Harry Potter and the Years of Rebellion

Chapter Eight

BIRTHDAY GIFTS

July 31

Fawkes gently tapped on the bay window at a quarter to eight. The phoenix perched placidly on Harry's arm, while Harry retrieved a letter and a small package.

Harry -

I offer you my best wishes upon your sixteenth birthday. The Board of Governors has requested a meeting that I expect will consume most of the day. I will find you this evening, however. Please enjoy yourself today. After last evening, some enjoyment is well deserved. Be sure to use the enclosed salve. Madam Pomfrey advises that you apply it twice daily for five days.

Fondly,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry couldn't fathom Dumbledore - furious when Harry signed the will, doting after the will was read. I don't understand your master - do you, Fawkes? Harry wondered as the phoenix soared away.

There was a small silver bottle inside the package, labelled `Phloston Philligree's Scar-Away Salve'. Harry went into the bathroom, and stood before the mirror. He dabbed the thick, sticky concoction onto the fresh cut across the fresh cut on one side of his forehead, and frowned at the lightning bolt scar on the other side. He smeared the excess salve on his finger across the vivid scar. It briefly darkened and the traces of salve bubbled, and then disappeared in a wisp of vapour. He sighed, and turned away from the mirror. He was marked, and nothing could change that.

He sat at the writing desk, and contemplated the letter that Sirius had left for him. He was still playing a mental game of open-it-open-it-not, when an unfamiliar owl whizzed through the still-open window and skidded to a halt next to the desk.

The envelope borne by the owl was embossed with the logo of Weasley Wizard Wheezes. Harry carefully opened the envelope, by holding it at arm's length and pointing the open end upward. When no chaos ensued, he fished in the envelope and took out a printed card.

Dear Investor,

You are cordially invited to the Annual Meeting of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Beverages and hors d'ouvres will be served on the veranda at the Co-Founders' Residence, beginning promptly at seven o'clock in the evening, July 31. Following the meeting, a new product demonstration will be provided.

Warmest regards,

Alfred and George Weasley

Co-Founders, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes

Elaborate directions by road to the “Co-Founders Residence” - which was the Burrow, of course - were provided on the back of the card. Harry was surprised on two levels. First, the card implied that Fred and George had multiple investors. Second, the meeting was being held at the Burrow. Harry assumed that Mrs. Weasley would be less than amused - or perhaps out for the evening. He wondered about the product demonstration, and was particularly keen to discover how the twins were still able to find victims for testing. Nonetheless, Fred and George were always a good time, and Harry decided that the meeting would be an interesting birthday diversion. He also enjoyed the idea that Dumbledore would have to look for him.

Harry took notice of the time and rushed out to the front stoop of Grimmauld Place. The street was deserted, as usual, and felt as welcoming as Knockturn Alley. Harry checked the time again, just before he felt the familiar tug behind his navel.

He regained his balance inside what looked like a workshop of some kind. Filtered sunlight came through clerestory windows high on one side of the room. There were stacks of wood here, logs and sticks there. One entire wall was taken up with a huge rack of tools and equipment. Adjacent to one workbench were rows of shelves filled with all manner of vials, jars, and other things Harry couldn't identify. Adjacent to the other workbench were bins of various sizes, large bins standing on the floor and small ones hung from the wall, holding screws, wire, straw, bristles. A C-clamp attached to that workbench held an unfinished broomstick. In one corner, a heavy sheet covered something fairly large.

“Welcome to my workshop, Mr. Potter. May I call you Harry?” The man standing in the shadows had wild dark hair strewn with grey that tumbled down past his shoulders. He had a severe face with a regal nose and bold eyebrows that peaked like arches. He was wearing common working clothes, covered by a full-length leather apron.

“I've seen you before,” Harry said. “You were in the stands, when we won the Quidditch Cup two years ago.”

The man smiled. “I try to attend Hogwarts Cup finals when I can. Interesting match last year, wasn't it? I doubt it would have been as competitive, had you been playing.”

Harry asked, “Obviously you know who I am. Who are you?”

The man gave Harry an exaggerated bow. “Devlin Whitehorn at your service, sir.”

Harry's eyes grew wide. “Devlin Wha… Devlin Whitehorn? Nimbus-racing-broom Devlin Whitehorn? Bloody hell! It's a real pleasure, Mr. Whitehorn! Did Sirius have a broom made for me? This is too much! My friend Ron would -” He stopped. Ron would kill to be here, he thought, provided that I was somewhere else.

Whitehorn arched one of his eyebrows even higher. “Slow down, Harry,” he said. “I can explain everything, but it'll be easier if I just show you first.” He led Harry toward whatever lay in the corner of the room, under the sheet.

Under the sheet was a motorbike. It was big, mostly black and chrome except for the red fuel tank topped by a silver swoosh and emblazoned with the word “Triumph”.

Harry gasped. “I used to dream about a flying motorbike,” he said. “My uncle yelled at me for that. Did this belong to Sirius, then?”

“I created this for him when he was eighteen,” Whitehorn said. “She's a 1969 Triumph Bonneville… in a way. Muggles in the know consider this particular style to be a classic. She's more of an antique now, I suppose. A fellow by the name of Diggle - you know him, right? - contacted me last year through a friend of a friend of an associate, that sort of thing, to ask me if I could refurbish something I'd built a long time ago. I never dreamt it would be this. I knew instantly who was behind it, of course, so I scarcely needed the letter that Black attached to it. It was… it was good to hear from him.” He looked wistful, Harry thought.

Harry ran his hand along the seat. The motorbike flickered for a moment, seemed to shrink a bit, and then returned to the way it was before. He quickly whipped his hand back.

“As I said, this is only a Triumph Bonneville in a way,” Whitehorn reminded him. “You've just stumbled across one little trick. She can adjust to the size of the rider, to a point. The last fellow to ride her must have been terribly large. When I received her, she must have been half again as big as normal. I had a terrible time settling her down, I can tell you.”

Harry asked, “May I - may I sit?”

Whitehorn smiled. “Go ahead, she is yours.”

Harry slipped one leg over the top of the seat, and carefully sat down. The motorbike didn't flicker this time. He reached forward and held the handlebars, leaning forward a little. There was a little quiver, and then the handlebars extended toward him slightly until he was seated comfortably.

“She'll adjust for your posture and positioning, just like a professional standard broom,” Whitehorn said, “but only in small increments. It wouldn't do for a Muggle to see a motorbike lose a foot in length as it passed by, now would it?”

Harry asked, “You can ride it on the road, then, as well as fly?”

“She appears to run like a normal bike,” Whitehorn replied. “You're actually flying at a fixed height. She'll even bank around a curve like she's rolling on the tyres.”

Harry turned the handlebars from side to side very easily. He had expected more resistance.

Whitehorn said, “You don't want just anyone to be able to sit down and take off. We need to key her to you.” He took out his wand, and said, “Abalienato.” The motorbike shimmered, and Harry started to get off.

“Stay on the seat,” Whitehorn commanded. “Take your wand, touch it to the handlebars, and say possessio, followed by your full name.”

Harry took out his wand, and said, “Possessio Harry James Potter!” The shimmering stopped.

“She's all yours, Harry,” said Whitehorn. “No one else can ride her, unless you permit it.”

“How do I give permission?” asked Harry.

“It's all in the manual,” Whitehorn returned. “You'll need to read it later, cover-to-cover. I'm just going to go over some basics, so you can manage a simple ride without getting yourself picked up by the Ministry - or worse, by the Muggle constabulary.”

Harry ran his hand along the fuel tank. It even feels powerful, he thought. “There are rules about enchanting Muggle artefacts. Is this going to get me sent to Azkaban if someone finds out about it?”

Whitehorn smiled broadly. “It's not a Muggle artefact. It's a broomstick.”

Harry looked at him like he'd gone quite barmy. “It's a motorbike.”

“It's a broomstick, and it may be my greatest professional achievement,” Whitehorn insisted. “I had to convince a jinni to assist me with the necessary spell work. I don't recommend that as a course of action, by the way. If you want to see what you're sitting on, hold the handlebars and say Abscondo Triumph.”

Harry said it, and the motorbike disappeared. He was seated on a long pole suspended atop two narrow sawhorses, each where a wheel had been. A C-clamp on the front sawhorse held a T-shaped wood assembly with wooden cylinders that rested in his hands where the handle grips had been.

Whitehorn pointed at various spots on the wood frame. “The original frame was all oak, but I was asked to upgrade the performance. Thankfully, I made two more of these over the last twenty years, so I had a few ideas. Now it's a mix of oak, sunset maple and some ridiculously rare tropical hardwoods, all carefully crafted to look like scrap. It has a cushioning charm, obviously, over the entire run of the seat, and a braking charm of my own design, and… well, you're riding a twin Firebolt in essence. She's fast - very fast - but understand that she won't handle quite like a broomstick. She's much more massive and less aerodynamic. It'll really challenge you to run her on the ground. There are wand cores in those cylinders, to allow you to control her without waving your wand about in public. It's not like using your own wand, but you don't need a lot of power to control the charms. Why don't you bring her back? Say Ostendo Triumph.”

Harry said “Ostendo triumph!” and the motorbike reappeared. “So how do I ride?” he asked.

“You get her to run like a regular old motorbike by saying Veho Triumph. You say Evolo Triumph to fly. You control speed with the throttle - turn the handle grip, just like this - and you control the braking charm with the handbrakes. There's a clutch, but it's only for show. You don't need to shout at her, by the way - shouting is for schoolboys. She'll respond to a whisper, or less.” Whitehorn shook his head. “Can you imagine the looks you'd get, shouting at your motorbike on the street?”

“Nothing like the looks I'd get flying over people's heads,” Harry pointed out.

“Not a problem,” Whitehorn assured him. “Say Occultus Triumph. Say it quietly, don't shout it.” The motorbike around him disappeared and he along with it. “Fateor Triumph will bring you back,” Whitehorn added. “It's good for about two hours at a time. Wood doesn't hold that particular charm as well as metal, so she might get a little dodgy beyond that. If you use it for two full hours, give it two hours before you try again.”

Harry returned to view and asked, “If Muggles think this is a classic motorbike, what are the chances it would get nicked sitting on the street?”

“Fairly high, I imagine,” agreed Whitehorn. “There are two ways to deal with that. The first is to lock it to something, like any Muggle would; I've got an Unbreakable Chain and Lock here for you. The second is to carry it around with you.”

“Awfully big for that,” Harry laughed. “I suppose I could use reducing and feather-light charms.”

“She's already charmed for that,” Whitehorn said. “You don't want to cast charms on top of charms, right? No cleaning charms, either - you use a good wand polishing kit on her, right? To store her, you stand off to one side, hold a handgrip, and say “Recondo Triumph”. To bring her back, set her on the ground, put your hand on top so you're catching the handlebars, and say “Redintegro Triumph”. She'll easily fit in your pocket.”

Harry climbed off the seat, and reduced the motorbike to an inch in length and the weight of a single Galleon.

Whitehorn produced two small leather bags from the workbench, which were connected by a wide leather strap. “Saddlebags,” he said. “You sling this strap over the seat, and tie these underneath. I've got your manual in there, and the chain and lock, and some lashings to hold bigger items to the back of the seat. Your godfather asked for something else to put in there, too. It's pure Sirius Black.” He handed Harry the bags, which were lighter than he had expected. “In that envelope there.” Sirius' scrawl was on the envelope; `For a little extra freedom', it said. Inside was a scrap of heavy parchment.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

Whitehorn said, “It's something you'll need for riding on Muggle roads, among other things. It only works for you, in your hands. It's the same principle in essence as I used on the motorbike, combined with some of the old Black magic, so to speak. Hold it and say, `Harry Potter requires a motorbike licence'.”

As soon as Harry finished saying the phrase, the parchment became an operator's licence, with a picture of Harry's face at that moment, his Grimmauld Place address, and birth date. “Wait a minute, the year's wrong,” he noticed.

Whitehorn grinned. “Exactly. A year or two earlier, I imagine? That makes you old enough to ride.”

Harry looked at the licence suspiciously. “You know I'm not old enough to have the motorbike, then. Why are you doing this? I mean, I'm terribly grateful for the gift, but…”

Whitehorn finished Harry's thought for him. “But, you have good reasons to be suspicious of almost everything. Any wizard with half a brain should be able to guess that.” He conjured two simple wooden stools, and they sat. Whitehorn's face took on a tired, weathered expression. Harry knew it well - he saw it nearly every time that an Order member brought up the last War.

Whitehorn began, “Times were tough back in the 70s, Harry. I hope we're not heading back to that, but it's edging that way. Anyway, I met Black when he was bunking with your father's family -”

“Did you know my father?” Harry asked eagerly.

Whitehorn sighed. “Hard not to - he and Black were inseparable. I don't know how your father ever managed to get married. I knew your grandfather better. He was one of my original investors, you know. Good people, Harry. And then there was Black.”

Whitehorn seemed to grin in spite of himself. “He was a true original. I can't imagine what all those years in Azkaban must have done to him, but in '78 or '79…” He closed his eyes and the grin turned into a smile. “Here comes this kid, ready to take on the universe, asking me if I can help him find a flying motorbike. I ask him why, and he says to me - straight faced, mind you - `You can only get one bird at a time on a broomstick!' Best part is, he meant it. If he didn't have a fit bird on each arm, then it was a bad night for him. A real hound, he was.

“Well, he didn't have a cauldron to piss in at the time. I mean, his mother had disowned him, more or less - not evil enough for her, apparently. So he says to me, he says, `I'll test anything you've got', and he wasn't joking. I could hand him a `stick with a completely untested charm, and off he'd go, doing loops and side rolls at a hundred, hundred and ten. He came up with the Anti-Burglar Buzzer, too - did you know that? Said he got the idea from something called a `joy buzzer'. He'd ride the bloody `sticks twelve hours a day, and then he'd drag me to the clubs. Here I was, thirty-two, thirty-three years old, and this kid fresh out of school is getting me dates.

“He picked up a few of my bad habits along the way, especially betting on Quidditch. That's how Black decided to pay me for the bike. I had more or less decided to let him off the hook for it at that point. He was just too much fun, and he let me have the Buzzer gratis. He comes up with this scam, tells me he's going to work it against this rich wanker that his cousin had just been married off to. He works it for half the season, and eventually manoeuvres the wanker to back Wimbourne over Montrose in the finals; apparently the wanker's tight with Bagman, see? What he doesn't know is that Black's worked a deal with the bookmaker - he's getting a percentage of the wanker's losses as sort of a finder's fee. End of the season, he gives me 25,000 Galleons -”

Harry started laughing.

“What?” Whitehorn asked.

“I know who the wanker was,” Harry managed between snorts.

“Anyone I'd know?”

“Lucius Malfoy,” Harry told him, “it had to be Lucius Malfoy.”

Whitehorn paled a bit. “Black liked trouble,” he admitted, “but sticking a Malfoy like that… well… I suppose it couldn't have happened to a nicer family, actually. Anyway, I only kept 5,000 - I mean the kid was dead broke, right? He goes off and invests the rest with some mad Muggles, and… well, things were turning and I didn't see him much after that. You know the rest, I suspect.” Whitehorn stared off into space, his smile fading.

“You just told me more about Sirius in five minutes than his so-called friends managed in three years,” Harry said sadly.

Whitehorn seemed to think about that for a while, before telling Harry, “It's easy to forget that there were good times - really good times - right in the middle of… of everything that happened in those days. I lost my share of friends and family, as well. I should thank you, Harry, for making me recall some fine memories, damn fine ones.”

They sat there for a while, in the long shadows of the workshop, before Whitehorn said, “You asked me why I did this. Three reasons, I suppose. First, Black sent me an obscene amount of Muggle money, which is always useful. He wrote that it was the rest of my share from the wanker, thanks to those mad Muggles and twenty years of accumulated interest. Second, I like a good challenge. Racing brooms get a bit stale after a while. Third, the letter made it clear that she was for you, and I reckon you'll make good use of her. With You-Know-Who back, I suppose you might find yourself in a tight fix.”

“Did Sirius explain to you… you know, what really happened back then?” Harry asked gingerly.

Whitehorn said firmly, “He didn't have to. He would have thrown himself off a cliff before he would have harmed your father. Sirius Black, a Death Eater? I never believed a word of that tripe. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that the Ministry was lying constantly, there at the end.”

Harry shook Whitehorn's hand. “Thank you so much. I mean, obviously it's the best birthday present I've ever had. But, it was his, you know, and - well, that means a lot to me.” Whitehorn looked a little puzzled to Harry, and it dawned on Harry that the man might assume that he and Sirius had never actually met.

Whitehorn said, “Use it well. Get in a little carousing, too. I'm sure that's what Black would have wanted.”

Harry hesitated. “Mr. Whitehorn?”

“Please, call me Devlin,” Whitehorn insisted.

Harry began, “Erm… Devlin, can I ask a huge favour? I don't have any right, but…”

Whitehorn smiled. “You can ask.”

Harry said, “I'd like to pick up two Firebolts, and I'd be terribly pleased if you might sign one for me.”

Whitehorn frowned. “I don't really keep them lying around, you know. I mean, I don't transact company business here. This is my private workshop, and I do try to maintain what privacy I can. I'm still besieged by special requests. That's why I don't go out much except for Quidditch matches, and it's the reason I had you use a portkey.”

Harry cast his eyes down. “I understand, sir, believe me. I'm in the Prophet every other day, it seems. Right now I guess I'm saviour of the world, and last year I was a deranged menace. Everyone stares at my scar… I understand. I don't want to intrude on your privacy.”

Whitehorn nodded, glancing around the room as though he were looking for intruders. “I suppose you would understand, wouldn't you? You won't tell anyone where we are, then?”

Harry brightened. “Not a soul, I swear it.”

“Good enough, then. Follow me,” Whitehorn said.

Harry put the motorbike and the licence into one of the saddlebags, slung the strap over his shoulder, and followed Whitehorn to a narrow stairway. The stairway led to a winding hallway, then more stairs, a long corridor, and another set of narrow stairs. Harry was fairly sure that they went down the same corridor twice, and was absolutely certain he'd never be able to find Whitehorn's workshop again if he tried. The last set of stairs ended in a storeroom, filled with shelves and racks full of brooms.

A young man was stocking the shelves. “Mr. Whitehorn, sir! This is terribly unexpected. What can we do for you today?”

“Hullo, Jackie,” Whitehorn said. “I need to pick up two Firebolts for my friend here, and I'll need a black Permaquill.”

The stock boy's eyes ballooned. “You're going to sign them, sir? I mean - that is - you never…” He turned to Harry. “Quality Quidditch Supplies is at your service, sir.” He went to a locked cabinet, and brought out two long and highly polished wooden boxes.

“Should I include the cases, sir?” he asked Whitehorn.

“Why not?” Whitehorn replied. “Now, Harry, who should I make this out to?”

The stock boy's eyes widened in recognition. He spluttered, “Harry? Harry P-Potter? You're Harry P-P-Potter?”

Harry forced a smile. “That's right,” he said.

“It's an honour, Mr. P-Potter. All that stuff in the Prophet last year… erm… I thought it was a load of dung. Sir.”

Harry shook the stock boy's hand. “That's nice of you to say,” he told him.

Whitehorn cleared his throat. “Who are the brooms for?” he asked.

“One is for me, and the signed one is for my friend Ron - Ron Weasley,” said Harry.

“Weasley… he's your keeper, isn't he? Say, wasn't his brother your House's seeker a few years back?” Whitehorn asked. “Seems to me that was the last time they took the Cup before you came along.”

Harry nodded. “Charlie's smashing. Works with dragons in Romania now.”

Whitehorn started writing on the second Firebolt.

Harry said, “Wha… I only asked you to sign one of them. I mean, I don't want to impose.”

Whitehorn smiled. “Oh, I insist on it.”

The stock boy said, “How will you be paying for these, Mr. Potter? I'll have to enquire, but I expect that we can advance the price for you -”

Whitehorn cut him off. “On my account, Jackie.”

Harry blurted, “That's not at all what I intended! Devlin, I can easily pay for these!”

Whitehorn shook Harry's hand, and then the stock boy's as well. “If you need to reach me, I'll accept an owl from you. I hope Weasley enjoys his Firebolt; it's a bit quick for a Keeper, but he'll manage. Good luck to both of you with the Cup this year. Oh - happy birthday!” With that, he disappeared up the narrow stairs.

“I'll just wrap these cases for you, Mr. Potter, and mark the wrapping so you can tell them apart,” Jackie the stock boy said. He tied them together as well, and fashioned a handle for Harry from a light rope.

Harry walked out into the store. The sun was streaming into the windows looking out on Diagon Alley; the rain had broken at last. The street was crowded. A knot of young boys and girls peered into the window at the Firebolt on display, as their parents hovered nearby. On his way out, he overheard their conversation about the merits of various racing brooms. They looked to be near the age of first-years, he thought, but he didn't recognise any of them.

“My brother has a Nimbus 2000, and he says they're almost as good,” one girl insisted.

“I'll never get to ride anything like that in my whole life,” a boy said dejectedly.

Harry leaned in. “You know, Gryffindor House is going to be riding international standard brooms from now on. Get sorted properly, and you'll have your chance.”

The dejected boy looked at Harry curiously and then saw his forehead. “Eep! You're him!” he squeaked.

“Merlin! It's Harry Potter!” one of the girls said. Suddenly he found himself bombarded with questions, as several parents moved closer. He was both surprised and pleased that nearly all the questions were about Hogwarts and Quidditch. He sat down on the curb, and chatted away, paying no mind to the expanding crowd of onlookers.

“So what's it really like riding one of these?” the girl whose brother had a Nimbus 2000 asked.

Harry grinned mischievously. He untied his packages, unwrapped the package marked for him, and set the fine wooden case on the curb. “Is that what I think it is?” the girl asked.

Harry said, “Just picked it up today. You, what's your name?” He pointed at the boy who had first identified him.

“Erm, Alastair, sir. Alastair Blitz,” he stammered.

“Alastair, I need you to watch my things. Can you do that for me?” Harry asked.

“Yes, sir!” the boy said brightly.

Harry opened the case and stood, the broom effortlessly rising to his hand. Alastair goggled, and tugged on Harry's sleeve. “Is that - is that signed, Mr. Potter? By D-Devlin Whitehorn?” he asked in a reverent whisper. Harry nodded. The rest of the knot of children and even some of the parents murmured excitedly.

Harry took off his cloak, and draped it over his saddlebags. He wore new denims and one of his hand-me-down boxing jerseys. “So, what's your name?” he asked the curious girl.

“I'm Laura Davies,” she replied, fidgeting.

“Are you Roger Davies' sister?” Harry asked. She nodded nervously.

Harry said, “I know Roger. He's quite a good Chaser.” The girl beamed.

A middle-aged witch who shared the girl's features stepped forward and shook Harry's hand. “Mr. Potter, I'm Mathilde Davies. My son speaks highly of you.”

Harry was surprised - he hadn't particularly thought Roger Davies the type to speak highly of others. He smiled, and said, “That's nice to hear, ma'am. I think Laura here fancies a ride on a Firebolt.”

Mrs. Davies' eyebrows rose, and she looked nervously up and down the alley. “Do you think that's wise?” she asked quietly.

Harry shrugged. “I'd think a quick flight up and down the alley would be safe enough,” he said. Wondering about the source of Mrs. Davies' reaction, he added, “Together, of course! Obviously, she's not prepared to be on a broom of this calibre alone.” He wasn't sure, but he thought the girl was actually holding her breath.

“I assume you're going to stay at a reasonable speed,” Mrs. Davies said.

“I'm not about to get her hurt,” Harry replied. “Roger would kill me, I'm sure.”

Mrs. Davies smiled, and her daughter took a breath. Harry perched himself on the Firebolt, and held out his hand. “Well, come on, then - it's you and me.” There was a chorus of `No way's and `Wow's from her companions. Laura Davies looked like she was going to burst. She took Harry's hand, and seated herself behind him.

“I'm just going to circle around once, okay? Hang on tight.” She wrapped her arms around his stomach, and giggled. He was true to his word, and took a single swoop up and down Diagon Alley. He stayed well below top speed, but went through sufficient paces for the girl to sense the broom's capabilities. A genuine grin broke out on his face.

“I've never gone so fast in my life - that was amazing!” she said breathlessly as Harry helped her down.

“All right, who's next?” Harry beamed. There had to be something good about fame, he thought, and I think I've found it. He gave each of the children browsing at the window a turn, after clearing it with their parents, before he returned the Firebolt to its case and wrapping. He tied the two packages back together again, shook hands with all the children and their parents, and donned his cloak. It was while he signed autographs for some of the children that he became aware of the dozens of people standing and watching him, many of whom politely applauded.

“Good form,” said Fred Weasley in Harry's left ear. “Excellent flying, as usual.”

“I'd give it an E, I think,” added his brother George in Harry's right ear. “Not quite fast enough for an O.” Harry hadn't heard them Apparate in.

Harry smiled and shook hands with both twins. They were wearing jackets equal to the garish numbers from the day before. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“We were just watching your demonstration,” George told Harry.

“We do have a shop here, you know,” chimed in Fred. “Surely you remember it.”

George nodded. “If you failed your O.W.L.s, Harry, I'm sure you'll have a promising future on our sales floor.”

“We couldn't put our partner to work,” Fred objected.

Harry picked up the saddlebags and the cases.

“We're both very surprised to see you out here alone, Harry,” Fred said.

“It's hard to believe that our, erm, protective friends aren't swarming on you,” George agreed.

Harry smirked. “One of the privileges of adulthood, I suppose.”

“Unusual knapsack you've got there, Harry,” George said.

“Do you have two Firebolts, there, Harry?” Fred asked.

“Very conspicuous consumption, Harry,” chided George. “Perhaps you'd like to increase your stake in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?”

Harry was half-dizzy trying to keep up with Ron's brothers. “Umbridge made off with my Firebolt last year - I don't know where it is. I picked up the other one for Ron -”

“A peace offering?” asked Fred.

“It was rather tense last night,” George observed.

Harry said, “I'll show you everything, if I can set this stuff down somewhere.”

Fred said, “Allow us, partner,” and took the cases from Harry

George added, “We've been looking for an excuse to get you to the shop,” while taking the saddlebags.

As they walked, Harry asked, “So what's all this partner business about? I don't want you to pay back the 1000 Galleons. You do understand that, right?”

“Absolutely,” said Fred.

George shook his head. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

Fred said, “We're just giving you ten percent. It's not a big deal.”

“Had it all drawn up nice and legal-like. That's one of the items for the Annual Meeting tonight. You can have your stake now, being that we're all adults,” George told him.

Fred feigned shock. “Speak for yourself, George!”

George swatted at him, and then announced, “We're here. What do you think?”

Harry thought for a moment, before saying, “It's very… visible.”

The storefront was painted iridescent green and glittered with yellow and bluish highlights where the sun caught it. A garish sign with the company logo - three stylised and interlocking Ws - hung above the door. Children and their parents mobbed the windows, and filled the store to near capacity. Harry decided that Weasley's Wizard Wheezes made the Burrow seem calm by comparison - children randomly turned into canaries on one side of the store and projectile vomited on the other side, and parents stood clear either in disdain or for safety's sake. The store staff constantly called out “Scourgify!” but seemed to have as much fun as the customers. Harry quickly noticed that the workers were all female, young and pretty. Fred and George were clearly in their element. Sirius would feel good about his bequest, he thought. Just that quickly, it started - heads began to turn.

“Look, it's Harry Potter!”

“I saw him down the street - he was giving rides on a Firebolt. Can you believe it?”

“Let me see - where is he?”

“Are you sure it's him?”

The store was extremely crowded to begin with, and Harry felt mobbed. Fred and George cleared a path for him, toward the counter at the rear of the store. George opened the storeroom door, quickly moving Harry's things inside.

“Oh! Excuse me, Mr. Potter, I'm so sorry!” One of Fred and George's staff had been shoved flat into Harry; her forehead bumped into his nose and the rest of her pressed firmly into him.

“It's not your fault. Here, let me get you out of this,” he said jauntily. She was undeniably attractive, and he didn't really mind her being shoved into him. He hoisted the young woman by the waist until she was seated on the counter, and then hopped up on the countertop himself.

Fred hollered to Harry over the din, “What are you doing? Hurry and slip back here.”

Harry waved him off, and said, “Get George out here.”

He took out his wand, said Sonorus, and turned to face the crowd in the store. As soon as he began looking at faces in the crowd, he started to get nervous. He cleared his throat, which echoed through the room.

“Uh, sorry,” he said. “Look, I want to welcome all of you to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Fred and George here - where are Fred and George? - there you are - erm, Fred and George here are very good friends of mine, and I'm really happy to be here. I've used their fine products, and I can tell you that you'll get a real bang out of them. Well, actually, you will get a real bang out of quite a few of them.”

Harry's nerves settled a bit atop polite laughter. He kept going, “I can just about guarantee you that there are a hundred things in this store that will make the list of prohibited items at Hogwarts this year” - there was more laughter - “and any store that can accomplish that in less than one year is pretty amazing. So, have fun and buy lots of things. Thanks!” The store erupted in applause, and Harry quickly hopped down behind the counter.

“We'll make it fifteen percent,” quipped Fred.

“Twenty percent, then,” added George,” and not a Knut more.” Both twins burst into laughter.

Fred said, “You were great up there. I didn't know you could handle a crowd like that.”

Harry was shaking a bit. “Neither did I. I think I'm going to spew up.”

George laughed. “Well, we're used to that around here.”

Customers rushed the counter.

“I'll take six of these, please!”

“Are you sure this antidote works?”

“Do you think Harry Potter would sign my Skiving Snackbox?”

Harry sat down on the steps beside the counter and signed a few dozen Snackboxes and a magazine or two before he needed to run into the storeroom and hide. Fred and George joined him shortly.

“That was a very good day's worth of transactions, in a half hour!” exclaimed Fred.

“We can't have you come by too often, Harry,” George said, fanning himself. “This old heart can't take it.”

Harry shook his head. “I've had people all over me - Gringotts, then Quality Quidditch, and now here. I don't understand it.”

“Scarcity heightens demand, Harry,” said George.

“Huh?” Harry had no idea what he was talking about.

“What my brother the pseudo-intellectual means is that you're very rarely seen,” explained Fred. “How long has it been since you've been to Diagon Alley?”

Harry said, “Until yesterday, I hadn't been here since the summer before my third year.”

“Precisely, my famous friend,” George said. “Pent-up demand. Everyone wants to see you; whether they think you're a hero or a complete nutter.”

“I'm inclined to the latter, of course,” Fred chimed in.

George said, “I'm more interested in this spanking good knapsack of yours. Where did you find this?”

“It's part of a birthday present that Sirius left me.”

“Goodness, it is your birthday today!” Fred shouted, clapping Harry on the back.

“Let me grab some butterbeer to celebrate,” George said. “Something to eat, Harry?”

“Eat here? You've got to be kidding,” Harry said.

“Aw, ickle Harrykins doesn't trust the bad old pranksters,” mocked George.

“So, how are you supposed to carry that knapsack?” asked Fred. “It's a bit awkward without a handle.”

Harry said, “It's not a knapsack, Fred. They're saddlebags.” He decided there was enough room in the empty centre of the storeroom, and took the tiny motorbike out of the bag. He set it as close to dead centre as he could guess, set his hand over it, and said Redintegro Triumph.

“Merlin!” Fred shrieked.

“Oh, the fun we could have with that,” said George, and a goofy grin spread across his face.

Fred said, “I see endless possibilities for mayhem,” rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

“Down, boys,” warned Harry.

“Where did Sirius come up with this?” asked George.

Harry told him, “Devlin Whitehorn made it for him. Sirius arranged for Whitehorn to refurbish it for me. It's actually sort of a big broomstick under there.”

“Devlin Whitehorn?” Fred confirmed.

“The Devlin Whitehorn?” George asked.

“Personally refurbished the most incredible thing that I think I've ever seen?” Fred wondered.

“Just for you?” George started to blush.

Harry tossed out, “Oh yeah, he signed the Firebolts for me, too,” as if it were insignificant, knowing full well what he was doing to the twins.

Fred and George looked first at each other with bugging eyes, then at Harry, and then at the wrapped Firebolts. They lunged for the packages, and each tore one open.

Fred held up one of the brooms. “Ron's going to spontaneously combust! Look at this! To Ron: Hope you win back-to-back Quidditch Cups. And he's signed and dated it, right here!”

George started cackling. He handed the other broom to Fred, and gasped for air between hoots.

Harry asked, “What's so funny?”

Fred snorted, and stifled a chuckle. “You haven't looked at it yet?”

Harry said, “No, I haven't.”

Fred burst out laughing, and Harry snatched the Firebolt from him. In bold handwriting, in one line along the length of the broomstick, Whitehorn had written:

Dear Harry: Please break this broom over You-Know-Who's arse. I'll gladly give you a new one. Best wishes and happy Seeking, Devlin Whitehorn

Harry sputtered, “I hope Madam Hooch doesn't have a problem with `arse' written on my broom,” and fell on the floor laughing.

When they had settled down, Harry sipped at his butterbeer and asked, “You think Ron will go for it, then?”

“The broom? If he doesn't, I'll break it over his arse,” Fred said.

George shrugged. “He's always had a problem with jealousy. Like I said yesterday, it's the natural outcome of a life of hand-me-downs and put-downs.” No it's not, thought Harry, and I should know.

Fred smirked, “Of course, when you mix in the opposite sex - well, it's a potion for disaster.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked.

Fred frowned. “You're joking, right? George, I think young Harry's trying to pull a prank on us.”

George said, “He knows better than that. I think perhaps the lad's simply naïve. Shall we educate him?”

Fred nodded. “He's either naïve or blind. Harry, in case you truly didn't notice last night, our hapless brother is in love with Hermione. However, he's too big a git to get out of his own way. He also suffers from alternating bouts of denial and self-doubt. It's sad, really.”

“Very sad,” George agreed. “We tried to help him with his misery last year, but he was too stubborn to listen to us.”

“He's in… oh. Erm… I see.” Harry collected himself, and added, “I mean they've always circled around one another, but he never said anything to me.”

George watched Harry like he was the first test of a new product. He slowly broke out into a wicked smile. “Oh, Fred, we have a problem.”

Fred gave Harry the same inspection. “I think you're right, George. This is too good. `My best friend loves my best friend and so do I!' Sounds like something right from one of Mum's trashy romance novels, doesn't it?”

Harry stared at the twins coldly. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

George said, “This explains a lot of the Grimmauld Place Circus last night, doesn't it?”

Fred gave Harry a mock disapproving look. “Oh, Harry, let me break it to you. Ron and Mum will never be truly happy unless Hermione hooks up with Ron and you hook up with Ginny. That way, Mum gets the son she'd prefer over Ron, and Ron gets the girl and his best mate as a brother-in-law. Don't even pretend that you couldn't pick up on that!”

George shook his head. “You're forgetting the spanner in the works, dear brother.”

Fred nodded. “Ah yes, that. Hermione doesn't love Ron. Well, not like that, anyway.”

Harry's mouth dropped open.

Fred chuckled. “You might want to close that, Harry. We have it on very good authority - Ginny told us.”

“Well, she didn't exactly want to tell us, but we can be rather persuasive when we want dirt on our siblings,” added George.

Fred's eyes narrowed and bore in on Harry. “Of course, I think dear Ginny might have held out on us if we'd asked her this morning. What do you think, George?”

“This morning, Ginny was a cauldron gone horribly wrong,” George observed flatly.

Fred searched Harry's face for a response. “I was thinking you might have something to say about that,” he said.

Harry answered quickly, “I feel badly, I really do. I know she was humiliated, but she panicked. She didn't have to blurt out everything in her head.”

“What do you intend to do about it?” George asked calmly. Harry was becoming apprehensive about the twins' demeanour.

“I was considering leaving the country?” Harry offered, hoping to lighten the mood.

“That's a start,” George said. He managed to make Harry squirm by remaining expressionless, until Fred started making faces.

Fred said, “If you hurt her, we'll use you as our personal guinea pig for the next year. However, we recognize you're in an awkward pinch here.”

“We'll give you some latitude, Harry. She can be terribly dramatic,” George told him.

“She's a fifteen year old girl, George - of course she's dramatic!” Fred spluttered.

“Just be nice to her,” George demanded.

“But not too nice,” Fred added.

“No, definitely not too nice. That would be a sure path to product testing,” George said.

“So I'm more or less doomed,” Harry observed.

Fred nodded. “Until she decides to move on, yes. I don't want to think about Ginny in love - it makes me queasy. I'd rather talk about the dirt that we wheedled from her.”

“I agree. We certainly thought it was good news,” said George.

Harry said cautiously, “This is about your own brother's feelings, you know. I'm a bit confused.”

“Hermione's completely wrong for Ron,” Fred said flatly.

“Totally mismatched,” agreed George.

“Nothing in common,” Fred said.

George continued, “She's too smart for him - she'd be bored with him in a month.”

Fred snorted, “She has to be dragged onto a broom, for Merlin's sake.”

“Besides, we have plans for our little brother,” George cackled. “How can we sit idly by, when Loony Lovegood has lust in her heart for him?”

“Luna deserves much better than that. I suspect she likes him, all right, but she's been binned enough. Don't trifle with her,” Harry warned.

Fred and George exchanged surprised glances. “Goodness, Harry,” Fred said.

“There are just more and more layers, aren't there, Fred?” asked George.

“Layers upon layers, George,” agreed Fred. “Harry is very complicated; nothing at all like our dear confused Ronniekins.”

“So when do we get to ride it?” asked George, ogling the motorbike.

“Ride it? I want to know when we disassemble it,” said Fred hungrily.

Harry stood up, reduced the motorbike, and put it back in his saddlebag. “You guys are too much,” he said. The twins helped repack the Firebolts, tied them back together with the handle, and handed them to Harry. “I'll bring it by the Burrow tonight, when we have our little meeting,” Harry told them. “Riding only!”

##################

Harry hadn't thought about getting back to Grimmauld Place - he didn't really know exactly where in London the house was located. Thankfully, the twins did; they were able to provide rough road directions.

Harry set the motorbike down on the sidewalk in front of the Leaky Cauldron; he stayed close enough to the door that the Muggles couldn't see him. As soon as the bike was full-sized, he pushed it by the handlebars onto the street. He tied the saddlebags in place, stuffed his cloak inside one of them, lashed his packages to the seat behind him, and set off.

Whitehorn was right; the motorbike didn't handle like a broom, especially when it was pretending to roll along the roadway. He enjoyed the way that the false engine noise escalated with the throttle, and had to admit that the loud rumble heightened the experience of riding. He also found that the brakes were a bit sensitive. He rode slowly and very carefully, risking horns and gestures over traffic violations; Harry didn't really want to test his licence. No one seemed to suspect that he was riding anything other than a motorbike. In fact, he received a few admiring waves from people who must have recognised the model.

It was early afternoon by the time that Harry saw 12 Grimmauld Place appear before him. He was glad to be back to the house - he was cold, and his shoulders were a bit reddened. As he pulled up, the black front door opened a crack, then fully.

Lupin came out to meet him. “I guessed correctly about the gift,” he said with a smile. “How was the ride?”

“Fun,” Harry said. “I think I need to brush up on the traffic laws. I still can't believe that I met Devlin Whitehorn. I saw Fred and George Weasley's shop, as well.”

Lupin reached out to help Harry. “You're really loaded down, there. What are those? I'll carry them.”

Harry handed Lupin the Firebolts. “I picked up a couple of brooms from Whitehorn. He autographed them both - one for me and one for Ron.”

Lupin gave him a half-smile. “Impressive. Planning to try and make up, eh? Good man.”

“I hope so. I might give Ron this, too,” Harry said, unlashing a square gold box. “It's a birthday assortment from Fred and George. I hate to admit this, but I'm a bit afraid to open it.”

“You might want to wait until you've settled things with Ron, then. A gift from the twins might, erm, offset the broom,” Lupin observed. “By the way, would you please pick up a helmet to wear when you're riding that thing?”

“Never gave it a thought,” Harry admitted.

Lupin said, “Sirius dumped it a time or two. He learned the value of helmets the hard way. I'll ask you to consider having two helmets, in case you're planning on anyone riding pillion.”

“The way Whitehorn tells it, Sirius needed three helmets,” Harry said.

Lupin blushed. “That was sometimes the case, yes,” he admitted. “I suppose Whitehorn would know. Sirius was close to him, when he was working for Nimbus.”

“He had quite a lot to say about him. He said more than anyone else has ever bothered to tell me,” Harry grumbled. He rolled the Triumph onto the walk, until he knew they were within the wards, before reducing it and putting it in the bag.

“That's new,” Lupin said. “There's a feature that would have gotten Sirius out of a fix or two.”

“I wouldn't know anything about that,” Harry muttered as he walked into the entry hall.

“I haven't shared a lot with you, have I, Harry? I haven't given you very much at all,” Lupin asked, following Harry into the house.

Harry set down the saddlebags and the gold box, and turned on Lupin. “No, you haven't. Wait, let me take that back. I do owe you my Patronus. I'm sure Dumbledore was thrilled about that, too - another tool for his one-man army. Everyone's all too willing to take an interest in my skills, aren't they? I'll give Hagrid due credit; at least he gave me the picture album. Even Sirius - I can't believe he worked for Nimbus, and never told me. He loved music, and he found the time to tell Ginny. Did I have any idea? He loved books, and I guess he shared that with Hermione. Hell, he even knew Ron was obsessed with the Cannons. He waits until he's dead and gone, and then… and then drops all of this on me, and I-” I will not cry, he insisted to himself, I won't give anyone the satisfaction.

“Harry, no one really knows what to say to you. No one ever has,” Lupin said sadly.

Harry snapped, “You could have said that,” picked up the saddlebags and began climbing the stairs to his room.

Lupin followed him, carrying the Firebolts. “I told you I'd make a poor father figure,” he said, “and I don't expect to improve much on that score. Nevertheless, I intend to be here for you if you'll allow me.”

Harry ignored him and kept climbing.

“Harry, please talk to me,” Lupin asked calmly, continuing to follow Harry into his room. He set the Firebolts gently next to Harry's writing desk.

“Why are you here, Remus? Is this about guilt?” Harry asked bitterly. He flopped down on the sofa facing the fireplace, and purposely angled himself away from Lupin.

Lupin sat in one of the armchairs. “No, it's about obligation. Obligation is one of the few noble options left to us, Harry. Guilt is nothing more than a waste of one's energy. I have an obligation - to you, to Sirius, and to your parents. That's why I'm here, despite your bitterness and mood swings and endless cheek.”

“I have good reason to be bitter - you're well aware of that,” Harry spat.

Lupin let out a low growl, set his jaw, and thundered, “Do you think you have a monopoly on loss? Don't flatter yourself!”

Harry wasn't sure what he'd triggered, but started to apologize, “I didn't mean to -”

“I'll be thirty-seven years old this fall, Harry,” Lupin snarled, “and I'm completely alone. My so-called family won't have me. My friends - are - all - dead. I found love once - surprised, Harry? - and the Death Eaters took that away from me, as well. Do you know why no one around you talks about the past? No one wants to remember it! Nearly everyone from the old Order is swimming in loss, but you're too self absorbed to notice!”

Harry felt the telltale catch in his throat, and dabbed at his eyes. He was determined to hold it together in front of Lupin, and chose to say nothing.

Lupin picked up on Harry's distress. “Your life has been tragic, Harry, by any measure,” he said, returning closer to his usual demeanour. “I don't dispute that, nor does anyone who genuinely knows your history. But I'm weary of watching you push away everyone who can help you. You're fulfilling the prophecy all by yourself. You're choosing to push away your life - can't you see that?”

“People who get close to me die, Remus. I have to push them away,” Harry insisted.

Lupin said, “No, you need to give the people close to you a choice in the matter. Sirius and your father took an enormous risk when they befriended me. I was terribly worried, but they made their choices and stuck by them.”

Harry said quietly, “I don't think Dumbledore is committed to choices, at least where I'm concerned.”

Remus frowned. “I don't share Sirius' anger on that count, per se, but I share his concerns. Dumbledore hasn't been forthcoming with you, and that has been a mistake.”

Harry seethed, “I'm fed up with his lies. Dumbledore and Snape must have let Sirius rot in Azkaban, as far as I can tell. Dumbledore told me that Snape was the eavesdropper who heard the prophecy, and that Snape was there when my parents were killed. How could he not know about Wormtail? If Snape knew, then so did Dumbledore.”

Remus slowly and silently turned red. “Would you repeat that, please?” he eventually asked, in a strained voice.

“Snape was there when my parents were killed. He had to know about Wormtail, he had to,” Harry told Remus, “which means that he let Sirius rot, and that Dumbledore let it happen.”

“There has to be an explanation… he couldn't… no matter how much bad blood… I can't comprehend… there has to be… Snape!” Remus spluttered, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Dumbledore said he would find me tonight,” Harry added. “I'm not letting this go.”

“You will tell me exactly how he explains himself,” Lupin ordered through clenched teeth. “You will spare me no details. Is that clear, Harry? I want to know everything. If Snape was responsible for Sirius being stuck in Azkaban -”

Harry was taken aback by the hatred burning in Lupin's eyes. “I'll let you know, I promise,” he agreed.

Lupin nodded gravely. After settling himself, he told Harry, “Time for a change of subject… what do you have planned for the rest of your birthday?”

“Fred and George Weasley are having the Annual Meeting for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes tonight,” Harry said. “I imagine they can make a meeting interesting.”

Lupin laughed. “They're trying to secure me as, what did they call it, a `product advisor'? I've received four owls from them just this morning.”

“Did you have something else in mind?” Harry asked. “Look, I don't want to run out on you. I can certainly pass on this. I'm sure Fred and George would understand.”

“Oh, no! You should go ahead,” Lupin insisted. “I'm sure whatever they have in store would be much more fun than hanging around here.”

“I thought I'd ride there,” Harry said. “I know it's a good distance, but…”

Lupin sighed. “I wish you'd find a helmet first, but I understand. It'll take you a good three hours, I imagine, so you might want to be on your -”

Both Harry and Lupin heard the loud squeal of a house-elf, just before a BOOM! and a symphony of popping and crackling. Both drew their wands and dashed down the stairs.

Dobby crouched in the entryway, covered by his arms, and Winky madly clutched at him. The gold box from Fred and George appeared to have burst open, and its contents jetted into the room. Twirling colours exploded into bright letters that spelled out `Happy Birthday to our Partner', `Welcome to the Family, Future Brother-In-Law', `Harry Loves Devlin Whitehorn', `Happy Birthday, Publicity Hound' and a half dozen much cruder references. It took Harry and Lupin five minutes to quell the explosions, and another half hour to calm Dobby and Winky. Harry started his ride out of London thinking of ways to repay the twins for their gift.