When Harry Potter was a little boy, living in a cupboard under the stairs, he believed in magic. To most witches and wizards, this wouldn't seem like a big deal, but it was to Harry. Harry grew up with his aunt, his uncle, and his cousins, all of whom were Muggles, not an ounce of magic blood in them. He grew up practically as a servant to his family, cooking every meal and cleaning the house until it was spotless. Of course, he never got to enjoy the meals he cooked. No, Harry's aunt and uncle liked to keep him as downtrodden as possible. Yet, despite

all of this, Harry still believed in magic.

Harry still believed in magic even when his uncle screamed at him until his black and blue that there was no such thing as magic. Harry believed in magic even when his aunt starved him and tried to hit him in the head with a frying pan. Harry still believed in magic even when his cousin beat him up. Harry still believed in magic all those cold, lonely nights in his cupboard.

So why did Harry believe in magic all that time, through all those things? The answer was a teacher and a book. Seems simple, doesn't it? When Harry was in primary school, he loved to read. Dudley hated going in the library, and Harry decided to take refuge in there. He devoured books with a speed that impressed even the librarian. Harry's favorite kinds of books were fairytales, wonderful adventures with dashing heroes, fair maidens, and wizards. Harry especially liked stories with wizards in them. Of course, Harry could only read these stories at school. He would get in trouble if his aunt caught him with them.

One of Harry's teachers, Mrs. Peters, noticed his keen interest in fairytales. She watched him read fairytale after fairytale for months. Finally, one day after class, she pulled him aside. Dudley sneered at Harry, and he gulped. He hoped he wasn't in trouble. He didn't want to go with no dinner again. "Harry," Mrs. Peters started gently, trying to reassure the boy he wasn't in trouble, "why do you like reading fairytales so much?"

Harry looked at his teacher in surprise. He didn't think anyone ever noticed him. "I like magic," he replied softly.

Mrs. Peters smiled, happy to finally get something out of the painfully shy boy. "Do you believe in magic?"

"Believe in magic?" Harry stuttered, hoping his teacher hadn't caught on. "Magic doesn't exist," he insisted feebly.

Mrs. Peters raised an eyebrow. "Magic doesn't exist?" she repeated. "Who told you that rubbish?" Harry was silent once again. She tried a different approach. "Harry, do you want to know a secret?" The little boy nodded eagerly. "I believe in magic."

"Really?" Harry asked skeptically. He had never met an adult who believed in magic.

"Yup," Mrs. Peters replied. "And I think it's okay for you to believe in magic too." She let her words sink in to the young boy's head before dismissing. The school year continued, and Mrs. Peters always watched Harry as he read his fairytales. On the last day of school, she called Harry over to her desk and pulled out a beautifully bound book of fairy tales.

Harry's eyes widened at the present. No one had ever given him a present before. Mrs. Peters's voice was soft as she explained that this book was very special. "It's fairytales from all around the world," she said. "Two brothers went and collected them."

Harry looked amazed. "I think I would've liked them," he commented.

Mrs. Peters. "I think I would've liked them too," she commented. Harry thanked her for the book and left the classroom. Mrs. Peters sighed. "Good luck, Harry," she whispered. Little did she know how much he'd need it.

Years passed, and Harry's life changed tremendously. He found out he was a wizard and gained a whole new identity. No longer was he the scrawny little boy who lived in the cupboard. Now he was the Boy-Who-Lived and the Man-Who-Lived-to-Defeat-Voldemort. So many things had changed for Harry. He had experienced family and friendship, adventure and death, deep sorrow and deep love. Harry Potter had grown up so much, but he still believed in magic.