I trudged home indecently late. Indecent for the Dursleys, of course. My head was like a boiling cauldron (we've arrived, and comparisons are already beginning to be magical!), which is about to explode. And only one clear thought floated on the surface — delirium. All this is absolutely absurd. Late-stage schizophrenia. Harry Potter the Wizard. Ha! Ha! Ha! But that's nothing. Harry Potter-THE BOY WHO LIVED! Where are you? Where are you people in white coats? When I entered the house, Uncle Vernon immediately attacked me.

"Where the hell have you been, boy?"

He would have grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, but he was probably stopped by my battered and completely apathetic appearance. And a blank stare. Because I felt like I'd just had a lobotomy. I looked at him carefully, and then at Aunt Petunia, who jumped up.

"You knew," I said tonelessly, " you knew everything."

"What did we know?" Uncle Vernon shouted, starting to turn purple. I guess if it hadn't all fallen on me at once, I would have been very angry with them. Even very, very much. I'd even yell at them. But right now, all I wanted to do was go to my tiny room, curl up on the old couch, close my eyes, and pass out for about twelve hours. And without dreams.

"About me," I continued wearily, " about my parents.How they died... that they were magi…"

"Don't say THAT WORD in my house!" Uncle Vernon yelled, almost turning green. Aunt Petunia paled. Not relatives, but some kind of chameleons…

"We swore to beat the crap out of you, and we did!" my uncle raged on.

"Yeah, sure," I said, " very noticeable. No one asked for your opinion at all, do you know?"

And in silence, I walked past my dumbfounded relatives to my room. A room is a strong word, of course. A small cubbyhole is a blessing with a window. An old sofa, an even older desk, a stool and a drawer. The drawer held everything-clothes, books, and anything else that belonged to me. All this, however, was not much. My friends have never been to my house, so they have never seen this squalor. But, of course, everything is relative. If you compare this room to the dusty storage room under the stairs that I spent the first eleven years of my life in, I'm now living just fine. But what else can you expect from your relatives? So they decided to use these Jesuit methods to get witchcraft out of me. Knowing their pathological narrow-mindedness, I can imagine how they always threw up at the thought that I was a hereditary wizard. So it must have been bad for them, too, to be terrified of me doing something witchy, or even worse, in public, and then everyone would start pointing fingers at them and shying away from them like they were lepers. Besides, the thought of the Dursleys suffering mentally gave me pleasure. Except, of course, that their moral suffering was turning into my physical suffering. I'll think about it tomorrow, " I decided, curling up under the covers. Tomorrow. I'll think about it tomorrow. Now just to get some sleep…

Of course, the hopes for a dreamless sleep did not come true. First I dreamed of the Dursleys screaming in cauldrons, then Professor Dumbledore persistently proving to me the amazing effect of applying Einstein's theory of relativity to applied magic, then some nonsense about school in general. I was riding a motorcycle in the early hours of the morning, and with me was a man of incredible size with a shock of tangled black hair and a shaggy beard, who even in his sleep smelled of whiskey. And then there was a chilling laugh and a bright green flash that woke me up. His head seemed to have been aching since the evening before, and after the idiotic dreams, his scar burned like fire. I opened my eyes and it was already morning. I remembered the dream. Then came memories of yesterday's events. About my conversation with Dumbledore. Then he thought again of the last dream, and with a chill creeping up his spine, he understood, What I didn't dream about. But it's better not to think about it at all. The Dursleys were silent at breakfast and looked at me warily. They probably expected the worst — that I'd start doing magic right at the dinner table. Yes, I would love to, dear relatives, just to know how! I got up from the table and walked to the front door without a word.

"Where are you going?" My uncle snapped at me. Of course, I never left the house without doing all the things that were hung up on me, like Cinderella

"I'm going to visit my godfather," I blurted out.

"What godfather? You don't have a godfather!" Uncle Vernon shouted.

"Yes," I said sarcastically, " but he was in prison for murder, I think… But recently released, and eager to find out how your favorite godson is doing!" So much for you! Now sit here and be afraid that a terrible maniac sorcerer will come and turn you all into bats! Of course, I really wanted to meet the godfather, but nevertheless, I went to Pat. Dumbledore and I spoke privately yesterday, and Pat and I never did. And I didn't want to talk about all this magic-witchcraft anymore, otherwise my brain would have given out and I would have had a stroke from too much information. Pat lived two streets down, so I walked quickly. Aunt Meg answered the bell. She smiled at me and immediately called me to the tabletable. That's life!

At the table, I found… Lou! As it turned out, last night she completely refused to go home and stayed here. Lou sipped her tea listlessly and looked like a mermaid who hadn't had enough sleep.

"Hi," I said, " where's Pat?"

"He's asleep," Lou said stolidly, " and we played poker until two o'clock last night."

"Can you do that?" I asked, surprised.

"A bad case isn't a tricky one. So what were you whispering about with this Dumbledore guy?" I sighed and sat down in the empty chair. "I'm afraid to remember. Are you sure it wasn't a dream?"

"Believe me," came a voice from the door, " good morning, everyone."

Pat looked like a hungry hawk and was already searching the kitchen for cigarettes.

He found them and sat down by the open window.

"Patrick, how many times have I told you not to smoke on an empty stomach?" Aunt Meg said sternly, peeking into the kitchen.

"I'm a wizard," Pat said, already taking a drag on his cigarette, " and have you ever heard of wizards having stomach ulcers?"

Aunt Meg glared at him, but said nothing and left the room.

"Come on, Potter, don't pull the cat's tail. … tell me what you've been talking about for so long." I sighed and began to talk.

"Yesterday, when Dumbledore and I were alone together, he started telling me how a certain dark wizard named Lord Voldemort (but they were afraid to say it out loud, so everyone called him You-know-who or something) was getting stronger and stronger. There was a war, and many people died. And one day, fifteen years ago, he came to my parents ' house, killed them, and wanted to kill me. But I couldn't, and the spell bounced off me and hit him. Anyway, he's dead, and now I have a scar on my forehead."

Pat and Lou sat across from me in silence. At the last words, they both looked at my scar.

"But, of course, this is in short…"

"But why? "that was the first question I had since Dumbledore's story.

"Why what?" "What is it?" he asked.

"Why didn't I die?" I never thought I'd have to ask such a question.

The old wizard grinned into his beard.

"You're not the first person to ask that question, Harry. I can't tell you exactly why this happened, but I have a very plausible guess."

"What's that?" I asked, perhaps too sharply.

But the pile of information that had fallen on me, Professor Dumbledore's aching head, and strange way of speaking were doing their dirty work. The professor looked at me carefully before continuing.

"If there's one thing Voldemort can't understand, it's love. He didn't realize that a love as strong as your mother felt for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, not some visible sign… But when someone loves you so much, even after they die, they protect you with their love. This love has permeated your entire being. And it was your mother's love that became the shield that repelled the death spell."

At these words, my annoyance disappeared (I wish I had brought a headache with me), and probably only then did I begin to realize what had happened. It happened then, fifteen years ago. Things I don't remember, but many, many people do. I looked up and found that Dumbledore had found Lupin's crystal rose very interesting.

"What's the death spell?" I asked, and immediately felt the stupidity of the question. Isn't it clear from the name? Isn't it clear from the name? The professor probably didn't think so and promptly began to explain to me.

"This is one of three unforgivable spells, Harry, that carry a life sentence in Azkaban.It doesn't have a counterspell. You can't block it. In the entire history of magic, only one person has ever experienced this spell, and he's sitting right in front of me." I think I flinched.

"It's fun," I said wistfully, " and this scar means…"

Dumbledore nodded.

"yes. And this is also another exception to the rule. A death spell leaves no trace.And that's why you're so unique, Harry. That's why you're so famous. I don't think it's going to flatter you too much, but they call you "The Boy Who Lived.""

"Yeah..." was all I could say.

I also thought that scar was cool…

"That's why that girl was staring at you like that, are you, then, a national hero for sorcerers" Pat drawled.

"Uh-huh. don't feed me bread, let me be a hero." I said, looking at Pat gloomily. "Like Hercules, the villains were crushed in the cradle."

"What else did he tell you?" Lou asked.

"Stahl will explain why he gave it to the Dursleys to raise. Since my mother gave me protection, and Aunt Petunia is her own sister, I'm safe under the same roof with her until I'm seventeen. Or something like that."

"Why before seventeen?"

Pat asked.

"Legal age. Wizards come of age at seventeen. He wasn't going to say anything to me until I was seventeen, so that I'd be able to do it.…"

"So that you don't get conceited!" Pat said sarcastically.

"Random, I'm going to throw something at you!"

"I won't lie to you, Harry, that I didn't expect your aunt and uncle to try to hide the fact that you and your parents were wizards. That they wouldn't be the best guardians. When I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep, I knew this was going to happen. But I only did all this for your safety."

"I've heard that somewhere before…" I muttered. And then I remembered — " What about my godfather?"

Dumbledore smiled.

"Sirius. Of course, he was very eager to take you away from your relatives, and I barely managed to convince him not to… While. But I'm sure he broke my ban more than once and visited you."

"No one came to see me," I said.

"Oh, don't doubt that your godfather has his own secrets. I have no doubt that you will meet soon."

We sat in silence at the table.

"Now what?" Pat asked.

"I don't know," I said honestly. It's all so ... weird. It was as if the ground had been knocked out from under my feet. He lived for himself, lived, and then-bang-bang-and you're a wizard! And you have defeated a terrible dark sorcerer. Moreover, in infancy. I don't think I'll ever get it. And it may never come.

"You've always been slow, Potter," Pat said sarcastically. I couldn't stand it any longer and threw a cookie at him.

"And aggressive!" Pat said, shielding himself from another attack.

"What did you think? It's not easy being a national hero," Lou said. Comforted, nothing to say…