The week following Harry's encounter in the garden passed by in a blur. Time seemed to slow down and speed up all at once. He found himself unable to focus on anything for long, his mind always drifting back to that strange chamber beneath the garden and the power that had surged through him when he touched the stone. He had tried to speak to the voice again, tried to summon it with his thoughts, but it had remained silent. The only reminder of what had happened was the deep, persistent hum in his bones—the feeling that something was waiting just around the corner.
The Dursleys, oblivious as ever, continued to treat him with a mixture of disdain and fear. They hadn't noticed any change in him, though Harry could tell that there was something unsettling about the way they looked at him now. His odd behavior, the strange things that had happened around him before, only served to deepen the unease they felt. They never spoke of it aloud, but the air in the house felt even thicker than usual. Even Dudley seemed to grow more cautious in his teasing, though the fat boy still found ways to torment Harry when no one was around.
It was a Saturday morning when the first letter arrived.
Harry was in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor under Petunia's watchful eye, when the postman knocked on the door. Petunia, as usual, rushed to answer it, eager to avoid any unpleasant interactions. The door opened with an exaggerated squeak, and Harry heard a muffled exchange before his aunt returned, holding an envelope in her hands. Her eyes flicked nervously to Harry, and he could tell something was different, though he couldn't say exactly what.
Petunia's fingers trembled as she held the envelope in front of her. The letter was large, the parchment thick and old-looking, addressed in green ink that seemed to shimmer in the light. It was addressed to:
Mr. H. Potter
The cupboard under the stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Harry felt a strange shiver crawl down his spine as he stared at the letter. For a moment, it didn't make sense. Who could possibly be writing to him? No one had ever written to him before—not even when he was younger, and the Dursleys had never let him contact anyone.
Petunia's eyes darted nervously between the letter and Harry. For a brief second, Harry saw a flicker of something—something like fear, maybe even dread—in her face. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the tight, false smile she always wore when something unpleasant was happening.
She made a half-hearted attempt to shove the letter behind her back, but Harry was already moving. His feet moved on their own, pulling him closer to the kitchen table where the letter lay. He reached for it, but Petunia snatched it away at the last second, clutching it to her chest.
"Don't touch that," she said sharply, her voice trembling. "It's not for you."
Harry's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean? Who's it from?"
Petunia's eyes flickered to the envelope, then quickly away. She turned her back to Harry, her face pale. "It's none of your business."
But Harry wasn't about to let it go. He had never seen his aunt react like this before, and the letter—it felt important, as though the world had shifted somehow, and whatever was contained inside would change everything. The letter practically hummed with a kind of energy Harry couldn't place, but it was familiar, in a way that made his chest ache.
"Please, let me see it," he insisted, his voice lower than he intended but edged with something new—something he hadn't felt before. He wasn't sure what it was, but it felt like the power inside him from the garden had finally found a voice.
For a second, Petunia wavered. She opened her mouth, as though to say something, but then quickly closed it, shaking her head. "No, no… you're not going anywhere near that letter."
Before Harry could protest again, a loud knock came at the door. Petunia jumped, clutching the letter even tighter, her eyes wide with panic. "What now?" she muttered, as though she hadn't already been through enough.
She hurried to the door, the letter still clutched tightly in her hand. Harry hesitated for only a moment before following her, his curiosity driving him forward, and he caught sight of the postman once again handing her something else—another letter, this time more frantic in appearance. Petunia's face paled even further as she took it.
Without a word, she slammed the door in the postman's face, and Harry watched as she quickly shut all the curtains in the house. The atmosphere had changed completely. There was no warmth in the house anymore—only cold suspicion and fear.
She turned back to Harry, her face white. "You will not read that letter," she hissed, clutching it so tightly it was almost crumpling. "Do you understand me?"
But Harry, whose chest was now thumping with an urgent rhythm he couldn't ignore, could only nod. He wasn't sure why, but a part of him knew the letter meant something far more important than the Dursleys realized. And he would get to it—one way or another.
That night, as Harry lay in his cupboard, his mind racing with thoughts of the letter and its cryptic message, something strange happened. He was almost asleep when the house was suddenly filled with an odd, low hum. It was soft at first, barely audible, but it grew louder by the second, a soft vibration in the air that seemed to pulse through his very bones.
He sat up, his heart pounding, looking around the cupboard. The air felt thicker now, more electric. He could feel it—whatever was happening—it was like the world around him was shifting, like the fabric of reality itself was about to tear open.
And then, with a sudden crack, the window above him exploded open, the glass flying outward into the night air.
Harry jumped back, his heart racing. But what happened next left him breathless.
Another letter appeared. It fell from the sky like a dove descending from the heavens, gliding down with eerie precision and landing softly on the floor of the cupboard.
This one was larger than the last, more ornate, and stamped with a wax seal that Harry had never seen before. It was addressed:
The Honourable Harry Potter
The cupboard under the stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Harry's hand shook as he reached for it. This time, no one could stop him.
With a deep breath, he broke the seal and pulled the letter out, reading the elegant, flowing script:
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Please find enclosed a list of required books and equipment. The term begins on 1st September. We await your owl, confirming your attendance.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress,
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Harry blinked. The words swam before his eyes, his mind trying to process what he had just read. A letter from Hogwarts? Witchcraft and Wizardry? It didn't make sense. But the words felt real, and the letter in his hands, with its heavy parchment and perfect script, felt like a key to a world he hadn't known existed.
His heart was racing, and for the first time in his life, he felt like something had been unlocked—a door had opened, leading him into a world that was nothing like the one he had known.
The Dursleys wouldn't stop him. Not this time.
The real world was waiting.