Chapter Text
Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any other time of the year. For another, he really wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in secret, in the dead of night. He also happened to be a wizard.
It was nearly midnight, and he was laying on his stomach in bed, the blankets drawn up over his head like a tent. He had a flashlight in one hand and a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot) propped open against his pillow. Harry moved the tip of his eagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for something that would help him write his essay, “Witch Burning in the Sixteenth Century was Completely Pointless - Discuss.”
The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking paragraph. Harry pushed his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, and moved his flashlight a little closer to the book and read:
Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of Magic in late medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises.
Harry put his quill between his teeth and reached underneath his pillow for his ink bottle and a roll of parchment. Slowly and very carefully he unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, and began to write, pausing every now and then to listen, because of any of the Dursleys heard the scratching of his quill on their way to the bathroom, he’d probably find himself locked in the cupboard under the stairs for the rest of the summer.
The Dursleys were the bane of Harry’s existence, as always. It was far too much to expect that the abuse he had suffered his whole life from them would have ended simply because he now had magical abilities. While they gave him a wider berth (and treated him even more like a freak), they still went out of their way to ensure his summer was a miserable one. Frequent insults, restrictions, deprivations, and neglect of all sorts were still all too common. They still would do anything they could to squash the magic and the happiness out of him. These days, they lived in terror of anyone finding out Harry had spent most of the last two years at Hogwarts. The most they could do, however, was to lock away Harry’s spellbooks, wand, cauldron, and broomstick at the start of the summer break, and forbid him from speaking with the neighbors.
Harry truly had a grand amount of work to accomplish over the summer. All of his teachers had given him holiday work, including a particularly nasty essay on Potions for Professor Snape, who would be all too delighted to give Harry detention as soon as he set foot back at school. Harry was determined to give Snape no excuse for punishment beyond his usual venom and hatred.
While Uncle Vernon, Dudley, and Aunt Petunia had gone out to the front garden to admire Uncle Vernon’s new company car (in very loud voices, so that the rest of the street would notice too), Harry had crept downstairs. It had thankfully been a trivial matter to pick the lock on his supplies at that point, and he quickly brought them away upstairs. That had been during the first week of the summer break.
Harry was being especially careful to avoid trouble with his Aunt and Uncle at the moment, as they were already in a foul mood with him. He’d received a telephone call from Ron about one week into the school vacation. Ron Weasley had many admirable qualities, knowledge of Muggles and their technology was not one of them.
He had called, shouting at the top of his lungs, asking for Harry and specifically stating he was a ‘friend of his from Hogwarts’. The screaming certainly didn’t endear him to Uncle Vernon, nor did the tip-off about being a wizard friend from school. Uncle Vernon had been red in the face, shouting that there “IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE!”, and telling Ron in no uncertain terms never to contact him or his family ever again.
“HOW DARE YOU GIVE THIS NUMBER TO PEOPLE LIKE - PEOPLE LIKE YOU!” Uncle Vernon had roared, spraying Harry with spit.
Ron obviously must have realized that he’d gotten Harry in serious trouble, because he never called Harry again. Hermione hadn’t either. Harry suspected Ron must have told her not to call. That was a pity, because seeing as Hermione had muggle parents herself, she knew perfectly well how to use a telephone. She also probably would have had the sense not to mention she was a friend from school.
So here Harry was, with no word from his friends, and a summer turning out to be nearly as bad as the last one. The one ray of light in an otherwise gloomy situation is that, swearing he wouldn’t send any letters to his friends, Harry had managed to somehow convince Uncle Vernon to allow him to let Hedwig out at night. This was due partially to the loud racket Hedwig made most nights back when she wasn’t allowed out for days on end.
Finishing writing, Harry glanced around in the dark, hearing nothing punctuating the silence of the house but Dudley’s snores. It must be very late, he thought. His eyes were itching with tiredness. Perhaps he’d finish this essay tomorrow night…
He replaced the top of the ink bottle; pulled an old pillowcase from under his bed; put the flashlight, A History of Magic, his essay, quill, and ink inside it; got out of bed; and hid the lot under a loose floorboard under his bed. Then he stood up, stretched, and checked the time on the luminous alarm clock on his bedside table.
It was one o’clock in the morning. Harry’s stomach gave a funny jolt. He had been thirteen years old, without realizing it, for a whole hour.
Another birthday that really didn’t matter to anyone but him. He had friends now, of course, but it seemed the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Harry rarely looked forward to his birthday. The Dursley’s made sure it was absolutely miserable for most of his life, and in the last two years they ignored it entirely. He had no reason to think they would remember or make any mention of this one.
Harry chose to take his mind off of things by checking Hedwig’s cage, and then moving slowly over to the windowsill. Harry took a long look out at the night sky, making note of the stars glittering in the night sky. They briefly reminded him of a pair of gleaming silver-grey eyes. With annoyance and a little disgust, he shoved that thought down. Hedwig had been gone for a long time. He wasn’t worried about her: she’d been absent for multiple nights like this before. But he hoped she’d be back soon - she was the only living creature in this house that didn’t flinch at the sight of him.
Harry, though still rather small and skinny for his age, had grown a few inches over the last year. His jet-black hair, however, was always as it had been - stubbornly untidy, whatever he did to it. The eyes behind his glasses were the same bright green that always stared back at him when he looked at his reflection. His fingers brushed his hair aside and thumbed the scar at the top of his forehead.
He thought of Voldemort. Twice now he had encountered him in some form at Hogwarts. The last time was nearly the death of him, and Ron’s sister Ginny. His thinking shifted involuntarily to his parents, their faces always smiling up at him out of pictures or shimmering in the face of the Mirror of Erised. Always separated by a barrier. His thoughts on them, he acknowledged that in many ways he was lucky he had even reached his thirteenth birthday.
He scanned the starry sky for signs of Hedwig, perhaps soaring back to him with a dead mouse dangling from her beak, expecting praise. Gazing absently over the rooftops, it was a few seconds before Harry realized what he was seeing.
Silhouetted against the golden moon, and growing larger every moment, was a large, strangely lopsided creature, and it was flapping in Harry’s direction. He stood quite still, watching it sink lower and lower. For a minute, his hand hovered near the latch of the window, wondering if he needed to slam it shut. Suddenly, realizing what the shape was, Harry dove to the side.
Through the window came three owls. Two of them were holding up a third, who appeared to be unconscious. They landed with a soft flump on Harry’s bed, and the middle owl, which was large and grey, keeled over and lay motionless. There was a large package tied to his legs. Harry recognized the unconscious owl at once - it was Errol, the Weasley family owl. He dashed off the bed, untied the cords, took off the parcel, and then carried Errol to Hedwig’s cage. Errol opened one bleary eye, gave a feeble hoot of thanks, and began to gulp some water.
Harry turned back to the remaining owls. One of them, the large snowy female, was of course Hedwig. She, too, was carrying a parcel and looked extremely pleased with herself. She gave Harry an affectionate nip with her beak as he removed her burden, then flew across the room to join Errol. Harry didn’t recognize the third owl, a handsome tawny one, but he knew at once where it had come from, because in addition to a third package, it was carrying a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest. When Harry removed the items from this owl, it ruffled its feathers importantly, stretched its wings, and took off through the window into the starry night.
Harry decided to open Errol’s package first, ripping off the brown paper, and discovered a present wrapped in gold, and his first ever birthday card. Fingers trembling slightly, he opened the envelope. Two pieces of paper fell out - a letter and a newspaper clipping. The clipping had clearly come out of the Daily Prophet. Harry picked up the clipping, smoothed it out, and read:
MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE
Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw. A delighted Mr. Weasley told the Daily Prophet, “We will be spending the gold on a summer holiday in Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank.” The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children currently attend.
Harry scanned the moving photograph, and a grin spread across his face as he saw all nine of the Weasleys waving furiously at him, standing in front of a large pyramid. Right in the middle of the picture was Ron, tall and gangling, with his pet rat, Scabbers, on his shoulder and his arm around Ginny.
Harry couldn’t think of anyone who deserved to win a large pile of gold more than the Weasleys. He picked up Ron’s letter and unfolded it.
Dear Harry, Happy birthday! Look, I’m really sorry about that telephone call. I hope the Muggles didn’t give you a hard time. I asked Dad, and he reckons I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s amazing here in Egypt. Bill’s taken us around all the tombs and you wouldn’t believe the curses those old Egyptian wizards put on them. Mum wouldn’t let Ginny come in the last one. There were all these mutant skeletons in there, of Muggles who’d broken in and grown extra heads and stuff. I couldn’t believe it when Dad won the Daily Prophet Draw. Seven hundred galleons! Most of it’s gone on this trip, but they’re going to buy me a new wand for next year.
Harry remembered only too well the occasion when Ron’s old wand had snapped. When the car the two of them had been flying to Hogwarts had crashed into the Whomping Willow.
We’ll be back about a week before term starts and we’ll be going up to London to get my wand and our new books. Any chance of meeting you there? Don’t let the Muggles get you down!
Try and come to London,
Ron
P.S. Percy’s Head Boy. He got the letter last week.
Harry glanced back at the photograph. Percy, who was now in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, was looking particularly smug. He had pinned his Head Boy badge to his fez, which was perched jauntily atop his near hair, his horn-rimmed glasses flashing in the Egyptian sun.
Harry now turned to his present and unwrapped it. Inside was what looked like a miniature glass spinning top. There was another note from Run beneath it.
Harry — this is a Pocket Sneakoscope. If there’s someone untrustworthy around, it’s supposed to light up and spin. Bill says it’s rubbish sold for wizard tourists and isn’t reliable, because it kept lighting up at dinner last night. But he didn’t realize Fred and George had put beetles in his soup.
Bye — Ron
Harry put the Pocket Sneakoscope on his bedside table, where it stood quite still, balanced on its point, reflecting the luminous hands of his clock. He looked at it happily for a few seconds, then picked up the parcel Hedwig had brought. Inside this, too, there was a wrapped present, a card, and a letter, this time from Hermione.
Dear Harry, Ron wrote to me and told me about his phone call to your Uncle Vernon. I do hope you’re all right. I’m on holiday in France at the moment and I didn’t know how I was going to send this to you — what if they’d opened it at customs? — but then Hedwig turned up! I think she wanted to make sure you got something for your birthday for a change. I bought your present by owl-order; there was an advertisement in the Daily Prophet (I’ve been getting it delivered; it’s so good to keep up with what’s going on in the wizarding world). Did you see that picture of Ron and his family a week ago? I bet he’s learning loads. I’m really jealous — the ancient Egyptian wizards were fascinating. There’s some interesting local history of witchcraft here, too. I’ve rewritten my whole History of Magic essay to include some of the things I’ve found out. I hope it’s not too long — it’s two rolls of parchment more than Professor Binns asked for. Ron says he’s going to be in London in the last week of the holidays. Can you make it? Will your aunt and uncle let you come? I really hope you can. If not, I’ll see you on the Hogwarts Express on September first!
Love from Hermione
P.S. Ron says Percy’s Head Boy. I’ll bet Percy’s really pleased. Ron doesn’t seem too happy about it.
Harry laughed as he put Hermione’s letter aside and picked up her present. It was very heavy. Knowing Hermione, he was sure it would be a large book full of very difficult spells — but it wasn’t. His heart gave a huge bound as he ripped back the paper and saw a sleek black leather case, with silver words stamped across it, reading Broomstick Servicing Kit.
“Wow, Hermione!” Harry whispered, unzipping the case to look inside.
There was a large jar of Fleetwood’s High-Finish Handle Polish, a pair of gleaming silver Tail-Twig Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip on your broom for long journeys, and a Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare.
Harry put the leather case aside and picked up his last parcel. He recognized the untidy scrawl on the brown paper at once: this was from Hagrid. He tore off the top layer of paper and glimpsed something green and leathery, but before he could unwrap it properly, the parcel gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it snapped loudly — as though it had jaws.
Harry froze. He knew that Hagrid would never send him anything dangerous on purpose, but then, Hagrid didn’t have a normal person’s view of what was dangerous.
Harry poked the parcel nervously. It snapped loudly again. Harry reached for the lamp on his bedside table, gripped it firmly in one hand, and raised it over his head, ready to strike. Then he seized the rest of the wrapping paper in his other hand and pulled.
And out fell — a book. Harry just had time to register its handsome green cover, emblazoned with the golden title The Monster Book of Monsters, before it flipped onto its edge and scuttled sideways along the bed like some weird crab.
“Uh-oh,” Harry muttered.
The book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and shuffled rapidly across the room. Harry followed it stealthily. The book was hiding in the dark space under his desk. Praying that the Dursleys were still fast asleep, Harry got down on his hands and knees and reached toward it.
“Ouch!”
The book snapped shut on his hand and then flapped past him, still scuttling on its covers. Harry scrambled around, threw himself forward, and managed to flatten it. Uncle Vernon gave a loud, sleepy grunt in the room next door.
Hedwig and Errol watched interestedly as Harry clamped the struggling book tightly in his arms, hurried to his chest of drawers, and pulled out a belt, which he buckled tightly around it. The Monster Book shuddered angrily, but could no longer flap and snap, so Harry threw it down on the bed and reached for Hagrid’s card.
Dear Harry, Happy birthday! Think you might find this useful for next year. Won’t say no more here. Tell you when I see you. Hope the Muggles are treating you right.
All the best, Hagrid
It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a biting book would come in useful, but he put Hagrid’s card up next to Ron’s and Hermione’s, grinning more broadly than ever. Now there was only the letter from Hogwarts left.
Noticing that it was rather thicker than usual, Harry slit open the envelope, pulled out the first page of parchment within, and read:
Dear Mr. Potter, Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King’s Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o’clock. Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign. A list of books for next year is enclosed.
Yours sincerely, Professor M. McGonagall Deputy Headmistress
Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and looked at it, no longer grinning. It would be wonderful to visit Hogsmeade on weekends; he knew it was an entirely wizarding village, and he had never set foot there. But how on earth was he going to persuade Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign the form?
He looked over at the alarm clock. It was now two o’clock in the morning.
Deciding that he’d worry about the Hogsmeade form when he woke up, Harry got back into bed and reached up to cross off another day on the chart he’d made for himself, counting down the days left until his return to Hogwarts. Then he took off his glasses and lay down, eyes open, facing his three birthday cards.
Extremely unusual though he was, at that moment Harry Potter felt just like everyone else — glad, for the first time in his life, that it was his birthday.