Harry, fucking hell...

      The thick summer silence was shattered by the shrill beep of his alarm clock. Harry, before he could even think about waking up, instinctively clicked his phone.       He would hardly have remembered turning off the alarm, or even waking up at all, if not for Dudley's thunderous cry, which landed on top of him, causing the bed to dip:       "Ha-arry! Get up, birthday boy!" Harry almost forgot that today was the birthday boy and, concurrently, the proud bearer of the title "ten-year-old-boy."       His eyes widened and he burst into laughter, pulling Dudley off him, who was itching to tug his ears. Maybe he'd be lucky and his parents wouldn't notice his extra tug?       Harry walked slowly down to the common room, not even changing, completely sleepy: today was his day – he could. There he was met by Aunt Petunia, who gave him a warm hug, and Uncle Vernon, who clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder and said, "Well, another year closer to adulthood!" A huge condensed milk cake sat on the table, as if beckoning him closer. Harry almost drooled just looking at this gorgeous beauty.       In fact, it was truly very pleasant, and for a couple of minutes all Harry did was stand there, burying his nose in Aunt Petunia's apron, hugging her, and trying not to burst into tears of happiness.

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      Harry had barely blown out the candles on his cake when there was a knock on the door: dull, quick, and insistent.       He didn't even have to get up to open the door—his aunt did it for him, ushering Mrs. Figg into the house. He groaned in disappointment: Harry hated her, honestly. She'd lived here for as long as he could remember, and she was always getting into things she shouldn't have been: she'd snatch the remote control car he and Dudley were playing with, or she'd knock over a flying kite with her shoe. And she was always persistently asking him to come over; Harry, of course, loved her funny cats and enjoyed playing with them, but going to that old woman's house... God forbid. If it smelled even one percent as bad as she did, musty and old, then no thanks.       Petunia sullenly sent Granny out the door only after ten minutes of arguing about her refusal to give Harry to her, especially on his own birthday.       It must have been a bad thought, but Petunia had taken a dislike to Granny Figg almost immediately. Ever since she'd moved into the house across the street, nine years ago, she'd been persistently demanding that she spend more time with Harry: either inviting him over for a visit, or trying to persuade Petunia to leave the boy with her for the holidays. And while at first this had seemed like ordinary, obsessive concern, it had now become a bit frightening, so Petunia tried to avoid even crossing paths with Mrs. Figg.

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      Harry, comfortably settled on the sofa, began unwrapping the gifts that had piled up in a huge pile on the table.       First, he picked up the most insignificant ones—from distant relatives or acquaintances. These were mostly various sweets: candies, chocolates, lollipops, and Harry was sure he even spotted the pleasant-smelling tea he was planning to brew today.       Next came gifts from close friends. Actually, these were mostly Dudley's friends, but they all knew Harry and occasionally spent time together. Harry didn't often interact with them, preferring the privacy of their beautiful and rather cozy Christmas tree, but he still considered them friends.       So, Gordon Fowke and Dennis Craggby chipped in and bought him a comic book with a rather intriguing cover, as stated in the note attached to the ribbon-tied package. Harry glanced at the pages and, smiling gratefully, buried his face in his hair, bowing his head. It was truly pleasant to feel understood.       Malcolm Bitches remained true to his old traditions: he gave Harry a cute little figurine of a black dog, its head bobbing with every movement. He seemed to have seen them in cars. The figurine was pleasant to the touch and pleasing to the eye, which made Harry smile even wider.       And, finally, Piers was Dudley's best friend and the one Harry probably spent the most time with, as Piers often stayed overnight with Dudley. He was generous: he gave him a box containing headphones—beautiful, wireless ones with an interesting blue print on the container—and Harry was incredibly grateful. Although he had headphones, they were wired, which wasn't entirely convenient. He seemed to have mentioned it only once, but Piers remembered it nonetheless. Well, Harry wouldn't forget it either and would definitely thank him in person.       Harry approached the gifts from his family with a thrill of excitement. He fondly admired the three completely different boxes: the first was small, plain black with gold lettering. It was Uncle Vernon's box, and Harry opened it enthusiastically.       He stood there, blinking dumbly, staring at the gold watch with its thin strap until his uncle nudged him cheerfully.       "Are you going to wear it?" Harry actually put it on his wrist, examining it from every angle.       The boy hugged his uncle with all his might and turned to his cousin, who had already pushed a flat box toward him, grinning mischievously.       Harry eyed him suspiciously and then opened the box: inside was a biology book. Chuckling, he pulled Dudley close, hugging him around the neck. Harry was quite interested in biology and had gotten a bit ahead of the curriculum without realizing it. So he was bored in class, learning nothing new, and, of course, complaining to Dudley afterwards.       "Admit it," Harry chuckled. "You're just tired of me complaining, huh?" Dudley scrambled out of his grasp, cackling loudly.       "Of course!" He ran his fingers along the back cover. "You'll be gnawing away at your granite here until ninth grade."       Finally, it was the last present—from Aunt Petunia. It was a small craft packet, and Harry carefully lifted it from the table, carefully removing the tape.       When he peered inside, his heart skipped a beat. You know, Harry had read somewhere that when you like something, your pupils dilate. And now, he was one hundred percent sure that was true: when he saw those little shiny hairpins, reminiscent of the moon and sun, he felt like a cat. The one who found a mouse to play with, and now he's staring at it with wide eyes, the pupils of which have completely swallowed up the irises.              Harry was ready to burst into tears on the spot, but instead he instantly jumped off the sofa, hugging his aunt.       "Thank you..." he replied hoarsely. "They're so beautiful."       He held two hairpins in his hands: one was gold, depicting the sun, bright and warm, sparkling with white stones. The other was silver, depicting a crescent moon, mysterious and sharp, as if shimmering with a faint light.       Harry's aunt sucked in a breath, and he jerked away from her in surprise, cocking his head to the side. She lingered on his hair, reaching out to touch it, while Harry glanced impatiently at the nearest reflective surface: a glass cabinet.       He stood frozen in place, examining the small green threads reflected in his hair. It took him a moment to realize they were the sprouts of small flowers, blooming one by one in his hair.       Harry took an involuntary step back, unsure what to do. Sometimes strange things did happen to him: for example, once he had to run from a very vicious dog and suddenly found himself back in his room, completely out of breath and dirty. He didn't remember running there, but chalked it up to fear and adrenaline.       Such oddities didn't happen often, perhaps only when he was really excited about something, or were those just the kind of incidents he remembered most often?       But that wasn't the problem. The problem was that he'd never mentioned it to his aunt, uncle, or even Dudley, and now such a strange thing had happened right before their eyes.       Harry was afraid to look away from his own reflection, unsure what to expect. On the one hand, he almost never got scolded for trivial things, but on the other, this wasn't a trivial thing at all...

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      Houses and trees appeared out the window, one after another, in a continuous, colorful strip. Pleasant music played in the car, and Dudley couldn't stop talking, staring intently at Harry's gift from his aunt.       "So, it's dresses after all..." he drawled. Harry snorted derisively, taking the hairpins back.       "Not dresses, a skirt!" Dudley rolled his eyes, as if to say, "What's the difference?"       "Aw, whatever, the main thing is that they're taking me to the slot machines!" Such excitement and anticipation were evident in his eyes that Harry couldn't help but smile warmly.       "Make sure youbshows me all the prizes later!" Dudley burst into loud laughter, hugging him by the shoulders.       Aunt in the front seat glanced at them from time to time, following the conversation and smiling when she caught the eye of one of the boys.