Chapter Text
Harry had learned, over the years, that the quietest moments were never freely given. They had to be carved out of the noise, pried from the edges of the day, and held tightly before someone noticed he was enjoying himself. These moments usually happened at night, and tonight was one of the rare moments that Harry actually felt at peace despite literally doing homework.
It was well past midnight now, and he lay flat on his stomach, cocooned beneath a mound of blankets that sagged around him like the walls of a child’s makeshift tent. The warmth beneath them was stifling, but it was the safest way to do his schoolwork. The torch that was balanced in the crook of his elbow cast a soft, yellow glow over the pages of a heavy leather-bound charms textbook. He guided the tip of his eagle-feather quill down a densely written page, searching for something that might help him scrape together a passable paragraph for the essay that Professor Flitwick had set at the end of last term: ‘Discuss the political misuse of cheering charms in pre-war Britain.’
Even thinking the title made his brain crumple in protest.
His quill hesitated over a section that looked promising, and he nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose, brought the torch closer, and let his tired eyes move over the words that had caught his attention:
Cheering Charms, while commonly understood today as benign emotional-boosting spells suitable for both domestic and clinical use, occupied a markedly different political function during the early decades of the twentieth century. Archival records from the Ministry of Magic reveal that various administrations, most notably the Flint Government of 1908–1916, employed mass-cast Cheering Charms at public addresses, campaign gatherings, and Wizengamot sessions.
The rationale, presented at the time as an attempt to “promote civic harmony,” obscured a more calculated objective: limiting public dissent by artificially elevating the mood of assembled witches and wizards. Contemporary critics- among them the journalist Belvina Blenkinsop- argued that such enchantments constituted a violation of both free will and informed political participation. Blenkinsop’s landmark 1912 article, “Smiles by Spellwork,” triggered the first formal inquiry into emotional manipulation charms.
Legislation eventually followed in 1924, restricting the use of Cheering Charms in any context involving political decision making. However, historians agree that the practice never fully vanished until well after the conclusion of the Goblin Labour Reforms in 1935, when increased public scrutiny rendered the spell’s misuse both conspicuous and controversial.
Modern charmcasters are therefore reminded that emotional enchantments, however innocuous they appear, possess a capacity for sociopolitical abuse unmatched by most mid-level charmwork. Their history stands as a cautionary tale of the ethical boundaries of magical intervention.
Confident, Harry clamped the quill between his teeth and groped blindly under his pillow until his fingers brushed the familiar cool glass of his ink bottle and the crinkled edge of parchment. He worked slowly then, unscrewing the bottle with the delicacy of someone handling a volatile potion rather than ink; A single blot would give him away, and then there would be trouble. Once the quill was wet, he bent low and began to write, stopping every few sentences to strain his ears for footsteps, or the creak of a floorboard. If Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon caught him doing schoolwork, they’d drag him downstairs and lock him back in the cupboard under the stairs, and he knew better than to assume they’d let him out before September.
The Dursleys had always lived in dread of his magic, but the last few years had sharpened that dread into something sour and brittle. They had wasted the first decade of his life trying to beat the oddness out of him, only to discover it wasn’t something that could be starved or shouted away.
So they resorted to containment.
At the start of each summer they confiscated his spellbooks, wand, cauldron, and broomstick, and piled it all into the cupboard as though it was some kind of explosion hazard. It would have worked, too. Harry spent the summer after his first year doing absolutely no schoolwork, and paid for it dearly by being horribly behind. If it had not been for Fred and George Weasley and the lock-picking lesson they’d given him last year, he would definitely end up beginning his third year with several months-worth of detentions. Thanks to the twins, Harry had managed to retrieve his essentials and hide them in his room in the first week of the holidays. As long as he didn’t leave ink stains on the sheets and didn’t let a single magical object slip into view, the Dursleys didn’t have and reason to suspect Harry of doing homework late into the night.
Harry had even more reason to avoid trouble right now, since Uncle Vernon’s temper had been smouldering ever since the incident with Ron and the telephone- a disaster that Harry replayed in his head far too often.
Uncle Vernon had answered it, and that had been the biggest mistake.
“Vernon Dursley speaking,” he’d grunted, already irritated by the very existence of a ringing telephone. Harry, who’d been passing through the hall, froze when a familiar voice bellowed through the receiver.
“HELLO? HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I WANT TO TALK TO HARRY POTTER!”
Ron’s voice had carried like a foghorn and Uncle Vernon had physically recoiled, holding the receiver at arm’s length as though Ron might burst out of it.
“WHO IS THIS?” he roared back with his face purple, “WHO ARE YOU?!”
“RON WEASLEY!” came the answering shout, as though Ron believed that screaming down the telephone was completely normal behaviour for muggles, bless his heart. “I’M A FRIEND OF HARRY’S FROM SCHOOL-"
Uncle Vernon’s eyes had swiveled slowly onto Harry in red fury, and he hadn't felt fear like that in a very, very long time.
“THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE!” Uncle Vernon bellowed, still clutching the phone at a distance as if expecting it to explode, “NEVER CALL THIS NUMBER AGAIN! DON’T YOU DARE COME NEAR MY FAMILY!”
He slammed the receiver down so hard the telephone jittered on its stand.
The fallout that followed had been volcanic; Uncle Vernon was red-faced and spitting as he thundered at him:
“HOW DARE YOU GIVE THIS NUMBER TO- TO PEOPLE LIKE- PEOPLE LIKE… YOU!”
The rest of the ordeal had blurred into a storm of insults and threats. Harry had retreated, shaken and silent, while Vernon raged at him while brandishing his fist violently.
Ron hadn’t phoned again, and Harry suspected he had warned Hermione too because she hadn’t called either. Hermione, with her sense and tact and muggle parents, would definitely have handled a phone call like a normal person, and definitely wouldn’t have mentioned Hogwarts. Harry missed her voice more than he’d like to admit.
So for five long weeks, he’d heard nothing from any of them, and the summer had stretched on with an awful, dragging heaviness that reminded him all too much of last year.
The tiniest mercy was that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had allowed Harry to let Hedwig out at night, but only because her frustrated screeching had kept the whole house awake, and only if Harry swore to not send letters to his friends.
Harry finished the last lines of the charms paragraph and then paused again to listen, but only Dudley’s distant, piggy snores were rumbling from the next room over.
It was at this point that he became acutely aware of his eyes burning, and his aching hand. He capped the ink bottle, slid everything into the faded pillowcase he kept for his contraband, and hauled himself out of bed. The floorboard beneath the bedside table creaked faintly as he pried it up; beneath it lay a hollow space just large enough for his torch, essay, textbook, and ink.
He checked the time on his alarm clock.
One o’clock. He had been thirteen years old for a whole hour.
Birthdays had never really meant much to him. They still didn’t, although he still had that small glimmer of hope, every year, that this time… this time someone would remember, or acknowledge, or something- especially since being at Hogwarts. Last year had been a disappointment mainly because Dobby had been keeping his friends’ letters from him, but this year…
He crossed the room and leaned his crossed arms against the windowsill, drinnking in the cool night air that brushed his face, which was a welcome relief after so long under the blankets. Hedwig’s cage sat empty, her absence stretching back two nights. He wasn’t worried- she was clever and proud and capable- but he missed her, and the simple comfort she brought of another living thing sharing the same space as him and not flinching or casting him dirty or terrified looks.
He scanned the sky, half hoping, half imagining, when a faint shape glided between the stars- something with broad wings and a pale body.
Hedwig was coming home, and by the looks of it she had brought a friend.
Dangling beneath her, caught in her talons and swaying gently with her flight, was what looked very much like a rather large satchel.
Harry’s heart gave a fierce, startled leap and he leapt aside just in time for her to soar in through the open window and land on his bed with a soft flump while looking extremely pleased with herself. A handsome tawny barn owl followed, which Harry immediately recongnised as the Hogwarts delivery owl. He immediately rushed over to the bed and pried the satchel from Hedwig's talons and the letter from the Hogwarts' owls beak, to which the old let out a dull hoot and soared back out of the window. He opened the letter and scanned it quickly, feeling a swell of satisfaction at the sight of his train ticket and his new list of supplies. He'd have to see if he could convince Uncle Vernon to let him go to London at some point...
Deciding to deal with that issue later, he turned to the satchel that Hedwig had brought and opened it, allowing the contents inside to fall out onto his bed.
Letters and presents from his friends.
He sat down on his bed and grabbed the first package he saw, ripped off the brown paper, and discovered a present wrapped in gold, and a letter that was scrawled in Seamus’ signature messy handwriting:
Harry mate,
Figured I’d write before Mammy notices the owl gone again, then Hedwig showed up! So that worked out quite well didn't it?
Anyway- happy birthday!
Thirteen! Crazy right? I’m waiting to grow a moustache, and my dad keeps trying to have some sort of 'talk' with me but i've avoided him so far- i have a suspicion of what its about and I’m staying far away from that!
I’ve been practicing a few new spells this summer. Haven’t exploded anything important yet, unless you count the kettle which i don't because it's old and we need a new one anyway. Mammy was fuming though. Hope your homework’s treating you better than mine; I swear my transfiguration essay is writing itself backwards out of spite.
Hope your day’s at least half-decent with your muggles. I sent along a present- reckoned you’d like it.
See you soon, yeah?
-Seamus
Seamus’s parcel contained a small metal box with the logo of an Irish wizarding smithy burned into the lid. Inside lay a jumbled set of enchanted scrap pieces. When he fitted them together as instructed in the tiny leaflet, they formed a miniature clover-shaped charm that warmed instantly in his palm. He unstuck the note that Seamus had stuck to the box and read it:
This is a good luck charm I got when visiting my grandparents in Cork. Boring place, but they have a good duelling scene. Mammy told me this is the type of thing duellists carry, figured you of all people would find it useful, eh? My grandparent couldn't believe i was friends with you- not thaqt i bragged to them, they're just nosey!
See you on the Hoggy Express!
He smiled gently and placed it delicately on his bedside table, admiring it for a moment before he turned to another parcel and opened it. Two pieces of paper fell out- a letter and a newspaper clipping.
The clipping had clearly come out The Daily Prophet, because the people in the black-and-white picture were moving. 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. He 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 down the telephone.
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 and some new stuff for Ginny after what happened with her last year. All the attention has been on her this summer, and I don’t blame them at all. She seems fine though, but I’ve never been good at emotions and stuff.
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
PS. Percy's Head Boy. He got the letter last week.
Harry glanced back at the photograph. Percy was looking particularly smug with his Head Boy badge pinned to the fez that was perched jauntily on top of his neat 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, and there was another note from Ron 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!
Harry put the Pocket Sneakoscope next to the lucky charm, where it stood quite still, balanced on its point, reflecting the luminous numbers of his digital alarm clock. He looked at it happily for a few seconds, then picked up another parcel. Inside this, too, was a wrapped present, a birthday card, and a letter, this time from Hermione. The front of the card sported a candid picture of some balloons with a large silver '13', and the words 'Joyeux Anniversaire!'. Inside, Hermione had written a short but sweet message:
To Harry,
Joyeux treizième anniversaire!
I wanted to write you a card because I know you’ve not gotten one before, and thirteen is such a big year, isn’t it?
I hope today brings you something good. You deserve that and more.
Love from,
Hermione
He smiled at the card for a few moments, then picked up her letter:
Dear Harry,
Ron wrote to me and told me about his phone call to your Uncle. I do hope you're all right and your aunt and uncle weren’t too angry.
I'm on holiday in France at the moment and I didn't know how I was going to send your present 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!
Third year here we come!
- Hermonie
PS. 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.
Neville’s parcel was lighter than Hermione’s, wrapped carefully. Harry found the letter and carefully unfolded it, reading it carefully since he’d never received a letter from Neville before:
Happy birthday, Harry!
Gran says I ought to write neatly, so I’m trying my best, but Trevor keeps hopping across the parchment, so I’m sorry if some of the lines look wobbly.
I hope you’re doing alright at your aunt and uncle’s. From what I’ve gathered, they don’t seem like very nice muggles.
I picked out a birthday present for you when Gran took me into Diagon Alley last week. She said birthdays should always mean something hopeful, so I hope it brings you hope!
I can’t wait to see everyone again in September. It feels strange being away this long.
Take care, Harry!
From, Neville
Turning to the gift and ripping off the parchment, Harry was presented with a small potted plant, its leaves a soft silver-green which glowed faintly in the dark.
Harry-
This is called Moonmoss. It’s one of the more muggle looking plants I could find so that you could have it at home with you and not be asked too many questions.
Happy birthday!!
-Neville
Putting the note down and brushing a fingertip against one luminous frond, the plant shivered pleasantly. Of course Neville would send something that made a room feel less lonely.
He was suddenly overcome with an overwhelming feeling of guilt. He hadn’t sent anybody anything all summer, and here his friends were, remembering his birthday and getting his beautiful, extravagant gifts. He made a mental note to draw out larger sum of money in Diagon Alley and treat his friends to something nice each…
…If he could even go to Diagon alley this year.
There were only two parcels left. One was obviously from Hagrid, and the other from who Harry could only assume would be Dean.
The pang of guilt didn’t go away when he opened Dean’s birthday card, which he had clearly brought at a card shop. Opening it, a ten pound note fell out and Harry felt his heart drop even more.
…Money?
No no no.
Now he felt really bad.
Dear Harry,
Happy birthday!
Thought I’d send something normal so your family doesn’t implode on sight.
Summer’s been dull without a decent match. West Ham losing every friendly and I’m losing my mind. If we’re playing like this now, how are we going to do in the league??
See you at school!
Dean
Warmth washed through him in a slow, overwhelming wave. He tucked the ten pound note away at the very back of his drawers, in some old socks for good measure, with the plan to use it to make summer a little less miserable next year.
Finally, Harry turned to the final parcel and tore off the top layer of paper. He only just glimpsed something green and leathery before the half-opened parcel gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it snapped loudly as though it had jaws.
He 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.
He poked the parcel nervously.
It snapped loudly again.
Deciding it was probably best to have some sort of self-defence just in case, He 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 particularly nasty looking book.
Harry just had time to register its golden title ‘The Monster Book of Monsters’, before it flipped onto its edge and scuttled side-ways along the bed like some sort of weird crab.
“Uh-oh.” He muttered as the book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and shuffled rapidly across the room he followed after it with the lamp still in hand.
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 as he 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 letter.
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
Harry let out a long breath.
His bed was a clutter of wrapping paper and gifts, glowing leaves and polished brass, chocolate boxes, clover charms, and a book that wanted blood, apparently. All of it was ridiculous and mismatched and perfect, and the kind of birthday haul he’d never ever dreamed of having. He sat for a moment in the quiet, letting the warmth of it settle. Hedwig preened on her perch from her cage, feathers rustling softly, clearly proud of her days-long work.
Harry brushed a hand across the Moonmoss. Its glow steadied beneath his touch.
For the first time all summer, the weight on his ribs shifted into a gentle, easy feeling.
Outside, the wind turned a little warmer; A soft reminder that the night was almost over, and Privet Drive would never let him keep moments like this for long.
But for now, he allowed himself this one.
***
“BOY.”
Harry froze under his blankets at the sound of Uncle Vernon’s voice rattling around the walls. Uncle Vernon only ever sounded like that when something had put him in a foul temper, which wasn’t difficult anyway. Whatever potential there was of having a normal morning was clearly heading the way all bad Dursley mornings went: loud, unpredictable, and aimed directly at him. Brilliant.
“BOY!” Uncle Vernon bellowed again from the kitchen, “Get down here at once!”
His birthday might as well have been a lifetime ago.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Harry dragged himself out of bed, dressed quickly, and made his way downstairs.
The kitchen was already awake in the aggressive, overbright way that only the Dursleys’ kitchen ever was. Sunlight streamed through the spotless windows, the table had been set with military precision, and the smell of frying bacon hung thickly in the air. Uncle Vernon sat at the head of the table, newspaper spread wide in front of him, jaw working as he chewed. Petunia hovered by the hob, back ramrod straight and her movements sharp and efficient. Dudley was already eating with his eyes fixed firmly on the new TV that Uncle Vernon had brought for the kitchen as a “welcome home for the summer” present for Dudley. It was the most pathetic thing to bear witness to when Dudley fawned over it for over three hours, but Harry knew better than to say anything by now.
“Sit, boy.” Uncle Vernon demanded without looking up at him.
Oh. That was new. Usually Harry immediately took over breakfast.
He obeyed nonetheless, taking a seat at the far end of the table. A plate of pale, dry toast was dropped in front of him; Aunt Petunia’s hand lingered on the edge of it for just a second longer than necessary, as though she were considering something, then she withdrew and wordlessly went back over to the stove.
This whole situation was… weird. He never ate at the table with them. Never.
His stomach sank. The Dursleys only treated him nicely when they had something particularly nasty to share with him.
He didn’t touch the toast.
“Aunt Marge is coming for the week.” Uncle Vernon said from behind his newspaper. Harry’s chest lurched. Aunt Marge was a truly awful woman. She wasn’t even his aunt, but he had been forced to call her so for his whole life. It had been years since he’d last seen her and the last time he had, she had given him dog food for dinner when babysitting him and Dudley. Aunt Marge hated him, and he hated her right back.
Harry suddenly felt very, very sick.
“You will behave,” Uncle Vernon continued,“You will be nothing but civil to her, and you will most certainly keep your… abnormalities to yourself. As far as Marge knows, you are attending St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.”
“What?!” Harry couldn’t help but let out, but was immediately given a harsh whack around the head by Aunt Petunia.
“You watch your tongue!” She shrieked at him, her eyes flicking meaningfully to the cupboard door, then back to Harry’s face. He got the message and lowered his gaze, white faced and shaking with fury.
Very clearly satisfied, Uncle Vernon continued on, “you will be sticking to that story, boy, or you will have the stuffing knocked out of you, among other punishments we have prepared. There will be no funny business while she is here, and you will do as you are told at all times. Do you understand me?”
Harry stayed silent.
“I said. Do you understand me?”
“…Yes, Uncle Vernon.”
The room fell into silence after that apart from the dull clatter of Aunt Petunia washing dishes and the news reporter on TV.
"...The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hotline has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately."
“No need to tell us he's no good," snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. “Look at the state of him, the filthy layabout! Look at his hair!" He shot a nasty look at Harry.
Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry felt very well groomed.
The reporter reappeared.
“The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today-"
“Hang on!" Exclaimed Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the reporter. “You didn't tell us where that maniac's escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!"
Harry didn’t exactly understand why knowing where an escaped prisoner had escaped from would be at all relevant when there was already a special hotline for him anyway, but he knew better than to share his opinion and he was still too fuming about Aunt Marge to really care about some escapee anyway.
Aunt Petunia, however, whipped around and peered intently out of the kitchen window at Uncle Vernon’s words.
“When will they learn," Uncle Vernon continued to rant, pounding the table with his large purple fist, "that hanging's the only way to deal with these people? It isn’t like they’d ever be normal enough to fit into society.”
Another dirty look in Harry’s direction.
“Very true," agreed Aunt Petunia while she continued to curtain twitch out of the window.
”Wonder what he did.” Chimed Dudley.
Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his watch, and added, "I'd better be off in a minute, Petunia dear. Marge's train gets in at ten."
At this, Harry just slowly got up from the table and began to walk out of the room.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
“To tell Hedwig to clear off.” Harry answered slowly, “you want me to act normal, don’t you? Normal boys don’t have owls.”
He didn’t get an answer which told him he had permission to leave, so he headed back upstairs and straight to the bathroom where he promptly threw up.
This was the worst birthday ever.