A/N: To english-speaking readers. I warn in advise of a note written in Spanish. I apologize for the bother:
Hola a todos mis lectores hispanohablantes, quiero comenzar asegurándoles que sigo aquí, aunque un poco agotado tras un mes que ha sido largo y complicado, en el cual apenas pude avanzar en Konton no Tatakai, tanto en el Libro I como en el II. Sin embargo, no tienen que preocuparse, ya que sigo con planes de publicar algunos capítulos antes de que termine el año. Creanme que no se quedaran son contenido js.
Ahora bien, esto seguramente será una sorpresa para muchos. He estado involucrado en el fandom de Harry Potter desde casi 2012, y en ese tiempo incluso escribí un par de cosas de las que, sinceramente, me alegro que hayan quedado en el olvido. Pero recientemente, al lidiar con el estrés de este mes, encontré unas notas de 2017 que llamaron mi atención.
Como saben, en el Libro II de Konton no Tatakai estoy explorando la mitología artúrica, pero lamentablemente no puedo usar todo lo que me gustaría. Sería una pena no profundizar más ahi, así que decidí embarcarme en un nuevo proyecto inspirado en esas notas redescubiertas.
Además, esta será una oportunidad para volver a familiarizarme con el inglés como lengua escrita, después de cinco largos años sin usarlo para escribir de forma seria. Esto, a su vez, me ayudará a traducir y eventualmente publicar Konton no Tatakai en inglés, para compartir la historia con una audiencia más amplia.
Como siempre, habrá una larga nota al final de los capítulos, pero por ahora solo quiero darles la bienvenida a este nuevo viaje. ¡Espero que lo disfruten tanto como yo!
— Yima.
Mandatory Statement: Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K Rowling and Warner Bros. I make no claim to ownership.
Key:
'Thoughts'
"Dialogue"
Especial
"Supernatural voice."
"Magic."
Í͕̟͓̈́͑ǹ͛͒co͎͉̍̐n̨̼͔̤̉ͮ͊c̘̪̟͉e̖͐b̬̝̪͢í̡ͣ̏̄̚bͤl̗͙͕̘͠ͅͅe̟̝͓̘̘͍̮ͤ̿͒ͯ̽̒̀ ̺͕̇ͪ
Harry Potter and the Hollow Crown
Prologue
4 Privet Drive - Little Whinging
23 June of 1986. 11: 32 AM...
The small cupboard under the stairs was quiet. Harry sat cross-legged on the thin mattress, running a finger over the frayed hem of his too-large shirt. Dust floated lazily in the beam of light sneaking through the vent in the cupboard door. The air smelled faintly of cleaning products and the lingering sweetness of yesterday's cake—though Harry hadn't gotten so much as a crumb.
The Dursleys had left early that morning. They were off celebrating Dudley's birthday with all the pomp and noise Harry had come to expect. Yesterday's party in the house had been a loud, chaotic affair, and today they were taking it outside—to a restaurant, an arcade, or wherever Dudley had demanded to go. That left Harry behind to clean up the mess.
He glanced at his hands, red and raw from scrubbing the kitchen tiles and wiping down the table where Dudley had smeared frosting everywhere. The work was tiring, but Harry didn't mind too much. It gave him something to do. When the Dursleys were out, the house felt different. Quieter. Less stifling.
He crawled out of the cupboard and stretched, his back aching from hours of cleaning. The kitchen sparkled, the living room was free of crumbs, and the garbage bag full of torn wrapping paper and deflated balloons was neatly tied by the back door. He'd done everything they'd asked, and for once, the house looked better than it had before the party.
Satisfied, Harry stood in the doorway of the living room, taking in his work. That's when he noticed it.
The red light on the VHS player blinked faintly, almost lost in the mid-morning sunlight filtering through the curtains. Harry tilted his head. The machine was on, its quiet hum breaking the silence of the room.
He frowned. The Dursleys never left it on. They were too picky about their things for that. Harry stepped closer, his curiosity outweighing his usual caution. The cassette slot was closed, meaning a tape was still inside.
He crouched in front of the television, looking from the glowing light on the VHS player to the remote perched on the arm of the sofa.
It wasn't like they'd ever let him use it. But with no one around to stop him...
Harry hesitated, glancing toward the front door. The Dursleys wouldn't be back for hours. He was sure of it. For once, the house felt like it was his. He darted to the kitchen, where the remnants of yesterday's party lay forgotten. On the counter sat a small pile of sweets—brightly wrapped candies Dudley had deemed "too boring."
Harry grabbed a handful and stuffed them into his pocket. A reward, he thought. He'd cleaned the whole house, after all. Besides, they wouldn't notice. Dudley had far too much as it was.
He returned to the living room, plopped onto the floor in front of the television, and pressed the button to eject the cassette. The tape slid out partway, revealing a worn label: The Sword in the Stone.
Harry didn't recognize the title, butit wasn't as if he could chose what to shoved the tape back into place and fumbled with the remote. After a few wrong buttons and a moment of static, the screen came to life.
The movie began with a cheerful narrator and a story of knights, castles, and a sword stuck in a stone. Harry watched, enraptured. He forgot the sweets in his hand as the boy Wart—small, scruffy, and overlooked—stumbled through a world far bigger than himself.
When Wart's foster family, Sir Ector and the brutish Kay, barked orders at him, Harry's chest tightened. He knew that tone too well. He could almost hear Uncle Vernon's voice in their gruff commands, see Dudley's smug face in Kay's sneer. And Wart—he was so much like Harry. Quiet, eager, and so out of place.
Then Merlin appeared. The wizard, with his long beard and twinkling eyes, turned the ordinary into extraordinary. He shrank objects with a flick of his hand, packed entire rooms into a bag, and spoke of destiny and greatness.
Harry's breath caught as he remembered something from a whileago. Dudley's old, oversized sweater, handed down to him with holes in the sleeves, hadshrunk to child-sized. He hadn't known how or why, but it had fit perfectly after he'd stared at it, wishing it would change.
Could it have been magic?
The idea was wild, ridiculous even. And yet, as Merlin's magic filled the screen, Harry couldn't stop the thought from growing.
By the time the credits rolled, Harry's pulse was racing. He sat cross-legged on the carpet, staring at the now-black screen. Could he have magic, too? The Dursleys would never admit it, but strange things happened around him. Maybe, just maybe, it was possible.
He pulled a sweet from his pocket and set it on the floor in front of him. If he had magic, he just needed to figure out how to use it. Merlin had made shrinking things look so easy. Harry sat back, pointed at the candy, and took a deep breath.
"Shrink! Higitus Figitus!" He declared, mimicking Merlin's chant.
Nothing happened. The candy sat stubbornly in place.
Harry frowned. He waved his hand over it like Merlin had done. "Hockety Pockety Wockety Wack!"
Still nothing.
Frustration bubbled up in his chest. He leaned closer, glaring at the sweet as though sheer willpower could make it obey. "Come on. Shrink!" He demanded, his voice rising.
The air around him felt different—heavy, charged with something he couldn't name. A faint flicker of warmth ran through his fingers, and for a moment, he swore the candy trembled.
But it didn't shrink.
Harry slumped back with a sigh, his small hands falling to his sides. It had been silly to think it would work. He wasn't Merlin. He wasn't even Wart. He was just Harry.
Unaware of the faint hum in the air or the way the candy wrapper had shifted ever so slightly, Harry grabbed another sweet and shoved it into his mouth, letting the sugar distract him from his disappointment.
For now, the spark he'd released went unnoticed, like a tiny flame flickering in the dark. But it was there, waiting.
xXx
4 Privet Drive - Little Whinging
May 15th of 1987. 4: 47 PM...
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the neatly trimmed lawn of Number Four, Privet Drive. Harry knelt in the garden, hands caked with dirt as he yanked at stubborn weeds. The summer air was warm, but the chore did nothing to lighten his spirits.
"Mind the petunias, boy!" Aunt Petunia's shrill voice floated from the kitchen window. "If you so much as bruise a leaf, you'll wish you hadn't been born!"
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry called back automatically, his tone flat.
He bent back to his work, tugging at a particularly tenacious root that refused to give. His arms ached, his knees were sore from the hard ground, and the sweat trickling down his face stung his eyes. He glanced at the petunias and grumbled under his breath, "If I didhave magic, I'd never have to do this again."
For the past year, he had tried everything. Every chant, every motion, every little trick he had seen in The Sword in the Stone. But nothing had worked. No shrinking objects, no enchanted brooms, no spells to make chores disappear.
Harry sighed and sat back on his heels, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He'd even learned how to work the VHS playerjust for 'd spenttime replaying the movie, memorizing every word Merlin said, every flick of his hands.
And yet, no matter how much he tried, no matter how much he wantedit, nothing happened. Maybe he didn't have magic after all.
He frowned, staring down at his dirty hands. The thought made his chest feel heavy, like a weight pressing down on his ribs. But he couldn't give up. Not yet. Merlin had said something about believing in destiny. Maybe Harry just hadn't found his yet.
"Boy!" Aunt Petunia's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "Don't just sit there gawking. You've missed one, right there by the hydrangeas."
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," He muttered again, crawling toward the hydrangeas. He yanked the weed out with a sharp tug, his fingers aching from the effort.
When he finally finished the last patch, he stood, brushing dirt off his hands and knees. Aunt Petunia wasn't watching anymore, and the thought of going back inside made his stomach churn. The silence of the house was oppressive, and Harry had no doubt she'd find something else for him to do if she spotted him.
Instead, he turned toward the small gate at the side of the garden. Beyond it was the alley that ran behind the neighboring houses. It wasn't much, just a stretch of cracked pavement lined with weeds and broken fences, but it was quiet. Peaceful, even.
Harry pushed open the gate and slipped through, letting it close softly behind him. He stuffed his hands into his oversized hand-me-down pockets and started walking, letting his feet take him wherever they wanted.
The pavement was warm under Harry's thin trainers as he wandered aimlessly through the quiet streets of Little Whinging. The sky was a bright blue, dotted with a few lazy clouds, and the faint buzz of lawnmowers hummed in the distance. Despite the sunny day, Harry's thoughts were far from cheerful.
He had spent months trying to make magic happen, just like Merlin. Months of waving his hands, muttering words he didn't fully understand, and concentrating so hard he sometimes gave himself a headache. But it had all been for nothing.
Maybe he was going about it the wrong way, he thought. Merlin had been a wizard, after all, a realwizard. And Harry only had the movie. That one movie. It wasn't enough. He needed more—more information, more stories, more... Something.
He kicked a small stone down the path, watching it skitter across the pavement. His steps slowed as he approached the local video rental shop. It was a small, dingy place tucked between a laundrette and a chip shop, its window display crammed with faded posters for action movies and comedies. Harry stopped, staring at the door.
Maybe... Maybe there was another movie. Something like The Sword in the Stone. A sequel, or something with the same magic.
He hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open. A small bell jingled as he stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of popcorn and plastic, and the rows of shelves were lined with brightly colored VHS cases. Behind the counter, a young man with messy hair and a scruffy beard leaned against the till, flipping through a magazine. He glanced up when Harry entered, raising an eyebrow.
"Can I help you, kid?" The clerk asked, his voice sounding bored but not unkind.
Harry shuffled his feet, suddenly nervous. "Um... Do you have... Is there a second movie? Of The Sword in the Stone, I mean."
The clerk blinked, then let out a soft chuckle. "A sequel? Nah, Disney didn't make another one." He leaned on the counter, studying Harry. "But if you're into that stuff—magic and knights and all that—there's way better than Disney. Books, for one."
"Books?" Harry echoed, his nose wrinkling slightly.
"Yeah, books," the clerk said with a smirk. He grabbed a scrap of paper from the counter and scribbled something down. "Try The Once and Future Kingby T.H. White. That's the good stuff. You can probably find it at the library."
Harry took the paper hesitantly, staring at the name scrawled in messy handwriting. He'd never heard of T.H. White. He'd never even thought about reading a proper book about magic. Books were for school, for boring lessons about sums and grammar. But the Dursleys didn't exactly keep books lying around. The only reading he'd done came from the occasional comic Dudley left behind, usually with pages missing or smeared with chocolate.
"Thanks," he mumbled, clutching the paper as he backed toward the door.
The clerk gave him a casual wave, already turning back to his magazine. Harry stepped outside, blinking in the sunlight. He looked down at the note in his hand, the name "T.H. White" scrawled in uneven letters.
Books. Could books really have answers? Could they be better than the movie? He wasn't sure, but the idea made his stomach flutter with nervous excitement.
The library loomed ahead of him, a squat brick building with wide windows and a set of double doors that squeaked when he pushed them open. Harry stepped inside, and for a moment, he froze. The air was cool and smelled faintly of old paper and wood polish. People milled quietly between the shelves, some flipping through books, others hunched over tables with notebooks and pens.
Harry had never been in the library before. Aunt Petunia certainly never brought him, and Dudley would rather eat vegetables than read anything. Harry had walked past it plenty of times, but he never imagined stepping inside. It felt... strange. Like he didn't belong.
He wandered aimlessly between the aisles at first, glancing at rows of books with their neatly lined spines. There were so many, far more than he expected. He chewed his lip, clutching the slip of paper the video clerk had given him. Should he ask someone?
Harry hesitated. Adults weren't exactly reliable in his experience. They either ignored him or scolded him, and he wasn't sure which he preferred. At the video shop, the clerk had spoken first; Harry didn't have to muster the courage to ask. But here...
He glanced around and spotted a woman behind the front desk, sorting through a stack of books. She was older, with a stern face and gray streaks in her hair. Her sharp eyes flicked up when she noticed him lingering near the counter.
"Yes?" she asked, her tone flat and uninviting.
Harry swallowed. "Uh, I'm looking for a book. It's called... um..." He glanced at the slip of paper. "The Once and Future King? By T.H. White?"
The woman sighed, as though his question had interrupted something important. She pointed one long, gnarled finger toward the far side of the library. "Fiction section, over there. Look under W."
"Thanks," Harry muttered, shuffling off in the direction she'd indicated.
It took him a few minutes to find the right shelf. He scanned the spines, his finger brushing against the books until he spotted the title: The Once and Future King.The hardcover was a bit worn, the edges of the dust jacket frayed. He pulled it off the shelf and sat cross-legged on the floor right there, opening the book to the first page.
The words were more complicated than the ones in the comics he'd read, but not so much that he couldn't follow. And as he read, he realized this was nothing like the Disney movie. For starters, there was a character named Robin Wood—Robin Hood, Harry guessed—who never showed up in the film. And the magic...
There wasn't as much magic as he'd hoped. Merlin was there, of course, and Archimedes the owl, but it wasn't the same. The magic wasn't as big, as flashy. It was like hidden into the story rather thanappearing left to right.
But Harry couldn't stop reading. There was something about the way the story unfolded that pulled him in, even without the spells and transformations.
"Library closes in ten minutes," Came a loud voice from the front desk.
Harry looked up, startled. Had it been that long already? He glanced down at the book in his hands, reluctant to let it go. He could barely afford to waste time at home, and he had no idea if he'd even be able to check it out without Uncle Vernon finding out.
With a heavy sigh, he carefully closed the book and slid it back into its place on the shelf. He took one last look at the cover before making his way toward the exit. There was still so much of it left to read. Maybe... maybe he could come back. If he wasn't caught.
Harry pushed the library door open and stepped into the fading sunlight. The streets were quieter now, with most people already home for dinner. He tucked his hands into his too-big jacket pockets, clutching the slip of paper with the book's title on it. He hadn't been able to read as much as he wanted, but he could always come back.
'Maybe next time I can finish it.' Hethought, a small flicker of determination sparking within him. 'And then... Maybe there are other books. There's probably loads of things about Wartmaybe even about Merlin too.'
The idea filled him with cautious excitement. The library was a treasure trove he'd never thought to explore, but now it seemed full of possibilities. If there was magic in stories, surely it could help him figure out the magic he knewwas inside him.
Harry was so lost in thought that he didn't hear the familiar sound of heavy footsteps until it was too late.
"Well, well, if it isn't Harry No-Pals!" Came the jeering voice of Piers Polkiss.
Harry's heart sank as he looked up to see Dudley's gang standing at the corner, blocking his path. His cousingrinned, his round face alight with malicious glee.
"Thought you could sneak around without us noticing, eh?" Dudley sneered, cracking his knuckles. "It's been a while since we had a proper game of Harry Hunting."
Harry's stomach twisted in fear. He turned on his heel and bolted, his sneakers slapping against the pavement. He could hear the gang laughing and shouting as they gave chase.
"Run, freak!" Dudley hollered.
Harry darted through side streets and alleys, his chest burning as he tried to outpace them. He knew the neighborhood better than they did, but they were bigger, stronger, and faster. Panic clawed at him as he rounded a corner and skidded into a dead-end alley.
"No, no, no," He whispered, spinning around to hearthe gang closing in, already picturing their grinning faces like predators circling their prey.
"There's nowhere to run now, Potter!" Piers taunted, stepping closer.
Harry pressed his back against the cold brick wall, his heart hammering wildly. He squeezed his eyes shut, his mind racing.
'I can't get away. I'm trapped. I don't want to be here. Please... please, let me get away!'
He clenched his fists, focusing all his fear and desperation into one thought: escape.
The air around him seemed to shift, and for a dizzying moment, it felt as though the ground had vanished beneath his feet. Then there was a sharp tug, like an invisible hook pulling him upward.
When Harry opened his eyes, he gasped. He wasn't in the alley anymore. He was on a rooftop, the cool breeze ruffling his hair. He scrambled to his hands and knees, peering over the edge. Below, Dudley and his gang were milling around in confusion, searching for him.
"Where'd he go?" Dudley barked, spinning in circles.
"I dunno!" Piers said, his voice tinged with frustration. "He was right here!"
Harry pressed a hand to his chest, his heart pounding for a different reason now. He'd done it. He didn't know how, but he'd done it. Somehow, he'd gotten away—he'd escaped.
His lips curved into a small, triumphant smile.
'I do have magic.' He thought, his breath coming in shaky gasps. 'It's real. I just need to figure out how to use it.'
For the first time in his life, Harry felt something other than fear or frustration: hope.
xXx
Windmill Lane Public - Little Whinging
April 8th of 1988. 5: 22 PM...
The library was quiet this time of day, with only a few scattered readers tucked into corners or browsing the shelves. Harry slipped in unnoticed, his small frame weaving between tall bookcases like a shadow. This was his favorite part of the week, a moment when he could disappear into a world that didn't involve shouting, chores, or Dudley's fists.
For months now, Harry had been devouring everything he could find on Wart. No,King Arthur and his knights, particularly anything that mentioned Merlin. He had already finished The Queen of Air and Darknessfrom The Once and Future Kingseries, though he hadn't quite understood all of it. The complicated politics and the sadness in the story had made his head spin. Still, what stuck with him was the image of Merlin: clever, mysterious, and powerful.
On his last visit, Harry had borrowed The Boy's King Arthur—a simpler retelling meant for younger readers. He was halfway through it now, enthralled by the battles and quests, but disappointed that Arthur himself didn't seem to do magic. Merlin remained the one who truly fascinated him. Harry wanted to be like him—to do what he could do.
Today, Harry wandered into a section of the library he hadn't explored before, filled with older, dustier books. A tattered volume with no dust jacket caught his eye. The spine simply read Legends of Merlin. Harry hesitated for a moment, then slid the book from the shelf and flipped through its pages.
The text was dense and old-fashioned, but Harry's eyes snagged on a passage that sent a spark of excitement through him. The words were about Merlin himself, and they described something incredible:
"No," said Merlin, "but I will raise it. Nevertheless, I don't advise you to view the bodies, because no bodies that have lain in the earth as long as these have would be beautiful to see, but ugly and horrible."
"Still," she said, "I want the stone raised."
"Willingly," he said. He took it at once by the larger end and raised it up. It was so heavy that ten men would have had enough to do to move it, because of which one should believe that his mind served him better than his strength there. Indeed, so it was in everything he did."
Harry stared at the words, his heart pounding. "His mind served him better than his strength."That had to mean magic, didn't it? Merlin hadn't used his hands to lift the stone; he'd used his mind. That was exactly what Harry had been trying to do for months now. If Merlin could lift a boulder, surely Harry could manage a pencil.
His hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing against the small, battered pencil he'd brought along. He'd been practicing with it at home, but it hadn't so much as twitched. Maybe he hadn't been trying the right way. Maybe it wasn't about brute force—it was about focus. Willpower.
Harry glanced around the library. No one seemed to be paying him any attention. He carefully set the book down on the table in front of him, then placed the pencil beside it. His green eyes narrowed as he stared at the pencil, willing it to move.
"Come on," He whispered under his breath. "Just a little. Like Merlin."
The pencil lay still on the table, mocking Harry with its stubborn refusal to obey. He sat cross-legged in a secluded corner of the library, where no one would notice him staring down the tiny object as though it were an enemy. His brows furrowed in concentration, and his fists clenched tightly against his knees.
"Move," He whispered, his voice barely audible. "Just a little."
The minutes stretched on, each one feeling heavier than the last. Harry's eyes began to water from the strain, but he didn't dare blink. He focused all his thoughts, all his willpower, on the pencil. The memory of the passage about Merlin lifting the boulder replayed in his mind like a mantra: His mind served him better than his strength.
'If Merlin could move something as massive as a boulder, I can move this. I have to.'
Nothing.
Harry's shoulders slumped, but he didn't give up. He adjusted his posture, straightened his back, and wiped his damp palms on his oversized trousers. With a deep breath, he tried again, fixing his gaze on the pencil as if sheer determination could bend the world to his will.
Seconds ticked by. Then, without warning, the pencil wobbled.
Harry froze.
It wasn't much—just a tiny, almost imperceptible shift—but it had moved. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart raced so hard it felt like it might burst.
"I did it," He whispered, hardly daring to believe it. "I didit."
For a moment, all the frustration and loneliness of the past few months melted away. He wasn't just imagining things. He wasn't deluded. He could use his magic.
But there was no time to celebrate. He wanted to do it again. Needed to do it again.
Harry adjusted the pencil carefully, setting it straight in front of him. He took another deep breath and concentrated with every ounce of strength he could muster. His vision tunneled, focusing solely on the tiny wooden object.
"Move," He commanded in his mind. "Move."
This time, the pencil didn't budge. He clenched his fists in frustration and tried again. And again. And again.
The hours slipped away as Harry poured his energy into the task, trying different approaches: softer commands, sharper ones, even muttering nonsense words like the spells he'd heard in The Sword in the Stone.But no matter how hard he tried, the pencil remained still.
By the time the librarian called out that the library would be closing soon, Harry's head was pounding, and his hands were trembling from the effort. He slumped back against the chair, exhaustion dragging at his limbs.
Still, as he gathered his things and prepared to leave, a small smile crept onto his face. The pencil had moved. Maybe not much, and maybe not consistently, but it hadmoved.
He glanced back at the book he'd been reading earlier. The mention of Merlin raising the stone, and the countless other tales of magical objects in the pages he'd skimmed, filled him with a strange, fiery determination.
'I can do it.'He thought, clutching the pencil in his pocket as he stepped into the cool evening air. 'I just need to keep trying.'
xXx
4 Privet Drive - Little Whinging
October 8th of 1988. 10: 13 AM...
The sharp bark of Uncle Vernon's voice echoed down the hall, making Harry flinch as he wiped the kitchen counter for the third time that morning.
"Boy!"
Harry sighed, setting the sponge down. He had already scrubbed the dishes, cleaned the stove, and mopped the floor, but there was always more to do. It was never enough for them.
Uncle Vernon stomped into the kitchen, red-faced as usual. "Your aunt forgot to buy bread. You're going to the shop to get it. And don't you dare spend a penny on anything else! Do you hear me?"
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry muttered, keeping his gaze fixed on the counter.
Vernon shoved a few coins into Harry's hand, his mustache bristling. "And don't dawdle! I expect you back here in twentyminutes."
Harry nodded and slipped the coins into his pocket. Without another word, he grabbed his too-large jacket from the hook by the door and stepped outside.
The brisk air hit him as he walked down Privet Drive, the coins jingling faintly in his pocket. He clenched his fists, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. No matter how much he tried to stay out of their way, the Dursleys always found new ways to make his life miserable.
It wasn't just the chores. It was the constant shouting, the insults, the way they looked at him like he was dirt under their shoes. He gritted his teeth, kicking a stray pebble down the pavement as he walked.
The image of a steaming loaf of bread appearing out of thin air came to mind. Harry couldn't help but smirk at the thought of Uncle Vernon's face if he conjured an entire feast in the middle of the dining room. But then his smile faded.
Magic like that wasn't something for him. He'd read about enchanted objects in one of the library books—a magical crock that never emptied of food, a dish that could summon any meal you desired. They sounded amazing, like something out of a dream. But they weren't real. And even if they were, he doubted they'd work for him. Nothing ever did.
Harry's fingers brushed against the pencil in his pocket—the one he'd been practicing with for months. He'd managed to move it a few times now, though it still took all his concentration. Closing his eyes seemed to help, as if shutting out the world made it easier to focus. But even then, it was slow and clumsy, and it left him feeling drained.
He kicked the pebble again, watching it skitter across the sidewalk. "Abracadabra," He muttered under his breath. "Hocus Pocus."
The pebble didn't move. He hadn't expected it to, but it still stung.
He knew those weren't real magic words—just silly things from cartoons and stories. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there hadto be some kind of words, something to help him channel whatever it was inside him that made pencils wobble and sweaters shrink.
Harry turned the corner and spotted the shop up ahead. The thought of trudging back to Privet Drive with a loaf of bread made his stomach churn. He didn't want to go back. Not yet.
As he neared the shop, he sighed again, muttering to himself. "Even the magic crock wouldn't be enough for the Dursleys. They'd find a way to empty it. Or complain about it."
He shoved the shop door open, the bell jingling overhead. As he stepped inside, he glanced over his shoulder, already counting the minutes before he'd have to face Vernon's scowl again.
The bread was tucked under Harry's arm as he left the shop, the brown paper bag crinkling softly against his jacket. The scent of freshly baked loaves drifted up, warm and inviting, and Harry's stomach growled. He hadn't eaten since breakfast—a single piece of toast Aunt Petunia had nearly burned.
As he walked, he passed a vending machine outside a small corner store. The bright, colorful packaging inside caught his eye. Chocolate bars, crisps, and chewy sweets were neatly arranged behind the glass, their bright colors promising flavors Harry could only dream of.
He stopped, staring.
Harry shifted the bread under his arm and shoved his hand into his pocket. His fingers brushed against the coins Uncle Vernon had given him—just enough for the bread. He hadn't dared spend the leftover change on anything else. Not with Vernon's temper looming over him.
But as he glanced at the vending machine, a small, rebellious thought crept into his mind.
'What if I could use magic?'
The pencil he'd moved in the library flickered through his thoughts. It had taken everything he had, but he'd done it. He'd made something happen.
Harry's heart raced as he looked at the snacks behind the glass. There was a chocolate bar he liked, one Dudley sometimes left half-eaten on the floor just to taunt him.
He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. The street was quiet, no sign of anyone watching.
'Why not?'
Nervously, Harry stepped closer to the vending machine, his fingers tightening around the bread bag. He felt silly, but the hunger gnawing at his stomach outweighed his doubt.
He placed his hand on the cold glass and closed his eyes, trying to focus. The memory of the pencil wiggling at the library surfaced, and he latched onto it, imagining the chocolate bar falling, tumbling into the tray at the bottom.
Nothing happened.
Harry bit his lip, his cheeks flushing as frustration bubbled inside him. He tried again, this time clenching his fists and concentrating harder.
Still nothing.
He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. "Come on," He muttered under his breath. "Just fall."
The hunger and anger swirled together inside him, and for a moment, it felt like something in his chest tightened, coiled like a spring ready to snap. He closed his eyes once more, shutting out everything but the chocolate bar.
'Fall. Please, just fall.'
There was a faint clunk.
Harry's eyes snapped open. The chocolate bar had dropped into the tray.
For a moment, he stood frozen, his heart pounding in disbelief. Then he reached out with trembling hands and grabbed the bar, his fingers brushing against the smooth wrapper.
A grin broke across his face, wide and unstoppable. He didn't care how it had happened—he'd done it. He'd used magic.
Tearing open the wrapper, Harry took a bite. The sweet, rich chocolate melted on his tongue, and it tasted like victory. For the first time in months, maybe even years, he felt like he'd won something.
He walked home with a spring in his step, the bread forgotten under his arm as he savored every bite of the chocolate bar. Maybe his magic wasn't perfect yet, but he knew that it was real.
He just had to figure out how to control it.
xXx
4 Privet Drive - Little Whinging
January 13th of 1989. 2: 33 PM...
Harry sat cross-legged on the thin, threadbare carpet of his cupboard, a pencil balanced across the tips of his fingers. The dim bulb overhead flickered faintly, casting uneven light on the walls around him. The space smelled faintly of musty wood and cleaning supplies, but Harry hardly noticed anymore. His focus was entirely on the pencil.
For the past few months, this had been his ritual. Whenever he found a moment of quiet—usually late at night when the Dursleys were asleep—he would take out one of the objects he had been practicing on. This pencil, dull and chewed at the end, had become his favorite.
He closed his eyes, letting his fingers lightly brush against the wood.
In his mind, he pictured the lake. It was always there now, just beneath the surface, waiting. He had no idea why he thought of it as a lake, only that it felt like water—vast, deep, and restless. When he focused on an object, it was as though the water shifted, rippling outward to surround it.
Touching the pencil made it easier. He could feel the "water" lapping at it now, as if the object had become part of the lake itself.
Harry took a deep breath and concentrated.
The pencil twitched.
A flicker of excitement shot through him, but he didn't open his eyes. He held onto the sensation, focusing on the faint connection between himself and the object. The pencil lifted, just barely, hovering above his fingers for the briefest of moments before it dropped with a soft tap.
Harry let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing his temples. The effort always gave him a dull ache behind his eyes, as if his brain were straining too hard. But he couldn't stop now.
He picked up the pencil again, holding it firmly this time. The trick, he had discovered, was in the touch. Objects he had "practiced on" before—like this pencil, a handful of marbles, or some loose buttons he'd nicked from Aunt Petunia's sewing kit—seemed to remember the magic. It was as though they had become familiar with the lake, making them easier to move.
Harry gripped the pencil tighter, closing his eyes once more.
This time, he imagined the water wrapping around the pencil, lifting it like a leaf floating to the surface. Slowly, carefully, he willed it to rise.
It wobbled slightly, then rose again, hovering an inch above his palm. Harry clenched his teeth, his entire body tensed as he fought to keep the connection steady. The pencil quivered in the air, holding for a few seconds longer than before, before it clattered back into his hand.
"Getting better," Hemuttered to himself, though his tone was more determined than triumphant.
The progress was slow, painfully so, but it was progress. Every time he tried, he could hold the pencil up for just a little longer. One day, he was sure, he'd be able to control it without touching it at all.
The lake inside him rippled again, restless and wild. Harry wasn't sure how to contain it, how to master the waters. But he knew one thing: he wouldn't stop trying.
Harry leaned back against the thin wall of his cupboard, the pencil rolling idly between his fingers. His thoughts wandered, as they often did, to the stories he'd read in the books borrowed from the library. Tales of Arthur and his knights, of magic swords and enchanted treasures, had filled his mind over the past year. He had devoured every page, though he sometimes found them confusing, especially the names.
Excalibur. Caliburn. Calesvol.
"They can't even agree on what to call the sword," He muttered, setting the pencil down and pulling a battered library book from the small bag he kept hidden beneath his makeshift bed. The worn cover and yellowed pages had become a familiar comfort, though he knew he'd have to return it soon.
And it wasn't just the sword. There were the magic rings, too. One belonged to Lancelot, and another to a knight whose name Harry couldn't quite remember. It started with a "Ga," though—Gawain, maybe? Or Garry?
Then there were Merlin's treasures: a flag that supposedly spat out a living dragon, which Harry thought was the coolest thing ever. And Morgan's killer cloak.
Harry shivered at the thought of her. Morgan le Fay. She always seemed to appear suddenly in the stories, a dark and mysterious figure who sent chills down his spine. He didn't understand her motives, but something about her felt... dangerous. Creepy.
Merlin and Morgan were so different, but they both fascinated him. If they could make objects magical—powerful enough to change the course of battles or protect kingdoms—then why couldn't he? The thought filled him with both excitement and determination.
He glanced at the pencil again, then back to the book. He'd tried to find explanations for what he could do, but there wasn't much about moving objects. The stories only spoke of enchanted things—things made magical by powerful wizards or strange rituals.
Harry traced the edge of the book with his finger, his mind racing. If Merlin and Morgana could channel magic into objects, maybe he could figure out how to do something similar. The thought felt huge, like opening a door to a world he was just beginning to glimpse.
Carefully, he placed the book into his bag, making sure it was secure. He'd return it to the library today, but he was already planning to borrow another. At first, the idea of borrowing books had terrified him. What if the librarian said no? Or worse, what if Aunt Petunia found out? But now, he was confident enough to manage it.
He slung the bag over his shoulder, tucked the pencil into his pocket for good measure, and stepped out of the cupboard. The library was as quiet as ever when Harry returned the book. The librarian barely glanced up as he slid it across the counter, murmuring a polite, "Thank you." With the errand done, Harry lingered outside the building for a moment, his bag slung over his shoulder. The thought of going back to the Dursleys' filled him with a familiar dread, so he decided to take a walk instead.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement as Harry wandered aimlessly. His thoughts returned to the stories he'd read—of knights and their quests, of magic woven into everyday objects. It wasn't like he could dig up the Holy Grail in the Dursleys' yard, but the idea of finding something—anything—that might feel magical thrilled him.
Harry kicked a pebble as he walked, his imagination taking over. He pictured himself as a young knight on a noble quest. The streets of Little Whinging became a dangerous forest, filled with hidden beasts and shadowy figures. A stray cat darted out from under a parked car, yowling at him, and Harry jumped, half-laughing at himself.
"Monster defeated," He muttered with a grin, though his smile faded as he thought of Dudley. He imagined his cousin as the giant King Arthur had once bested in the tales, lumbering and clumsy but dangerous all the same.
Harry turned down a quieter lane, his eyes scanning the ground. He didn't know what he was looking for exactly—something unusual, something that might be important, like the enchanted items from the stories. But the streets were mostly empty, littered with discarded crisp packets and old cans.
Near the edge of the neighborhood, just as he was about to give up, his foot nudged something half-buried in the dirt. He crouched down and unearthed a rusted key, its surface mottled with age and grime. Harry turned it over in his hand, feeling a small thrill. It wasn't much, but it was something.
The key felt heavy in his palm, and for a moment, he let his mind wander. What if it opened a secret door? Or a hidden chest, full of treasures? He slipped it into his pocket with a satisfied nod and continued on, still scanning for anything else that might catch his eye.
It was then, at the edge of a narrow path leading into the woods near Little Whinging, that he spotted it.
A tree house.
Or rather, what had once been a tree house. The structure was old and weathered, its wooden boards faded and moss-covered. It perched precariously in the branches of a gnarled oak tree, as though it had been forgotten by time.
Harry's heart quickened. He stepped closer, peering up at it with a mixture of curiosity and excitement. It felt like something out of the stories—a hidden place, secret and untouched. A knight's castle, waiting to be rediscovered.
He stood at the base of the tree, the rusted key still in his pocket, and stared up at the crumbling hideout. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he'd stumbled onto something truly extraordinary.
xXx
Harry's Lair - Little Whinging
March 27th of 1990. 6: 40 PM...
The past year had been one of the best Harry could remember. Ever since he discovered the forgotten tree house in the woods, it had become his sanctuary. Cleaning it up had been a challenge, but Harry had tackled it with a quiet determination, hauling out the leaves, cobwebs, and bits of rotting wood that littered the floor. The structure still creaked and groaned in the wind, but to Harry, it was perfect.
It wasn't just a tree house—it was his tree house.
He called it his lair, though it didn't yet feel as much like one as he'd hoped. There were no shelves, no tables, no furniture of any kind. Anything he brought in had to be stored in piles or tucked into the corners. That was when Harry came up with an idea, one that took weeks of cautious planning before he dared act on it.
One day after school, Harry approached "Big" Mike Armstrong. Mike was a broad-shouldered boy in their year, as fat as Dudley but not nearly as mean. Mike had a reputation for always eating something—crisps, chocolate bars, biscuits. He never seemed to run out of snacks, and everyone knew he had money to spare.
Harry shuffled up to him nervously during lunch. His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets, clutching the crisps he'd taken from a vending machine the night before. It wasn't stealing, Harry told himself. He never took too much, and he always left enough for others to buy.
Mike was sitting at a table, munching on a sausage roll. He barely glanced up when Harry spoke.
"Hey, uh, Mike," Harry said quietly, glancing around to make sure Dudley wasn't anywhere nearby. "Do you... Do you like crisps?"
Mike snorted. "Yeah, obviously. Why?"
Harry pulled a pack of crisps from his pocket and held it up. "I can get you these. Three packs, for the price of one."
Mike raised an eyebrow. "Three for one? What's the catch?"
"No catch," Harry said quickly. "Just... I can get them cheap, that's all."
Mike eyed the crisps suspiciously, then shrugged. "Alright. You got them now?"
Harry nodded and produced two more packs from his bag. Mike handed him a pound coin without hesitation, ripping open the first bag as soon as it was in his hands.
It worked.
Over the next few weeks, Harry sold crisps to Mike twice a week. Eventually, a couple of Mike's friends got in on the deal too. Harry never took too many snacks from any single vending machine, making sure to switch locations to avoid suspicion. He wasn't getting rich by any means—most of the money went toward his secret lair.
Plastic boxes were his first purchase, sturdy and weatherproof enough to keep his growing collection of books, trinkets, and other odds and ends safe from the elements. With each box he carried up into the tree house, the space began to feel more like a home.
For the first time in his life, Harry felt like he had something that was truly his, and no one—not the Dursleys, not Dudley, not even the world—could take it had become more than just a hideout—it was his sanctuary, his escape from them and the oppressive dullness of life at Privet Drive. Up in the tree house, surrounded by the woods, he felt free, as though the outside world couldn't reach him. It was a place where he could experiment with his magic in peace and keep the things that mattered to him most.
Over the past year, Harry had amassed a small collection of objects he liked to think of as his "treasures." They were things he'd found during his walks around the neighborhood: the rusted key from his first scavenger hunt, marbles in a rainbow of colors, a handful of mismatched buttons, an old alarm clock that didn't work, a chipped mug with faded flowers on the side, and even a fake gold ring that looked like something out of a fairytale.
He kept them all in one of the plastic boxes he'd bought, stacked neatly in a corner of the tree house. Harry liked to believe that because he had "touched" each item with his magic—sometimes successfully moving them, other times not—they had become uniquely his. Over time, these treasures had grown easier to manipulate with his mind, as if they recognized him and responded to his will.
When he wasn't practicing his magic, Harry spent time reading. With the money he'd saved from his vending machine deals, he had managed to buy a few secondhand books of his own. Now, tucked away in his lair, he had his own copy of The Sword in the Stoneand The Boy's King Arthur. He liked flipping through them whenever he felt stuck or frustrated with his progress, drawing inspiration from the tales of knights and magic.
But not all books were as welcoming as those. Harry had tried borrowing more advanced ones from the library—histories of England and books with harder words—but they often left him scratching his head. Some passages were too dense, filled with concepts he didn't understand or language he couldn't quite follow.
Still, he kept trying. Each time he struggled with a book, he reminded himself of the story of Wart pulling the sword from the stone. The young king hadn't known his own strength or destiny at first, but he'd succeeded through perseverance. And if Wart could do it, so could Harry.
In the warm glow of the setting sun filtering through the leaves of the tree house, Harry sat cross-legged on the wooden floor. His collection of treasures lay scattered before him, and he focused intently on three marbles in particular. Slowly, carefully, he willed them to move.
At first, they trembled, as if reluctant to obey. Then, one by one, they began to roll across the wooden planks. Harry grinned, his eyes lighting up as he made them pick up speed, circling one another like boulders tumbling in a tiny, invisible current.
'Unlike Wart.'Harry thought proudly, 'I don't need a sword or someone to make me king. I have magic.'He chuckled at the sight of the marbles swirling around. They weren't as grand as the enchanted objects in his books, but to Harry, they were a start—proof that he could do something extraordinary.
But as the marbles rolled, he caught sight of the deep orange hues streaking the sky outside. His heart sank. 'The sun's almost down.'
Scrambling to his feet, Harry quickly gathered his marbles and stuffed them into his pocket. He gave one last glance at his little lair, making sure everything was in its place, before climbing down the rope ladder and sprinting toward Privet Drive.
He was barely through the front door when Aunt Petunia's shrill voice cut through the air. "Where have you been?!You're late! I've been waiting for you to help me with dinner!"
"I—I lost track of time," Harry stammered, still out of breath. "I didn't mean to—"
"Don't you dare talk back to me!" She snapped, waving a wooden spoon like a weapon. "Get in here and start peeling those potatoes, now!"
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but the words caught in his throat. There was no point; arguing with Aunt Petunia never went anywhere. Bowing his head, he muttered, "Yes, Aunt Petunia." And shuffled into the kitchen.
Behind him, neither of them noticed as the wooden spoon on the counter gave a sudden jerk and toppled to the floor, as if moved by an unseen force.
xXx
St. Grogory's Primary School - Little Whinging
May 30th of 1991. 1: 27 PM...
The classroom was quiet, except for the occasional scratch of pencils on paper or the low murmur of the teacher explaining something at the front. Harry, however, was lost in his own world. His desk held the façade of a boy doing schoolwork—a notebook open, a pencil idly twirling in his fingers—but hidden within the pages of the notebook was a battered second-hand book he'd been sneaking peeks at all morning.
The title on the cover, faded and nearly illegible, read The Tale of Culhwch and Olwen. Harry squinted as he scanned the dense text. The names were almost impossible to pronounce—Cei, Bedwyr, and Gwrhyr rolled across his mind like marbles on uneven ground. Still, the story had him hooked.
This particular passage described a gathering of warriors preparing to hunt down an enormous boar named Twrch Trwyth. Harry imagined the beast tearing through the forests, its tusks as sharp as swords. He could almost hear the clamor of the knights, shouting and rallying as they prepared for the battle.
Harry grinned faintly, tracing a finger over the word Culhwch. So far, Culhwch seemed like a decent sort, though Harry wasn't sure what to think about the whole "giant pig" situation. He wished he could ask the knights how they managed to face such things without running for the hills.
The sound of footsteps yanked him out of the story. Heavy, deliberate footsteps, accompanied by the scrape of a chair being dragged far louder than necessary.
"Oi, Potter," Came a familiar, jeering voice. Harry's stomach sank.
Dudley.
Harry quickly slipped the book into his bag and sat up straighter, hoping to look as though he were diligently taking notes. But Dudley wasn't fooled. He loomed over Harry's desk, his beefy face twisted into a smirk.
"What are you hiding now, freak?" Dudley asked, his tone equal parts curiosity and malice.
"Nothing," Harry said quickly, keeping his voice calm.
Dudley leaned closer, narrowing his small, piggy eyes. "Bet it's something weird. Probably one of your creepy books. What's it about this time, flying pigs?"
Harry tightened his grip on his pencil, willing himself not to react. Dudley grinned wider, sensing the tension.
"Maybe I should take a look," Dudley taunted, reaching for Harry's bag.
Harry's mind raced, his heart pounding as he prepared for the inevitable tug-of-war over his belongings. He only hoped the teacher wouldn't notice the commotion.
Dudley's fat fingers reached for Harry's bag, and Harry instinctively pulled it away, clutching it to his chest.
"Give it here, Potter!" Dudley hissed, his voice low but forceful.
"It's just a book," Harry shot back, twisting in his seat to shield his bag.
"Exactly," Dudley sneered. "You're not supposed to have fun, remember? Let me see it!"
Before Harry could respond, Dudley yanked at the bag. Harry held on tightly, but the struggle drew the attention of the other students, whose whispers quickly turned into audible giggles and gasps.
"Dudley! Harry! What is going on here?"
The sharp voice of their teacher, Mrs. Proctor, cut through the noise. She was a stern woman with a no-nonsense attitude, her graying hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked like it could snap. She strode over to their desks, her heels clicking against the tiled floor.
"He's hiding something, miss," Dudley said immediately, pointing an accusatory finger at Harry. "It's probably something weird!"
Harry's face flushed as Mrs. Proctor's eyes narrowed at him.
"Harry, is this true?" she asked.
"It's just a book," Harry muttered, lowering his gaze. He knew there was no point in arguing—Dudley always came out of these situations unscathed.
"A book? Let me see it." Mrs. Proctor held out her hand, and Harry reluctantly handed over the battered copy of The Tale of Culhwch and Olwen.
She glanced at the book with mild disdain, flipping through the pages briefly before snapping it shut. "This isn't part of the assigned reading, Harry. You should be paying attention to the lesson, not daydreaming about knights and... boars."
The class snickered at her words, and Harry sank lower in his seat.
"I'll be holding onto this until the end of the day," Mrs. Proctor declared, tucking the book under her arm. Dudley smirked triumphantly, leaning back in his chair as though he'd just won a prize.
Harry's hands clenched into fists under the desk, his nails digging into his palms. It wasn't fair. Dudley had started it, but he got off without so much as a scolding. Meanwhile, Harry was left humiliated, his precious book confiscated.
He glared at the desk in front of him, his anger bubbling inside him like a boiling kettle. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair—
A sharp gasp brought his attention back to the teacher. Mrs. Proctor had just lifted her glass of water to her lips, but instead of sipping, the stream of water splashed forward unexpectedly, spraying her face.
She gagged and coughed, nearly dropping the glass in her surprise. "What on earth—?!"
The classroom erupted into laughter. Even Dudley guffawed, though he clearly had no idea what had just happened.
Harry froze, his eyes wide. His heart pounded as he stared at Mrs. Proctor, who was dabbing at her face with a tissue, looking utterly bewildered.
Did I do that?he thought, panic and wonder mixing in equal measure. He clenched his fists tighter, forcing himself to stay calm and not draw attention to himself.
He kept his head down for the rest of the class, his thoughts racing.
xXx
Harry's Lair - Little Whinging
June 7th of 1991. 5: 30 PM...
The first day of summer had arrived, but for Harry, it wasn't something to celebrate. It simply marked the start of long, sweltering months filled with even more chores and Dudley's relentless torment.
The Dursleys, of course, had wasted no time assigning him a list of tasks that felt as endless as the summer itself. That morning, Harry had scrubbed the kitchen floor until his knees ached, trimmed the hedges in the blazing sun, and painstakingly polished Vernon's car while listening to Dudley brag about his birthday party plans.
Finally, after finishing the last of the day's chores, Harry slipped out of the house with his bag slung over his shoulder. Petunia had been too busy fawning over Dudley to notice him leaving, which suited Harry just fine.
He walked briskly, passing rows of identical houses as the afternoon sun beat down on the pavement. His destination was the small wooded area near Little Whinging, where his secret refuge awaited.
By the time he reached the treehouse, sweat clung to his back, but he felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he climbed up into the small space. It wasn't much—a rickety structure with a patched-up floor and cobwebs in the corners—but to Harry, it was perfect. It was his.
He settled into his usual spot, pulling out the snacks he had managed to pack: a slightly squished sandwich, a bruised apple, and a small bag of crisps. It wasn't a feast, but it was better than nothing.
As he ate, his eyes wandered to the battered copy of The Tale of Culhwch and Olwenresting beside him. Mrs. Proctor had returned it to him at the end of the day,but not without a sharp lecture about paying attention in class. Harry had nodded dutifully, though inside, he was just relieved to have his book back.
Now, sitting in the quiet of his treehouse, he thought about what had happened that day. The water... Tt had moved. Not just moved, but acted, as if it had listened to him. It wasn't the firstweird magic he had done—he'd somehow shrunk an old sweater once, and years ago, he'd found himself on a rooftop without knowing how he'd gotten there.
That made three things now. Three things he could do but couldn't control.
He sighed, leaning back against the wooden wall. His ability to move objects was the only thing he could do on purpose, and even that took a lot of effort. The rest? They were just flashes, fleeting moments of something he didn't understand.
Still, as he looked out at the trees swaying gently in the breeze, he couldn't help but feel a small sense of accomplishment. The last five years hadn't been easy—not with the Dursleys treating him like dirt—but at least he'd discovered something about himself.
Magic.
The word still felt strange in his mind, like it didn't quite belong to him yet. But he knew it was real. He had seen it, felt it.
And someday, he thought, watching the sunlight filter through the leaves, he was going to understand it. Someday, he was going to be more than just Harry, the boy in the cupboard. Someday, he was going to be something more.
Harry ran his fingers over the worn cover of the book, tracing the faded letters as he leaned against the wall of the treehouse. The Tale of Culhwch and Olwenhad become one of his favorites, even if the strange names often tangled his tongue and the old-fashioned words made his head ache. It wasn't just a story—it was a link to something bigger, something that felt distant yet tantalizingly close.
If magic was real—and Harry was sure now that it was—then maybe the things he'd read about were real too. Arthur and his knights. Merlin, the greatest wizard to ever live. Even Morgana, who still made him shiver.
The idea thrilled him. Somewhere out there, hidden in the folds of Britain, there could be remnants of those legends. Maybe Tintagel Castle wasn't just a crumbling ruin on the cliffs of Cornwall. Maybe there was still magic lingering in Wales, where the stories said it all began.
Harry's mind raced with possibilities. For years, he had felt so alone, so isolated in the Dursleys' suffocating world. But if magic existed, if those stories held even a sliver of truth, then maybe he wasn't as alone as he thought.
He reached into the small tin box he kept hidden under one of the loose floorboards, pulling out a handful of coins. They clinked softly as he turned them over in his palm. It wasn't much—just a few pounds he had earned from his secret vending machine deals—but he was saving it for something important.
One day, he thought, he was going to leave Privet Drive. Not just for a day, not just to escape to his treehouse, but for good.
He could almost picture it: standing on the edge of the cliffs of Cornwall, the wind whipping through his hair as he gazed out at the sea where Arthur's knights might have sailed. Or walking through the rolling green hills of Wales, looking for ancient stone circles or forgotten caves where magic might still hum in the air.
Even Scotland tempted him. He'd read that its highlands were wild and beautiful, full of misty mountains and deep lochs. Maybe there were secrets there too, waiting to be uncovered.
Harry's heart quickened as the images filled his mind. The thought of leaving Little Whinging, of leaving the Dursleys behind forever, felt like a distant dream—but not an impossible one.
He clenched the coins tightly in his hand, a small smile tugging at his lips. Someday, he would see those places. Someday, he would follow the trail of magic and legends to wherever it led.
Someday, he would be free.
The treehouse creaked softly as Harry shifted his position, stretching out his legs. Outside, the breeze picked up, rustling the leaves in a gentle whisper. It swirled around him, cool against his sunburned cheeks and the back of his neck, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him. The air smelled faintly of pine and earth, clean and alive, so different from the stale, oppressive atmosphere of Privet Drive.
As the breeze danced around him, it lifted the unruly locks of his hair, brushing them back from his forehead. Harry felt the wind curl and settle, almost like a friendly hand ruffling his hair, before it stilled again, leaving only the distant rustle of the trees.
He opened his eyes,his thoughts were far away, lost in the dreams he had sketched out for himself. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he gazed out at the swaying treetops. The sunlight caught on the glass of a distant window, a glimmer that felt like a sign, even if he didn't know what it meant.
"I'll find more," He murmured to the quiet woods, his voice steady, resolute. A small, lopsided smile played on his lips. "Magic is out there. I know it is. And one day…"
He paused, the words hanging in the air like a promise.
"One day, I'll find it."
The breeze stirred again, as if in agreement, before fading into the stillness of the summer afternoon.
A/N: Hello, everyone! I'm Yima, and while this might look like my introduction to the Harry Potter fandom, the truth is that I've actually been here for quite some time. Nearly fourteen years to be precise—though during that time, I've mostly been a reader rather than a writer. I never thought I'd come back to writing in this fandom, but with the upcoming Harry Potter TV series reboot on the horizon, I felt now was the perfect moment to dive back in.
What you've just read is the prologue to what I hope will be an ambitious project: an attempt to develop Harry's character across all seven years at Hogwarts, however with many, many twists. Starting with the next chapter, you'll begin to see what sets this world apart. I can only say for now that while I maaaaaay play with some troopes beloved by the Fandom, you should also expect me to distort them one way or another.
I'm excited to see if this story sparks enough interest for me to share the next chapter soon—it's nearly finished, so it won't be too long!
With that, I'll leave you for now. I hope you enjoy this journey as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
—Yima