The First Year

To Talk Of Many Things

Harry woke up in a daze, sitting up suddenly, trying to figure out where he was. The light in the room was unnaturally bright and he was alone. He reached under his pillow for his wand, and Summoned his glasses, perching them on the tip of his nose so he could see the alarm clock, ticking softly on top of the bureau in the corner.

It was nearly ten.

He shoved the bedding back and rolled out of bed. He collected some clothing and stumbled hazily down to the bathroom, hoping a hot shower would clear the cobwebs from his head. Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd slept through the night like that. That night – or was it two? – after the battle don't count. There wasn't anything I could have done but sleep... he thought, as he flicked the hot water tap on with his fingertips. He ducked into the tub, and stood under the spray for several minutes before he began to wash himself.

It was such an odd sensation to have slept through the night, without feeling his scar burn, tingle, ache, or any of the other myriad sensations that radiated from that inch-long bit of skin. He rubbed his fingertips over the ridge bisecting his forehead. It seemed smaller, less prominent lately. As if it were finally healing. Harry lathered shampoo through his hair and began to consider that maybe it was healing. His thoughts seemed to echo about in his head, since he was alone now. He hadn't been truly alone in his thoughts in... It's been at least since my fourth year... Harry held up a foamy hand and counted off the time on his dripping fingers. Four years. Shaking his head, Harry rinsed the lather from his hair.

He haphazardly dried his hair and body with a towel and pulled his jeans and t-shirt on, taking a moment to brush his teeth. Barefoot, his hair still damp, Harry padded down to the ground floor. The Weasleys were lounging with the Sunday Prophet, passing sections amongst them, lingering over cups of tea. Molly looked up from a recent issue of Witch Weekly. 'Harry, dear, are you hungry? You quite slept through breakfast.'

'I'm all right,' Harry said, folding himself to the floor next to the sofa.

'Let me get you some toast, at least,' Molly said, jabbing her wand in the direction of the kitchen. In moments, a plate of toast zoomed toward Harry and settled on the coffee table at his elbow. Molly then Summoned a cup and poured Harry a cup of tea.

Harry gratefully began to sip the tea, his eyes closing in bliss. Not having the small things, like tea, on a regular basis last year, made him feel exceedingly grateful to have it now. He cradled the cup in his hands, inhaling the fragrant steam. 'You all right, mate?' Ron asked.

'Yeah.'

Ron leaned closer to Harry. 'What did you get Gin for her birthday?' he whispered.

Harry's eyes flew open. 'Wait, when is it?'

'Tomorrow. The eleventh.'

'Bloody, buggering hell,' Harry sighed into his bent knees. 'It slipped my mind...'

'You can go in with George and me,' Ron said matter-of-factly.

'Thanks, Ron, but I should get her something on my own.'

'Any ideas?'

Harry started to shake his head, but then Pig began to twitter madly as a small barn owl flew through the open window. 'Yeah, I think I have one that might work...'

Arthur took the letter from the owl and offered it a crust from one of the uneaten pieces of toast in front of Harry. 'It's from Charlie,' he said, opening the envelope. Scanning it quickly, he added, 'Says he'll be here tomorrow for Ginny's birthday dinner.'