The small, dark-haired boy sat on the edge of the old, worn bed. He looked about nine years old, but was in fact celebrating his eleventh birthday that day. Not that he had gotten any presents anyway, as usual.
The sun was sinking below the horizon, and the boy stared out of the single, grimy window at it. He brushed an unruly lock of raven hair out of his emerald green eyes. He was wearing baggy, worn clothes that hung off his lithe frame.
The boy was actually sitting in room six of St. Mary's Orphanage, London. He had lived there since he was fifteen months old, when he had been found on the doorstep in a blue blanket and with a note saying his name was Harry, not that anyone called him that. They all called him Bolt because of the peculiar shaped, lightning bolt scar on his forehead.
He was known as a loner in the Orphanage, and though he had been picked on, it stopped when he had been basically adopted by one of the older boys. Unfortunately he wasn't there anymore, but most basically left Bolt to himself.
He was always reading and very rarely spoke. He'd been taken to countless counsellors but he'd just ignored them. The manager of the Orphanage basically gave up on him, and Bolt didn't have a problem with that.
Bolt blinked and rubbed his eyes. Was that something flying towards the window? It drew closer and when Bolt was certain the bird would fly into the window, the window snapped open and a tawny owl swooped in, dropped a letter on Bolt's lap and flew out again, the window shutting behind it.
Not quite registering, Bolt looked at the letter. It had a strange seal and when he turned it over he saw the address was written in green ink. It read:
Mr. Harry Potter
The Sixth Room,
Corridor One, Floor TwoSt. Mary's Orphanage,
London