The Secret Letter
What if Harry had been smart enough to hide the first letter he received from Hogwarts and read it in private?

Harry had never denied the fact that he was strange, but even he couldn't explain what made him different. In his mind, it was a simple truth that people shied away from his abnormalness, that he would never really fit it. He had long ago accepted it as something unchanging. It was easier to keep to yourself and to trust no one else to watch your back.

He had also learned long ago that you didn't have to fight the pointless battles, especially when it came to his 'family.'

He invoked this lesson one morning, in the kitchen. The members of the Dursley Household were just sitting down for breakfast when they heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Harry get it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Make Dudley get it."

"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley."

Harry, deciding this was a good time to give up a worthless and pointless battle, got up to get the mail. Flipping through some inane letters, he paused at an old looking envelope without a stamp and with emerald-green ink on it.

Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey

The black-haired boy blinked in surprise. He had never before received a letter. Not from friends, nor relatives. Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H. He started opening the letter slowly, treasuring the arrival and reading of his first ever letter, no matter how strange.

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry quickly shoved the letter into is back pocket, heading to the kitchen to give the remaining letters to his uncle. He would read it later.

Harry was exhausted. He had spent the rest of his day doing a larger-than-normal list of chores. Aunt Petunia must have been annoyed with something and let it out on him. Perhaps she had seen nothing of interest when she had craned her neck earlier in the afternoon to look into the neighbors' house.

He retired into his bedroom – technically, his cupboard – and pulled out the slightly crumpled letter from his back pocket along with a stolen flashlight.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted
at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find
enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on Septermber 1. We await your owl by no
later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

He noticed vaguely that there was also another paper besides that, one with a list of magical school supplies, like a wand and spellbooks. He noticed, but he didn't comprehend. How could this even be possible? Magic? Did someone really expect him to believe that?

But why would someone go through the effort? He wasn't well liked, true, but he wasn't well known, either. An elaborate prank like this wouldn't be wasted on him. And, as illogical as it sounded, it explained some things. It explained why he could do strange things, like growing back his hair and disappearing onto a roof. It explained the reasons he was different, why he was shunned, why he was never allowed to be happy…

He shook his head wildly, tears being held back at the corner of his eyes, hands clenching the letter tightly in his hands.. It was never that easy, not for him! How could someone be that cruel to him? Cruel enough to make him wish for a chance at acceptance for the first time in a long time.

He would have guessed that Dudley made this up, as Harry's pain brought Dudley joy, except Dudley wasn't smart enough for something like this. His cousin might constantly call him a 'freak,' but it really didn't hold any meaning to the boy. He was only repeating what he heard his parents say.

This just didn't make any sense. No one could really know how much a letter like this would affect him, and he knew of no one that would bother spending time making up a letter like this.

It was there, in his tiny, dark, sparse cupboard, clutching a letter and a flashlight as though they were lifelines, hunched over so that only his hair brushed the ceiling, tears close to trailing down his face, that Harry Potter, an eleven year old wizard, the unknowing Boy-Who-Lived, saviour of the wizarding world, defeater of Voldemort, allowed himself a glimmer of hope.

Bringing the letter back up close to his face, the emerald-eyed boy mouthed the words 'await your owl.' It seemed he had work to do…