After getting his clothing, which he paid for by putting his thumb on a special pad that drew Gallions directly from his vault, and promising to come back the next week for the charmed stuff, Harry put on a pair of jeans and a black tee-shirt and looked out into the street, trying to get up the courage to leave without his invisibility cloak. He could cover his horns and his scar relatively easily with his long hair, but there was no hiding his wings. This is ridiculous. Everybody out there looks strange. Nobody's going to care that you've got wings when they've got a tail. He would just put on the invisibility cloak, but it was just past noon, and beastly hot. And hiding is ridiculous. You're a Gryffindor, for goodness' sake! You've faced down Voldemort! What's so scary about a street full of people? He thought about it and almost groaned. Ridiculous. He was scared that everyone would stare at him, or be frightened and shy away, and at the same time he was scared of them, of their wings, and tails, and horns. Grimacing, he tucked his wings tightly against his back and walked directly out into the crowded alley.

As he walked out of the shop, Harry almost immediately blundered into another passerby, who bared pointed teeth quickly but continued walking. Werewolf? He wondered. Lupin doesn't do that...Hmm. Probably not. Lupin's teeth aren't big like that...like mine He didn't have time to think about it, though, as he dodged around the busy street traffic, trying to avoid bumping into anybody else but nevertheless knocking a Hag with his wings when he turned too quickly. He apologized fervently, then finally fled from the railing Hag, and safely reached the opposite wall of the Alley.

Well that was anticlimactic, he reflected as he reached the other side of the street. I crossed. The street...and got yelled at by a mean old lady. All hail the great brave Gryffindor. Looking up, he noticed that the sign in front of him said, “Harlot's Inn, all welcome.” It really is called that. Does that mean the owner's name is really Harlot? What kind of a person names their kid Harlot? He wanted to get off the street, though, safe to walk around on or no, and so went inside quickly.

Harry noticed first that Harlot's Inn was mercifully quiet compared to the bustling street – as soon as he closed the door he could hear the small crinkling sounds made by the room's single occupant as he read a newspaper - and second that it didn't look like an inn. It was more like a seedy pub. There was a large bar against one wall, with a long row of bar stools in front, and plenty of sturdy tables for eating or drinking. It was clean enough, he supposed, looking around in the bright sunshine that came in through the windows, but it was anything but fancy. The curtains on the windows were a little worn and faded, and the tables uncovered and unadorned. I like it. Harry decided. It felt very...genuine...compared to Privet drive, and very restful compare to the craziness that had invaded his life lately. Finally tired of looking around, Harry looked back at the man in the corner and spoke.

“Excuse me?”

The man ignored him. Maybe he didn't hear? “Excuse me?”

Finally the man looked up with an impatient expression. “What?!”

“Do you know who runs this place? I'd like to rent a room.”

“Try the kitchen. The entrance is there behind the bar.”

“Thanks.” The man didn't seem to hear, intent as he was on his reading, and finally Harry shrugged and headed around the bar. When he reached the doorway to the kitchen, he stopped at the threshold and peered in. There were two women conversing in a corner as they broke the ends off of an enormous pile of what looked like pea-pods. They looked up at him as one and he resisted the urge to cover his face with his wings as he'd done in the clothing store.

“Uh...hi. I was told I could get a room here? A cheap one?”

One of the women got up and Harry noticed what he hadn't before – she was huge. Not 'Madame Maxime' huge, but huge just the same. Taller than his six feet, and muscled almost like a man would be. Her face bore a scar over one eye, which added interest to an already striking visage. She wasn't beautiful, or particularly feminine, but she was...interesting. Her voice, when she spoke, was unexpectedly attractive, smooth and feminine where nothing else about her was. “You can.”

“S-so who do I talk to, then?”

“You're talkin' to her.” Finally the woman seemed to relent. “What is it exactly you're looking for?”

“Whatever you've got, really. I just need something cheap for a week.”

“We're pretty full at the moment. I can give you a room, but it'll be a crappy one.”

“That's fine. I really just need a bed and food.”

“Follow me, then.”

“Thanks, Ma'am.”

The woman gave him a strange look. “Call me Harlot. Everybody else does.”

Harry gulped. “Yes...Madame Harlot.”

“Who're you, then?”

“Harry.”

The strange woman led him back out into the bar, then up two narrow staircases. As Harry bent to avoid hitting his head on the sloping ceiling as he climbed the second staircase, he realized that she was leading him into the attic. He followed her down a narrow hallway to a small door at the end, opening it for him so he could walk inside and look around. It was one of the most... awkward rooms he'd seen with the exception of his cupboard under the stairs when he was little. The door she opened for him was only five feet across a narrow corridor from another door, which Harry hoped was a bathroom. When he looked down the corridor, he saw that the room widened at the end to accommodate a window and the bed, which was tucked under the sloping roof such that he would only be able to sit up in the bed from one direction. The room was so small that the small dresser blocked the door from opening completely, and even then could only fit that, the bed, and the bedside table. On the plus side, the one window got lots of sun, was of good size, and had a padded window seat that looked out over the alley, so he could watch all the interesting people walking by. Besides that, someone had seemingly attempted to make up for the room's size by improving on the bed: the mattress was comfortable, and the covers were soft and of good quality.

“Like I said, it's our worst room. You'd be better off going a block down the Alley to the Brokewinged Dove. Their food's not near as good as ours', and they'll be more expensive, but we mostly don't use this room for big folk.”

Big folk? “No,” Harry decided, “this is fine. How much does it cost?”

“You want your meals included in your bill, or are you likely to be eating elsewhere?”

Harry considered it. I don't want to have to leave here to eat. “Included, please.”

“Eight Gallions a day.”

That is cheap. Harry reflected. Wow. “I'll take it. Thank you.”

“Good. Breakfast and lunch are communal, and served in the kitchen at 8:00AM and 12:00PM, respectively. Dinner's whenever you want it, in the bar. Drinks are extra.”

“Yes Ma'a- Madame Harlot.”

The woman grinned at him, clearly enjoying his embarrassment. “You'll get used to it.”

Harry tried to glare, but the grin was infectious, and he instead gave her a small smile back. “I suppose I will.”

When Madame Harlot left him alone, Harry sorted his new clothing into the dresser and the bedside table. Other than the clothes he was wearing, he had two pairs of dark jeans, three sets of Hogwarts robes, all black, a pair of sweatpants that actually fit him, a real set of pajamas, three tee-shirts, two black and one blue, and plenty of socks and underwear. The Wings N' Things didn't sell normal shoes, unfortunately, so he'd have to get by with the horrible sneakers he had from Privet drive. He had also ordered three charmed tee-shirts, and a charmed backpack, all of which he'd have to wait for. He wasn't sure how the backpack was going to work, but the shopkeeper had assured him that it would be as comfortable as backpacks had been before he'd sprouted wings.

Reminded of his new appendages, Harry moved one forward to look it over more closely then he'd dared that morning, noticing for the first time the little hooks on the joints that were usually held above his head. He was a little clumsy with them, and he almost took out his lamp when he folded and unfolded them, but he found that other than that it didn't feel any less natural to move them than it felt to move his arms. Like his teeth and his marks, they were his, part of him. Permanent, a voice whispered in the back of his head, and he quickly went back to arranging his clothing. I need a new trunk, he realized. And new books. And a cauldron. And potions ingredients. And parchment and ink and quills. And- oh my God. His Firebolt. He'd left his Firebolt behind his trunk in his cupboard. Vernon had probably burned it as soon as he got home from leaving Harry at King's Cross. Along with everything else that would remind them of me.

He sat down hard on his window-seat and put his head in his hands. They kicked me out. They actually kicked me out. I can't believe it.

He'd've thought he'd be thrilled to leave Privet Drive. He'd've rather lived almost anywhere else – Hogwarts even if it was completely empty over the summer, the Burrow, the Leaky Cauldron like he'd done his third year. His tiny room here would have been paradise if he'd chosen to leave, but he hadn't. He felt like he had nothing and nobody and, absurdly, he wanted to go home. He remembered what his Uncle had said that morning, 'he's fifteen,' and felt younger than he ever had.

This sucks. Deciding that he couldn't stand being alone anymore, and realizing it was only a half-hour until lunch, Harry gave up on his unpacking and went downstairs.

Harry got to the kitchen without encountering anyone, but found the kitchen itself much more active than it had been before. The woman that had been talking to Madame Harlot before was now at work rolling cubes of raw meat in some sort of spice mix and stirring some sort of sauce on the stove, while a young girl who Harry guessed was her daughter put food and utensils on the table. They were both small and dark, and yet the mother moved around the kitchen with an almost unnatural grace that somehow gave the impression of great strength, carefully controlled.

“Wait a mo'ent sir!” The older woman called. “Lunch'll be ready in a minute or so!”

“Yes, Ma'am, Harry said, knowing from experience that too many people in a kitchen could be annoying. “Anything I can do to help, Ma'am?”

“Y'any good at cooking?”

“Decent, yeah, if it's just simple stuff.”

“Feel like chopping so' vegetables for me? I' running a bit behin'”

“Sure,” Harry said, glad to find something to do, “where do you want me?”

Five minutes later Harry was chopping some sort of strange root vegetable that he didn't recognize, left largely alone by the busy cook and her daughter. This is a strange kitchen, Harry realized, looking around. There were three ovens, but Harry could smell the bread baking in them, rather than any sort of meat. The majority of the kitchen seemed to be taken up by chopping surfaces, sinks, and a walk-in refrigerator. I guess they don't make a lot of hot food. Soon after Harry started with his job, the daughter moved up next to him, chopping yet more vegetables, while the cook moved on from the cubes of meat (apparently leaving them raw, for now), to the bread, removing it from the oven and setting it to rest on one of the less-convenient counter tops. When he was done with the vegetables he was chopping, he turned to the daughter, who pointed him to a big bowl of salad. When he'd thrown the vegetables in, the cook handed him a sack of apples to wash and slice. Lulled by the familiar, menial tasks, Harry barely noticed the half hour had passed until the cook told him to wash his hands and sit down.

As he did so, he realized what else he had not noticed while he was chopping and slicing – the table had slowly filled up with other people, including Madame Harlot and the gruff old man from the bar. They all looked up at Harry with a measure of curiosity, and he spared a moment to make sure his scar was covered before looking around a bit more. There was a tall, thin, blond man that reminded Harry strongly of Lucius Malfoy, and Harry found he had to restrain a growl. As it was, his upper lip lifted just a tad from his canines, and the man returned his sneer. Relax, it's not even him. What's your problem? And stop growling!

But something about the man got Harry's hackles up, and apparently whoever it was felt the same way about him.

“Don't you two start,” the cook warned immediately. “You're allow' to dislike each other, but you cause trouble and I've no qualms about throwing y' out. We make more money off the booze anyway. Kahrn you at least know the rules.”

“I apologize, Missus Bighana,” the man answered politely, then turned to Harry and spoke emotionlessly. “I am Kahrn. Nice to meet you.”

“Harry,” Harry said shortly, unable to contain the slight twist in his upper lip that exposed his right canine. Why do I hate this guy so much? Weird. It wasn't hate exactly, though. More like...a profound distrust.

Trying to avoid further trouble, Harry ignored the man and looked around the table at the other inn residents. The cook and his daughter had joined them at the table while Harry and the blond stranger had exchanged glares, and they each gave Harry a smile. Besides them, the table held a goblin, a strangely gaunt old woman, and a pair of honest-to-God fairies. Harry knew from his Care of Magical Creatures class that fairies came in many sizes and forms, but he had never met any. These two were tiny – only five inches tall – and had clear dragonfly wings instead of the colorful butterfly wings he might have expected. They stared at him, and whispered, but he didn't mind too much – it conveniently excused him staring at them.

“Hi, I'm Harry,” he finally said.

“Hi!” the female said cheerily. “I'm Bur!”

“I'm Pin,” said the male, slightly more calmly though his voice was as high-pitched as hers, “what brings you here?”

Harry looked down, “my...changes,” he said hesitantly, gesturing with a hand down his body, “...were less than welcome at home. I came here 'cause I figured I'd be less likely to scare people.” When his answer brought an awkward silence to the table, he continued, “how about you?”

“Oooo we came to see all the different people and places and things!” answered Bur, “There's so much going on here!”

“It is an interesting place,” Harry agreed. Maybe too interesting, he reflected, looking around the table. Looking at the food, he realized that the cubed meat had been put directly on the table with a serving spoon, along with a variety of raw and cooked vegetables, the bread, and various things that Harry couldn't identify. He grabbed a chunk of bread and some cooked vegetables and tucked in gratefully, only then realizing how just how unpleasant Petunia's food had started to taste. Will Hogwarts food taste weird, too? This stuff is good! He gave the bowl of meat a speculative glance but quickly decided to ignore it. It's raw, dumbass. Leave it alone.

“Why're you here, Kahrn?” Pin wanted to know.

“Business,” he said shortly.

“With me,” put in the goblin before the curious fairies could ask.

“Do you live here?” Harry asked curiously.

“Temporarily,” answered the goblin.

“How about you, Elke?” The cook asked the old woman.

“I am on vacation from Germany,” the old woman answered with a slight accent, “I wished to see London.”

“Like it?” Asked the old man abruptly, startling Harry.

“Yes I do,” said Elke, “the Alley is very interesting, and the shopping is very nice. Do you live in London?”

“I do,” said the old man, “and it is not nearly as nice to live in as to visit, I assure you.”

“Yes that is but always true,” answered Elke with a smile.

“I suppose,” conceded the old man gruffly.

A short silence fell, then Pin spoke up again, “so, Harry was it? You mentioned your 'changes.' Are you a switch?”

“Yeah, that's my name...um...'switch?'” Harry asked, confused.

“You were born looking human?” clarified Madame Harlot.

“Uhh....yeah. I really don't know what happened, actually. Things just got...strange...this summer.”

“I hope to tell!” exclaimed Bur, “You really didn't always look like this?”

“I didn't look like this yesterday,” Harry said.

“Woah,” breathed Pin, “what must that be like?!”

“Horrible,” Harry said bluntly, not wanting to talk about it any more.

“That is difficult,” commiserated Elke, “I have always been glad that I have always looked the same as now. I am a witch, I guess you say in English, but not like a woman wizard. Most wizards cannot tell I am human or not enough to care, but I am...different. They would not like it, if they knew, I think.”

“Why not?” Asked Pin, sounding fascinated.

“My magic is not so clean as theirs. It is...bloody, smelly. I do not harm humans, but they would not like it, anyway.”

“You do blood magic?” Harry asked, morbidly interested, “you kill things?”

“Yes,” answered the witch, “but I think you would do also if you could not do magic with your magic stick.”

“I was just curious,” Harry excused himself, “I didn't mean anything by it.”

“It is no problem,” answered Elke, “you are new to this world. Do you know what you are?”

“No,” Harry said, frustrated. How could he not even know his own species?

“You are like us,” said Pim excitedly, “you are fae!”

“Fae? Like you? But I'm huge!”

“Fae's not a species,” said Madame Harlot, “more like a category. It's easier to say what you are not than what you are.”

“Not elf, or were, or vampire, or demonkind, or centauri, or sea people,” said Pin, “we are fae.”

“You are like us!” said Bur, “you are like brownies, and goblins, and gnomes.”

“But more like us Little Folk,” added Pin, “we are Winged Fae.”

That helps some, I guess, Harry thought, but what am I? I'm not a fairy. Fairies don't get this big! “But what am I?” asked Harry desperately, “are there others like me?”

“Yes,” said Bur definitively.

“But we don't know much about them,” said Pin, “we haven't spent much time with Big Folk before this.”

“Oh,” said Harry, disappointed, “so what're you then?”

“Little Folk,” said Pin, “humans call us fairies.”

That's why Madame Harlot said my room's not usually used for Big Folk, I guess. Suddenly Harry realized something. “Do you mind being called fairies?”

“Not really,” said Bur, “it's just not what we call ourselves.”

“Usually in this worl', we call things what they call the'selves,” said Bighana, “and it is generally more polite to do so.”

“Okay,” said Harry. Better to fit in here then nowhere, “Little Folk, then.”

After lunch, Harry returned to his room to finish putting his clothing away, but was promptly interrupted by a tapping at the window.

“Hedwig!” he said happily as he let the owl in, “you found me!”

The owl chirred happily at him while he took the letter from her. The envelope was of old, slightly yellowed parchment, and fat with its contents. He turned it over to see where it had come from and gasped. Written on the front of the envelope in place of the address was:

My dearest son Harry,

on your Fifteenth Birthday,

wherever your life may have led you.

Careful to not rip the face of the envelope, Harry ripped the letter open and pulled out the contents – a letter, two full potions vials, and a lock of auburn hair. It can't be. Taking a breath, Harry set the potions vials and the hair carefully aside, sat on his window seat, and opened the letter.

Harry,

Happy Birthday. It is nearly impossible to even imagine you fifteen years old, let alone imagine you turning fifteen without me, but I fear that that is likely, and I needed you to know that James and I loved you completely, despite everything else that went on. You are our treasure, the most important thing in our lives.

I don't even know how to start explaining this to you; surely you will hate me.

Harry shook his head. Nothing could make me hate you, mum. He went back to reading.

You should be noticing some changes in your body, lately. Do not be alarmed by them – they are not harmful, and they do not mean that you are any less James' son, they just- oh I am going about this all wrong already.

Harry, my child, I made a mistake. An awful, stupid, thoughtless mistake. I could tell you it was because I was stressed, because I missed James, because I feared for my friend, but I cannot expect you to appreciate what my life was like then. I am still overwhelmed that James has forgiven me so completely, and I only pray that you can, too.

It was October 1978. James was on a mission for- Hmm. I'm sorry, but I don't know if I should tell you about that. Ask Dumbledore if you wish to know more. I don't know what your world looks like enough to judge whether it is safe to say. But James was on a mission against the Death Eaters, and I was at home, alone. Like I said, I missed him, so one night – I believe it was the 27th – I went out to a pub. I met an old friend there, one who I had not seen since we had left Hogwarts. He was a good man, I think, but he made some terrible decisions. I am not in a good position to judge, I suppose. Long story short, we stayed a long time, and drank too much. It was cold, and his apartment was closer, which gave me the needed excuse to stay the night. When I left the next morning, though I did not know it immediately, I was pregnant with you.

The letter dropped from Harry's fingers as he shook his head frantically. No. No, no, no, no, no. Damnit you can't DO this to me! It's not enough that I'm some freak you have to land this on me?

Harry sat back and closed his eyes, feeling tears form behind and around the lids. James Potter is not my father. He died for me, but he wasn't my father. He couldn't process it, couldn't even believe it. Everyone says I'm just like him, hates or loves me just for that, and it's not even true. Damnit, Mom, how could you do that? He was off fighting Voldemort so you screwed some asshole you hadn't even seen since Hogwarts? Some- some jerkoff you met in a bar? And this is my father? Did Dad even know, or did he die thinking it was his son he was saving? I look just like him, everybody says so. How could I look like him if he wasn't my father? She's got to be wrong. Please let her be wrong. Shaking his head, Harry returned to the letter.

I felt awful the next morning, and I told James immediately after he got home. He was...amazing. Upset, of course. Hurt, angry, he left to live with Sirius (Sirius Black, a good friend of your Dad's) for a week. But when he came back, he was back, completely. By then I knew I was pregnant, and he assured me that he would raise you as his own, as if nothing had happened, with one condition: he did not want others to know. We cast a series of spells to hide your appearance, to make you look like James, but we always knew they would only last a certain time. You must understand, James never cared what you looked like, he just knew others would. He didn't want the questions...and he didn't want your father to come back and reclaim his son. It was unfair to him, but I concealed your true parentage from my friend. I wanted life to go back to normal; I wanted to raise you with James, and he wanted the same. I felt it was the least I owed him after what I had done. I cannot regret it, now. My family survived my idiocy. Neither James nor I wants to reopen old wounds. We both agreed, however, that you should know, once you were old enough to understand, at least a little. Even I do not understand completely how I could do that to James. Fifteen seemed like a good age for it, especially since the spells would be wearing off by then.

Abruptly Harry realized that he was getting angry. No. I don't understand, and you shouldn't either. He was fighting the Dark Lord, for God's sake! Then he realized what else he'd just read, and read it again. They put a spell on me. I – I'm not real. I don't really look like this. That's why my face is changing. It's not the same as all the other crap. It's the spells. I'm going to look like this other git. But if that was what she was talking about, what about the rest of it? Surely she would mention that he wasn't human? If she knew. Maybe she didn't know. That was a scary thought. Who was this 'old friend' who had given Harry such strange traits? It could just be a disease, like I thought at first, he considered, but he knew he was deluding himself. He didn't feel sick, he felt healthy, and even whole. He looked like what he was supposed to. Except for my face. That's a lie. He went back to reading.

You may notice I do not use your father's name. I know he is a good man, but he avoids me like I carry a plague. He is not well liked by our current crowd, for a variety of reasons, and is not a happy man. I believe he can't stand to see the family I have built. The point is, I don't know where his life has led him, or will have led him in 14 years' time. Perhaps putting his name in a letter would be dangerous to him. I cannot know, and so I must not say. I do want you to know your father, however. Whatever he was before, he is a good man now.

Except that he screws around with peoples' wives.

There are two potions enclosed in this letter. The brown is a paternity potion. It is complete, and should be unaffected by time. Simply put a bit of your hair into the potion and it will tell you who your father is. The blue is designed to break the spells that we cast to affect your appearance. If you wish, you can choose to change all at once. I will warn you, however – the spells we cast only changed those features affected by your father's genetics, not mine. The fact that you looked so very much like James afterward, even as a tiny child, indicates that you will probably look very much like your father when the change is complete. It could be a shock, both for you and for your friends.

Like it could really scare me more than the wings and the horns. That wasn't right, Harry knew: in reality the changes to his face were already bothering him, but he couldn't imagine more changes mattering all that much at this point. My life is a train wreck already, might as well screw it up further. Thanks, Mom.

I am sorry, my son, my child. Nothing was meant to happen the way it did and the way it is. It seems more likely every day that I will not be there to see you grow, and to help you through this. Please do not blame your father, if he lives and you find him again. He knew none of this, and though he and James never got on, I am sure he did not intend to interfere with my marriage. He was a very lonely and troubled child. He is possibly an even more lonely and troubled man. Please forgive him, even if you cannot forgive me. I know it is a lot to ask, but please approach him with an open mind and an open heart. He is...not the most easily approachable human being, but he has every reason to be the way he is, and he would certainly never harm you.

Anyway, I cannot fix this. I screwed up. Please forgive me. I really don't know what to say, other than that. I love you. James loves you. He does not care that you are not of his blood. It pains me to think that this letter may be all that you have of me, but what more to say? You're a year old, to me. You're in the highchair beside me throwing peas. To you...well maybe you will remember me, and maybe you won't. If you got this letter, I am dead. Who knows for how long already. What can I say other than that I love you? Please do seek out your father. He is a good man, and I think you could be good for him. Your loving mother, Lily Evans Potter

Harry stared at the letter in his hands, once again feeling his eyes burn as he tried to process everything he had learned. His father was not his father. All he'd had of his parents had been a book of photographs, some people's remembrances, and his own idealistic idea of who they had been. Now everything but the photos was a lie, and the photos didn't even show his actual father, but rather the man who had been betrayed by his mother and died for him anyway. No. James is my father. The 'old friend' is just some jerkoff who screwed around with a married woman. My father is the man who threw himself in front of the Dark Lord to try to save me. He contemplated the paternity potion for a moment before walking to the bathroom and pouring it down the sink. There. Bye bye, 'father', whoever you are. I'll stand by my real Dad, dead or no.

Getting rid of the paternity potion just after reading his mother's plea made him feel slightly guilty, but he pushed it away. She had betrayed his Dad. He wouldn't do the same. He firmly focused his attention back on the other potion. Did he want to just get it over with, or let the spells dissolve gradually the way they seemed to be doing? His one comfort with all the strange changes to his body had been that he still felt like himself, like his body was real. Until now, when he found out that it wasn't, not yet.

What if I'm unrecognizable? What if Ron and Hermione don't even know who I am? I won't look like James anymore! That stopped him. I'm not going to look like James anymore. Ever. It doesn't matter whether I take the potion or not, I am not his son. At that point, it was more a matter of now, or slowly over the next – he could only guess. Six months? If it goes slow, people will notice less. Ron and Hermione will at least recognize me in September. They'd be more likely to discover the...other stuff...though, if they were trying to figure out what was going on with his face. He'd have to tell them if he wanted them to remain ignorant of the rest. Might as well get that over at the beginning of the year, really.

And he was getting very tired of his body changing every time he looked at it. At least if he took the potion he'd know what he was dealing with and be able to get used to it by September. Is that my decision? I'm gonna die anyway so might as well get it over with? He reflected on his numerous encounters with Voldemort and smiled bitterly. I seemed to have picked up a slightly fatalistic attitude, lately. But then, in the triwizard tournament, it had always been the unknown that bothered him. He'd freaked out about the dragons, but he'd handled it once he was forced to. The second task hadn't bothered him once he was in the water and the gillyweed started working. The maze – ended badly. But the point still held: he did best dealing with things directly. His only other option was to wait and see what happened, and he hated that. That's it, then. I'll take the potion and damn the consequences.

That thought in mind, Harry carried the vial back to his bathroom with him. My decision's made. No more thinking. Uncorking the vial, he tossed back the contents with a grimace. It wasn't the worst tasting potion he'd ever taken, but it wasn't great. Sort of like the Elmer's glue he'd eaten once as a child.

Staring into the mirror, Harry waited. For a second, it seemed like nothing was happening, but then Harry noticed that his jaw was sharper than it had been. And then his cheeks thinned out a bit. And the new bump in his nose became more pronounced. His brows deepened, just a little, and his eyes looked...more intense, somehow. And then, long before Harry expected them to, the changes stopped. That's it? Harry wondered, at the same time as he curiously studied his new reflexion. His hair was still black, his nose and chin still small, his smile the same as it had been. He still looked like him. Apparently his biological father hadn't looked that different from James, or his traits hadn't been as strong as his mother had thought. Suddenly he grinned. I still look like me! All that and Mum was wrong! I still look like me! He looked different, for certain – a little more intense, a bit more mature, and overall just – different. Hermione and Ron would certainly notice, as would many others, but they would recognize him. At least once they look past the hair, he realized. The last time he looked in the mirror it was down to his upper back, and the growth hadn't slowed. I'd look more like me if I cut it. But he wouldn't, he knew. He liked it long, and it still didn't feel quite right, quite finished. He didn't know how long it wanted to be, but he'd let it grow for now.

Looking at himself in the mirror, Harry once again studied his whole body, surveying the changes, and, this time, breathed a sigh of relief. It's over. It still didn't look normal; he still felt a shock every time he looked in the mirror, but that was the thing. It was a shock that he looked so weird because he felt normal. Strong, a tad clumsy, but normal. As long as he didn't look at them, the changes didn't frighten him. Once again, he pulled a wing around his body to study it, once again noticing how sensitive the edges were to touch, but this time also noticing how soft the fur was to his fingertips, and how tough the leather underneath it. It wasn't sensitive at all, hardly, once you got past the edge. Perhaps he was just tired, but they didn't frighten him as much as they had that morning. They were his wings, and while part of him was still like, “shit I have wings!”, another accepted that as perfectly normal. Of course he had wings, he was supposed to have wings. What else would he look like? And this after only one day with them. Weird. But then the whole day had been weird. Compared to everything else going on, even the changes to his face couldn't really alarm him. He was just too exhausted. Sleep. Sleep would definitely be good. This isn't going to feel real until I give my brain time to figure stuff out. James isn't my father. Shit.

And so, though it was only two o'clock in the afternoon, Harry stretched out on top of the covers on his bed, curled his wings around him, and fell asleep.

He woke up two hours later to the sound of tapping on the window. His immediately saw Hedwig perched on his headboard and groaned. Not a dream, then. It had been a vain hope, anyway – the changes had started early in the summer, after all, and the events of that morning had only followed on that - but Harry allowed himself a moment of disappointment before hauling himself up to let the owls in through the window. Please let this be something normal. Please.

Both owls carried almost identical brightly-wrapped packages, each with a note. It's my birthday, Harry realized finally, I forgot. He hadn't even remembered to stay up to watch his watch turn over, he'd been so distracted by everything else going on. The letter from his mother had even mentioned his birthday, and he'd still not noticed. He smiled a little as he took the packages from the owls. Happy Birthday, me. He couldn't remember a worse one since he'd found out he was a wizard. And maybe even before then. This is really impressively bad.

Nevertheless he opened the packages and notes from Ron and Hermione, feeling a bit better. He was still somewhat peeved at his friends for not giving him any information, but that felt almost insignificant now, and anything normal was more than welcome at the moment. Both friends had sent him boxes of chocolate in various flavors from Honeydukes, and wished him a Happy Birthday. He quickly penned notes thanking them, and opened the chocolate, praying that it would still taste good. It did. In fact, some of the weird ones that he hadn't liked before tasted amazing now. He'd never appreciated the true magnificence that were maraschino cherries before that moment. Even the strange purple jelly ones tasted good, and improved his mood considerably. When all else fails, there's always chocolate, Harry decided, eating another one. Thank you Ron and Hermione. I'm some sort of weird fae thing, and a bastard, and I don't look the same anymore, but I have chocolate.