On the morning of August tenth, the sprawling estate grounds behind the Dursley residence were bathed in crisp, golden sunlight. Nestled beyond the manicured gardens lay a private, full-sized Quidditch pitch, complete with three towering golden hoops at either end and soft, turf-covered ground.
Since they were playing without a full roster, the group had claimed just one half of the pitch. The rules were simple: one person served as the Keeper guarding the three hoops, while the remaining five rotated as Chasers, passing a Quaffle back and forth to score. They continuously swapped brooms, rotating between Harry and Abigail's pristine Comet 260s and the sturdy Comet 220s Harry had brought along.
At the moment, Ron was perched in front of the center hoop, his hands gripping his broom handle so tightly his knuckles were white. He was breathing heavily, his eyes darting frantically between the approaching flyers.
"Come on then, Ron!" Fred shouted, diving low on a Comet 220 before flicking the Quaffle across the pitch to his twin. "Let us see if those long arms of yours are good for anything besides reaching for second helpings at breakfast!"
George caught the Quaffle mid-air on a Comet 260, pulling a sharp, sweeping arc toward the left hoop. "He's terrified, Fred! Look at his face! He thinks the ball is going to bite him!"
"It's not the ball I'm worried about," Ron muttered under his breath, his eyes flicking nervously toward Abigail, who was hovering twenty feet above him like a hawk inspecting field mice.
Abigail glided down lazily on the second Comet 260. She didn't bother diving or pulling wild stunts; her flying was cold, precise, and entirely effortless. Her dark hair was neatly tied back, and her green eyes glinted with sharp, razor-edged amusement.
"Positioning, Ronald," Abigail said smoothly, her voice carrying easily over the wind. "You are drifting to the left again. If you leave the right hoop open like that, even a blind gnome with a sprained ankle could score on you."
"I'm covering the angle!" Ron barked, adjusting his position with an annoyed huff.
"You're covering the empty air," Abigail corrected instantly, a smirk touching her lips. "If your goalkeeping were any more porous, we could use you to strain tea."
Fred nearly fell off his broom laughing. "She's got you there, Ronnie! Tea strainer! That's your new title!"
"Quiet, Fred!" Ron yelled, his face turning as red as his hair. "Pass the ball already!"
George feinted to the left, then snapped his wrist to throw the Quaffle toward the upper right hoop. Ron lunged forward, stretching his arm out as far as it would go. His fingers clipped the leather ball, knocking it off course. It tumbled harmlessly through the air, completely missing the goal.
"Ha!" Ron shouted, pumping his fist in the air. "Saved it!"
"You didn't save it, you accidentally collided with it," Abigail observed calmly, hovering alongside him. "Your reaction time is measured in business days. But keep trying. Miracles do happen, even in sports."
"Do you ever stop?" Ron groaned, rolling his eyes as he retrieved the Quaffle and threw it back into play.
"Why would I?" Abigail replied with a pleasant, deadly smile. "Constructive criticism builds character. You should be paying me for this service."
Across the pitch, Ginny caught the thrown Quaffle on a Comet 220. Her eyes lit up as she tucked the ball under her arm and accelerated toward the hoops. She was fast, cutting sharply around Fred with a tight, aggressive turn that earned a whistle of approval from George.
"Watch out, little sister!" George called out, swinging his broom around to cut her off.
Ginny didn't flinch. She leaned low over the handle, accelerating straight toward George before dropping into a sudden, blinding dive. She pulled up just inches above the turf, spiraling upward and flicking the Quaffle straight through the center hoop past Ron's outstretched hand.
"Ten points to Ginny!" Harry called out from high above, his voice filled with genuine warmth.
Ginny beamed, pulling her broom around in a sharp loop. "Did you see that, Abigail?"
"Acceptable execution," Abigail said, though her lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. "Your dive was clean, and your release was precise. You're the only one on this pitch currently raising the average intelligence of the game."
"Hey!" Fred protested, feigning offense. "We are criminal mastermind pranksters, thank you very much!"
"Masterminds of loud noises and singed eyebrows, perhaps," Abigail shot back smoothly without missing a beat. "Now move aside. My brother is coming down."
Everyone stopped, their attention shifting upward.
High above the hoops, hovering nearly eighty feet in the air on his Comet 260, was Harry. He sat casually on the handle, his dark hair messy in the wind, looking completely relaxed. Up until now, he had mostly been passing the ball and setting up shots for the others, but now it was his turn to attack.
George flew the Quaffle up to him, tossing it across the gap. "Alright, Harry! Let us see what you've got!"
Harry caught the Quaffle with one hand, his fingers fitting effortlessly around the leather seams. The moment the ball touched his palm, something shifted. The casual demeanor vanished, replaced by an absolute, instinctual focus.
He didn't yell or show off. He simply tipped his broom handle forward and dropped.
The speed was terrifying. Harry descended like a falling star, cutting through the morning air with zero drag. The wind roared around him, but his body remained completely still, perfectly balanced over the sleek hazel wood of the Comet 260.
Fred and George immediately moved to double-team him, flying in from opposite sides to block his lane.
Harry didn't slow down. As the twins closed the gap, Harry executed a sudden, seamless spiral mid-dive, twisting his body and broom entirely upside down to slide straight between them with mere inches to spare.
"What in the world was that?!" Fred yelled, his jaw dropping as Harry flashed past him like a shadow.
"He just did a Wronski Feint roll!" George shouted, pulling his broom around in absolute disbelief. "He didn't even brake!"
Harry leveled out thirty feet from the hoops where Ron was waiting. Ron set his jaw, bracing himself to cover the center.
Harry didn't shoot immediately. Instead, he pulled back hard on the handle, launching into a steep, vertical climb right in front of the hoops. At the apex of the climb, he released the broom handle with his knees, spun his weight in mid-air to face backward, and flicked the Quaffle behind his head without even looking at the goals.
The Quaffle zipped through the top left hoop with a sharp swoosh, striking the turf behind it.
Harry caught his broom handle effortlessly as he came back down, hovering softly three feet above the grass as if he had just taken a stroll through a garden.
The pitch fell dead silent.
Ron stared at the hoop, then at the Quaffle on the grass, and finally at Harry. "Harry... what was that? How did you do that?"
"Do what?" Harry asked, tilting his head slightly, completely earnest. "I just saw the space behind your shoulder and threw it where you weren't looking."
"Where you weren't looking?!" Fred screamed, diving down and landing his broom with a loud crash. "Harry, mate, that was a backward Porski Feint combined with an inverse shoulder release! That is a professional league move!"
"Is it?" Harry asked, blinking in mild surprise. "I just thought it was something I'd try."
"Something you'd try?" George repeated, landing right beside his brother and clutching his own chest dramatic fashion. "He calls a world class trick 'something he'd try'?! I think my heart just stopped!"
"He flies by instinct," Abigail said, gliding down to land gracefully beside her brother. She smoothed down her robes, looking at the gaping Weasleys with an air of mild superiority. "While the rest of you are fighting the wind and wrestling with your handles, Harry simply moves where the air wants him to go. It isn't complicated. Well, not for him, at least."
"Oh, shut up, Abby," Ron grumbled, though there was no real bite to it. He dismounted his broom, shaking his head in sheer wonder. "I've never seen anyone fly like that. Not even on trading cards."
"That is because most professionals require years of training to mimic what my brother does naturally," Abigail replied smoothly, giving Ron a pat on the shoulder that felt suspiciously like condescension. "Don't feel bad, Ronald. Losing to a genius is no disgrace. Losing to Fred and George, however, would be embarrassing."
"Hey!" both twins shouted in unison.
Ginny landed beside them, her cheeks flushed red from the wind and excitement, her eyes shining as she looked at Harry. "Teach me that turn, Harry. The one where you went upside down."
"I'm not good at teaching, Ginny," Harry chuckled. "I just move on instinct. I'm not even entirely sure how I did it myself."
Abigail offered her brother an amused look before turning to Ginny. "He speaks the truth, Ginny. Harry operates on pure spatial awareness, which makes him a terrible instructor for mechanics. If you want to refine that roll, I can break down the exact angle of tilt and center-of-gravity shifts for you later."
"I would like that," Ginny said, her eyes lighting up as she handed her Comet 220 over with a proud, happy smile.
Before the twins could launch into another theatrical rant about Harry's effortless flying, a clear, ringing chime echoed across the manicured grounds. Near the edge of the sprawling Quidditch pitch, Petunia Dursley stood at the flower-lined garden archway, holding a small silver handbell. She was dressed impeccably in a crisp, cream-colored linen dress, her posture upright and refined.
"Children!" Petunia's voice carried clearly over the quiet breeze. "Lunch is served on the terrace! Do clean yourselves up before sitting down."
"Saved by the bell," Fred grinned, wiping a streak of sweat from his forehead. "Literally. My stomach's been roaring louder than a Hungarian Horntail for the last hour."
The group dismounted, sweeping off the bits of grass clinging to their clothes. Harry neatly tucked the Comet 220s and 260s back into his subspace pouch before leading the way up the rolling green lawn toward the main house.
The back terrace of the Dursley estate was a stunning, shaded expanse of white marble overlooking the pristine gardens. A long, elegant glass table had been set with fine porcelain plates, polished silver cutlery, and tall crystal glasses filled with chilled lemonade and iced tea. A lavish spread of roasted chicken sandwiches, fresh summer salads, warm savory pastries, and iced fruit tarts covered the center.
Petunia greeted them with a gentle, welcoming smile, gesturing for everyone to take a seat. "Come, sit down, all of you. You must be parched after all that flying."
Ron stared at the table setup, his jaw loosening slightly at the sheer elegance of the presentation. He pulled out a chair with unusual care, sitting down beside Fred and George, who were already eyeing the chicken pastries with intense focus.
"Mrs. Dursley, this looks incredible," Ron said, trying his best to use his most polite, proper voice. "Thank you."
"You are very welcome, Ronald," Petunia replied smoothly, pouring him a fresh glass of lemonade. "Eat as much as you like. Flying always works up an immense appetite."
"You have no idea, Mrs. Dursley," George said with a dramatic sigh, taking a large bite of a warm pastry. "Harry nearly gave us all heart attacks up there with his flying. We needed the calories just to recover from the shock."
"Harry has always been remarkably light on his feet," Petunia remarked with a quiet, affectionate smile, glancing at her nephew, who was calmly spreading butter onto a warm roll. "Though I do hope he was behaving himself out there and not encouraging any unnecessary risks."
"Risks?" Fred chuckled, leaning forward. "Mrs. Dursley, your son executed a backward dive that defied the laws of physics. If he tried that at Hogwarts, the Quidditch captain would sign him on the spot without a tryout!"
"He really is brilliant, Mrs. Dursley," Ginny added softly, taking a sip of iced tea. "He made it look so easy."
Abigail delicately cut into a sandwich, her posture perfectly erect. "Genius often looks easy to the untrained eye, Ginny. Though I must admit, Harry's flair for the dramatic is becoming somewhat predictable."
Harry offered his sister a dry, amused look. "Predictable, perhaps, but effective."
"Only because the boys were too busy staring at you with open mouths to defend properly," Abigail shot back smoothly, a tiny smirk touching her lips.
The terrace filled with warm, lighthearted laughter as the meal continued. The Weasley children ate with enthusiastic appreciation, marveling at the delicious food, while Petunia made sure everyone's glass remained full. Up on the sunlit terrace, surrounded by good food and easy conversation, the lingering shadows of the past week vanished entirely, leaving only the pleasant warmth of an ideal summer afternoon.
As the plates were cleared, Petunia led the group toward the terrace parlor, where an elegant brick fireplace stood framed by carved oak.
Fred and George went first, throwing emerald powder into the flames with theatrical bows before disappearing in bright green flashes. Ron grabbed a handful of Floo powder next, stepping into the hearth. He paused, looking back at Harry and Abigail with a wide, genuine grin.
"Thanks for having us," Ron said warmly. "The flying was mental!" With a shout of "The Burrow!", he was gone.
Ginny stepped up to the hearth, but before reaching into the velvet bag of powder, she turned back to face Harry, Abigail, and Petunia. She fidgeted slightly with the hem of her sleeve, her cheeks flushing a light pink, though her posture remained confident.
"Tomorrow is my tenth birthday," Ginny said, looking directly at Harry with bright, hopeful eyes. "Mum is making a small feast at the Burrow. We would really love it if you, Abigail, and your family came over to celebrate with us."
Harry offered her a warm, genuine smile. "We would be honored, Ginny. We will definitely be there."
"I shall look forward to it," Abigail added with a polite, approving nod. "Happy early birthday, Ginny."
Ginny beamed brightly, taking a pinch of the shimmering powder. Stepping into the fire, she called out her destination clearly, vanishing in a swirl of brilliant emerald flames, leaving the parlor quiet, warm, and peaceful.
The moment the emerald flames dissolved into quiet embers, Harry stretched his arms, turning his head toward the hallway. "Right, I am going to head upstairs and take a shower. I still have grass stains on my sleeves."
Abigail stepped smoothly into his path, crossing her arms and eyeing him with sharp intensity. "Where do you think you are going, Harry?"
"To take a shower, Abby," Harry said, blinking in mild confusion. "I literally just said that."
"We have far more pressing matters to attend to," Abigail stated, tapping her foot against the polished hardwood floor. "We have to decide what gift to give Ginny for her birthday tomorrow."
Harry leaned back against the doorframe, running a hand through his damp, windblown hair. "Well, we can give her some good quills, or perhaps a big treat box from Honeydukes."
Abigail let out a soft, dramatic gasp of absolute disdain, tilting her chin up. "A treat box? Quills? That is so utterly normal, Harry. Boring, even. She is turning ten, not sitting for her Ordinary Wizarding Levels."
Harry raised an eyebrow, amused by her sudden intensity. "Okay, then what do YOU think we should give her?"
"I know the perfect gift for her," Abigail said smoothly, her green eyes flashing with absolute conviction. "A broom."
Harry stared at his sister for a full two seconds before shaking his head firmly. "Yeah, Abby, I will tell you right now that you cannot give her a broom. Her parents won't like it."
"And why ever not?" Abigail demanded, taking a step forward. "She has exceptional natural talent! You saw her dive out there today. Riding worn-out Shooting Stars is practically a crime against her potential."
"In case you haven't noticed, the Weasleys have a bit of pride when it comes to their financial status," Harry explained patiently, lowering his voice into a calm, logical register. "You cannot just expect them to accept a brand new, expensive broom like that from us. It would make them feel uncomfortable."
"Well, why not?" Abigail huffed, throwing her hands up in frustration. "It is a gift! Gifts are meant to be enjoyed, not analyzed for social economics!"
"I just told you why!" Harry groaned, rubbing his temples. "It is about respect, Abby. Taking an expensive broom from a friend's family isn't simple for them."
"But I need someone to fly with when you are off at Hogwarts!" Abigail snapped, pouting slightly as her sharp composure began to crack into a genuine sibling tantrum. "Who else am I supposed to practice Chaser formations with? The garden gnomes?"
"Well, she can use my Comet 260 when she comes over to visit," Harry countered reasonably. "And you can take it with you whenever you go over to the Burrow."
"But that is not hers!" Abigail argued, her voice rising an octave. "It isn't the same thing at all, Harry, and you know it!"
"I just told you the problem with why we cannot get her a new one," Harry repeated, holding his ground with a tired sigh.
"It is a ridiculous problem!" Abigail declared passionately.
Petunia walked into the parlor carrying a folded linen towel, stopping dead in her tracks as she observed the fiery exchange. She looked from Harry's stoic, exasperated face to Abigail's flushed, indignant posture, a small, fond smile touching her lips.
"My goodness," Petunia remarked softly, shaking her head in quiet amusement. "You two fight tooth and nail over the most extraordinary things."
Abigail immediately turned to her mother, pointing an accusing finger at Harry. "Mum, tell Harry he is being completely unreasonable! I want to buy Ginny a broom for her birthday, and he is trying to sabotage my generosity!"
"I am trying to prevent an awkward diplomatic incident, Mum," Harry corrected smoothly, crossing his arms. "And besides, Abby, if you go ahead and give her a whole broom, what am I supposed to give her?"
Abigail ignored her brother entirely, spinning around and grabbing Petunia's arm with an earnest, dramatic flair. "Mum! You and Dad should give her an owl! That way I can exchange letters with her properly while Harry is away at school."
Harry stared at his sister, blinking in utter disbelief. "Why in the world do you need an owl to send letters when you can literally just step through the Floo Network and be in her living room in three seconds?"
"Because sending letters by owl is romantic and traditional!" Abigail shot back, lifting her chin haughtily. "It carries weight. It builds anticipation. Floo travelling just to drop off a note is terribly unrefined."
Harry turned to his mother, his hand gesturing helplessly toward his sister, his expression a silent, pleading cry for sanity. Do you see your daughter right now? Do you hear this?
Petunia merely chuckled, patting Abigail's hand fondly. "Harry is right about the owl, darling. You can visit the Burrow whenever you like, so an owl seems a bit redundant. Besides, a broom is already a remarkably expensive gift on its own."
Harry froze. His head snapped toward Petunia so fast his hair whipped across his forehead. "Wait. Are you seriously implying that we are getting her a broom? Mum, you know what their family is like! Mr. Weasley has immense pride about these things!"
"Oh, but your sister makes a fair point, Harry," Petunia said smoothly, a fond, decisive gleam in her eyes. "Ginny is going to be lonely with all her brothers at school, and Abigail will need a proper flying partner while you are away."
"I am leaving my Comet 260 at home!" Harry pointed out, throwing his hands in the air. "First years aren't allowed to bring brooms to Hogwarts anyway! She technically has access to two of our 260s whenever she wants!"
Petunia just offered a soft, knowing chuckle, placing a hand over her mouth.
Two hours later, Harry stood in the middle of Quality Quidditch Supplies, his arms crossed over his chest, staring deadpanned at the back of his dad's neck.
Vernon Dursley was leaning over the main counter, tapping his fingers against the polished glass with grand, expansive satisfaction. "Yes, the Comet 260. Wrap it up in the finest navy paper you have. Put a large gold ribbon on it as well, if you please."
Beside Vernon stood Abigail. She turned her head slowly toward Harry, catching his eye and flashing him a slow, razor-sharp smirk that practically screamed total, unadulterated victory.
Harry's eye twitched.
"Right then," Vernon boomed cheerfully as the shopkeeper handed over the long, beautifully wrapped package. "Now off to Eeylops Owl Emporium! A proper gift needs a proper bird to carry the news!"
Harry's jaw tightened as they crossed the narrow cobblestone alley and stepped into the dim, rustling interior of Eeylops Owl Emporium. Soft hooting echoed off the timbered walls, and the scent of crisp oak shavings and cedar filled the air.
The head clerk looked up instantly, recognizing Vernon Dursley the moment he crossed the threshold. The man straightened his robes and offered a low, deeply respectful bow.
"Lord Dursley," the clerk said smoothly, his tone hushed and attentive. "A pleasure to see you again. How may Eeylops serve the family today?"
Vernon stopped near the central perches, unbuttoning his tailored coat with measured, effortless dignity. His expression was calm, composed, and entirely collected, the picture of an aristocrat who expected nothing short of perfection without ever having to raise his voice.
"We require a messenger owl," Vernon said quietly, his low voice carrying a cold, aristocratic weight. "A bird of distinct stature, exceptional speed, and pristine breeding. Bring out an Eagle Owl."
"Right away, my Lord," the clerk replied without a second's hesitation, turning to navigate the higher, private perches reserved for high-ranking clientele.
Moments later, the shopkeeper returned, carrying a magnificent, massive Eagle Owl with broad, feathered tufts and striking amber eyes that surveyed the room with regal authority. The bird sat motionless on the padded glove, radiating power and precision.
Petunia examined the creature with a slight, approving nod of her head. Beside her, Abigail's sharp green eyes glinted with quiet, absolute triumph. She didn't giggle or cheer; she simply turned her head toward Harry, flashing a slow, razor-sharp smirk and silently mouthing, Family gift.
Harry stared back at her with a completely deadpan, unblinking expression. The quiet, dignified manner in which his parents had just casually purchased a top-tier predatory bird only made the entire absurdity of the situation hit harder.
He let out a slow, barely audible sigh, resigning himself to the inevitable. His dad spoiled his sister a bit too much.
Vernon quietly settled the transaction, adding an entire year's supply of premium owl treats, a silver-plated water dish, and a dragonhide care kit to the purchase without blinking an eye. With the magnificent bird secured in a polished brass travel cage, the family stepped back out onto the cobblestone streets.
As they walked past the array of storefronts, Harry veered off, stepping into the quiet, parchment-scented interior of Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop. He approached the glass counter, selected a stunning, hand-carved Eagle Feather Quill with a silver-nibbed tip, and had the shopkeeper carefully pack it into a silk-lined presentation box wrapped in emerald parchment.
Stepping back out into the bright sunlight, Harry caught up with his family and turned to Vernon.
"Dad, can you get me a big box of treats from Honeydukes?" Harry asked, his tone dry and calm. "Assorted ones. The large wooden presentation hamper. I am giving that along with the quill."
Vernon turned to Harry with a warm, indulgent chuckle, placing a broad hand on his shoulder. "Of course, son. A grand feast of sweets to match the occasion. Let us head straight to Honeydukes."
Abigail glided alongside them, smoothing down her immaculate robes. She leaned in close to Harry's side, her voice a smooth, purring whisper. "A quill and a box of sweets, brother? How remarkably... sensible."
Harry gave her a flat, unblinking glare as they walked toward the sweet shop. "If Arthur Weasley suffers a complete heart attack over the sheer shock of your ridiculous extravagance tomorrow, I am telling everyone it was entirely your idea."
----------------------------------------------------
The dinner had been a lively, loud affair filled with second helpings of Molly's roast pork and clinking glasses. As the sky turned into a deep indigo, Molly cleared the table with a flick of her wand and brought out a massive, two-tiered chocolate birthday cake glowing with ten bright, flickering candles.
The garden erupted into a roaring, off-key chorus of "Happy Birthday," led by Fred and George singing two keys too high just to make Ginny snort cake crumbs. Ginny blew out the candles in one huge breath, her face flushed red with absolute joy.
"Right then!" Molly clapped her hands together, wiping a smidgen of chocolate icing off her apron. "Presents time!"
Ginny's eyes lit up. The gifts started moving down the table in a messy, overlapping shuffle.
From her brothers came a stack of hand-drawn Quidditch playbooks, a box of pranking sweets that Fred tried to steal back twice, and a thick, hand-knitted jumper from Molly that Ginny immediately pulled over her dress.
Percy cleared his throat loudly, puffing out his chest as he slid a surprisingly small, meticulously wrapped package across the white linen. "From me, Ginny," he announced with grand formality, though a rare, soft warmth flickered in his eyes.
Ginny tore away the paper to reveal a pair of heavy, dragon-hide Quidditch wrist guards fitted with polished brass buckles and subtle, hand-carved cushioning charms along the inner lining. They were high-end, practical, and unmistakably chosen by someone who had spent hours secretly observing what a young chaser actually needed.
"Percy!" Ginny gasped, her eyes widening as she immediately strapped one over her wrist. "These are genuine Swedish Short-Snout hide!"
"I am well aware," Percy said, endeavoring to sound stern while adjusting his glasses, though his face flushed with quiet pride. "I expect you to keep your wrists properly protected if you intend to throw Quidditch balls about. And do mind the maintenance instructions I enclosed in the lid."
Harry slid his gifts across the tablecloth. Ginny tore off the paper, gasping at the silk-lined box holding an Eagle Feather Quill set from Scrivenshaft's, before opening the Honeydukes hamper to reveal a mountain various treats. Ron practically fell over her shoulder trying to inventory the sweets, until Harry jabbed him in the ribs and whispered that they were for sharing.
"Thank you, Harry!" Ginny beamed, clutching the quill box like treasure.
Across the table, Abigail wiped her mouth with a napkin and stood up. Without saying a word, she reached straight into the inner pocket of Harry's coat and yanked out his leather subspace pouch.
"Hey-" Harry started, but Abigail completely ignored him, pulling the drawstring open. She shoved her arm in past her elbow, digging around inside the tiny pouch while Fred and George nearly tipped their bench over trying to see how deep her arm went.
Then, Abigail began to pull.
Inch by inch, a long, rigid shaft wrapped in heavy navy silk slid out of the tiny opening. One foot. Two feet. Three feet. The distinct, unmistakable silhouette of a brand-new broomstick emerged into the lantern light.
The garden table went dead silent for a fraction of a second, and then exploded.
"No bloody way!" Ron shrieked, knocking his goblet of pumpkin juice sideways.
"Is that a broom?!" Fred yelled, lunging across the white linen to grab the end before George tackled his arm back. "Get your hands off it, that's a new handle!"
"Arthur!" Molly's voice shrieked so loud it made the floating lanterns wobble. She didn't just stand up; she practically threw her chair backward into the grass, her face going pale, then bright red, then pale again as pure maternal panic detonated. "Arthur, look at the size of that! What is that?!"
"Molly, sweethea-" Arthur started, his own jaw slack as he stared at the silk wrapping.
"Abigail Dursley, you put that straight back!" Molly gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks, her voice pitching up into a terrified, breathless flurry. "She is ten years old! Ten! She isn't even at Hogwarts! She's going to break her neck! She'll fly over the orchard and snap her collarbone! A broom? For a ten-year-old girl?! Arthur, tell them! Tell them she cannot have a broom, she's far too young, she'll crash into the barn!"
"Mother is entirely correct on principle!" Percy interjected, sitting up rigidly and adjusting his collar as if addressing a court room. "Hogwarts regulations dictate that first-years are strictly forbidden from maintaining personal broomsticks on castle grounds! Though..." He paused, his gaze darting to the gleaming hazel handle, his official posture wavering for a fraction of a second as he looked at Ginny's glowing face. "She isn't exactly going to Hogwarts, and Ministry doesn't prevent recreational flying."
Ginny's face crumpled instantly. She shrank back into her chair, clutching her new Weasley jumper with white knuckles, her eyes welling up with sudden, hot tears of humiliation as her mother fussed right in front of everyone.
Abigail didn't look scared, nor did she quote a single product manual. She just unknotted the gold ribbon with infuriating calm and let the navy silk drop to the grass.
The gleaming, hand-polished hazel handle of a Comet 260 caught the golden lantern light, its polished brass fittings and sleek leather handgrips practically blinding in the dark garden.
"Merlin's pants," George breathed, his eyes bulging. "It's a 260. Look at the gold clips..."
"Mrs. Weasley," Harry chimed in quickly, trying to douse the fire before Molly blew a fuse. "It isn't a racing broom, it's build purely for beginners, although it looks rather flashy"
"I don't care if it's built for angels!" Molly cried out, though her eyes darted frantically from the shiny, safe-looking leather grips to Ginny's trembling shoulders. Her voice wavered, the anger cracking wide open to reveal the raw, terrifying worry underneath. "It's too much... it's far too generous, Petunia, we couldn't possibly... what if she falls off? She's my only girl, Petunia!"
Petunia offered a calm, soothing smile from her end of the table. "Molly, dear, she won't fall. You underestimate your daughter's skills when it comes to a broomstick. It is built to keep her steady."
Abigail looked straight at Molly, her tone flat, simple, and entirely un-brochure-like.
"She's already flying, Mrs. Weasley," Abigail said plainly.
Molly froze. "It was one time at that day..."
"Well she has been flying circles around the twins, in our Quidditch pitch when they visit," Abigail said, casually tossing the navy wrapping silk over her arm. "Just yesterday she was doing professional moves on my Comet 260 at our Quidditch pitch. She was 60 feet up, turning and twisting like she was born to do it."
A suffocating, dead silence fell over the entire table.
Molly's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Slowly, painfully, she turned her head to glare down the length of the table.
Fred and George instantly grabbed their goblets and buried their faces in them, suddenly deeply interested in their pumpkin juice. Ron looked everywhere except at his mother. Even Arthur winced slightly, looking down at his plate and coughing into his fist with terrible, guilty timing.
"Sixty... feet?" Molly breathed, her voice dropping into a deadly whisper that was ten times scarier than her yelling. She looked straight at her husband. "Arthur... did you know about this?"
"Molly, my love," Arthur began smoothly, holding up his hands in a delicate peace offering. "You have to admit, the girl has remarkable balance..."
"You knew?!" Molly whipped her head toward the twins. "You all knew?!"
"She's brilliant, Mum!" Fred blurted out, unable to help himself. "She can pull off a Hawkeshead Attacking Drill on a bad handle!"
"Better than Fred, honestly!" George added quickly.
"I am surrounded by traitors," Molly whispered, clutching her heart as if she had been personally stabbed. She looked back at Abigail, then down at Ginny, who was staring up at her mother with wide, silent, desperate eyes.
The pride, the shock, and the sheer terror of her youngest child pulling high-speed Quidditch maneuvers at sixty feet clashed violently across Molly's face. Slowly, the fury deflated into a heavy, muttering defeat.
"Sixty feet..." Molly muttered, dragging a hand over her face as she sank back down into her chair. "Sixty feet up in the air... I'm going to go gray before autumn. Absolute lunatics, the lot of you."
She pointed a sharp, trembling finger across the table at Ginny. "You do not leave the garden on that thing without an adult nearby. Do you hear me, Ginevra? If I catch you pulling those... those acrobatic stunts above the trees without supervision, I am turning it into firewood!"
Ginny's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "I promise! I promise, Mum!"
She threw herself out of her seat, scrambling around the table to wrap her arms around Abigail in a tight, ecstatic hug. "Thank you! Thank you, Abigail!"
Abigail stood slightly stiff under the sudden impact, but she patted Ginny's back with a small, genuine smile, looking down at the girl who had flown circles around the twins. "You earned it, Ginny. Happy birthday."
Molly had barely settled back into her chair, still muttering under her breath and dabbing at the corners of her eyes, when the air near the garden gate rippled for a second time.
A low, resonant pop echoed through the dusk.
Vernon stepped out, looking impeccably turned out in a set of well-cut, dark navy robes that practically screamed Ministry authority. Floating smoothly beside him was a large wicker transport cage covered with a heavy velvet cloth, followed by two neatly wrapped parcels hovering a few inches behind.
"Good evening, everyone!" Vernon boomed, his loud, confident voice cutting cleanly through the garden. He smoothed the front of his robes as he stroated toward the table, radiating the broad, slightly grand warmth of a man making an entrance. "Apologies for my late arrival, Arthur! Official business back in the company ran longer than anticipated."
Percy practically bolted out of his chair, smoothing his robes down with frantic, eager efficiency.
"Mr. Dursley! A absolute pleasure to see you sir," Percy said, his voice dropping into its most refined, professional register as he offered a crisp, perfectly executed nod. "We completely understand. Pressing administrative matters must always take precedence over social engagements. I hope the department's evening operations concluded favorably?"
Vernon gave Percy an approving, jovial nod. "Splendidly, young man. Splendidly."
Percy beamed, sitting back down with an intensely satisfied, proud posture that made Fred roll his eyes into his skull.
Petunia rose from her seat with graceful composure, stepping up to meet her husband. They exchanged a brief, practiced look, a silent sign of complete alignment between them, before Petunia turned back toward the table.
Ginny sat frozen at the table, one hand still gripping the polished handle of her Comet 260 as if she expected someone to snatch it away, while Fred and George were already leaning over her shoulder, whispering furiously about who would get to take the first test flight in the morning.
Vernon drew his wand with a crisp, practiced flick, sending the velvet cover sliding off the floating cage.
"Happy Birthday, young lady," He boomed at Ginny with a chuckle.
The entire garden seemed to hold its breath.
Inside sat a massive, broad-chested Eagle Owl. Its plumage was a striking weave of amber, obsidian, and cream, and its broad, lethal amber eyes blinked with slow, regal authority as it surveyed the rustic garden. It swiveled its head in a smooth, majestic arc, taking in the glowing lanterns, the long wooden tables, and the crowd of red-haired children, before letting out a single, low, deeply resonant hoot that vibrated right through the grass.
Somewhere up in the rafters of the Burrow, a sudden muffled thud echoed out as Errol evidently fell directly off his roosting branch in sheer shock.
Molly's face underwent three distinct transformations in under four seconds. First came sheer surprise, her eyes widening as she took in the majestic bird. Then came that same tight, prideful panic that had nearly boiled over during the broom debate. Finally, it settled into a heavy, utterly exhausted despair.
Another high-status, lavish gift. From the same family. On the same night. Right in front of her children.
"Vernon... Petunia..." Molly began, stepping forward as her voice wavered with an instinctive, trembling refusal. "You really mustn't... truly, we have Errol for the family post, and Ginny doesn't need..."
Her words sputtered out, far weaker than her initial outburst over the broom. The argument over the Comet 260 had stripped her of her ammunition, leaving her looking completely overwhelmed by the sheer scale of generosity being poured onto her youngest child.
Arthur, on the other hand, looked genuinely fascinated. He pushed his chair back and walked over to the floating cage, peering through the brass bars with the intense curiosity he usually reserved for Muggle artifacts.
"An Eagle Owl..." Arthur murmured softly, his eyes scanning the bird's posture. "Remarkable range on these birds. Vernon, is this from the official Ministry lines? The stamina on an Eagle Owl can carry a heavy package clear across the continent without a single rest stop."
"Not really, we were lucky enough to find one at Eeylops yesterday!" Vernon said proudly, flicking his wand to bring the two smaller parcels down onto the table. "Trained for high-speed, secure delivery. And these are the care kits: a silver-bristled preening brush, leather perching gauntlets, and a full year's supply of fortified owl treats to keep its coat pristine."
Arthur paused, looking down at the care kit and the year's supply of food. A quiet, thoughtful look settled over his face as he realized Vernon and Petunia had deliberately accounted for the long-term cost of keeping such a bird, ensuring it wouldn't strain the Weasley family budget.
Percy leaned across the table, his eyes wide with profound, scholarly respect as he surveyed the massive bird. "An absolute masterpiece of avian pedigree," he breathed reverently. He immediately turned to Ginny, his tone shifting into that of a protective, over-explaining older brother. "Ginny, you must ensure the registration forms are filed with the Owl Post Office by Monday. I will gladly draft the official ownership documentation for you tonight so there are no administrative discrepancies regarding Ministry mail channels."
Ginny sat entirely torn. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Owning a magnificent, regal owl of her own at ten years old was the kind of dream she hadn't even dared to imagine. She reached a tentative, trembling hand toward the cage, but stopped halfway, looking nervously at her mother to see if she was even allowed to be happy about it.
Beside her, Ron went completely quiet. He stared down at his plate, his hands tucked under the table. A brand-new Comet 260 was one thing, but an Eagle Owl paired with a year's worth of premium care kits made the gap between the Dursleys' effortless wealth and his own family's situation painfully, starkly visible.
Fred and George, however, recovered almost instantly.
"Look at the claws on that thing," Fred whispered, leaning over Arthur's shoulder. "We should name it Barnaby."
"Barnaby?" George snorted, reaching out a sneak-thief hand toward the open parcel of owl treats. "Looks more like a Sir Reginald to me. I'm taking one of these treats for quality testing."
Molly swatted George's hand away without even looking at him, her eyes locked onto Petunia.
The quiet, heavy tension lingered thick in the air between the two mothers. To Vernon and Petunia, presenting an impressive, high-status messenger bird was simply doing things properly, honoring a milestone birthday with the prestige appropriate for a young witch. But to Molly, every pristine feather on the owl felt like a gentle, relentless demonstration of everything she couldn't give her daughter.
Arthur stepped into the silence, his voice gentle as he looked over at his wife.
"It really is a remarkably thoughtful gesture, Vernon," Arthur said softly, reaching out to pat the side of the wicker cage before turning to Molly. "And with Errol getting on in years... Ginny will need a proper bird for her letters when she goes off to Hogwarts next year. Learning to care for a bird of this caliber will be good for her."
Molly swallowed hard, her chest tight. She looked at her husband, then at Vernon and Petunia's expectant, polite faces, and finally down at Ginny, who was looking up at her with big, hopeful eyes.
Slowly, Molly gave a single, tight-lipped nod.
"Thank you, Vernon. Thank you, Petunia," Molly said, her tone quiet but sincere, though a faint prickle of defensive pride still lingered in her eyes. "Ginny... thank your them properly."
"Thank you! Thank you so much!" Ginny squeaked out, her voice filled with a mixture of awe and relief.
She reached through the bars, her small hand brushing gently against the owl's sleek breast feathers. The Eagle Owl let out another low, smooth hoot, leaning slightly into her touch.
"I get to send the first letter on him!" Fred declared immediately, pointing a finger at George. "I'm writing to Lee about the broom!"
"Not a chance!" George shot back. "I'm using him to order a crate of Dungbombs from Diagon Alley!"
"You will do no such thing!" Molly barked, though her voice lacked its usual thunder as she stared at the massive bird, already worrying about how it would fit into her quiet kitchen.