corridors of Grimmauld Place. Winter was company and summers were lonely.
His eyes burned at the thought of Sirius’s singing, and the briefness of the Christmas they had shared. But it was too hot, in that stuffy room, for him to draw upon any emotion beyond wishing that he could tear himself apart, reduce himself to the fragmented pieces he felt like.
He lay on top of his too-thick duvet, damp patches over his shirt. He knew he’d probably feel better if he washed, but the mere thought of dragging himself up and to the shower was exhausting.
There was a rap at the door, and in his peripheral vision he saw Aunt Petunia at his doorway.
‘We’re having a barbeque,’ she announced.
'OK,’ he replied, knowing that did not include him.
'Yvonne and Keith are coming.’
'All right.’
'I need you to mow the lawn.’
'No.’
She seemed thrown by his refusal; perhaps it was something about the flatness with which he said it, for it was not as though Harry always took his instructions without argument anyway. He couldn’t see her, but he knew her eyes were crawling over his disastrously messy room.
'Well,’ she said sniffily, 'I suppose you’ll be expecting some of the leftovers-’
'I’m not bothered,’ he muttered.
He’d thrown her again; her silence was awkward and confused. 'If you expect me to keep something aside,’ she said, as though he had not said anything, 'tell me now because-’
'I don’t want one of your cremated burgers,’ Harry snapped.
'You’ll be getting nothing with that attitude,’ she snapped back, and she left with a slam of the door.
Harry did not care. The hours stretched as slowly and miserably as they always did, and though the curtains were drawn he soon heard the whir of the lawnmower. A few hours later, the sound of music and laughter. The smell of the barbeque reached him, but his mouth did not water. He continued to stare up at the swirled plaster on the ceiling.
***
Ginny’s birthday bloomed with dusky grey clouds and thick humidity. The threat of rain dangled like a sword over the smouldering barbeque that Ron was valiantly trying to keep alive, while the rest of them watched with amusement.
‘Don’t worry, I actually like my sausages pink in the middle,’ said George.
‘Shut up,’ said Ron.
‘Why don’t you sort the weather out, Ron?’ Ginny asked. ‘It is my birthday.’
‘Look,’ said Ron, tightening the strings of his apron, ‘you were offered a choice, host at yours-’
‘Too much effort.’
‘-Go to the pub-’
‘Not suitable for toddlers.’
‘-Or have a barbeque here.’
‘Well I didn’t realise the weather would be so rubbish,’ she said, gesturing at the sky.
‘Bish,’ said James, from Harry’s lap.
‘You’re right, it is rubbish,’ said Harry, bouncing the toddler slightly. ‘Uncle Ron promised a summer extravaganza. Silly Uncle Ron.’
'Don’t listen to him, James, don’t listen to any of them.’ Ron prodded the charcoal with some tongs and looked dubiously up at the sky. 'It might rain though,’ he admitted.
‘We could always move inside if it starts to rain,’ said Molly kindly, though she did not take her eyes off baby Louis, cradled in her arms.
George snorted. ‘And watch Ron cook from the window. Yeah that sounds pretty good actually.’
James wriggled, suddenly and forcefully, and, rather used to it, Harry lowered him down onto the lawn, where he ran – pigeon-toed and in a manner that reminded Harry of drunken patrons of the village pub – after Teddy and Victoire.
The garden was lush, the overgrown rose bushes and raspberry stalks thick and green, the lawn speckled with dandelions, daisies and clover. Every now and then, a gnome would hurry across the grass to take up position behind a watering can or wellie, keeping an eye on the barbeque for any fallen scraps. One was optimistically pulling a little cart made out of a hollowed out turnip on butterbeer bottle caps, apparently hoping to bring home a good haul. But so far Ron, who had insisted on taking charge of the event to 'practice an essential dad skill’, had not dropped a single morsel.
Harry kept an eye on his son, now babbling enthusiastically at Teddy as he pointed at the broomshed, but slouched deeper in his deckchair. Even if the sun wasn’t out, it was still muggy, and the night shift he’d done the night before last had left him in a sleepy state.
For all their teasing, Ron’s suggestion for the party at the Burrow had been a good one; no where else would accommodate so many. To Harry’s right, he could hear Luna explaining to an utterly bewildered Audrey the complexities of garden gnome culture, while on the other side of them Hermione, her stomach rounded with pregnancy, and Arthur were in deep discussion about gas barbeques.
'Extraordinary,’ Arthur was saying. 'Fantastic. And where do they get these gas cannisters?’
The smell of the sizzling food was alluring, and Harry soothed his watering mouth with a swig of butterbeer. He could faintly hear Fleur complaining to Angelina that British barbeques were too heavy and the meat was overcooked, and he thought it was only the precious grandchild in her arms that was stopping Molly leaping to Ron’s defence. Neville was admiring a nearby hortensia, while Bill was watching his children play with Teddy with a far away look in his eye.
‘I just felt a raindrop,’ said George.
‘No you didn’t,’ said Ron, pointing a spatula at him threateningly.
A few minutes later, they were shrieking in pouring rain as they grabbed children, plates and drinks and hurried inside as quickly as they could. ‘Happy birthday, Ginny!’ Angelina shouted as they went.
‘I’ve got a quiche and a few bits in the pantry-’ Molly started saying.
‘No!’ said Ron fiercely. There was a distant rumble of thunder. ‘I’m not giving up, this is a Dad skill I’ve got to learn.’
‘Being able to do a barbeque isn’t an imp-’ Hermione began.
‘I thought this was for my birthday?’ Ginny said indignantly. ‘Not your impending fatherhood.’
‘Am I getting my raw sausage or what?’ demanded George.
Through fits of laughter and plenty of jeering, the barbeque was pulled right up to the kitchen window, and Ron inelegantly leaned out, half laughing, half shouting angry retorts over his shoulder. Harry did his part by also leaning partly out the window to cast an umbrella charm over the barbeque, which was finally getting up a good heat despite the weather.
‘Right, who’s for burgers, who’s for sausages? And a couple of these kebab things are ready too.’
‘Do you ‘ave any fish?’ Fleur asked.
‘Ah, must’ve forgotten that, sorry,’ said Ron politely, but Harry had to choke back laughter at Ron’s revolted expression.
Food started to be served, coming in oddly staggered batches, but it was as delicious as it had smelled, and the chaos of it all, all of them squeezed into the kitchen, children perched on laps and plates being passed over heads, had Harry feeling alight with happiness. James, however, was refusing to try any of the burger or grilled pepper that Ginny was offering him.
'Try him on some of this,’ said Harry. 'Or do you think it might be too spicy? It’s quite mild…’
'Try him - James, look - look what Daddy’s got,’ said Ginny.
James turned his large, interested eyes over to Harry, who held out a wrap made from the kebabs. James’s bite was nervous initially, but soon the family was laughing as his pudgy hands seized the wrap and pulled it forcefully closer, eating eagerly.
'Slow down!’
'Finally, Ron,’ said George, 'someone likes your cooking.’
A few hours later, the Potters were finally heading home, laden with gifts and feeling pleasantly full. The rain had stopped; the air felt clearer and lighter, the evening sun glinting on the windows. Their living room spun into view and Harry stepped out of the hearth to see James rolling around on the floor whining, at the very edge of a tempter tantrum.
‘I think he didn’t want to leave nana’s,’ said Ginny.
‘Oh dear,’ Harry told him. ‘We’re not that bad, are we?’
‘He’s knackered,’ said Ginny. ‘It’s late for him - skip the bath, do you reckon?’
‘Yeah, I’ll take him up,’ said Harry. He scooped up his son, who immediately lay his head on Harry’s shoulder, his tiny hand patting Harry’s back. ‘You sleepy?’ Harry asked him quietly as they headed upstairs.
He flicked his wand at the curtains so that the bright nursery was brought into gentle darkness, lit only by the dim glow of the large snitch shaped lamp on the dresser. He dressed James in red tartan pyjamas, and let him choose a story. After at least four reads of The Blue Dragon Who Came to Tea, Harry finally persuaded him into his cot, and sat in the chair beside it. James did lie down but continued to sweep his hand along the bars, kick his legs, hum to himself, and occasionally prop himself up to give Harry an adorably cheeky but equally infuriating grin. Tired apparently did not mean that he had any desire to sleep.
'Lie down,’ Harry murmured, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice. 'Go to sleep.’
'No,’ said James, as he lay back down.
Harry didn’t respond; this light battle was usual at bedtime.
‘Happy,’ James was saying to himself. ‘Happy, happy, happy.’ His small voice was gleeful and quick, stretching out the ‘y’ like the long summer day they had enjoyed. ‘Happy, happy, happy.’
Quite without warning, quite without Harry understanding why, his eyes felt hot and his lips pressed together. He swallowed, blinked rapidly, but stayed quiet. His heart was thudding furiously against his chest. Eventually, in the comforting cool dark of the room, James’s ‘happy’s became softer and softer, and then there were just the heavy sighs of his sleeping breath. Harry rose, and crept out of the room, his head still swimming.
‘Are you all right?’ Ginny asked, when he returned and sat beside her on the sofa.
‘Yes,’ he said, but as his voice wobbled slightly, Ginny arched an eyebrow. He grinned sheepishly. ‘James was saying happy as he fell asleep,’ he explained.
‘Was he? Oh, bless him, that’s so sweet. He has been enjoying that word lately.’ She eyed him closely. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Just… touched. He’s had a nice day.’
‘He has,’ she agreed. She was watching him with a knowing sort of smile. ‘And I have too. It’s been a lovely birthday.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said, and he leaned forward and kissed her deeply. ‘Even though it rained?’ he muttered, as they broke apart.
‘Even more because it rained,’ she told him. ‘Made it a bit different, didn’t it? From the usual sort of barbeques.’
Strange thoughts were flitting through Harry’s head, of baking hot sun and flavourless, burnt food and garden chores and stuffy rooms. ‘Yes,’ he said. He knew, really, that James would not remember this first barbeque he had experienced that day. But Harry was glad that it was miles away from the ones he had once known.
‘Happy birthday,’ he told his wife again, and as she beamed he leaned in to kiss her once more.