This story is about how Dumbledore decided not to send letters to Harry at the age of eleven, in order to prevent the Second Magical War that the centaur Firetse predicted, and Dumbledore changed the natural course of events. As a result, Harry finally gets used to his situation and learns to live normally in a family of relatives who hate him. Fortunately for Harry, the Dursleys move to London at this time, and Dudley and Harry go to different schools, where he has friends who help him to abstract from domestic problems... the Dursleys are unable to prevent this, no matter how hard they try.

Chapter one, where I talk about myself

A long time ago, when I was a long time ago (how this sounds! It's like I'm old man! and I'm only 16 years old), I really wanted to be special. When I was eleven years old, I was dreamed that some kindly wizard would come and rescue me from the captivity of my hated relatives. And will say that I am not like everyone else. Chosen One. I have to save the world. Or defeat some villain. And of course I will become a hero for everyone! I understand that this is normal for a little skinny boy. In our then world of fictional super heroes! Especially the little boy Harry Potter at home was not considered a person!

Skinny teen with black tousled hair (damn hair!) and green eyes looks at me from the mirror. I make faces at him as usual (while no one is watching) and start brushing my teeth. I accept my appearance and my life as they are. Stoically. Not handsome, not ugly. People on the streets don't shy away from me, they don't fall madly in love. No reproaches either to the Creator or to the parents.

However, I have a "special sign". The scar on his forehead. I got this scar, according to Aunt Petunia, in the car crash that killed my parents. I don't remember the crash or my parents. But at one time I was very puzzled over the question of how and what you need to knock your head to get such a scar.In the form of a lightning bolt. (And, in truth, how could a baby survive a car crash?!) Moreover, not a ragged scar (as usually happens in such cases), but a thinly drawn one… I still don't understand why it happened. And Aunt Petunia's sharp (in general, in her manner) answer about the car accident did not give rise to unnecessary questions.

The story of my untimely parents is also covered in fog. Just some secrets of the Spanish royal family. The only thing I could find out about them was what their names were. James and Lily. And everything. Who are they? Where did you work? Where did we live? Where are my father's relatives? These are the questions I still ask myself. And one look from my aunt was enough to forget about the answers to these questions.Maybe they were working for intelligence? Potter. James Potter. Sounds good, huh? Hmm, I also think that that's a bit of a stretch

Despite the vagueness of my infancy, my life is more prosaic.I live with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Their last name is Dursley. They are disgusting people.And I think so not because they hate me, but because they combine all the qualities that I hate in people. Hypocrisy, narcissism and narrow-mindedness. It is amazing that in our time there are people with such a medieval worldview.Say that there is witchcraft in the world, they will be the first to vote for the return of the Inquisition. And they will watch with fierce intransigence as the witches are burned. I also have a cousin. His name is Dudley. His worldview is the same as that of his parents, and he is similar in size to a young killer whale. Guess who he liked to beat the most when he was a kid.

In fact, until I was eleven, my life was a nightmare.

Two things still surprise me. First – why wasn't I sent to an orphanage? This family hates me. My aunt was not fond of my mother either.Sometimes there were moments when I almost asked to go to the shelter myself.

And the second is why I grew up the way I am now. Don't think I don't consider myself a super cool guy, wonderful to the core. And I sometimes (like each of us) have breakdowns, I can yell, and say " fuck off!", and even fight.Раньше я не задумывался над этим. But lately I've begun to realize that something has always kept me from getting angry and becoming a real "bandit" - that is, what the Dursleys always called me. And I know I could be the " bad guy." I mean, I have, let's just say, bad traits.

Maybe I just never wanted it.

But when I was eleven years old, my life changed a lot.Because we moved to London. Dudley spent most of the year at his stupid school, and I made friends.

Strange events in my life began to happen on the third of August. To be honest, I sometimes had various strange cases that drove my relatives into a frenzy. They were especially infuriated when something exploded in my presence. Or, there was a case when I was unfairly punished, and immediately the lights went out all over the school. Lou had said I must be a sorcerer, and had often asked me to repeat the trick. But, alas!

On this day, we agreed to meet in a cafe (we – in the sense of me, Pat and Lou, I'll tell you about them).But only Pat was sitting at the table, reading a book.

"Hey," I said, " where's Lou?" Pat looked up at me and made a face.

"Ask me something easier. You know she's got the wind in her head. Had she forgotten?"

Patrick Jonathan Random. Close-cropped black hair, impenetrable black eyes and a pronounced nose. Him can be recognized from thousands. I've been in the same class with him for five years now, and I've been friends with him for as long.

I made friends with him on my first day of high school. We had to go home in one direction. Pat was very thoughtful then, I remember that well.And of course I asked him about it. "You know," eleven year-old Pat said, frowning, " there's something wrong with the mail at home. My aunt won't let me near the post for almost two months. What do you think?

I shrugged my shoulders. I really didn't know what could be dangerous in letters. Anthrax? However, at the age of eleven, I did not know what it was.

Pat and I had a lot in common. He also didn't have any parents. And he also lived with an aunt. But I'd give the world for his Aunt Meg if I hadit. I think this is the most wonderful aunt that ever existed on Earth.

Pat and I never talked about our parents. It's always been an unspoken taboo. And I do not know what prompted him to ask me about it that day.

"Harry, do you know much about your parents?" I was surprised. And embarrassed. Well, imagine how to say it – I have no idea what kind of people they were!

- A little bit. To be honest, I only know their names. Pat grimaced again. Grimacing had always been his specialty. He looked interested, though.

"That's funny. I don't really know about my ancestors either. About the mother more or less, and about the father only the name." "- Yes? And how?" Pat pretended to remember.

"It's strange. Something like Si ... no, Snape. That's right, Severus Snape. I've been asking my aunt for a long time. That's all I got out of her, though, because then she started crying.

Pat looked unconcerned. And I was surprised to see that he was faking it. He pretends he doesn't care.And it clearly wasn't – it was obvious. Surely hearing the name of a parent who had disappeared from his life once would be etched into Pat's memory forever. He looked at me and said to me in a kind of embarrassed way:

"I think he was a bandit." Hmm, what an interesting guess. Was James Potter also the "godfather"? And the disaster was rigged by competitors. Does it sound plausible…

"You want to find him?" I asked. My friend thought for a moment, then said, " No. What for? What if he turns out to be a complete asshole?

That was the whole Pat. The question is, why the hell did he even start this conversation?

Pat had three passions in his life - chemistry, books, and cigarettes. It seems that he doesn't need anything else to be happy. Maybe that's why his aunt let him do a lot of chemistry, read and smoke.Or maybe Pat's father was a criminal, and Aunt Meg was acting on the principle that whatever the child enjoyed, as long as it wasn't against the law.

I also liked to read (and what else to do if you are locked in your room?), I was not averse to smoking a cigarette occasionally, and I did not know a damn thing about chemistry. So we were similar, but not in everything.

"Well, even if he's asshole," I said, " it can't be helped. As Fitzgerald said, we are free to choose our friends, but not our relatives."

Pat gave me a particularly unpleasant look and pursed his lips in a particularly nasty way. It made him look like a bird of prey.

"Don't be smart, Potter, it doesn't suit you. Twain said that."

I snorted. Such things do not confuse me.

"It doesn't matter. The point is clear. What difference does it make who your relatives are?" "Look at mine. A family of cretinous idiots.

"But you wouldn't be happy if you knew your father was a complete bastard?"

"I don't know much about him," I said honestly, " but from what little my aunt said about him - that is, that he was a bandit, a vagabond, a lunatic - he was a holy man. Did you find out anything about your father?"

Pat shook his head.

"What's the discussion about, boys? The dichotomy of good and evil

?" Louise Mirabelle Van Der Heim. Pat called her a professional weirdo. And he was right, because Lou is, as they say, "without a tower"(a stable Russian expression meaning "crazy").

And this girl was a walking catastrophe.

She always kept a thousand little things in her mind and constantly forgot about something important. In her hands, everything that broke was usually broken, and even what should not have broken. You won't believe it, as soon as she passes the TV, the interference starts. Every time we go out in the evening, Lou gets picked on by some assholes. And not only in the evening. And I understand if she was a girl - legs from the neck, skirt to the very... tits in the cleavage does not fit and with "combat" makeup. And Lou... no, she's a pretty girl, but, so to speak, in the style of tragedies of Russian writers of the XIX century.She was thin, with long blond hair and sad gray eyes… So I see the picture-she is sitting on the porch of the estate with knitting, married to an unloved (some retired general with a disgusting character), and sighs about some stray metropolitan gambler who once and for all broke her heart…

I never saw Lou suffer from anything, though. If only from her family, which, unlike the two of us, she had. But, according to Lou, it would have been better if it hadn't been there at all.

The Van Der Heim family was very rich. And Lou went to a fairly ordinary school, not a stunningly elite one, just because she wanted to. She had a mother, a father, and even an older sister. What is the problem?

In principle, there were no problems. It was only that, according to Lou, her family had a wedge of light on Letitia, her sister. Parents admired their eldest daughter at every turn, and the youngest just ... did not look.

"I was born exclusively for an even number of people at the table," Lou once said.

These are my friends. And honestly, it's the best thing in my life.

"So what's the argument about?" Lou asked, and sat down at our table.

"I'm telling Pat that you should judge a man by his friends, not by his relatives.

Pat grimaced.

"Don't tell me," Lou said suddenly, fishing a salted nut out of her cup. "Judas's friends were impeccable."

Pat stared at her in mock surprise.

"Honey, you're scaring me. Did you read the Gospel instead of breakfast?

"What, you thought you were the smartest one here?"

I got up.

"I'll go get some coffee." When I get back, tell me who's smarter.

Pat licked his lips.

"I'd like a beer…

"Oh, yes! In THIS cafe, you will have to wait for beer for at least five years!

This is where my adventures begin. Or misadventures-as it is more convenient for someone. I won't lie, I didn't anticipate any future changes in my life, and I probably didn't even want to. I walked over to the bar, barely noticing the two girls at a table near the entrance. But when I went to the cafe, they definitely weren't there yet.

When I was making my order, one of these girls came up to the bar. She had wild curly hair and rather large front teeth. I think she ordered some kind of fruit cocktail. She behaved quite adequately until she turned to me...

When girls look at you, it's always nice. But when you're so openly STARED at! With such... such awe, either horror or delight, as if going into a public toilet, this girl met the Queen of England.

It took me a moment to realize that she was staring at my forehead. Or rather, the scar.I agree, the thing is quite noticeable, but not so much! "Are you all right?" I ventured to ask. The girl flinched and blinked. "Oh... yes... of course... sorry..."

And she quietly went to her friend, and immediately began to whisper something to her. Her friend, red as a carrot, glanced at me, and when she saw me looking at them, she blushed. Pat was already gesturing to me-what the hell was going on? Did I get it? And so my troubles began.