Harry hid from the beating sun in his favorite spot on-site. His company was building a walled apartment complex and the landscaping crew had already placed a few trees along the inside wall, and they had already started providing shade. He was able to prop up against the wall with his legs stretched out, his meager lunch a slightly damp sandwich and a cool Ribena mix. He only had a few minutes left, and he was hoping to finish the chapter before his break finished. He had treated himself to an extra book for his seventeenth birthday, and was stealing every opportunity he could find to sneak in a few pages.

He barely tasted the sandwich as he chewed thoughtfully, drawn into the story of magic and fantasy. He had discovered reading early on while living with the Dursleys, and it had always been his most reliable escape. Even now that he had finally moved out and was living on his own, albeit hand to mouth, he always managed to squirrel away a few pounds a week for a beat-up copy of an old paperback from the secondhand shops. The worlds of magic had always fascinated him in a way that left others shaking their heads. It was impossible to explain, but it was like…

"Oi, Harry!"

The voice startled him as he was taking a sip, and he slopped some of his drink on himself, the Ribena staining his high visibility vest. He jumped to his feet, packing away the remnants of his lunch and gathering his toolbelt as his supervisor approached.

"Sorry, Frank, I'm coming. Didn't see the time."

His boss glanced at the book Harry was shoving into his lunch box.

"Yeah, I figured. Don't worry about it, but I need you to help direct the concrete guys. We've got a truck coming in and you'll be directing them."

"Yes, sir."

"You're a good kid, Harry. You're one of the hardest workers I have and you've got a damn good head on your shoulders. I just wish you spent more time here on earth rather than up in the clouds. Come on, few more hours and we can call it quits."

Harry winced apologetically as an old woman shuffled away from him on the bus. He stank of sweat and dust after a day in the heat, and he had been unable to get the blotchy purple stain out of his vest. Still, he was happy to be heading home. It was payday and a weekend. Soon as he gave half of his check over to his landlord, he would be able to sit down with a cheap meal and finish his book. He'd been busy after lunch, and he hadn't had the energy to on his last break. It had taken all his willpower not to just collapse in the dirt at that point. The concrete truck hadn't been able to back perfectly into position, and he and one other bloke had been forced to run the wet concrete from the truck to the sidewalk in wheelbarrows.

Not fun. Alright, hot shower first, actually. Then the check, then a hot meal.

A flash of movement out the window caught his eye, and he stared as an owl landed on a street sign. It seemed to be watching the bus as it idled in front of a red light. No, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't watching the bus. It was staring at him. It took flight again as the bus trundled forward, but Harry saw two more owls on the ride home. He'd never seen an owl out in broad daylight before, and certainly not three of them in one day. They weren't rare exactly, but they avoided such developed areas as this part of Surrey.

He was so preoccupied by the owls that he almost missed his stop, and had to call out to the bus driver to hold the door while he jostled his way out. The old woman gave him another disapproving look on the way past.

His flat, if you could really call it that, was barely large enough for one person. Even with as few possessions as he owned, it was cramped. Still, he was lucky to be able to afford it on his own at all. He'd almost had to rent a room in a shared house, but he'd been able to convince his uncle Vernon to serve as a reference. Vernon had only been too happy to give him a shining recommendation if it meant getting him out of the house a few weeks earlier. In the fifteen or so years of living with the Dursleys, that letter was probably the nicest thing they had ever said about him.

There was a couple of letters in his postbox waiting for him, but he didn't read them as he trudged through his front door. As much as he wanted to climb into the shower immediately, he forced himself to clean out his lunchbox first. He had made the mistake of leaving half a ham sandwich in the insulated container over a holiday weekend once and hadn't remembered it until he'd been preparing for work the following Tuesday. The smell alone had made him gag. It wasn't a mistake he had ever repeated. He did allow himself to start running the water in the shower, though. With any luck it would be hot by the time he climbed in.

An hour later Harry sat down to dining table, it doubled duty as a bookshelf he'd made out of some cinderblocks and leftover wood from a finished project, to a microwaved potpie. He was using his bed as a chair, as his flat was too small for the extra furniture, even if he'd been able to afford it. The place was cramped, expensive, and spartan. But it was clean, his, and there were no Dursleys. It wasn't much, but to a boy who had spent over a decade living in the cupboard under the stairs, it was a palace.

His back was sore from work, he had already spent half of his pay on his tiny home, and his pot pie was still a little cold in the middle, but he was happy. He stared at his book longingly, but forced himself to dig through the small pile of mail first while he shoveled bits of steak and kidney in his mouth.

How was it possible for a pot pie to both be cold and lava at the same time?

The stack was mostly the usual. An ad for another new fish and chip shop round the corner, a notice from the landlord about dog shit left along the walkway, that kind of thing. The last letter however, left him holding a rapidly cooling spear of beef. The envelope was a thick, rough material. The way he imagined parchment must feel. The ink was a gleaming green, and even dry it looked like it was still a little wet.

Mr. H. Potter

Flat. 304

17 Dunning St.

Banstead

Surrey

He finished the bite and pushed the plate away from him, his appetite forgotten. The papers inside were thinner than the envelope, but still thicker than normal and had the same emerald ink. He scanned the page quickly at first with a trembling hand, then reread it more carefully. Reason warred with hope as his eyes slid over the page again and again. The letter detailed his acceptance to a magical university, a prestigious one judging by the wording and stationery, and the materials

It had to be a prank by one of his coworkers, surely. Hogwarts? Even the name was ridiculous. One of the lads at work saw him reading his books every day on lunch and thought to mess with him by sending him a fake letter of acceptance at some made up magical university.

Then again. He had never told his coworkers where he lived, and certainly not his flat number. His boss knew, of course, but he didn't seem like the type to go with a practical joke of this kind, especially if it meant giving out personal information… Besides, the guys were hard workers and generally good blokes but they weren't, shall we say, the educational type. He doubted they put this much thought into anything, let alone a joke on a new guy. From the coat of arms, an elaborate thing with four different animals on the corners, to the required book titles and author names. It was far too elaborate.

His thoughts bounced back and forth for the rest of the evening. He tried to read to slow his thoughts down with his book, but gave up trying after rereading the same paragraph for the third or fourth time. Instead, he just lay back on his grungy mattress with his hands crossed under his head, staring up at the ceiling and letting his thoughts race.

It was fake. It simply had to be. Things like a magical university didn't exist and even if it did, they wouldn't send unsolicited acceptance letters through the post, for crying out loud. It was ridiculous. He kept at it for what felt like hours, trying to convince himself it was fake. Some cruel joke on a boy with his head in the clouds. That things like that simply didn't happen in the real world and certainly not to him.

But some small part of him, deep down, wanted it to be real. That small boy who would hide in the rose bushes with a library book the Dursleys didn't know about, wanted it to be true more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life.

And hadn't the Dursleys always told him how freakish he was? As though they knew something about him that he didn't know himself. All the odd occurrences throughout his childhood that they had blamed him for, so certain that he was the one causing them. The roof, the haircut, the zoo. Could it be that they had known?

Was it worth missing the chance that it could be true?

He felt like an idiot as he dug through his drawers for his letters, envelopes, and the little packet of stamps. He drafted a few copies of a response letter before finally settling on one. Short, professional, and to the point. To whom it may concern, thank you for your consideration, I would like more information, so on and so forth. Addressed simply to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was the most ridiculous thing he had ever done, and he could only imagine how pleased with themselves the guys at work would be if they knew he had actually responded to the letter.

Still, he was able to relax again after posting it, and sleep came quickly that night, full of dreams about magic.

"Hey Josh, think you're funny, do you?"

The young man, about Harry's age, leaned against his shovel and turned to face him.

"In general, yeah! It's part of what gives me my boyish charm."

"Charm, right, that's what make you so popular with the ladies right? I got your letter last night. I didn't even know you could read, let alone right something that convincing. You almost had me there for a minute."

Josh looked confused, staring at Harry like he was mental.

"What letter?" That stopped Harry in his tracks. Of all the men he worked with, he was certain Josh was the most likely suspect to have come up with a thing like that, but he seemed honestly confused.

"That Hogwarts letter. About the magical university. That was good stuff, man. I'm impressed."

"Harry, I honestly have no idea what you're on about, mate. If someone's having a go at you, it isn't me."

The certainty Harry had convinced himself of faded away to nothing. If Josh hadn't written it, then who could have?

"My mistake…" He heard himself say the words, but didn't catch Josh's response. His mind was racing, trying to come up with someone, anyone, who could have sent the letter.

Harry set off to find Frank on his lunch break. As far as he knew his supervisor was the only person to know where he lived. The man was in the site office on the phone with someone, as Harry walked in. He glanced up at Harry's entrance, and gave him a signal to wait just a second while he finished up. Harry wasn't about to complain. The June heat was starting to enter full swing, and he would take all the time he could to enjoy the box fan set up in the small temporary building.

"Al-alright, yeah. Yeah. Sounds good, as long as I get them by next Tuesday. Alright. Thanks, Mary. You too."

Frank hung up and rubbed his face with a thick hand.

"Hang ups with the electrical?" Harry asked.

"Yeah. There's a shortage going on so we're having trouble getting- ah, but that doesn't matter. What's up, Harry?"

Harry cleared his throat, unsure of how to approach the subject.

"Hey, uh, did anyone come to you recently asking about my address by any chance?" Frank frowned; expression serious.

"No, not to me. Is something wrong?"

"Not really, just got a weird letter in the mail. Thought it may have been one of our guys messing with me. I didn't think you'd just hand it out, but I figured I'd check just to be sure."

"I would never hand out personal information like that. First of all because it would lose me my job, but it could also put my crew at risk. Is someone harassing you?" Harry waved him off with a smile he hoped looked more genuine than it felt.

"Oh no, nothing like that. Just a prank by the looks of it. Thanks, Frank. I'll get back to it."

His boss nodded, but his eyes were still concerned.

"Alright then, Harry. If someone starts giving you trouble just let me know if you need help, okay?"

"Thanks, Frank."

Harry barely noticed the shack door slam itself as he left. That ruled out the only ideas he had about who could have sent the letter. There was no way the Dursleys would do something like that. Honestly, he doubted they had thought of him at all in the months since he'd been gone. Other than, perhaps, to appreciate how lucky they were. That small voice in the back of his mind crowed, so certain that it was all real. But it just couldn't be, right?

He spent his lunch break that day re-reading the letter over and over again. His sandwich lay forgotten.

Harry reminded himself countless times on the bus ride home that there was no way he would have a return letter in his mailbox. He'd sent the response Friday evening, and it wouldn't even have been picked up until Saturday morning. It would have taken time to reach its destination, if there even was one, and even if they had responded there was no post on Sundays so any response wouldn't have had time to reach him.

He was still disappointed when he checked his post, though.

A long, somewhat sulky shower later and he was just putting the kettle on and emptying a can of baked beans into a bowl when there was a sharp pop somewhere outside. Not quite like a car backfiring, but still loud. He was buttering his toast, hair still wet and towel wrapped around his waist, when there was a quick knock at the door at about waist height.

Harry checked through the peephole, but didn't see anyone. Maybe there was a letter or package and whoever dropped it off had already left? He left the chain latch in place and opened the door, still in his towel. There on his doorstep was the shortest person he had ever seen staring up at him with an eager smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter! My name is Filius Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw House and Professor of Charms at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. May I come in? Or shall I give you a moment to dress first?"

AN: "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the reviews." - Oscar Wilde, fanfiction author