Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise belongs to me.
A/N: This was written as a birthday present for my wonderful teammate, Kefalion!
Harry's Eleventy-First Birthday
"A hundred and eleven," Ginny says with a sigh from her place next to him in the bed they have shared for almost a century. "You're so old."
"I'll be sure to tell you that when it's your turn," Harry says with a grin that wrinkles his nose and unsettles his glasses.
"How d'you want to celebrate?" she asked, flipping a page of Quality Quidditch, a magazine she had helped launch in her forties. She often tutted over the articles, complaining about the quality of the writing and the Harpies' abysmal performance in this year's league.
"I hadn't really thought about it."
"We should do something. Your birthday has always been the perfect excuse for family get-togethers; nobody dares to say no to the famous Harry Potter."
"Oh, shut it."
"You're just mad because it's true." He couldn't argue with that. "Think about it and let me know tomorrow. A week should be plenty of time to throw something together."
"Fine," he huffs good-naturedly. "Night, Gin." He kisses his wife on the cheek and turns off his bedside lamp with a muttered nox.
"Nighty night, hun."
As he tries to let sleep claim him, he can't help but think about her request. He'd always found the attention he received on his birthday embarrassing, especially after so many years of neglect at the hands of the Dursleys.
It is with this train of thought that he drifts off to sleep and falls into his dreams…
… He was ten and curled up in his cupboard, a heavily duct-taped torch in one hand and a stolen book in the other. He'd been pilfering Dudley's unwanted books for as long as he could remember. He'd creep into the Aladdin's Cave of Wonders that was his cousin's second bedroom whilst the Dursleys were out and carefully choose a book. He kept the books safely under his thin mattress and replaced them as soon as he'd devoured them.
Last week, he had taken The Hobbit and hungrily read every word. He'd been enthralled by Bilbo's adventures, enchanted by the grumpy Mirkwood elves, and found himself laughing aloud at the antics of the dim-witted trolls. They'd sort of reminded him of Dudley and his gang of thugs. However, the thing he had enjoyed the most was the friendships and camaraderie that developed throughout the story. He supposed defeating a troll brings people together in a way simple socialising can't.
Completely in love with Middle Earth, this week he'd taken The Fellowship of the Ring and started on it excitedly. Whilst The Hobbit had clearly been written with his age group in mind, this new book was far more difficult for him to read. He read each sentence slowly, looking up the occasional word in his battered pocket dictionary, and thought back over each chapter as he finished them, making a mental summary of what had happened so far. He found Tom Bombadil charming, enjoyed envisioning the village of Bree, but his favourite part by far was Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday party.
He couldn't understand why his favourite hobbit was making such a fuss. If that many people had turned up to celebrate his birthday, he'd have been over the moon. He doubted he'd ever experience such a thing; as his aunt repeatedly told him, he was lucky to get a new pair of socks every year. Tactfully, Harry never mentioned the fact that Dudley's cast-off socks hardly couldn't as "new."
One night, after falling asleep whilst the four hobbits were sneaking through a wood with Aragorn, Harry found himself dreaming…
…A celebration was in full swing around him. People were drinking from flagons, slamming them down on wooden tables and gesticulating wildly. Some of the barrel-based tables were filled to bursting with food: succulent roast meats were practically melting from their bones; hot buttered corn was arranged in precarious pyramids; glistening sausages hung in strings from hooks; and loaves of warm, crusty bread as large as Harry's torso were served alongside bowls of golden butter flaked with salt. People were digging in, paying little heed to plates or cutlery. Music filled the air, the jaunty tune dragging people to their feet and cajoling them into a dance. The cheery laughter and stomping feet became a part of the music itself.
The thing that amazed Harry the most wasn't the food or the music, the drink or the dancing. It was the people. He'd expected to be surrounded by hobbits but, instead, he found his head twisting every which way to take in the sight of characters from every book he'd ever read. Toad of Toad Hall was playing cards (and losing) with Bagheera. Peter Pan was teaching the Lost Boys a dance, each of them mimicking him as best they could. Captain Haddock was telling stories to the children gathered around his feet. Little Red Riding Hood was downing flagon after flagon of ale whilst the Big Bad Wolf struggled to keep up with her.
Making his way to the hay-bail stage at the front of the party, he was stopped over and over again as his favourite characters wrung his hand and wished him a "very Happy Birthday!" The March Hare had tried to wish him a "Merry Unbirthday" but Alice soon corrected him, saving Harry the trouble.
As he reached the stage, a larger-than-life wizard with a long grey beard tucked into his belt used a large staff to light a fuse. He ran away from the rockets after lighting them and Harry watched as, one by one, the rockets soared into the air and exploded into a veritable rainbow of colours. The sparks were drawn together as though magnetised and formed floating beasts of all shapes and sizes. He watched the progress of a particularly magnificent phoenix, walking backwards with his head titled skywards until he bumped into something warm and solid.
"Harry, my boy," Gandalf rumbled, patting Harry on the shoulder with an over-large hand, "Happy Birthday!
"Oh… err… Thank you, Mr Gandalf," Harry said as respectfully as he could.
The wizards knelt down before him gave Harry a kind smile. "Every birthday boy deserves a wish! What would you wish for?"
Harry thought carefully, considering his options.
"I don't need a wish," he said eventually. "You should save it for somebody else."
"And why is that?" Gandalf asked him kindly, eyes twinkling.
"Because I have everything I could ever want right here: A birthday party filled with all my friends."
…When Harry awoke from the dream, alone and friendless in his cupboard, he buried it deep inside his heart where he knew it would be safe from the Dursleys for years to come.
The next morning Harry wakes next to his still sleeping wife and shakes her awake, unable to help himself.
"Go away," she groans, rolling over to face away from him. "I'm asleep."
"But, Gin," he says, his infectious grin creeping into his voice, "I know what I want to do for my birthday."
HARRY POTTER TAKES OVER MIDDLE EARTH
Last night, in celebration of his 111th birthday, Harry Potter—saviour of the wizarding world and hero to all—arranged international portkeys to transport his close friends and family to New Zealand to cavort around the muggle-made village of Hobbiton (a replica of one of the settings in the much-loved Lord of the Rings series). The night consisted of music, dancing, booze, food, and an extravagant firework display courtesy of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes. No fewer than seven muggles had to be obliviated by local magical law enforcement as a result of the raucous revelry. For full details and a photographic spread, see page 7.