Harry Potter had known misery for as long as he could remember. His earliest memories were filled with the cold, cramped space of the cupboard under the stairs, which had served as his bedroom for most of his young life. The Dursleys, his only living relatives, made sure that Harry understood his place in the world—a place of darkness, neglect, and relentless toil.

The Dursleys consisted of Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and their son Dudley. Vernon Dursley was a large, blustery man with a booming voice that could shake the walls of Number Four, Privet Drive. His mustache twitched with every angry word, which was often aimed at Harry. Aunt Petunia was a thin, horse-faced woman with a perpetual look of disdain whenever her eyes fell on Harry. She was obsessed with cleanliness, though her house was spotless, and her greatest joy seemed to come from finding new ways to punish Harry for imaginary crimes. Dudley, their only child, was a spoiled, overweight boy who had inherited the worst traits of both his parents—his father's temper and his mother's spitefulness. He was Harry's age, but where Dudley was treated like royalty, Harry was treated worse than a slave.

For Harry, every day was a cycle of relentless chores and cruel neglect. His days began before sunrise, when he would be rudely awakened by Aunt Petunia banging on the cupboard door.

"Up! Get up, boy! Breakfast won't cook itself!"

she would screech, her voice cutting through the thin walls. Harry would scramble out of his cupboard, his small frame stiff and sore from another night on the lumpy mattress that served as his bed.

He was forced to prepare breakfast for the Dursleys, and woe betide him if the bacon was too crisp or the eggs too runny. While Dudley stuffed his face with sausages and toast, Harry would be lucky to get a slice of bread, stale and dry, with a smear of butter if he was fortunate. Once the dishes were cleared, Aunt Petunia would thrust a list of chores into his hands—mow the lawn, weed the garden, clean the windows, scrub the floors. There was always something for Harry to do, and never any respite.

"Don't dawdle, boy!"

Uncle Vernon would bark as Harry hauled the heavy lawnmower across the grass, sweat dripping from his brow under the scorching sun.

"I want that garden looking immaculate when I get home, or there'll be no supper for you!"

Dudley, meanwhile, lounged in the shade with his friends, laughing and jeering as Harry toiled away.

"Look at the scrawny runt!"

they'd mock, hurling insults and occasionally small stones at him for sport. Harry learned quickly not to react, not to let the tears rise to his eyes, for that only encouraged them. Instead, he gritted his teeth and pushed through, knowing that any sign of defiance would result in harsher punishment from his uncle.

Inside the house, Aunt Petunia would find any excuse to criticize him.

"You missed a spot, boy,"

she'd say as he scrubbed the kitchen floor on his hands and knees. If a speck of dust was found on the windowsill, Harry would be made to clean the entire house again. She took pleasure in pointing out his flaws, her voice dripping with disdain as she compared him unfavorably to her beloved Dudley.

"Why can't you be more like Dudley? He's a normal boy, not a freak like you."

The word "freak" was a common one in the Dursley household. It was how they referred to Harry, a label they had slapped on him as soon as he was old enough to understand. To them, Harry was not just a burden; he was something unnatural, something to be feared and loathed. They never spoke of his parents, never told him the truth about how they had died. All Harry knew was that they had perished in a car crash—another lie the Dursleys had concocted to keep him in the dark.

The absence of love in Harry's life was as constant as the chores and the insults. While Dudley received mountains of presents on his birthdays and Christmas, Harry would be lucky to get a pair of his cousin's old socks. When he was ill, he was left to suffer in the cupboard, his fevered dreams filled with cold, unfeeling faces. No one ever comforted him, no one ever hugged him or told him things would be alright.

Yet, despite the Dursleys' best efforts to break his spirit, Harry endured. He grew up knowing that he was different, though he didn't fully understand how. Strange things happened around him—things he couldn't explain. Once, when Aunt Petunia had ordered him to weed the garden, the plants had inexplicably begun to grow back almost as soon as he pulled them out. Another time, when Dudley had chased him up a tree, Harry had somehow found himself on the roof of the school building, though he had no memory of climbing up. The Dursleys, of course, punished him severely for these incidents, locking him in the cupboard for days on end with no food.

But Harry didn't feel guilty or ashamed for these strange occurrences; instead, he felt a small flicker of hope. There was something more to him, something that set him apart from the Dursleys. He didn't know what it was, but he clung to it like a lifeline, knowing that it was his only escape from the misery of Privet Drive.

At night, when the Dursleys were asleep, Harry would lie awake in his cupboard, staring at the tiny crack of light that seeped through the door. He dreamed of a different life, one where he was free from the Dursleys' cruelty, where he could explore the world without fear. And in those dreams, he often saw the castle on the hill, looming in the distance, calling out to him. It was a place of mystery and wonder, a place that felt like it was waiting for him. But for now, it remained just that—a dream.

Harry Potter's life at school was hardly any better than his life at Number Four, Privet Drive. While the Dursleys were determined to make his home life a misery, they had also ensured that his school days were filled with loneliness and isolation. From the moment he first set foot in primary school, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had spun a web of lies about Harry, painting him as a troublemaker, a boy with a wicked streak who was best avoided. The Dursleys never missed an opportunity to spread rumors about him, ensuring that even the teachers were wary of him.

"That boy is nothing but trouble,"

Uncle Vernon would say loudly in the schoolyard when he dropped Dudley off, making sure others overheard.

"You'd best keep an eye on him, or he'll cause all sorts of problems."

Aunt Petunia, with her tight-lipped smile, would nod in agreement.

"He's a strange one, that Harry,"

she'd whisper to the other parents, her voice dripping with false concern.

"You never know what he might do."

It wasn't long before these rumors took root, and Harry found himself branded as the naughty boy, the one no one wanted to befriend. The truth, however, was that Harry was anything but naughty. He was quiet, shy, and kept to himself, too afraid to draw attention to the strange things that sometimes happened around him. But the damage was done. No one wanted to associate with the boy who, according to the Dursleys, was prone to outbursts and odd behavior.

What made it worse was Dudley and his gang. Dudley had inherited his father's bulk and his mother's spitefulness, and he had a gang of boys who followed him around like he was some sort of king. Piers Polkiss, a scrawny boy with a face like a rat, was Dudley's closest crony, and the two of them led the gang in terrorizing the younger students. For Dudley, making Harry's life at school as miserable as possible was his favorite pastime.

Anyone who tried to befriend Harry soon found themselves on the receiving end of Dudley's fists. The first few weeks of school, a girl named Emily had offered to share her crayons with Harry during art class. The next day, she came to school with a black eye, and after that, she wouldn't even look at Harry. A boy named Mark had once shared his lunch with Harry, but Dudley and Piers caught him after school and shoved him into a muddy ditch. From then on, Mark avoided Harry like the plague.

Harry quickly learned that no one would stick around if Dudley had anything to say about it. And Dudley always had something to say. "Potter's a freak,"

he'd declare loudly in the playground, making sure everyone heard. "Anyone who talks to him is a freak too."

The teachers were no help either. They had all been taken in by Aunt Petunia's tales of Harry's supposed misbehavior. Whenever Harry outperformed Dudley in a test or assignment, which happened often, he was met with a cold glare from the teacher and a note sent home to Aunt Petunia. "Show-off," Dudley would hiss in class, his piggy eyes narrowing at Harry. The teachers never punished Dudley for his poor marks, but Harry's good grades were somehow always a problem.

At home, Aunt Petunia would punish Harry for making Dudley look bad, a crime worse than any other in the Dursley household.

"How dare you make Dudley feel inadequate,"

she'd say, her voice sharp and cutting.

"You're lucky we even let you attend that school."

It didn't take long for Harry to realize that he couldn't win. If he did well in school, he was punished. If he didn't do well, he was ridiculed for being stupid. So, Harry began deliberately lowering his marks, making sure that Dudley always outshined him, at least on paper. But even that was no easy task—Dudley barely passed any of his exams, and failing on purpose took more effort than Harry liked to admit.

The isolation, the bullying, and the constant fear of punishment weighed heavily on Harry, but he never let it show. He kept his head down, avoided Dudley's gang as much as possible, and tried to remain invisible. But there was one thing that gave him a small measure of comfort, something that made the daily trek to school and back a little less dreadful—the castle on the hill.

Every day, Harry walked the same route to school, and every day, his eyes would drift up to the top of the hill where the ancient castle stood. It was an imposing structure, with crumbling walls and a tower that seemed to reach for the heavens. The castle looked as if it had been abandoned for centuries, yet it stood tall and defiant against the passage of time.

From the first moment he had seen it, Harry had been fascinated by the castle. There was something about it that called to him, something that made him feel connected to it in a way he couldn't explain. The castle was like a beacon in his otherwise bleak existence, a place that seemed to promise adventure, mystery, and perhaps even escape.

But as far as Harry could tell, no one else seemed to notice the castle. When he had tried to point it out to his classmates, they had looked at him as if he were crazy.

"What castle?"

they'd say, squinting at the hill.

"There's nothing there, Harry."

At first, Harry thought they were just teasing him, but when even the teachers seemed oblivious to its presence, he began to wonder if it was something only he could see. It was a lonely thought, but it also made the castle feel special, like it was his secret alone.

Every day, as he trudged to school, Harry would look up at the castle, its silhouette stark against the morning sky. And every day, on his way home, he would glance back at it, the setting sun casting long shadows over its ancient stones. The castle never changed, never moved, but it was always there, a constant in a world that seemed determined to push Harry down.

The castle on the hill became Harry's refuge, even if only in his mind. It was a place he could retreat to when the loneliness became too much, a place where he imagined he might one day find answers to the questions that haunted him. Who had built it? Why was it abandoned? And why could only he see it?

These thoughts occupied Harry's mind as he sat through dull lessons, ignored by his classmates and tormented by Dudley's gang. The more he thought about the castle, the more determined he became to explore it. One day, he promised himself, he would find a way up that hill, and he would uncover the secrets of the Hilltop Fortress.

But for now, he had to endure another day of school, another day of pretending that the castle didn't matter, that it wasn't the most important thing in his life. Because if there was one thing Harry had learned, it was that the Dursleys could take everything from him—his happiness, his freedom, even his name—but they couldn't take away his dreams. And the castle on the hill was the greatest dream of all.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, Harry Potter's fascination with the Hilltop Fortress only grew stronger. The ancient castle seemed to call to him, its crumbling walls and lonely tower a constant presence in his thoughts. Every time he looked up at the hill, he could feel the castle's pull, as if it were urging him to uncover its secrets.

But as much as Harry wanted to explore the castle, there was one problem—he knew almost nothing about it. He had no idea who had built it, how long it had stood there, or why it was abandoned. The mystery of the Hilltop Fortress consumed him, and he found himself thinking about it during his lessons, during the long, lonely hours spent in his cupboard, and even in his dreams.

Determined to learn more, Harry began to ask questions. It started innocently enough. One day, during a history lesson, Harry raised his hand and asked Mrs. Kibble, the teacher, if she knew anything about the old castle on the hill.

"Castle?"

Mrs. Kibble repeated, frowning.

"What castle?"

"The one on the hill, just past the school,"

Harry explained, feeling a flutter of excitement. Perhaps Mrs. Kibble knew something, anything, that could explain why he was the only one who could see it.

But Mrs. Kibble just shook her head.

"There's no castle on the hill, Harry,"

she said dismissively.

"Now, let's get back to the lesson, shall we?"

Harry's heart sank, but he wasn't ready to give up. Maybe Mrs. Kibble just wasn't paying attention. Maybe the other teachers knew more. So, over the next few days, he asked them all—Mr. Hawthorne, the geography teacher; Miss Jenkins, the art teacher; even Mrs. Wainwright, the school librarian.

Each time, the answer was the same.

"What castle?"

Some of the teachers looked at him with confusion, others with mild irritation, as if he were wasting their time. But none of them had any idea what he was talking about. And when he tried to describe the castle to them—the tall tower, the crumbling walls, the sense of age and mystery—they would just shake their heads and change the subject.

Harry couldn't understand it. The castle was there, he saw it every day, yet no one else seemed to notice it. How could they be so blind? Frustration and confusion gnawed at him, but he refused to let go of the mystery. He started asking his classmates, thinking that maybe one of them had seen it, too.

"Have you ever noticed that old castle on the hill?"

he asked Emily, the girl who had once shared her crayons with him, before Dudley and his gang scared her blinked at him. "Castle? What castle?"

Harry tried again with Mark, the boy who had shared his lunch with him that one time. "There's no castle, Harry,"

Mark said, frowning.

"Are you sure you're not just imagining it?"

But Harry knew he wasn't imagining it. The castle was as real as anything else, as real as the school, as real as Privet Drive. And yet, no one else could see it. He asked a few more students, but they all gave him the same puzzled looks, the same dismissive answers.

Soon, word began to spread.

"Harry Potter thinks he's seeing castles,"

Dudley would say, laughing with his gang.

"I told you he was a freak."

The other students began to avoid him even more than they already did, casting him wary glances as if he might suddenly start seeing dragons or talking to imaginary friends. Some of them even started calling him "Loony Potter," a nickname that Dudley was all too happy to encourage.

"Hey, Loony Potter,"

Piers Polkiss would jeer as Harry passed by. "Seen any more castles today?"

Harry quickly realized that asking about the Hilltop Fortress was doing more harm than good. Every time he mentioned it, the whispers grew louder, the snickers more frequent. Even the teachers seemed to grow more distant, their patience with him wearing thin.

"You're not to waste your time with foolish questions, Harry,"

Mrs. Kibble scolded him one afternoon. "Focus on your studies."

But how could he focus on his studies when the castle loomed so large in his mind? It was the only thing that made his otherwise miserable existence bearable, the only thing that gave him a sense of hope and curiosity. The castle was real; he knew it. But it was clear that no one else would help him find the answers he sought.

One day, after yet another round of jeers from Dudley and his gang, Harry made a decision. He would stop asking about the castle. It wasn't worth the trouble. People already thought he was strange enough, and he didn't need to give them more reasons to avoid him. The castle would remain his secret, something he would keep to himself.

But that didn't mean he would give up. If no one else could see the castle, if no one else knew anything about it, then he would have to find the answers on his own. He would explore the castle himself, uncover its secrets, and learn its history. And maybe, just maybe, he would finally understand why he was the only one who could see it.

Harry kept his promise to himself. He stopped asking questions, stopped trying to point out the castle to others. When Dudley and his gang teased him, he ignored them. When the teachers gave him disapproving looks, he focused on his work. But every day, as he walked to school and back, he would glance up at the Hilltop Fortress, his mind racing with possibilities.

The sun was beginning its descent, casting long shadows across the narrow streets of Little Whinging as Harry Potter made his way home from school. The day had been as miserable as any other—mocked by his classmates, ignored by the teachers, and now, on the brink of what he knew was coming. His stomach twisted in knots as he reached the corner where Privet Drive met Magnolia Road. It was the place where Dudley and his gang often lay in wait, eager to play their favorite game: Harry Hunting.

Dudley Dursley, Harry's bloated, pig-faced cousin, was never satisfied with the torment he inflicted within the walls of Number Four, Privet Drive. No, Dudley's cruelty knew no bounds, and he took every opportunity to extend it beyond their home. He had recruited a gang of equally nasty boys—Piers Polkiss, a skinny, rat-faced boy with sharp eyes; Dennis, a brutish kid with a mean streak; Malcolm, whose sneering smile sent shivers down Harry's spine; and Gordon, a slow-witted but strong boy who followed Dudley's orders without question. Together, they were a pack of wolves, and Harry was their favorite prey.

Harry kept his head down, hoping against hope that today might be different, that maybe Dudley's gang had found something else to occupy their time. But he knew better. As he rounded the corner, he heard the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps pounding behind him, accompanied by the cruel laughter of Dudley and his gang.

"There he is!"

Dudley shouted, his voice dripping with malicious glee.

"Get him!"

Harry's heart raced as adrenaline flooded his system. Without a second thought, he broke into a sprint, his feet pounding against the pavement as he darted down the street. He could hear the gang's shouts and footsteps growing closer, the thrill of the chase spurring them on. Harry had no choice—he had to run, and he had to run fast.

The game was always the same: they would chase him, corner him, and then the beating would begin. Harry knew the routine by heart, and he also knew that today, like every other day, they wouldn't stop until they caught him. His legs pumped furiously, and he turned down a side street, hoping to lose them in the narrow alleys of the neighborhood. But Dudley and his gang were relentless, their heavier footsteps echoing off the brick walls as they pursued him with single-minded determination.

"Come on, Potter, you can't run forever!"

Piers taunted, his voice shrill with excitement.

Harry's breath came in ragged gasps as he pushed himself harder, his mind racing for a way out. He could try to make it to the park, where he might be able to lose them among the trees, but it was too far, and they were too close. He could feel his legs starting to tire, his lungs burning with the effort. He had to think of something—anything—that would save him from the inevitable beating.

As he rounded another corner, Harry caught sight of something in the distance: the crumbling wall that separated the road from the land that belonged to the Hilltop Fortress. The ancient wall was low and damaged, with large portions missing or reduced to rubble. Harry had passed by it countless times before, but now, in his desperation, it offered a glimmer of hope.

With the gang hot on his heels, Harry made a split-second decision. He veered off the road and headed straight for the wall. His heart pounded in his chest as he closed the distance, praying that this would work. Just as he reached the wall, he saw a large portion that had crumbled away, creating an opening just big enough for him to slip through.

Without hesitation, Harry leaped over the small wall, his feet landing on the soft earth on the other side. He stumbled but quickly regained his balance, turning to look back at the road. To his astonishment, Dudley and his gang had stopped dead in their tracks, their faces twisted in confusion. They were looking directly at him—Harry could see the frustration and bewilderment in their eyes—but it was as if they couldn't actually see him.

"What's going on?"

Dennis muttered, scratching his head.

"Where'd he go?"

Harry felt a surge of triumph and curiosity. He was standing right in front of them, just a few feet away, but they were acting as if he had vanished into thin air. He waved his hand in front of his face, testing his theory. Sure enough, Dudley and the others didn't react—they couldn't see him. It was as if the moment he crossed the threshold of the ancient wall, he had become invisible to them.

"Maybe he ran off that way," Malcolm suggested, pointing in the opposite shook his head.

"No, I saw him come this way. He's got to be here somewhere."

But no matter how much they squinted or peered into the distance, Harry remained hidden in plain sight. He could hardly believe it—he had escaped. The castle's land had somehow shielded him from Dudley's gang. The feeling of victory was sweet, but there was something else, too—a sense of mystery and excitement. The Hilltop Fortress was more than just an old ruin; it was a place of power, a place that had protected him when no one else would.

Harry couldn't resist testing his new-found invisibility further. He stuck out his tongue at Dudley, pulled faces, and even waved both arms above his head. But Dudley's gang remained oblivious, their frustration growing as they continued to search in vain.

"Come on," Dudley finally growled, his piggy eyes narrowing with anger.

"He's not here. We'll get him next time."

With that, the gang turned and began to trudge back down the road, their laughter replaced by grumbling and muttered threats. Harry watched them go, his heart still pounding from the chase but now with a sense of exhilaration. He had escaped, but more than that, he had discovered something incredible about the castle's land. He couldn't wait to explore it further.

As soon as Dudley and his gang were out of sight, Harry jumped back over the wall, landing back on the road with a thud. He took a deep breath, his mind racing with thoughts of what had just happened. The castle—there was something magical about it, something that set it apart from the rest of the world. And he was the only one who could see it, the only one who could enter its domain.

The idea of exploring the castle had always intrigued Harry, but now it was more than just curiosity—it was a need, a burning desire to uncover the secrets hidden within its ancient walls. He knew that he had to go back, that he had to find out what made the Hilltop Fortress so special. The next Sunday, when the Dursleys were occupied with their usual lazy routine, Harry would return to the castle. This time, he wouldn't just be passing by—he would explore every nook and cranny, every hidden passage and forgotten chamber.

With renewed determination, Harry started the walk home, his mind already planning his next adventure. The fear and humiliation of being chased by Dudley's gang were gone, replaced by a sense of purpose and excitement. The Hilltop Fortress was waiting for him, and this time, he would be ready.