The door creaked open with a deliberate slowness, revealing the regal figure of Dorea Potter, the matriarch of the Potter family. She carried herself with the effortless poise of someone who had once ruled Wizarding Britain's high society with a mere glance. If Morgana Le Fay and Elizabeth I had conspired to create the perfect embodiment of authority wrapped in elegance, it would have been Dorea Potter.
She was here to wake her grandson—only to pause at the sight before her.
Harry Potter, age eleven as of this morning, was already on the floor in the middle of a brutal set of push-ups, his shirt discarded, his skin glistening with the effort. His arms moved with precise, steady determination, his emerald eyes sharp with focus. His breathing was controlled, his form impeccable.
Dorea arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. Charlus had started early, then.
She had no doubt her husband and Arcturus Black were treating Harry's childhood like a cross between a military campaign and an elite grooming program. And by the look of things, Harry had taken to it with a level of commitment that would have made his ancestors weep with pride.
She crossed her arms, her voice cutting through the room like a perfectly aimed dueling spell.
"I do hope you're not planning on joining the circus, Hadrian. That would be quite the scandal for the family."
Harry paused mid-push-up and looked up, his expression caught somewhere between sheepish and mischievous. "Morning to you too, Grandmother. I didn't hear you come in—sneaky for someone in heels."
Dorea smirked. "Decades of social warfare, darling. If you think dodging curses is impressive, try surviving six decades of pureblood galas without murdering someone."
Harry grinned and pushed himself up in one fluid motion, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Sounds harder than dodging hexes, honestly."
"It is." She stepped further into the room, her eyes scanning his lean frame critically. "I see Charlus and Arcturus have you on their version of an education. Let me guess, a mix of hand-to-hand combat, magical theory, and lessons on how to properly glare people into submission?"
Harry chuckled. "You forgot 'tactical planning for world domination.' Apparently, I need to be prepared for everything."
"They would say that."
Before she could comment further, Kreth, the Potter family's long-suffering house-elf, popped into existence beside them. His small frame was adorned with an immaculately pressed tea towel, and he adjusted his tiny spectacles with the air of a man who had seen things.
He looked at Harry's sweat-covered form and let out a long-suffering sigh. "Master Harry, if you insist on acting like a runaway Unspeakable at dawn, could you at least have the courtesy to not get sweat all over Kreth's beautifully polished floors?"
Harry smirked. "Come on, Kreth, I thought elves liked hard-working wizards?"
Kreth narrowed his eyes, adjusting his spectacles again. "Elves like wizards who remember that beds exist for a reason other than decoration, Master Harry."
Dorea chuckled at that.
Kreth, never one to be done with just a single complaint, continued, "It is your birthday, Master Harry. One would think you'd be resting and awaiting your morning tea, not pretending you're training to overthrow the Ministry before breakfast."
Harry gave an innocent look. "Well, you know, Kreth, when the inevitable war for magical Britain begins, I'd like to be prepared."
Kreth made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "As Kreth recalls, Master Charlus said something very similar when he was a young lad. And Master Charlus did indeed start a war—against the entire Wizengamot, the Werewolf Registration Act, and at one point, a particularly stubborn chair."
Dorea hummed. "Ah, yes. The infamous chair incident. The only time I ever saw your grandfather nearly arrested for 'assaulting a piece of furniture.'"
Harry perked up. "Okay, now I need to hear that story over breakfast."
Kreth cleared his throat. "Before we start reminiscing about your family's deep-seated war against interior decorating, perhaps Master Harry would care to bathe before breakfast? Kreth has taken the liberty of preparing hot water—though Kreth knows Master Harry has a strange affection for suffering, so perhaps he prefers cold water and misery."
Harry smirked. "Kreth, I'm touched by how much you care."
Kreth gave him a withering look. "Kreth is required by the laws of old magic to care. If Kreth had a choice, Kreth would be sipping tea and enjoying a quiet, drama-free morning. But alas, Kreth serves the Potter line, and the Potter line is composed of lunatics."
Dorea nodded approvingly. "Well said, Kreth."
Harry sighed theatrically. "Fine, fine, I'll go shower. But I expect cake for breakfast, Kreth. And not one of those 'healthy' cakes either. I want full chocolate, sugar, and bad decisions."
Kreth muttered something about 'terrible influences' and 'Potter children being raised like Gryffindor-themed goblins' before disappearing with a snap.
Dorea, watching the entire exchange with the air of someone observing an entertaining stage play, finally said, "Well, at least I know you'll never lack for good banter. It will serve you well at Hogwarts."
Harry smirked as he grabbed a fresh set of clothes. "I'm hoping it serves me well in life, Grandmother. After all, they say words are a wizard's greatest weapon."
Dorea smiled. "Yes, but only if you deliver them with style, darling. And if there's one thing a Potter always has—it's style."
With that, she turned and swept out of the room, leaving Harry grinning as he made his way toward the bathroom.
Today was going to be a good day.
—
Potter Manor – The Grand Dining Room – The Morning of Harry's 11th Birthday
The morning sun streamed through the tall, arched windows of the Potter estate's dining room, illuminating the grand mahogany table set with a veritable feast of champions. Fluffy, golden pancakes stacked high, glistening with syrup. Platters of crispy bacon and succulent sausages lined the center, alongside bowls of fresh fruit and glasses filled to the brim with pumpkin juice, orange juice, and—because Dorea believed in a proper breakfast—strong black coffee.
At the head of the table, Harry Potter sat with the casual air of a young king surveying his domain, clad in a simple black t-shirt and trousers that somehow made him look effortlessly cool rather than underdressed. His emerald eyes gleamed with amusement as he cut into a pancake, watching his grandfather, Charlus Potter, raise his glass.
"To Hadrian James Potter," Charlus intoned, his voice smooth, commanding—the voice of a man who once terrified half the Wizengamot and still made seasoned Aurors reconsider their life choices. "Eleven years old today. You now stand on the precipice of wizarding greatness, my boy—just don't trip and fall on your face."
Harry smirked. "No promises, Grandpa. You and Grandmother set the bar pretty high for 'greatness.'"
Dorea Potter, seated beside her husband in all her elegant, sharp-witted, vaguely terrifying glory, gave an approving nod. "Yes, well, that's what happens when you belong to the last line of truly refined wizardry, darling. Standards must be maintained."
Before Harry could respond, a sharp snap echoed through the room, and Kreth, the ever-exasperated Potter family house-elf, appeared with the air of a man who had already lost his last shred of patience.
"Kreth presents breakfast, which Kreth assumes will be consumed with at least a modicum of dignity and not turned into a theatrical production, as is the usual Potter habit."
Harry grinned. "Oh, Kreth. You wound me. As if I would ever cause a scene."
Kreth gave him a flat look. "Master Harry is a born instigator of chaos. Kreth has already prepared extra cleaning charms in anticipation."
Charlus chuckled, cutting into his own breakfast with military precision. "You know, Kreth, I sometimes wonder what your life would have been like if you had been born into a different household—one where the residents didn't drive you to the brink of madness on a daily basis."
Kreth sniffed, adjusting his tiny spectacles. "Kreth would be sipping fine tea in a quiet, respectable household. Kreth would have a peaceful existence. Kreth would not be dodging enchanted suits of armor that Master Charlus refuses to retire."
Dorea smirked. "And yet, dear Kreth, you remain. I do believe that's called loyalty."
Kreth scowled but said nothing, muttering under his breath as he vanished with another snap.
Just then, the doors swung open with a dramatic flourish, and in strode Sirius Black—tousled black hair, roguish grin, the personification of reckless charm in expensive wizarding robes. At his side was his wife, Amelia Black, exuding calm authority in a tailored navy-blue robe that practically radiated competence.
Behind them, Susan Bones, their niece and Harry's closest friend, entered, her bright red hair and mischievous grin making it abundantly clear she belonged in this particular brand of chaos.
Sirius plopped a massive gift-wrapped box onto the table with enough force to shake the cutlery. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY!"
Harry arched a brow. "Are you trying to break the table, or is that just your natural lack of finesse?"
Sirius smirked. "A little bit of both." He clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Eleven today. Feels like just yesterday I was sneaking you chocolate frogs behind Dorea's back."
Dorea, without missing a beat, sipped her coffee. "Oh, I knew, darling. I just let you believe you were getting away with it."
Sirius blinked. "That… explains so much."
Amelia rolled her eyes, pressing a warm kiss to Harry's forehead before taking a seat. "Happy birthday, Harry. Try not to let my idiot husband corrupt you further."
Susan grinned as she dropped into the seat beside Harry. "Too late for that, Auntie."
Charlus, ever the tactician, eyed the gift on the table. "Sirius, I assume whatever is in that box is at least vaguely legal?"
Sirius gasped, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. "Charlus, I am deeply offended."** Then he paused. "Also, I am now realizing I should probably check what Remus actually bought before I wrapped it."
Harry laughed and started tearing into the gift, only for Kreth to reappear just in time to see wrapping paper flying in every direction.
The house-elf closed his eyes as if praying for strength. "Kreth knew this would happen. Kreth is not surprised. Kreth is, however, deeply disappointed."
Harry, utterly unfazed, pulled a sleek, black leather jacket from the box—one that screamed rebellion and effortless cool. His grin widened.
"Now this," he said, slipping it on over his t-shirt, "is a bloody masterpiece."
Sirius grinned. "Right? Every future Hogwarts legend needs the proper attire. I'm just setting you up for success."
Amelia gave Sirius a pointed look. "You mean you're setting him up for detention."
Susan giggled. "Well, at least he'll look fantastic in detention."
Charlus hummed. "Harry, if you start turning the Gryffindor common room into a gang hideout, do let me know. I'd rather not be blindsided when the Prophet inevitably tries to spin it into a scandal."
Dorea, as always, was unbothered. "As long as he does it with style, I see no issue."
Harry smirked, leaning back in his chair, jacket draped perfectly over his shoulders. "Oh, don't worry, Grandmother. If I'm going to make Hogwarts history, I'm doing it in style."
As the conversation descended into banter and laughter, Harry looked around at the people surrounding him—his brilliantly sarcastic grandparents, his utterly chaotic godfather and his badass wife, his equally mischievous best friend, and, of course, Kreth, who had resigned himself to this fate long ago.
For the first time in a long while, Harry thought to himself:
If this is what family is supposed to feel like, I think I got pretty damn lucky.
—
The golden hues of late afternoon bathed the Potter estate in a warm glow, casting long shadows across the emerald lawn and gleaming off the marble balustrades. The laughter of family echoed from the terrace, where Harry Potter lounged on the steps, his green eyes fixed skyward with a restless mix of anticipation and barely contained energy.
He wore a loose white shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and charcoal trousers that Dorea had insisted made him "look presentable, not like a runaway urchin." His hair, as always, was rebelliously untamed—Charlus claimed it was a Potter trait, though Dorea muttered it was a curse.
Beside him sat Susan Bones, a mop of red hair tied back in a ribbon that clashed spectacularly with her freckles but somehow suited her. She leaned forward, squinting at the sky.
"Any sign of it yet?" she asked, bouncing slightly with excitement.
Harry sighed dramatically. "Nope. Maybe they finally figured out I'm a massive fraud and they're revoking the invitation."
"You say that like it isn't obvious," came Charlus's dry baritone from his armchair nearby, sipping something that was very much not appropriate for an afternoon tea.
"Grandfather!" Harry grinned, spinning around. "I thought you were on my side."
"I am. I'm just realistic about your shortcomings. Keeps you humble."
"Like you were ever humble," Sirius chimed in with a wolfish grin, leaning against one of the marble pillars. He looked like a man who had won every fight he ever started and smiled through the ones he lost. "Your ego used to enter a room ten minutes before the rest of you."
"And yours still does," Charlus replied smoothly. "Difference is, I earned mine."
"Children, please," Dorea said from her perch on the chaise lounge, elegant as a portrait come to life, her tone cool and amused. "Do try not to compare… wand sizes in front of the children."
Amelia, seated beside her with one leg crossed over the other, coughed into her hand to suppress a laugh. "She's not wrong."
"Thank you, Amelia," Dorea said, inclining her head regally. "At least one of you adults has sense."
Kreth, the Potter family's house-elf, suddenly popped into view with a startled crack, balancing a silver tray with a teapot and delicate china cups. His vest was immaculately buttoned, his expression caught between weary dignity and long-suffering sarcasm.
"I've brought the tea," he announced with the grandness of a man delivering a royal decree. "Though why we're having another tea before the boy gets his letter is beyond Kreth. I'm starting to think they lost it. Probably took one look at Master Harry and said 'Not worth the parchment.'"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Kreth. Love the support."
Kreth sniffed. "Kreth supports you like scaffolding on a collapsing building. He is here to keep you upright, not tell you you're pretty."
"Wow," Susan muttered, impressed. "He's good."
"That's why we keep him," Dorea said fondly. "That and the fact he makes a lemon tart that could end blood feuds."
At that moment, a blur appeared in the sky, and Harry leapt to his feet. "There! There it is!"
The owl—a regal, snowy creature with wings like parchment sails—soared gracefully down, landing with a soft thump on the manor steps. Around its leg was a thick, creamy envelope, sealed with the familiar crimson wax of Hogwarts.
Harry's hand hovered over it, and Sirius smirked.
"Go on, it's not going to bite you. Unless you've been really naughty. Then maybe McGonagall enchanted it to explode in your face."
"I like Professor McGonagall," Harry shot back. "She wouldn't do that."
"I wouldn't put it past her," Charlus said mildly. "She used to turn your grandmother's hatboxes into toads when she was annoyed. And she always had that glint in her eye."
Harry carefully undid the seal and unfolded the parchment, the moment heavy with significance. His voice, when he read, trembled only slightly:
"Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry..."
The rest was drowned out by the chorus of cheers, whoops, and Susan literally punching the air. Sirius whooped like he'd just won a duel, and Amelia clapped politely, while Dorea rose to her feet with the kind of poised grace that made you feel like you should stand, too.
"My grandson," she said, lips curved in a rare, proud smile, "a Hogwarts student at last. I suppose that makes me feel quite old."
"You are old," Charlus deadpanned. "But you wear it well, my dear."
"Flatter me again and I might not hex you tonight," Dorea said, sipping her tea.
"Harry," Susan breathed, "you're really going. I mean—we knew you were, but it's real now."
Harry's grin stretched from ear to ear. "I just have to send my letter of acceptance, right?"
"Indeed," Charlus said, already rising. "We'll get the owl ready."
"Better hurry," Sirius said with a wink. "Imagine—'Boy-Who-Lived denied admission for being late with paperwork.' Tragic. Headlines for days."
"Potter heir ruined by procrastination," Kreth muttered, already prepping another tray. "The shame."
"I'll do it now!" Harry said, laughing. "Can't give any of you more ammunition."
He scribbled his acceptance in crisp, practiced strokes and handed it over. Charlus tied it with efficient ease to the owl, who gave a single, solemn hoot before lifting off into the pink-orange sky.
They stood there for a long moment, watching it go, the sun setting behind the manor in a blaze of gold and crimson.
Dorea slid an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Now the real adventure begins."
Harry smiled, his chest tight with hope and happiness. "I can't wait."
Charlus, with the barest smirk, added, "Just remember—no dueling until after dinner. It's only polite."
Sirius snorted. "He's a Potter. He'll duel during dinner."
"Kreth will not clean soup off the ceiling again," Kreth muttered darkly.
Harry just laughed, eyes still on the sky, knowing that his journey—his real journey—was finally beginning.
—
Got it! This rewrite will have more detail, banter, and personality from each character while making sure the interactions feel natural and engaging. Buckle up for some birthday chaos!
The Potter estate was alive with celebration. The grand hall was decked out in floating lanterns, enchanted streamers, and a massive banner that read: Happy Birthday, Harry! in shimmering gold script. Laughter and the clatter of dishes echoed from the dining hall, where Kreth, the ever-dutiful (and ever-grumbling) Potter family house-elf, was making sure everything ran like clockwork—or at least as close as he could manage with this lot.
Harry had already spent the morning tearing through presents with the enthusiasm of a dragon at a treasure hoard, but the party was far from over. Friends were still arriving, and with them came more opportunities for chaos.
The first to burst through the door—literally—was Nymphadora Tonks.
"Happy birthday, Harry!" she shouted, tripping over the doorstep and barely catching herself. Her hair flashed from deep violet to electric blue as she straightened up with a sheepish grin.
Sirius, sprawled lazily in one of the plush armchairs, smirked. "Good to see your relationship with gravity is still as toxic as ever, Tonks."
Tonks stuck her tongue out at him before turning back to Harry and pulling him into a tight hug. "You're eleven, mate! Almost a grown-up."
Charlus raised an eyebrow from where he stood near the fireplace, sipping his firewhisky. "If eleven counts as 'almost grown-up' these days, then I demand financial reparations for my lost youth."
Dorea, regal as ever, perched on the chaise lounge with the grace of a queen. "Really, Charlus, you're behaving as though we didn't all spend our childhoods trying to set each other on fire."
"You spent your childhood setting me on fire," Charlus corrected.
"And look how well you turned out," Dorea replied smoothly.
Harry was still laughing when Neville Longbottom stepped through the doorway, carrying a potted plant that looked vaguely like it wanted to bite someone. He shuffled forward, cheeks pink.
"Happy birthday, Harry," Neville said, holding out the plant. "It's a Mimbulus Mimbletonia. Thought you might like it."
Harry took the plant, inspecting it curiously. "It won't, uh… eat me, will it?"
"No! Well. Probably not."
Charlus chuckled. "That's exactly what my financial advisor said before the stock market crash of '42."
The door swung open again, and in walked Hannah Abbott, blonde curls bouncing as she beamed. "Happy birthday, Harry!"
Hannah handed over a neatly wrapped gift, and before Harry could thank her, Susan pounced.
"You're late," Susan declared, hands on her hips.
Hannah rolled her eyes. "I had to wait for my mum to stop lecturing me about proper behavior at a pureblood gathering. She thinks I'll knock over a vase or something."
Tonks, from where she was stuffing a handful of pastries into her mouth, grinned. "I knocked over two already."
Hannah sighed. "Of course you did."
Just as Harry was setting his gifts down, a familiar voice with the crisp, practiced poise of the upper-class drawled from the doorway.
"I do hope we're not too late," said Daphne Greengrass, stepping inside with all the grace of a royal procession.
Astoria followed close behind her, clutching a small wrapped box. "Happy birthday, Harry!" she chirped.
Daphne handed over her own gift with a small smile. "I assume you're just chaotic enough to appreciate this."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"
"Yes," said Kreth, materializing next to him, arms crossed. The house-elf, dressed in a crisp, perfectly pressed suit (because unlike other house-elves, Kreth had standards), eyed the growing pile of presents with deep suspicion. "If it explodes, you're cleaning it up."
"I make no promises," Daphne said smoothly.
The next arrival was Tracey Davis, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. She surveyed the party with the air of someone calculating exactly how much fun she could get away with before an adult intervened.
"Tracey," Harry greeted, already wary.
"Harry," she returned, grinning. "It's a great party. Mind if I—"
"No," Kreth interrupted. "Whatever it is, no."
Tracey pouted. "You don't even know what I was going to say!"
"I always know," Kreth deadpanned.
Before Tracey could argue further, the door opened one last time. This time, there was an undeniable presence as Fleur and Gabrielle Delacour entered the manor, their silver-blonde hair catching the light. Fleur, at nearly fourteen, carried herself with effortless elegance, while Gabrielle bounced excitedly at her side.
"Joyeux anniversaire, 'Arry," Fleur said, pressing a kiss to both his cheeks in the French way.
Harry, for all his bravado, turned bright red.
Gabrielle giggled. "You 'ave gone very red, 'Arry."
"Yeah, well—"
Sirius clapped him on the back. "Welcome to the world of women, pup. Confusing, terrifying, and always two steps ahead of you."
Dorea sipped her tea. "The only accurate thing you've ever said, Sirius."
Fleur smiled, handing over a beautifully wrapped box. "It is from both of us."
Harry accepted it, still slightly dazed. "Thank you. Both of you."
Gabrielle grinned. "You 'ave so many presents! Are zey all safe?"
"Absolutely not," Kreth muttered.
With all the guests gathered, the party truly began. There was laughter, food, and a shocking amount of competition when Sirius, Charlus, and Harry teamed up for a savage round of Exploding Snap that left half the room covered in soot.
Tonks somehow managed to transfigure her nose into a duck bill mid-game, much to everyone's horror. Tracey and Daphne placed bets on who could annoy Kreth the most (spoiler: neither won). And Fleur nearly cursed Sirius when he attempted (poorly) to flirt with her.
As the evening wound down, the group lounged in the garden, full and content.
Harry, surrounded by his friends and family, let out a satisfied sigh. "This," he declared, "is the best birthday ever."
Charlus clinked his glass against Dorea's. "The boy has good taste."
Sirius smirked. "Let's hope he keeps it when he picks his future Quidditch team."
"Oh, I'll make sure of it," Dorea said smoothly.
Neville blinked. "Wait… is that a threat?"
"Yes," said Charlus.
"Yes," said Sirius.
"Yes," said Dorea.
"Yes," said Kreth.
Everyone laughed, and under the glow of the floating lanterns, Harry knew one thing for certain—no matter what Hogwarts had in store, he had the best people by his side.
—
Alright, buckle up—this is about to get wild.
The Cake Incident
As the party carried on, Kreth popped into existence at the center of the room with all the enthusiasm of a man about to announce tax season. Arms crossed, expression a perfect blend of disapproval and barely restrained contempt, he surveyed the general chaos with the air of someone who had, regrettably, failed to prevent it.
"It is time for the cake," he announced, voice clipped, tone sharp enough to gut a fish.
The room fell silent. Not because they were intimidated—oh, absolutely not—but because everyone was waiting for the inevitable round of verbal carnage.
Harry, grinning, leaned back in his chair. "Oh, Kreth, you love us."
Kreth exhaled through his nose, a very put-upon sigh. "Kreth tolerates you. Barely."
Sirius, who had just finished an elaborate juggling act involving two butterbeer bottles, a Quaffle, and an alarmingly sharp letter opener (which had definitely not been part of the act when he started), clapped his hands together with the sheer enthusiasm of a man about to instigate absolute mayhem.
"CAKE TIME!" he bellowed. "LET'S GO, PEOPLE! SOMEONE GET THE BIRTHDAY BOY A KNIFE!"
Charlus, without even looking up, withdrew his wand and gave Sirius the same weary look one might give a particularly stupid dog attempting to eat a beehive.
"You mean a cutlery knife, I assume?"
Sirius blinked, all false innocence. "Obviously. What else would I—"
Dorea, who had seen this play out a thousand times before, pinched the bridge of her nose, already done with the conversation. "I refuse to have another incident with you and sharp objects, Sirius."
"One duel in the drawing room was one too many," Amelia Bones added dryly, arms crossed, gaze sharp enough to slice diamond.
Sirius scoffed, deeply offended. "That was ages ago! One time I challenge James to a duel and suddenly I have a reputation—"
Dorea's voice was like silk wrapped around steel. "You set the drapes on fire."
Charlus smirked. "And yourself, if I recall correctly."
Sirius held up a finger. "Okay, but in my defense—"
"You lost," Kreth deadpanned, arms still folded.
There was a moment of heavy silence.
Then—
Tonks cackled. "Kreth, I'm begging you, please never stop talking."
Sirius groaned. "I knew you were my least favorite cousin."
Tonks beamed. "Aw, you say the sweetest things."
Gabrielle, looking delighted, turned to Fleur. "Zis elf is magnifique."
Fleur smirked. "Eet 'as been five minutes, and 'e 'as already destroyed Oncle Sirius."
"Everyone destroys Uncle Sirius," Susan said cheerfully.
"That's not true—" Sirius started.
"Oh, it's very true," Daphne said, casually inspecting her nails.
Tracey, sitting beside her, just nodded. "Uncle Sirius is like… the softest target."
"I am not—"
Astoria, looking up from where she had been happily nibbling on a biscuit, tilted her head. "But you do lose a lot."
The entire room nodded in agreement.
Sirius groaned again. "This is bullying."
Harry, very obviously not helping, patted him on the arm. "It's tough being you."
Before Sirius could launch into a tirade, Kreth waved his hand—and with an effortless bit of magic, the massive birthday cake appeared on the grand table.
And what a cake it was.
Three tiers of absolute decadence. Thick layers of rich chocolate ganache. Shimmering golden icing swirled in intricate patterns. And at the very top—
A tiny, enchanted Snitch flitted lazily around the frosting, glowing faintly in the dim light.
There was a moment of awed silence.
Then—
"Bloody hell," Neville whispered.
Gabrielle's eyes were huge. "Zis is—ow do you say—very, very fancy?"
"Why is it moving?" Hannah asked, pointing at the Snitch.
Daphne, dry as the Sahara, simply said, "Because it's a Potter party. Nothing is ever normal."
Harry grinned, looking at Kreth. "You outdid yourself."
Kreth adjusted his perfectly pressed jacket. "Kreth always outdoes himself."
Sirius, eyes locked on the cake, leaned forward and sniffed dramatically. "Chocolate, is it?"
Kreth narrowed his eyes. "You will wait until after the candles are blown out."
Sirius held up his hands. "Relax, Kreth. I'm not an animal."
Charlus turned to Harry, tone warm but firm. "Go on, lad. Make a wish."
Harry looked around—at his friends, his family, the people who had been there for him, through everything.
He didn't need a wish.
He had everything he could possibly want.
Still, he closed his eyes, took a breath, and silently wished that this happiness—this family—would stay with him forever.
Then, with a grin, he blew out the candles.
The moment the flames vanished, the cake exploded.
Well, not literally, but—
Golden fireworks burst from the edges. Sparkling embers flared into the air. The Snitch shot upward, spiraling in a dazzling display of light.
The room erupted.
"BLOODY HELL!" Neville yelled, nearly falling backward.
Susan gasped. "Did—did you know it was going to do that?"
Harry turned to Kreth, wide-eyed. "Did you enchant my cake?"
Kreth sniffed. "Kreth does not make boring cakes."
Dorea, calm as ever, took a measured sip of her tea. "At least it didn't explode."
Charlus smirked. "Give it time."
Sirius, laser-focused on the chocolatey masterpiece, reached for a slice. "Right, now who's ready to eat?"
Before his hand could touch the plate—
It vanished.
Sirius blinked at his now empty fingers. Then slowly, slowly, turned to Kreth.
Kreth, expression unmoved, arms folded, stared him down.
"You wait your turn," the house-elf said icily.
Tonks collapsed into laughter. "I love this elf."
Sirius let out the most pitiful groan. "Kreth, you can't keep doing this to me—I live for cake!"
Kreth's eyes glittered. "And I live for order."
Harry, absolutely losing it, just grabbed a slice and took a bite.
The chocolate melted on his tongue—rich, warm, perfect.
He swallowed, looking around at the chaos.
Yeah.
This was a birthday he'd never forget.
---
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