The party wasn't going well. After all, the Weasley household was awkward under normal circumstances now. When you added to the rather dismal atmosphere the fact that everyone seemed rather determined to pretend that they hadn't noticed how depressed they all were, the result was pure torture. Not that Harry noticed. He had even forgotten that today was his birthday until Mrs. Weasley reminded him of it at breakfast. It just didn't seem... right. Harry's birthdays in his early life had never been occasions, but for the last three years, he had had what passed for a normal birthday party.

It wasn't like he was alone. All of the surviving Weasleys were there, and Fleur, Mrs. Tonks with Teddy... hell, even Percy was there. But Harry sighed. It was still nearly impossible for him to have a good time with his friends without his thoughts drifting to those who weren't there. Those who would never be there again. Those who had 'gone on'. No matter what anyone said, Harry couldn't quite shake the feeling that it was entirely his fault.

They had descended upon the living room after a rather forced sounding rendition of 'Happy Birthday'. Nobody appeared to be enjoying themselves. Ginny sat next to Harry, looking at him intently, chewing anxiously on her lip. Harry caught her eye, and quickly looked away. She looked as though she felt sorry for him, and that made him angry. He didn't want pity.

Harry glanced around the room. The tomb-like atmosphere grew heavier by the minute. Ron and Hermione sat next to each other, holding hands, both looking thoroughly uncomfortable. Harry knew he should say something, but there didn't seem to be anything to say. His thoughts overtook him, as he sat there despondently. This was supposed to be a celebration. Voldemort was gone, it was okay to live again! But laughter, celebration- they all seemed trite, almost disrespectful. How could he laugh, how could any of them laugh, when so many were gone forever? Dumbledore, Lupin, Tonks, Fred.... Harry repeated their names over and over again in his head, trying to forget, willing himself not to feel, or the guilt and the pain would render him incapacitated. At first, Andromeda and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had tried to chitchat, but at last they too fell silent. When the silence became almost deafening, Mrs. Tonks got up.

"I'm off," she said, forcing a smile. "Harry, could I have a word before I go?"

Harry nodded wordlessly. Feeling the anxious eyes of Mrs. Weasley burning into him, he quickly walked across the room and out the door. Andromeda looked up at Harry, and smiled sadly.
"I have something for you. A birthday present, like."

"You didn't have to do-" Harry began, feeling guilty.

Mrs. Tonks cut him off. "It's not from me, lad," she said gently.

"Then who-"

She drew her hands out of her bag, holding a gold-wrapped box. "I found it when I was cleaning out their house. Remus and-" Here she broke off. "Remus and-and Dora's, I mean." And before Harry could do anything else, she pressed the box into his arms and quickly walked out of the hallway. Harry was almost certain she was trying to hide that she was crying.

Harry closed the door behind her. Slowly and methodically, he lifted the lid of the box and found a card lying on the top.

To Harry James Potter on his 18th birthday

Harry slit the envelope open with shaking hands. Holding the card, he stared at it. On the front was a picture Harry had never seen before. It was a black and white of all of the Marauders and Lily, holding a small bundle of blankets that Harry assumed was himself. On the inside of the card, carefully inscribed in Lupin's fine, meticulous handwriting was the following:

Dear Harry,

Strange to think that I might be dead as you read this. Then again, I suppose it's equally likely that I'm sitting next to you right now, laughing at myself for being so pessimistic. I suppose I should start off by saying happy birthday, Harry. I have a feeling that it's not going so well. I remember my first birthday after your parents died, and it certainly wasn't that great. Bit of advice-the fact that you are reading this means that you are alive-and that, Harry, is a very wonderful thing. I made the Pensieve that is sitting in front of you a few months before your parents died, to prevent Voldemort from reading my thoughts and using them to track them down. Obviously, it didn't work, but the fact remains that any contact I have ever had with James, plus all of my years at school, sit right in front of you. Today Teddy was born. I just saw you at Shell Cottage. I know that you will be a great godfather, Harry, far more protective than Sirius or I ever was to you. At any rate, tonight I added my memories since the death of your parents, with the intent of giving them to you. I remembered our row, and I suppose this is, in some small way, an attempt to make sure you don't still think I'm a coward. After all, I have a son now; I have a reputation to uphold! Happy eighteenth. You are the bravest-and the strangest-man I have ever known. Good luck.

Love,

Remus Lupin

Harry's eyes felt like they were full of hot lead, but he couldn't cry. Instead, breathing deeply, he lifted the small, cast iron cauldron out of the box. The silvery substance in it was obviously memory. Not stopping to think twice, Harry stuck his head in. Immediately he was falling, falling, falling, into the dark, bottomless night.