Chapter 1: The man with the Silver Hair

[4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging]
[July 1988]

Number four, Privet Drive was currently caught in a Hailstorm.

Harry sat at the edge of the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, eyes focused on the floor. The usual knot of frustration and hopelessness tightened in his chest as Uncle Vernon's words droned on. He had learned to tune it out, for the most part. It was the only way to survive here. Yet tonight, something felt different. There was a weight in the air, something far heavier than his uncle's usual tirade.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the front door. A loud, echoing sound that cut through the rainstorm.

Uncle Vernon paused mid-rant, his face scrunching in irritation. "Who is here at this hour?" he muttered angrily, stomping toward the door.

Vernon yanked open the door, the gust of wind and rain blowing in across the threshold. Uncle Vernon opened his mouth- no doubt, going to yell his throat sore at the newcomer. And then Harry heard it—the voice. Low and cold, with a sharp edge.

"Mind your tongue, if you want to keep it."

There was a thud, followed by a strangled sound. Harry glanced up just in time to see Uncle Vernon stumble backward, his face as pale as chalk. A tall figure in a dark, rain-soaked cloak stepped through the doorway, filling the narrow hall with an eerie, commanding presence.

The man didn't seem bothered by the rain. His silver hair clung to his sharp, angular face, water dripping from his brow. His eyes, an unnatural shade of blue, flickered over to Harry, pinning him to his chair.

"I've heard a lot about you," the man said, his voice strangely calm despite the storm raging outside. "I've been observing you for a while now, and it's a pleasure to meet you at last."

Uncle Vernon, trembling now, scrambled back on his heels, unable to speak. The man's gaze never wavered from Harry.

Harry felt his throat tighten. "Who... who are you?" he managed to croak out, his heart pounding.

The stranger's expression softened ever so slightly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He took a step closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.

"You don't know me, Potter. But I know you. I've known about you for a while now. The world you come from, the world they've tried to keep hidden from you, your birthright that they've kept from you. I know it all."

Harry blinked, confusion clouding his mind. "What... what are you talking about?"

The man crouched down, now at eye level with Harry. His face was shadowed, yet there was something familiar about his intensity, something unsettling. He extended his hand slowly, the motion deliberate, as if testing Harry's reaction.

"My name is Gellert Grindelwald."

The air seemed to leave the room. The name felt heavy, like it was soaked in history, in darkness it was as if, the world itself recognized how significant the man was. But for Harry, it was just a name—strange, unfamiliar, yet oddly significant.

"I've come to offer you something, Potter. A chance to learn about the power that runs through your veins. A chance to know your heritage."

Behind him, Uncle Vernon sputtered, finally finding his voice. "Get out of my house! You—you freak! I'll call the police!"

Grindelwald didn't even glance back. "The police won't help you. I would like to see anyone try," he said, his tone calm but full of menace. "This is a matter far beyond their reach or comprehension."

Harry's heart raced. He could feel something shifting, like the air around them was charged with electricity. The man—Grindelwald—turned his gaze back to him, and Harry couldn't look away.

"You've been lied to, Potter," Grindelwald continued, a hint of aggression in his soft and calm voice now, almost gentle. "There is power inside you. Power you haven't even begun to tap into. The people you live with," he gestured dismissively to the Dursleys, "they fear you because they can never understand it."

Harry swallowed hard, the room spinning slightly. This couldn't be happening. This man, this stranger, spoke as if he knew Harry's deepest thoughts, his secret wishes, the dreams he had never dared to voice. The Dursleys had always treated him like something dangerous—something they wanted to crush. And now, here was a man confirming what Harry had always suspected.

"They've tried to keep you small, Potter," Grindelwald said softly. "But you're not small. You're one of us. And it's time you learned what that really means."

Harry felt like he was at the edge of a cliff, the words pulling him closer to the edge, to something unknown. The man's eyes glinted with something that felt like truth, but Harry could sense an undercurrent of something darker, something more dangerous.

"I don't even know who you are," Harry whispered, trying to find solid ground in the storm of words.

Grindelwald's smile grew, cold but patient. "In time, you will. I'll be watching over you, Potter. When you're ready, I'll find you again. Until then, remember this: the power inside you is yours alone. Don't let anyone take that from you."

With a final glance at Uncle Vernon, who was still trembling in the corner, Grindelwald turned and disappeared with a crack, and a white light radiating from where he was a moment ago. The rain and wind howled through the hall, but Harry sat frozen, his mind reeling.

'Happy Birthday, Harry,' he murmured to himself.

[END OF RECORD-073188]