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Chapter 11: Ten

July thirty-first

The wizard who had previously been the Boy-Who-Lived fell into a sleep without dreams, as solid as stone. When he opened his eyes again, it was mere moments before the clock on the wall chimed for noon.

Sprawled languidly over the bed, Harry stared up, disoriented, at the ceiling; his left arm groped about on the bedside table for his glasses, to no avail. He yawned, rolled over, found them on the floor, and finally got up, stretching his limbs and spine in turn as he got to his feet.

A glass of water had resolved itself into existence on the bedside table once Harry put on his glasses; he reached for it, swirling a mouthful around to wet his parched throat - and abruptly remembered the events of the previous night as the metallic flavor of dried blood bloomed on his tongue. Oh, right. That had happened.

As if they'd been waiting just beneath the surface of his thoughts until now, the memories surged forward to replay in Harry's mind's eye while he washed up in the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long minute, scrutinizing his appearance for even the barest hint of what he had done.

There was none.

A smile twitched at the corners of his lips. Harry let it happen. He grinned at his reflection. He began to laugh. He couldn't stop laughing.

By the time he'd calmed down, wiping the mirthful tears out of his eyes, it was nearly half twelve. Harry leaned against the sink to catch his breath, playing with a loose strand of hair that had somehow grown long enough to tickle his nose. That was new; he'd never had long hair before. And wouldn't that be an interesting change?

The clock chimed for the middle of the hour, interrupting Harry's musings on a hair growth potion; he supposed he'd messed around long enough. It was his birthday today, after all. When he returned to the bedroom, or more specifically to the wardrobe that loomed on one wall, with the intent to scrounge up some more of Sirius' clothes for the day, Harry found a large garment back in garish Gryffindor scarlet hung up in the middle of the rack, with the words EARLY BIRTHDAY PRESENT in all-caps across the front.

He grinned. Well, if Sirius insisted.

In the kitchen, Harry got a bear hug and a slice of chocolate cake. Sirius beamed at him, leaning back against the kitchen table. "Prongslet!" he laughed. "You made it!"

That earned a snort. "I live here, Siri, I'd have made it eventually." Harry grinned. "This is a great birthday present, by the way," he added, gesturing to the clothes. "Hoping I won't empty your closet?" The garment bag had contained, in no particular order, a dragonhide leather jacket with spikes on the shoulders that spoke of Hungarian Horntail; a grey T-shirt, deceptively plain, which felt like silk against his skin; and new trousers in black denim that weren't leather, but had a lining inside that felt just as nice when he put them on. They fit like a glove - even more than Sirius' enchanted garments - and sheer force of habit had had Harry pulling on Assistant's hood when he looked in the mirror, until he remembered it was far too early in the day to return to the Dark Lord's office.

Sirius barked a laugh, flopping back down into the chair he was using; about this point, Harry noticed his was the only chair in use. "Everyone else's at the Burrow," his godfather answered the unspoken question. "I said I'd wait for you so you didn't get lost in the Floo."

"That was one time," Harry griped, but he let Sirius escort him anyone once he'd finished his slice of cake. He'd gotten better with the Floo since the disastrous second-year mixup; this time, he only stumbled on the other end because his arrival was accompanied by a huge burst of confetti and a loud chime over the wall of noise that greeted Harry in the Burrow's sitting room.