Early in the morning, fifty letters managed to get into the house via the crate of milk and eggs the milkman delivered. Uncle Vernon was very, very miffed. In the past, when his aunt or uncle was miffed, Harry was locked in his cupboard. –
Now it was not that different. The eleven-year-old found himself boredly sitting in the lone chair in his new bedroom, leaning heavily against the battered desk beside his bed. The open window let in a gust of warm air which made the space feel more repressive, but he did not want to shut it. It somehow symbolised freedom to him, as silly as the notion sounded even in his mind; a hope that he could cultivate and hang on to.
07:30
Time crawled. Sundown seemed ages away.
Harry nodded off. He slumped forward, folded his hands on the table and placed his head on them. Sleep came on him like a thick fog, and he floated in it restlessly. Distorted scenes and images projected oddly in his mind, haunting him. –
Someone – something? – called him, cutting feebly through the fog in his dreamscape. Harry stirred. The voice – sound? – was gentle, warm, full of love and yearning. On listening closer, he realised that it was comprised of several different voices, all calling for him lovingly and earnestly.
He raised his head, and blinked. His glasses were still perched – askew – on his nose. He was faintly aware of the throbbing pain on his skin, where the taped frame had pressed against it. But what had attracted his lethargic attention was not that; no, he was used to pain.
He was just not used to items appearing suddenly on the desk. And now two things sat innocently there, before him, as if they had always been there.
He picked upthe the letter first, although he was quite tempted to touch the smooth, polished pale-blue stone beside it. The letter just looked…. Harmless. The envelope was plain white paper, addressed to just "Harry J. Potter; Privet Drive No. 4, Little Whinging, Surrey." Just normal.
Another letter addressed to just him… And this time none of the Dursleys knew about it.
On that thought, a huge grin splitted his face, and he had to prevent himself – with all his might – from just tearing into the envelope. He wanted to savour this experience.
Inside was a small note, reading:
Harry,
We are sorry for startling you. We mean no harm to you or your relatives. Please grasp the stone, close your eyes and concentrate on it, and you will be introduced to us.
Regards.
Short, to the point, and frank. Harry stared at it for another full minute, before he at last steeled his will and reached for the stone. He closed his eyes, concentrated—
And an overwhelming wave of warmth and love hit him, accompanied by reassurance, understanding and – strangely – companionship. Images followed right after, as the feelings lingered; various faces smiled and gazed at him fondly, curiously: a family of sorts.