Popping Bubbles, Part 1
As July inched to a close, Harry found himself more and more silent and melancholic.
His birthday – his real birthday – was so near. And nobody would know but him, for security’s sake. He daren’t even celebrate it, for fear of it leaking it to the wrong ears by osmosis.
In a way, it was no different from all the birthdays he’d “celebrated” while with the Dursleys, before Hogwarts, before he had people who cared to – sincerely – wish him a happy birthday, let alone giving him presents. They’d always ignored his birthdays before he’d known when it was, and either ignored or taunted him about it after he’d found out, when his primary-school teacher had bemusedly and somewhat condescendingly informed him on the first day of class.
But it was just one way of looking at it. Because, despite the very rocky beginning, he’d never had such an awesome summer. Privately, he thought that this was shaping up to be a better summer than the fortnight he’d spent at the Burrow, even. For one, however false and temporary it was despite his wistful wish otherwise, he had a family here and he wasn’t sharing it with anybody or looking in from the outside.
They were not his blood relatives, but seemed to want him round regardless, protective custody notwithstanding.
This afternoon, for example, Andria cancelled her play-date to instead “conduct a mission” – the cheeky, smart, confident little princess, she was borrowing that turn of phrase from her grandpa, no doubt – to cheer him up alongside her little sister. “You’ve been moping about long enough, Harry,” she said in her bossiest, most serious tone and look. Then she towed him to the tree house, to give it a “summery feel” with the homemade decoration they were going to make, as their sitter for the day – one of the neighbours, a twenty-year-old girl home for the summer in a holiday break from uni – trailled sedately behind them.
Cousin Jenny even joined in the decorating project for a while, when she was home for the day early in the evening. She even got them and the neighbour to play pop-the-bubbles when they were done, with her and the sitter as the bubblers and “the kids” as the ones chasing and popping the bubbles the two made, before she ushered all of them to the dining room, where Grandpa George was waiting with dinner ready, and also a hug for each of his grandchildren – and Harry was still included in that category.
It’s far more than his blood relatives had ever done for him. So, in the way that counted, this whole protective custody thing was already a birthday gift, party and wish gone true for him, all at once.
O-O-O-O
Harry welcomed the first minute of the thirty-first of July with a count of how lucky he was: He was alive, comfy and safe… and even happy, for the most part. He was free from the Dursleys and Little Whinging possibly forever. He got a room for himself, which he had also decorated himself, and a family who cared for him, here, and he’d never gone hungry, without necessities, or even without non-necessities yet. He’d just come up with a way to wish Hermione happy birthday on the nineteenth of September, too, if he couldn’t go to Hogwarts, by sending an international mail from a PO box somewhere on the other side of the United States to the Grangers’ address, if Grandpa George would help him do it. He’d send Ron’s a few months after, through the same way, with the hope that the Grangers would be so kind as to forward it to Ron at Hogwarts. He might even be able to send gifts, if he could get some summer job before September came.
Buoyed by the thoughts – his self-given birthday gift – and eager to welcome the day, he bounded out of bed and made his stealthy way to the bathroom for his morning ablutions. He’d planned to surprise the Hammonds with a nice breakfast, but one that he could make without too much noise or smell since the family were all light sleepers and big eaters, except for Cousin Jenny. He’d even planned to bake a marble cake, since a birthday cake would’ve been too obvious.
Noting that everybody was still asleep, he’d forgone his coloured contact lenses, instead wearing the pair of specs Cousin Jenny had bought for him when she’d observed that he felt uncomfortable putting things on his eyes. And now he skipped on bare feet from counter to counter in the large, airy kitchen as he prepared the parts that needed to stew and bake for a while, feeling more like himself than he had been all this summer. His hair was still reddish at the tips, and he’d need to re-dye it when he next tagged along with Grandpa George to the academy to play about with the flight sims again, but it’s as messy as ever, regardless, and it’s all right. It’s all all right.
Well, he was doing one of the chores that he’d resented while with the Dursleys, but it wasn’t a chore, here, he felt. It was a thank-you gift instead. At least it’s what he meant this to be for the Hammonds. They’d certainly not even asked him to make meals for them. In fact, this was usually Grandpa George’s thing, and he’d have to apologise to the kindly old man for usurping it for a little while later.
Memories of the man – a general! – humming and singing cheerfully while puttering in the kitchen in a worn-but-comfy-looking T-shirt and a pair of knee-length breeches, making and baking dishes, made him grin and barely stifle the giggle.
Grandpa George was certainly not Uncle Vernon, although the general wasn’t a thin man by any means.
Harry did giggle, then, unable to muffle it with just his will and his pursed lips and his hands, but thankfully nobody woke up from the noise.
He tiptoed back up to his room, taking the stairs two at a time with a bounce, when he was done with breakfast preparations. The dishes just needed to be reheated later, and his first plan for the day – his birthday – was done.
He rarely felt so accomplished.