Have Fun

Harry sighed and turned away from the window. He'd been sitting at his desk searching the stars and street lamps for inspiration to his potions essay for the past half an hour and finally noticed that he hadn't been divined anything except for numb and stiff legs and a crick in the neck. He set down his quill and stared at his parchment, which was blank aside from his name at the top and the date from a few weeks ago when he thought he'd be able to start the thing. The essay was an obscure one: Mandrake juice should never be used in conjunction with hortle weed. Discuss.

He'd been randomly glancing at the prompt then putting it away since summer started, and only that afternoon he'd realized the pursuit of information alone had sent him through his N.E.W.T. level potions book both backwards and forwards twice. Although Mandrakes were brought up several times, hortle weed was only mentioned once in passing. Considering the events of his second year, he already knew a little about mandrakes, but even a brief perusal through his other potions books hadn't shed any light on their apparent dislike for hortle weed. His notes from class had nothing either.

Unfortunately, he had no practical means of getting to a magical bookstore or library, unless he could devise a way of convincing the Dursleys that they wanted to go to London and take him with them. Unlikely, especially since they had decided to lock him in his room except when there was garden work to be done. He couldn't even get away long enough to hail the Knight Bus.

Harry suspected that if he actually tried to mix the two ingredients it would make for a very interesting essay, assuming he wasn't killed in the attempt. But alas, he had access to neither mandrake juice nor hortle weed, and any plans to obtain them were foiled in the same way as his efforts toward finding relevant information.

The feeling in his legs restored, and Harry stood up and arched his back, stretching out the kinks. A glance at his watch informed him that it was 11:55 at night. The chart near his bed caught his attention. He didn't have a calendar, but had been counting down the days until his return to Hogwarts, a tradition he'd kept up for several years. As of that morning he'd had 33 days left with the Dursleys, in four minutes he'd have 32. Something seemed familiar about having 32 days left, something significant. On a whim, he performed a brief mental calculation and came up with the actual date: July 30th. In two minutes it would be July 31st. In two minutes he would be 17. Hello.

Despite the fact that he was still stuck at the Dursleys and that as soon as he'd leave Voldemort would try and kill him, Harry felt strangely elated. Assuming the world didn't end in the next thirty seconds, he would live to be seventeen. Not bad, considering.

He flopped back onto his bed and watched the final seconds of his sixteenth year tick away, good riddance too; it had been a rough one, although things weren't exactly looking up.

5...4...3...2...1...0

Harry considered striking up a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday to Me" just to spite the Dursleys. It would probably be the only way they would give any indication it was his birthday anyway, as they were liable to maintain that the date had jumped straight from July 30 to August 1. However, Harry thought better of it, he'd been hoping that they'd let him join them at meals if he continued to keep his head down and tell the neighbors that he attended St. Brutus'. Not that he wanted their company any more than they wanted his, but something other than cold soup and burnt toast would make for a nice change of pace.

Presently, he became aware of a faint scratching at the window, and sat up to discover several owls, including Hedwig and Pig, all clamoring for entrance. However, when Harry opened the window they all backed off slightly. This confused the wizard, it was the usual nature of the owls to swoop straight in and find the most convenient perch.

Harry poked his head outside and discovered a barn owl flapping desperately just below his windowsill. He hooked a foot underneath his bed and dove for it. Once inside, the unfortunate owl gave a tired and grateful hoot then glided wearily to Harry's bed, where it collapsed, a large book shaped package tied to its leg. Harry didn't spend long wondering whom it was from. Sure enough, Hermione's precise handwriting covered the packaging. Harry wasn't entirely certain why Hermione was so convinced that books made such good presents, but at the moment he wouldn't have minded it if turned out to be a directory of the uses and properties of hortle weed.

By this time, the other owls were vying for his attention, so he held out his arm for them to perch on one by one while he relieved them of their letters and packages. Most departed out the window as soon as they were released.

Since his bed was covered in letters and an exhausted owl, Harry sat down on a chair and pulled Hermione's package toward him.

As he'd suspected, it contained a book: How to Prepare for the N.E.W.T.s in 100 Days or Less. Harry sighed as he searched out the corresponding letter. Leave it to Hermione to use his birthday to remind him that on top of their impending doom at the hands of Voldemort, they had N.E.W.T.s to prepare for as well, although, it seemed he had a while before he had to stress over studying for the dreaded tests. However, the fact that Hermione had chosen to give it to him for his birthday instead of Christmas or another occasion a little closer to actually being a hundred days before the N.E.W.T.s wasn't a very good sign.

His mood picked up considerably when he discovered her note marking the page beginning a detailed description of hortle root.

Dear Harry,

Harry Birthday! How's your summer been? Just awful I imagine, with all the horror stories you've told Ron and me about the Dursleys. I suppose you've been hearing about all the random Muggle killings, it's all over the news at my parents' house. I don't know if you still read the Daily Prophet, but things aren't any better in the wizarding world. Anyway, we absolutely must get together some time, Ron too. Write back soon.

Love,
Hermione

P.S. Do look after this owl for me. I lightened the book for him, but it seems like its bulk will give him a hard time anyway. I'm afraid the poor bird will have had quite a difficult journey.

P.P.S. Have fun!

Harry stared at the last line incredulously. What on Earth did she mean by 'Have fun'? She sent him a book!

Ron's gift was perhaps less practical, but far more entertaining, a small encyclopedia of useful Quidditch plays, complete with moving pictures and a properly applied lightening charm so Pig didn't have to kill himself trying to deliver the package.

Happy Birthday Mate!

Hope this book helps you, you know you'll be Quidditch captain again this year. Hermione's been going on about how we should all meet up somewhere. Mum won't let us come, um, you know where, but if you're with us, who knows. Anyway, if that doesn't work out, the Burrow's pretty quiet these days.

Harry was saved from pondering just how Hermione could go on about anything when she claimed to be at her parent's house by an even more striking dilemma contained in Ron's post script: "Just to warn you, if Mum hears of you acting like Fred and George she'll probably tan you." That struck Harry about as oddly as Hermione's final statement, sure he respected Fred and George and they were more or less heroes at Hogwarts for their actions in Harry's fifth year, but aside from the occasional bout of rule breaking he rarely actually acted like them.

Many of the letters contained similar mysterious sentiments: "Don't break too many rules," "Be careful dear," and an ironic, "Don't do anything we wouldn't do" from Fred and George. No one seemed willing to explain what they were getting at and the mystery was making him nervous.

Finally he reached the last letter and immediately noticed the Ministry of Magic seal. Harry felt tempted to toss the letter into the nearest fire, or garbage disposal, or toilet, or lake. Receiving a letter from the Ministry was rarely a cause for celebration. He managed to fight down all these impulses, but his fingers still shook as he broke the seal and pulled out the letter.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Congratulations on reaching your seventeenth year. In accordance with the Law of Underage Wizardry, you are now a full aged wizard and are therefore permitted to use magic outside of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

However, the Improper Use of Magic and Statue of Secrecy laws still apply, which is especially important in your case, as our records show your are the only magical person in your area and that you live with muggles. Any noncompliance with these laws could result in the confiscation of your wand or expulsion from Hogwarts.

Cheers!

Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic

Harry glanced over the letter at the wand on his bedside table. He was allowed to do magic. He read the letter again just to make sure. He was allowed to do magic! How could he possibly have forgotten that his seventeenth birthday also marked the end of his subservience to underage wizardry laws? Of all the things to forget! Those letters finally made sense, have fun indeed!

Harry stood up and grabbed his wand. He'd been allowed to do magic for an entire half an hour and hadn't even realized it. He hefted his wand, intending to hit the chair with whatever spell came into his head first, but something occurred to him and he paused. This was a momentous occasion and he ought to do something spectacular to mark it, but what?

Harry sat down at his desk and stared at his wand, pondering. The first idea that came to him was the Dursleys. They'd been torturing and oppressing him whenever they got the chance for as long as he could remember. It seemed only fitting that he should get them back now that he had the power. Perhaps Uncle Vernon could be reminded what it was like to have his living room blown up, or Aunt Petunia would like for several of her beloved knickknacks to start running around like mice. Or, the next time they made him mad he could simply blow up the place without getting whatever was left of him thrown in Azkaban! Alright, maybe that was pushing it, but the ability was there. At any rate, torturing Dudley seemed to have the most appeal; the source of so much pain and misery and shame and broken glasses. Granted, he'd shaped up slightly over recent years, but was still a lazy, heartless, fat lump. It was high time Harry could do what he'd been longing to do for the past six years, transfigure him into something gross and slimy, like a slug, although sending him to Siberia was tempting as well.

Harry had just gotten round to wondering how long a slug would last in Siberia when another thought occurred to him; what would happen if he held an impromptu demonstration of how helpful magic can be. He had a brief vision of Aunt Petunia coming downstairs the following morning to find the bacon and toast already making itself, a rag cleaning and drying the dishes, and a broom sweeping floor, all without any outside help. She would be elated and everyone would finally get off Harry's back about being a wizard. However, this thought was chased out of his head by a vision of Aunt Petunia and a broom, the tool still trying desperately trying to get at the floor while she used it like a sword to forever banish him from her house.

Not that Harry would mind getting kicked out, but since Voldemort was out to kill him and this was the only place in the world he couldn't be harmed, risking it like that wasn't a particularly good idea. Then again, if he wasn't chucked out, the Dursleys could get so used to the idea of having magical help that they would constantly pester him for aid. Hadn't it been Hagrid who said that muggles would always want magical solutions to their problems? Lose, lose, either way, no good.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much he could do without risking bodily harm to himself at the hands of the Dursleys or Voldemort. Of course, Uncle Vernon, as the true source of his misery, could do with a good silencing charm, and then he wouldn't even be able to order Harry out of the house.

Harry stood up and started pacing; the possibilities once again seemed endless. The sudden movement startled the remaining owls, including the one that had delivered Hermione's present. Harry had presumed it was dead, it hadn't moved in so long. It rolled to its feet, stole a quick drink from Hedwig's water dish, and took off out the window. Harry watched as it flew into the night, clearly trying to put as much distance between itself and him as it could before it passed out again.

As it faded into a black spec against the blacker sky, Harry sighed and sat down on his bed where it used to be, but soon stood up again, disgusted. Apparently, being unconscious wasn't enough to prevent the owl from molting and making other more unsavory sorts of messes all over his bed, and now, all over his backside. Before he even thought about it, Harry pulled out his wand and performed a quick cleaning spell, leaving his bed and pants spotless again. Then he paused, furious with himself.

The first time he's allowed to use magic outside of Hogwarts and he cleans up his bed. How stupid! He could have used a rag and the laundry machine, it wasn't like he needed magic for that.

Then again, he'd done magic in the Dursley's house, and he hadn't been chucked out immediately, as they constantly threatened. Maybe Dudley would like to visit the South Pole.