WARNING: This thing is very long. Don't try to read it unless your attention span is phenomenal; I know I can't read chapters with more than 500 words, anyway. Also, I've included about a million details concerning books one through five, so unless you've read them all (or don't plan to read them, or don't mind having surprises spoiled), you might want to avoid this particular fic. Otherwise, read on, and I hope you enjoy it!

Privet Drive had not seen such a miserable summer in many years. The drizzle had started around mid-April, and continued through May – by the time the local youth had returned from school, the neighbourhood had not seen the sun for three months.

It was now July, and the early morning rain splashed dully against the windowpanes of number four, Privet Drive, whose residents lay sleeping within. Number four was the Dursleys' house, home to Vernon, Petunia and Dudley Dursley. The Dursleys, admittedly, were not the liveliest bunch at the best of times. Vernon, a large, mustached man with a purple face, owned a drill company. Petunia, tall, thin, long-necked and nosy, was his wife, and Dudley, a beefy, blond sixteen-year-old boy, was the Dursleys' only son.

None of the three Dursleys approved of nonsense – they were the straightforward sort, having twice their share of opinions to make up for their lack of imagination. As such, they would have lived quite peacefully and happily together, had it not been for one major disturbance in their domestic lives. This disturbance stayed for the most part in its own room (the smallest in the house), and avoided the Dursleys as fervently as they shunned it. The disturbance's name was Harry Potter, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley's nephew, and he was about as different from Vernon, Petunia and Dudley Dursley as one could imagine.

At the moment, Harry was lying on his bed, nursing a headache that had kept him up most of the night. His long legs hung down to the ground over the edge of his mattress, and his left arm lay splayed across the sheets as his right hand massaged his forehead. Harry's fingers ran repeatedly across a most unusual marking: though his shaggy black hair usually hid it, the small, lightning-shaped scar on his forehead made Harry's face a remarkable one. Harry had born the scar since the age of one – the age at which, much to his aunt and uncle's dismay, the boy had been left, orphaned, on their doorstep.

The Dursleys had been most displeased at the prospect of raising Mrs. Dursley's sister's son, and as a result, Harry had never received much welcome or love at number four. Not permitted to ask many questions, Harry had lived until the age of eleven believing the scar was the result of a car crash that had taken the lives of his parents, Lily and James Potter.

Then, in a matter of days, everything had changed. All of a sudden, Harry was receiving letters by owl mail and being visited by an umbrella-wielding giant. The secret – the one his aunt and uncle had worked so hard to keep from him and from the world – was revealed to him. Harry Potter was a wizard, born of magical parents and destined to learn spells and potionmaking at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Soon the shock had been compounded: not only was Harry an anomaly among Muggles (non-magical folk), but he was also a most remarkable wizard. The lightning scar, he was told, had not come from a car crash, but from the curse of a fearfully powerful and evil wizard, one who had killed his parents and whose name most of the wizarding world feared to utter. Why he had been unable to kill Harry, it seemed no one knew, but for whatever reason, the wizard – Voldemort – had lost his powers and withered away the instant he tried to destroy the boy.

Now, five years to the day since Harry had learned he was a wizard, his room bore witness to the new and remarkable life he had made for himself. His open trunk lay at the foot of his bed, overflowing with parchment scrolls, inkwells, leather-bound textbooks and vials of potionmaking ingredients (everything from wormwood extract to concentrated essence of dragonscale). His Firebolt – a top-of-the line racing broomstick – was propped in the corner, next to his broomstick servicing kit. Harry's school robes hung in the closet, visible through the half-open door. Above his desk hung a large birdcage, in which perched his pet snowy owl, Hedwig, who ruffled her feathers and hooted at the indignity of being cooped up inside.

Harry's brow furrowed at the noise. He opened his bright-green eyes behind his glasses and looked over at Hedwig.

'I'm not stopping you from going out there if you want to,' he said. 'It's none of my business if you want to get soaked.'

Hedwig glared at him, but stayed put.

Harry sighed and closed his eyes again. He had been suffering headaches since the end of the school year – his fifth year at Hogwarts. He guessed they were due to stress: Harry's last year had been a hard one, for a variety of reasons. The fifth year students had spent the year preparing for their OWL (Ordinary Wizarding Level) examinations, which had proved exhausting and demanding. It was no help that their headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, had disappeared partway through the year. He had been replaced by their hateful new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Dolores Umbridge, who had been about as adept at teaching the subject as Harry's second-least favourite teacher – Severus Snape – was at being loveable.

Harry in particular, though, had had a very difficult time. No one else at the school had been there when, the year before, Voldemort had taken him captive and used Harry to speed his return to power. Harry had narrowly escaped with his life, but had witnessed the killing of fellow Hogwarts student Cedric Diggory at the hand of the Dark Lord's servant. The experience was worsened when the minister of magic had refused to believe the story. Nothing was to be done concerning resisting Voldemort, and Harry had spent the summer and the following school year waiting for the attack that he knew would come, but was powerless to stop.

Then there had been the Order of the Phoenix: a secret society formed between a minority group of wizards and witches who knew the truth and planned a resistance against the Dark Lord and his followers. The Order was led by Albus Dumbledore, a powerful wizard, and, people said, the only one Voldemort had ever feared. Harry's godfather, Sirius Black, his best friend Ron's parents, Arthur and Molly Weasley, his former teacher, Remus Lupin, and the Hogwarts potionsmaster, Severus Snape, were also among the members. The existence of this group had done little to reassure Harry that the wizarding world was safe from Voldemort, however.

The school year itself had been fraught with frightening events: Harry was threatened with expulsion from the school, Arthur Weasley was nearly killed, and Harry became convinced that Voldemort was controlling his mind in his sleep. It had all culminated in one terrible night, at the Ministry of Magic, when Harry had come face-to-face with Voldemort once more, and a battle had broken out between the Death Eaters – Voldemort's followers – and the members of the Order of the Phoenix. The memories were vivid in his mind: Dumbledore had fought Voldemort, and won – but the Dark Lord was not defeated. More than that, though, Harry had once again seen death: this time that of his beloved godfather, Sirius.

Harry moaned at the sudden resurgence of that memory. Sirius had been the only real family Harry had, though Harry had only known him for two years. Harry was still struggling to deal with Sirius's death, but in the dreary wet of the summer, shut in his room, his godfather's last moments remained fixed at the front of his mind.

A sudden thud broke the silence. Harry, grateful for a distraction, opened his eyes to see a large, tawny owl flapping frantically outside his window. He hurried over and threw open the window, receiving the sodden, angry creature into his room. It landed on his bed with all the grace of a waterlogged wig.

Harry recognized it as one of the Hogwarts owls, and his stomach seemed suddenly to migrate up towards his throat. He hadn't heard from the school since the end of the semester. The owl's arrival could mean only one thing: his examination results were in.

To Harry's surprise, the Hogwarts owl was followed immediately by five other owls, who tumbled over one another in their rush to get out of the wet. The room was soaked within seconds.

'Shhh!' Harry tried frantically to hush the hooting birds, certain that they would wake his aunt and uncle. The last thing he wanted was for Uncle Vernon to burst in on him entertaining seven owls, six of which were soaked to the skin and looking vengeful.

Hedwig came to Harry's rescue. With one loud, threatening hoot, the others were silenced. Harry supposed they realized they had invaded the home of another large and irritated owl, one far less wet and tired than themselves. They eyed her uncertainly.

'Thanks,' he muttered to her. Hedwig responded with a rather withering look.

Harry turned to the owls. One of the new arrivals, a tiny thing now resembling a half-drowned rat, he recognized as Pigwidgeon, Ron's owl. He brightened up immediately. Of course – today was Harry's birthday. He had forgotten completely, probably due to his pounding headache. Harry's birthday had never been celebrated amongst the Dursleys, but ever since he had started his lessons at Hogwarts, Harry had known he could look forward to presents from his new wizarding friends.

'Let's get these off you,' he said to the pathetic lot. He untied the letter from the Hogwarts owl first – it was ominously thick – and then took a package from Pigwidgeon that dwarfed the tiny owl. He attempted to take a letter from a large, great horned owl, but the bird nipped his fingers and hooted angrily.

'Ouch!' Harry said, sucking his fingers. 'What's the matter with you?'

The owl stuck out its leg, allowing Harry to see the address on the letter.

'To Arabella Figg?' Harry read, confused. 'But... she doesn't live here. You've got the wrong house.'

The owl shot him an angry look and shook itself, spraying droplets of water across the sheets and all over Harry.

'Oh, I see,' Harry said, slightly annoyed as he wiped his glasses on his shirtsleeve. 'Just thought you'd come in out of the rain, did you?'

The owl stood a little straighter, but did not reply. Harry decided to ignore it, and proceeded to remove the packages from the three remaining owls, one of which appeared to be another of the Hogwarts stock, bearing a package stamped with the school crest. The other two were unfamiliar.

The parcels were remarkably dry, thanks undoubtedly to the magical waterproof paper used for the envelopes and wrapping. Harry set them all out on his desk as the owls puttered about on his bed, apparently reluctant to go back out into the rain. As and afterthought Harry tossed them some owl food of Hedwig's, realizing too late that now his bed would be soaked and filthy.

He opened Ron's first, and pulled out an envelope, as well as a package wrapped in glossy red paper. Setting the package on his lap, he tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter, written in Ron's hasty scrawl:

Hi Harry!
Hope the Muggles are treating you all right, my own mum and dad are ready to crack, what with all the madness at the ministry. We're spending the summer with Fred and George in the store. It's as good as a holiday – you wouldn't believe the type of people you get coming in if you stick around long enough. Needless to say, business is great. Diagon Alley is long overdue for a joke shop, as George says. He and Fred are getting rich, though they won't admit it. As for me, I've been practicing Quidditch as often as possible, which should reassure you a bit! This year will be the best, both of us on the team and all – I can't wait!
Anyway, that's about it for us. Dad's been working mad hours, and Charlie dropped by mid-June. Hope this gets to you all right, you never know with Pig.

Your friend,
Ron

PS: Mum's been worried about you. I told her to forget it, you can handle things. I hope I was right?

PPS: I forgot to tell you, Percy's quit the ministry. Seems the You-Know- Who episode gave him a bit of a shock. He's back with us here now, and we all seem to be getting along okay (or as well as ever, at least). Percy's still a bit quiet, though, and I don't think Mum's quite forgiven him. Me neither, really.

PPPS: Tell me your OWL scores as soon as you get them. I want to make sure I'm in the same classes as you.

Harry scratched his head. He was happy to hear that Fred and George (Ron's older twin brothers) were having success with their joke shop, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, which they had recently opened. The Weasleys were infamously poor, and Harry knew how much it would mean to them to have two of their own make it in business. He was also pleased that Percy, Ron's third oldest brother, seemed to have come about – there had been a rift between him and the rest of the family over the past year – and that Ron was making progress on his Quidditch game. Harry and Ron both played Quidditch (a high speed, dangerous sport played on broomsticks) for their school house, Gryffindor.

Ron's first postscript, however, brought all the memories back. Harry shut his eyes. Ron didn't know the half of it. After the terrifying fight at the Ministry, Dumbledore had brought Harry back to his office, where he had 'told him everything'. In light of Voldemort's return, the headmaster seemed to think it time to tell Harry the truth about why the wizard had tried to kill him as an infant.

It seemed there had been a prophecy, made before Harry was born, that spoke of one who would kill – or be killed by – Lord Voldemort. Harry, apparently, fit the description in the prophecy perfectly. This meant, Dumbledore told him, that Harry would eventually have to meet Voldemort in battle, and that, in the end, one of them would have to die. The news had dragged him even further down into depression. Voldemort was one of the most powerful practitioners of magic ever to have lived; Harry was an average teenage wizard who had been lucky so far.

Of course, Harry hadn't told anyone, not even his best friends, Ron and Hermione. As things were, he really didn't feel like receiving any more attention.

Harry shook his head and opened his eyes, slightly annoyed at himself. He had been dwelling on the past year's events for the entire summer, and felt he ought to try to take advantage of this opportunity to be cheerful for a while.

Laying the letter aside, Harry tore open the red package. A large book, smelling of new leather, tumbled onto his lap. He turned it over to read the title: A Modern History of Aurology. Ron had included a note, which read, We'll be in the next edition, eh, Harry?! Harry grinned. He and Ron had always planned to be aurors – dark wizard captors – when they were older. Harry leafed quickly through the pages, watching the moving faces of dozens of rather menacing-looking wizards and witches flip past. He laid the book aside with the letter.

The next package seemed to have been rather hastily wrapped, being bound up with cellotape as though it might have tried to escape. Harry only half doubted this was true. From the Hogwarts crest and the large, deliberate letters spelling out the address, Harry could only guess the package was from Rubeus Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper and professor of the Care of Magical Creatures course. Harry and Hagrid were good friends, but Hagrid had a somewhat alarming affinity for dangerous creatures. It was quite possible that Hagrid had thought it a wonderful idea to send Harry some 'fascinating' sort of animal as a birthday present.

Harry took his time unwrapping the package, half expecting to be bitten at any moment. Fortunately, as he pulled away the wrapping, the most disturbing item he found was what appeared to be a squashed piece of lint, pressed against an envelope on top of a white box. He brushed it aside and opened the envelope. The enclosed letter read:

Happy Berthday Harry! Here's your yearly berthday cake. Hope you like it. Also find inclosed one fizzwidget. Got it free at Magical Menagery when I told the shopkeeper I was the Magical Creatures prof at Hogwarts. Afraid it's not particularly interesting, but I wanted to send you something.
Hope to be seeing you soon.
From, Hagrid.

'Find enclosed one what?' Harry said to himself, puzzling over the letter. He thought suddenly of the mysterious lint ball and turned to pick it up off the floor. To his surprise, the thing was vibrating madly, and had fluffed up to the size of a tennis ball. The owls eyed it hungrily, and Harry was forced to scoop it up in a hurry. It vibrated pleasantly in his hand. He stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

Harry looked now to the next parcel, which was neatly wrapped and marked with a large, red-lettered warning: FRAGILE – HANDLE WITH CARE. He didn't need to read the return address to know who it was from: only his friend Hermione Granger could wrap a parcel so neatly. He unwrapped it carefully to find a sturdy cardboard box with a letter pasted to it.

Dear Harry,
I hope you've been having a pleasant summer and have been able to get a bit of a rest – you need it. I've been doing a lot of revision; it's our second-to-last year coming up, and I expect it won't be easy. Thank goodness OWLs are finished, though – I can't wait to get my scores back.
I'm sure you've heard from Ron. I'm so pleased that Fred and George are doing well – they really took a chance when they didn't finish their seventh year, not many students can get away with that. I can't wait to see their shop, can you? I bet it's amazing, knowing those two.
I certainly hope things will be back to normal at school this year, but I suppose that's not likely, is it? Everyone's so preoccupied with You- Know-Who's return; I've no idea how we'll get any studying done at all. I hope you're not dwelling on it too much, Harry. There are wizards and witches to look after things, and there's not much we can do, after all. Dumbledore won't let anything happen to us. I hope you remember that.
Anyway, have a wonderful rest-of-the-summer holidays, and I hope you enjoy the present.

Love from,
Hermione

Harry sighed as he finished reading. Hermione was always so sensible, but this time she had it wrong. Harry couldn't help but think constantly of Voldemort. He knew it was only a matter of time before he would have to meet the wizard again – this time, he assumed, for the last time. He wasn't going to be able to count on Dumbledore and the teachers to protect him, either: the headmaster had made it clear that it was Harry who would have to take on the Dark Lord in the end.

Harry rubbed his forehead to relieve a sudden, painful throbbing. If only Dumbledore had it wrong!

He shook himself and picked up the box. It was somewhat heavy, and something shifted about inside. Harry tucked his fingers under the lid and pulled it open cautiously

Inside, tucked among wads of tissue paper, was what appeared to be a wooden bowl fitted with a plastic lid. A small note was attached, written in Hermione's neat hand: A single-memory Pensieve: it can store one memory at a time, with a maximum capacity of a five-minute memory. DO NOT SPILL!

'Wow, Hermione,' Harry breathed, carefully lifting the bowl out of its paper nest. Liquid sloshed about inside of it. Harry had plenty of experience with Pensieves – not all of it pleasant, admittedly, but he knew how useful they could be. Even a single-memory model must have cost Hermione a fortune. He pulled the lid off, being sure not to spill the silvery liquid within. The contents swirled quietly, and Harry gazed at the thing for a moment before closing it. He wasn't sure what memory he wanted to store in it at the moment – But it will be something about Sirius, he thought.

There were two packages left, including the letter from the school. Harry decided to leave that one until the end. He was not particularly eager to see how he'd done, especially on some of his worse subjects, such as Potions and Divination.

The other unopened package was rectangular and somewhat flat. Harry turned it over to look for a return address, but there was none to be seen. Intrigued, he tore open the brown paper wrapping.

A note fell out onto Harry's lap. He picked it up and read it quietly.

Dear Harry,
I'm afraid I'm not particularly sure what to say; I know how you must be feeling. We're all shaken by Sirius's death, but I'm sure it's been particularly hard for you, Harry. I wanted to tell you he loved you, though I'm sure you know that quite well already. He would want you to be happy.
I'm sending you something that is probably of little use to you, but it is at least something to remember him by. Please write back to me; Sirius would want you to have someone to confide in, especially now. It's not good for you to go through this alone.
I hope to be seeing you soon.
Your friend,
Remus Lupin

PS: Happy sixteenth birthday!

Harry hardly finished reading the letter before crumpling it into an angry wad and throwing it to the floor. Harry had always liked Lupin, his third- year Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and the only werewolf he'd ever met, but their relationship had never been anything like the one he had with Sirius. Lupin did not know how hard it was for Harry these days, either, no matter what he said.

Harry growled in frustration, burying his face in his hands. Insensitive, presumptuous... stupid... He glared at the item remaining in the wrapping. I could just toss it, he thought, but instead he picked the thing up and ripped off the paper.

He found himself looking at – himself. It was a moment before Harry realized what he was seeing. Lupin had sent him a mirror – Sirius's mirror – one of the two Harry and his godfather had planned to use to communicate while Harry was at school. Harry had smashed his own – he hadn't wanted to be faced with the impossible prospect of seeing Sirius's face again.

But Lupin hadn't known that. Harry glared at the thing before turning and throwing it violently against his trunk. To his consternation, the mirror did not break, but fell unscathed onto a forgotten pile of laundry. Two of the owls began to hoot in alarm, and Harry heard his uncle give a loud grunt from the next room.

'All right! Out! All of you!' Harry hissed, and herded the disgruntled owls off the bed and out the window. He pulled the sash down behind them and glared out into the rain. Stupid birds, he thought. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

He turned back to his now-messy desk. The letter from the school was all that remained. Harry was now eager to open it, though – anything to forget his last 'present'.

Hedwig watched from her perch as Harry broke the wax seal on the envelope and drew out the letter. It was more like a novel, Harry thought, clearing a place among the torn wrappings in which to lay the thick pile of paper. He looked down at the first page.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International. Confed. of Wizards)

Harry smiled. It seemed Dumbledore had had all his recognitions reinstated: the previous year, the Minister of Magic, among others, had tried to have many of the wizard's awards and titles dismissed. In true Dumbledore fashion, however, the headmaster had declared he couldn't be bothered with what recognitions were taken from him, as long as his chocolate frog card wasn't discontinued. Harry read on.

Dear Mr Potter,
Please find here enclosed the results of your fifth year Ordinary Wizarding Level (OWL) examinations. ALL RESULTS ARE FINAL.
Included as well is the application form for your sixth year courses, along with the minimum requisite marks for acceptance into NEWT courses. Any student having received an OWL mark lower than the minimum noted on the course application WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED INTO THAT COURSE.
Please complete and return all forms no later than July 31. Any questions should be directed to Headmaster Dumbledore or myself.

Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress

Exception: Due to the extraordinary circumstances being experienced by the wizarding community as of late, the headmaster and Board of Directors have agreed that all students will be required to take at least one Defense Against the Dark Arts course, regardless of examination results. Please keep this in mind when making your decisions regarding course selection for the coming year.

Harry reread the letter twice over. The school's current attitude towards the threat of Voldemort appeared to be the complete opposite of last year's, when Harry and his friends had been forced to practice their defensive magic in utmost secrecy. This was a relief. What was not at all relieving, however, was that Harry now had nothing left to distract him from the inevitable: reading his examination results at last. He took a deep breath, and turned to the next page.

This was a most official-looking paper, branded at the top with the seal of the Ministry of Magic as well as the pointed-hat-and-quill trademark of the Wizarding Examinations Authorities. Harry sighed and read on.

ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL EXAMINATIONS
Examination Results

Legend:

O = Outstanding

E = Exceeds Expectations

A = Acceptable

P = Poor

D = Dreadful

T = Troll

Student Name: Potter, Harry

Student Results:

ASTROLOGY – Overall mark: P

CARE OF MAGICAL CREATURES – Overall mark: E

CHARMS – Overall mark: E

DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS – Overall mark: O

DIVINATION – Overall mark: D

HERBOLOGY – Overall mark: E

HISTORY OF MAGIC – Overall mark: D

POTIONS – Overall mark: A

TRANSFIGURATION – Overall mark: E

The marks were not exceptionally good – A 'D' in History! Harry thought despairingly. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that he deserved it; he had hardly strung together four words. But then, he didn't really need that course to become an auror. Besides, he had an 'Outstanding' in Defense Against the Dark Arts! That had to be worth something. He had also earned quite admirable marks in Magical Creatures, Charms, Herbology and Transfigurations – four 'Exceeds Expectations', to be exact. He'd also scraped through in Potions – a surprise.

Feeling slightly better, Harry flipped disinterestedly through the following pages, which were a breakdown of his marks, reviewing his performance on both the written and practical examinations. He stopped only when he reached the course application sheet for sixth year – and was there met with a new dilemma: the prerequisite OWL mark for NEWT Potions was an 'O'.

Under different circumstances, Harry would have been thrilled at the prospect of a year without Potions – a year without Severus Snape breathing down his neck! The fact was, however, that he knew he needed the course to become an auror. And if he couldn't become an auror... Harry had to admit he really had no second option lined up for himself.

Harry sighed and buried his face in his hands. He felt oddly dizzy. Outside, the rain continued to beat against the roofs, windowpanes and walkways of the Dursleys' neighbours' houses. Harry let his mind relax into the grey monotony of the morning. He didn't want to think about Potions. He didn't want to think about Sirius. He didn't want to think about Lupin, or Voldemort, or the Dursleys...

Harry sat up suddenly. Ron. He wanted to think about Ron – and Hermione, too. In fact, he realised, scrambling for a parchment and quill, he wanted to see them right now. Harry began to write.

Dear Ron,
Thanks a lot for the book, it's great. I haven't had the chance to read it yet, but I will as soon as I have a second.
Listen, the Muggles are no fun at all, as usual. I'm having an awful time over here and I'm afraid I'm going to lose it. What are the chances of me being allowed to come stay with your lot in Diagon Alley? I don't know how I'd get there, but we can work that out later. Just write back quick – things are getting worse over here by the day.
See you soon (I hope!).
Your pal,
Harry

PS: My marks are okay – I can get into DADA, Herbology, Charms, Magical Creatures, and Transfiguration. I'm doomed for Potions, though – just an 'A'! How about you?

Harry hoped he didn't sound too needy. He stared at the second paragraph for a while, wondering whether he should rework it to sound more casual – less like he was losing his mind. He finally rolled it up, though, and pushed his chair back to look up at Hedwig, who had been watching him with mild interest.

'I need you to take this to Ron,' Harry said. Hedwig shook herself and hooted in dismay.

'Oh, come on. It's not that bad,' he insisted, getting up. 'It's only a bit of water. Besides, you need the exercise.'

The owl flapped her wings in annoyance, but finally did stick out her feathered leg.

'Thanks,' Harry said, tying it quickly. He leapt over some loose scrolls and textbooks on his way to the window, which he threw open hurriedly.

'Please be quick,' Harry said to Hedwig as she landed on his outstretched arm. 'The Weasleys are staying in Diagon Alley, not the Burrow. Think you can handle that?'

Hedwig nipped his fingers affectionately in response. She spread her wings, and within seconds was lost into the drip and drear.

Harry sighed again and rubbed his forehead. He supposed he would have to write thank-you letters to Hermione and Hagrid now – but perhaps not quite yet, he thought, sitting back on the bed. He certainly had nothing to say to Remus Lupin; he was not at all grateful for the gift, and Lupin should have known better than to send it. Harry flopped back and rolled onto his front, his eyes shut.

An odd buzzing sensation against his chest jarred him suddenly into wakefulness.

'Aw, hell,' he grumbled, and dug the fizzwidget out of his pocket. It vibrated noiselessly across his bed, until Harry hit it onto the floor with the back of his hand. He buried his face in his arms.

This had not been the best birthday he'd ever had.