Star Quality

Chapter 2

Harry woke up with a start to the sound of the wireless, blaring too close to his head. He lay there for a moment, eyes screwed tight shut, and wished he was dead. His head hurt. His body hurt. Hell, even his hair seemed to be throbbing, in time to the perky pop music assaulting his eardrums. There was something familiar about the singer's voice that he couldn't place. He tried to think, but it hurt too much, so instead he reached out with his hand and attempted to beat the wireless to death. He didn't even remember having an alarm clock that played the radio. Merlin, how much had he drunk the night before? He hit out at the clock harder, each thump sending a jolt of pain through his brain, and just as his hand connected – mercifully – with the off button, the song was cut off by the thud of pounding dance music and a female singer crooning, "Ninety-five point eight, Capital FM!"

Harry opened his eyes, to see . . . the faraway blur of his bedroom ceiling and the nearer blur of the intricately carved footboard at the end of the bed. An immense sense of relief washed over him. For a moment there, he'd wondered if he'd got so drunk that he hadn't managed to find his way back home. And however much he sometimes didn't like Grimmauld Place, it was home.

Harry fumbled for his wand, but the smooth, warm wood didn't roll into his hand as it did most mornings. He supposed he'd left it in his robe pocket, or something. He sat up slowly, worried that if he moved too quickly his head might fall off, and groped about a bit for his glasses, shoving them on carelessly and scanning the room. "Accio wand," he said, holding out his hand. Harry's wandless magic was less than reliable, which in some ways he found comforting. He didn't want to be the greatest wizard of the age, or whatever the papers often said. He would never be as good a wizard as Dumbledore . . . or even as Snape, who'd kept the Dark Lord out of his mind for years and had been powerful enough to fly without a broom. No, Harry was more than happy to be good enough at magic. Good enough to be an Auror, and to one day head up the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Right now, though, with the thought of getting up a slightly sick-making one, he decided he wouldn't mind his wandless magic being a tiny bit better. Ugh. "Accio water," he tried, without expectation, and to his mild surprise a glass of water zoomed through the air, tipping over as he grabbed at it and soaking into his duvet and the front of his pyjama shirt. "Fuck!" Harry said, holding the sodden fabric away from him and simultaneously wondering when, exactly, he'd gone out and bought a pair of old-man pin-striped pyjamas. Sometimes things did turn up out of nowhere in this house, but they tended to be more obviously Sirius's, and however hard Harry tried he just couldn't picture Sirius in sensible striped cotton.

Harry turned and looked at the wireless. He didn't recognise that either. It looked Muggle to his eyes, even though it had been a long time since he'd lived as one. It was rectangular, and silver, and when he peered closer he could read the tiny branding on it: Sony Dream Machine. Harry, feeling something uneasy stir in the pit of his stomach, jabbed at the buttons until he found one that turned it on again. An unfamiliar voice announced, "This is Chris Tarrant, live on Capital Breakfast! Stay tuned for the latest news and weather, after the commercial break. But before that, here's Craig David, down two positions in the charts this week to come in at number three with the super smooooth Fill me in."

Harry didn't want to be filled in. He jabbed at the off button, and once again sweet silence filled the room. Now that he was more awake, the room was different, wasn't it? Sirius' tatty old posters of motorbikes and bored women in bikinis were gone, and there was a chunky TV on the chest of drawers across the room. Harry shucked his wet pyjama top over his head and creaked his way out of bed, pausing to stretch widely in the hope it might help him feel more alive. Something was making him feel more alive though, and it was the increasing realisation that there was something incredibly off about this room, about this morning.