Hey,

This is a new story, but I want to give a warning first. It's a harem-type story. Yes, Harry will eventually have a harem, officially formed with at least 13 witches. To make that happen, I'm tweaking the world a bit. Statistically, among magic users, there's one boy born for every thirteen girls, and I've also decided to adjust Hogwarts slightly so it has more of a "feminine" touch.

The story itself is more of a slow burn, so expect the first erotic scene at around the 100k-word mark. Overall, the story is planned to be between 300k and 600k words.
If you'd like early access to upcoming chapters and exclusive stories, check out my .
pa treon .com(slash)lovelab (remove the space)
Enjoy the read!
Wake up, Harry.

"Harry, get up! We haven't got all day, boy," barked Uncle Vernon through the crack in the bedroom door.
The second voice, though, sounded oddly younger—a childish lilt that didn't quite fit Uncle Vernon's usual gruffness. Harry paused, blinking against the early morning light seeping in through the curtains of his cramped bedroom. He'd never heard a girl's voice in the Dursley house—certainly not one so high and sweet. Aunt Petunia tolerated almost no visitors, especially not on a weekday morning, and Dudley wouldn't deign to speak to Harry unless it was to insult him.
He rolled over, half-remembering that moment when the voice insisted he wake up, as though it had been echoing in his mind all night. He felt leaden, exhausted in a way that didn't make sense for an otherwise healthy, if slightly underfed, eighteen-year-old. He chalked it up to restless dreaming again.
"Come on, boy!" Uncle Vernon barked. He was standing in the doorway, arms folded tightly over his massive belly. "Your aunt's nearly done with breakfast, and you know we won't be waiting around for you."
Harry swung his feet to the floor and stretched. His old mattress creaked under his weight. He was definitely too tall for this cramped bed, his ankles sometimes hanging off the edge. Once upon a time, the Dursleys had relegated him to the cupboard under the stairs. Now he at least had a tiny bedroom, but comfort was clearly not their priority.
"Sorry, Uncle Vernon," Harry mumbled, raking a hand through his unruly hair. It was getting quite long—his dark locks now spilled down near his shoulders, and Aunt Petunia had only grown more shrill about it. He half-expected she'd chase him around with scissors soon enough. "I'm coming. Just… who was that little girl talking earlier?"
Uncle Vernon's meaty face turned blotchy. "Little girl? What nonsense are you on about, boy? You think I sound like a little girl?"
Harry immediately shook his head. "No—no, I just… I must've been dreaming."
Uncle Vernon harrumphed, clearly offended by the suggestion that his booming voice could be mistaken for a child's. "Hurry up, then. Eat your breakfast and—well, it's your birthday, isn't it? Eighteen… So you'll be off soon, is that right?" His upper lip curled, as if the very mention of Harry's birthday set his nerves on edge.
Harry nodded and said nothing. It hurt, but it wasn't surprising. After all, the Dursleys had never pretended to like him. If anything, Uncle Vernon probably couldn't wait to have him out of the house—no more having to feed him, no more dealing with Harry's presence, no more mysterious incidents that neither side could properly explain. Perhaps today was the day they'd finally shove him out the door for good.
Still feeling that strange fuzziness in his head—memories of a small girl's voice urging him to wake—Harry told himself it had to be some leftover dream. He couldn't remember the details, only the feeling: it was almost like someone had been… inside his mind.
He pulled on a shirt and jeans, rummaging through the few things he owned. His clothes were all secondhand castoffs or things Aunt Petunia forced on him. He stuffed an old jacket into the tattered bag he'd set on the floor. Everything he had in the world could fit in there—some clothes, a battered photo album, and random odds and ends he'd kept secret from prying eyes. A wand he'd once found in the attic (just a plastic toy, he assumed) was tucked away in his sock drawer. Sometimes, in private moments, he'd hold it in his hand and feel a peculiar tingle, as if it should be doing something… more. But that was nonsense. Magic wasn't real—he was just tired of his dull, oppressive life here.
Uncle Vernon cleared his throat from the doorway. "Hurry along, then."
Harry threw on his shoes and followed. Downstairs, the smell of eggs, toast, and bacon wafted from the kitchen. Aunt Petunia had her back to him, wearing a prim floral apron, methodically plating breakfast. Dudley—bloated as ever—shoveled food into his mouth, barely sparing Harry a glance. There was no seat set for Harry at the table, so he hovered by the counter until Aunt Petunia dropped a single slice of toast onto a small plate and shoved it at him.
"You should be grateful," she said curtly, "that we even bother feeding you on your last day here."
Harry took the meager breakfast, feeling the pang in his stomach. He usually tried to eat as much as he could while the Dursleys weren't looking, but there was rarely a chance to fill up.
"You know," Aunt Petunia said, flicking her eyes at him, "we won't have any more of this nonsense today. You're leaving, aren't you? That dreadful social worker woman—whatever her name was—said something about your eighteenth birthday meaning they won't be sending more money. We certainly won't be giving you handouts, boy."
Harry set his plate on the counter. "I understand."
"Good. Make sure you take your things and go," she said, lips thinning. "Vernon needs the space for his office supplies… or something. We certainly have no room for strays."
Harry just nodded. He'd never felt so unwelcome in his life—and that was saying something. "Yes, Aunt Petunia."
Uncle Vernon muttered something about Harry's "freakishness" under his breath. Dudley let out a noisy belch.
Harry finished the dry toast in a couple of bites. He saw a brown envelope on the edge of the counter—some official-looking documents. Aunt Petunia curled her nose as if even touching them offended her.
"They left these for you," she said, sliding the envelope toward him with one finger, like it was contaminated. "Your birth certificate, apparently. Whatever that's worth. Maybe it'll help you find a job so you're not a complete drain on society."
She didn't hide her disdain. Harry took the envelope, trying to keep himself from shaking in anger. He wanted more from life than this. The coil of longing he sometimes felt—like there was another world out there, bigger and more magical—tightened in his chest. But for now, all he could do was nod politely, swallow his pride, and accept the envelope.
"Thank you," he muttered.
Aunt Petunia sniffed, turning back to the dishes. Uncle Vernon folded his arms. "Have you… found anywhere to go, boy?" he asked, voice edged with contempt.
Harry just shrugged. "I'll manage."
He looked out through the window, across the neat gardens of Privet Drive. Beyond the hedges and clipped lawns, somewhere out there was a future he wanted to build for himself. A place where he might meet someone, fall in love, and experience passion—real, breathtaking passion that he'd only fantasized about in those lonely nights. Sometimes, in the deep hush of midnight, he'd touched himself under the covers, imagining a warm body pressed to his… the rush of desire that flooded him when he pictured someone's hands roaming over his bare skin. Those heated thoughts sustained him through the gloom. He was eighteen now, an adult, craving more than the Dursleys' stifling house.
As if on cue, that phantom voice brushed his consciousness again—a whisper of a girl urging him to wake up. He nearly shuddered at the strangeness of it, half-expecting to see some young witch in the corner. But there was no one, just the Dursleys scowling at him. He brushed it off.
"I'll be… finishing up in my room," he said. "Then I'll go."
Uncle Vernon gave a stiff nod, and Harry retreated upstairs
He threw his last few possessions into the bag. There were exactly seven sets of clothes: enough for one week of meager living, if he could even manage that. He found the plastic wand again, held it lightly between his fingers, then tucked it inside the bag. Maybe it was silly, but some part of him believed it was more than a toy. The faint tingling he felt in his palm whenever he held it still unsettled him. He put it away, resolving not to think about that now. He took one more look around the tiny bedroom. The walls were bare, the bed still unmade, the entire space devoid of warmth. He wasn't sure there was anything left here worth remembering. With a sigh, he headed back down. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were still in the kitchen, presumably cleaning up, while Dudley had trundled off to the living room. On the table was a small brown bag—two sandwiches inside, from the look of it. Aunt Petunia didn't make eye contact as she shoved it in Harry's direction.
"I suppose you'll need these," she said briskly. "Don't come begging for more."
Harry nodded his thanks, but she turned away before he could utter a word. In truth, he felt a flutter of relief. They weren't kicking him out with nothing. It was meager charity, but it was something.
He stepped toward the front door, feeling his heart thrum with anticipation and a trickle of fear. Once he left, it was final. He was out—an adult with no family and no place to call home. And yet, a quiet thrill moved through him. At night, he had dreamed of romance: of meeting someone who would care for him, admire him, maybe press hungry kisses to his lips, run fingers through his messy hair… and more. He felt the stirring of that arousal in his body even now, remembering nights when he'd closed his eyes and imagined the heat of another's flesh, the rush of passion that made his blood sing, the warm, sticky release he sometimes coaxed from himself—sperm coating his trembling hand as he stifled moans so the Dursleys wouldn't hear.
"Right… well, bye," he mumbled.
He looked around the small bedroom for the last time. The place had never been his, but it was all he'd known for these last five years—since the Dursleys finally let him out of the cupboard under the stairs. Pulling up the trunk's handle, he clattered back downstairs.

"All packed?" Aunt Petunia asked crisply from the kitchen.

Harry set the trunk near the door. "Yes. Everything's here." He drew out the house key from his pocket—Dudley's old spare—and placed it carefully on the counter. Aunt Petunia eyed it, lips thinning.

She cleared her throat and awkwardly opened her arms. Harry blinked in surprise, but allowed her to give him a brief, stiff hug. She released him almost immediately and patted his shoulder, uncomfortably formal. "Well, you'll be alright, I expect," she said. "The world's not waiting around for you, boy, so get on with it."

Harry gave a tiny nod. "Thanks… for everything," he managed. It wasn't entirely sarcastic—despite their coldness, they had put a roof over his head and food on the table. Of sorts.

"Do you know where… Hermione is?" he asked suddenly. Hermione was a neighborhood friend, not unlike him—a stray in many ways, drifting around the edge of the Dursleys' perfect lawns. He'd met her not long after settling into this bedroom. She was one of the few who treated him like a real person and not some burden to be shouldered.

Aunt Petunia sniffed. "She's loitering about outside, I think," she said, as if the girl were a stray cat.
Aunt Petunia pursed her lips as she extended a small paper bag toward Harry. "She's out front—Hermione, that odd girl from next door," she said stiffly. "And here's a couple of sandwiches. We're not a charity, mind you, but… well, keep in touch if you must." She sounded as though those words left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Harry nodded, accepting the bag. "Thanks," he said quietly. He couldn't help noticing how Aunt Petunia's tone matched that wisp of suspicion that often colored the Dursleys' voices. He'd seen plenty of people leave the Dursleys' orbit with these same vacant well-wishes, but rarely had any of them stayed in contact. He supposed that suited Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia just fine—less fuss, less expense, less Harry.

Still, Harry hoped he could keep in touch with Hermione, if nothing else. She was another "babydrop-lifer" in her own way—an orphan rumored to have been left on a doorstep just like him. She lived with her aunt in a rickety house down the lane, also in Little Whinging, but seemed to drift in and out of the Dursleys' household at odd times, like a stray cat. He'd known her nearly as long as he could remember, and she'd quickly become like a little sister—annoying and demanding, sure, but loyal in ways few others had been in his life.

They even looked a bit alike, at least enough for neighbors to ask occasionally if they were siblings. Her hair was a naturally soft brown that she'd been known to dye in streaks of blonde, and her eyes were warm and brown like his. She was short and feisty, while Harry—tall and lanky—tried to hide the fact that he didn't quite fit in this pristine suburban world.

He stepped outside, letting the front door close behind him. Hermione was perched on the low steps, fiddling with something in her hands, her battered leather jacket slung over the railing. She glanced up when Harry approached, lips quirking in a half-smile.

"Hey, you," he said softly, easing himself down beside her.

"Hey."

Hermione often tried to pass herself off as a tough girl—she wore ripped thrift-store jeans, boots, and that scuffed leather jacket no matter the weather. She even sported fingerless gloves, though Harry never understood why. He figured it was mostly an attempt to keep up a certain façade. Underneath, she had gentle eyes and a slightly upturned nose that made her look far more vulnerable than she wanted to admit.

"You're leaving?" she asked, elbows braced on her knees. She stared at her shoes, not meeting his eyes.

"Yeah, Aunt Petunia wants me out. Says I'm old enough to fend for myself," Harry replied. "I've got to find somewhere to stay and maybe get some work. Otherwise Uncle Vernon'll start acting like I'm a squatter."

Hermione let out a quiet snort. "Gotta love the Dursleys," she muttered. Then she caught herself and rolled her eyes. "Sorry, I know you've had it worse than me."

Harry gave a wry grin. "It's alright. They're ready to be rid of me, that's all. And from what I hear, they want things quiet around here, so… yeah."

She huffed. "Great. So you're off into the big wide world." Her voice was droll, but Harry could sense the tension behind it. She reached out and bumped her shoulder against his.

"You'll be alright," he told her, nudging back.

"Yeah, and you too."

Their bare arms brushed, and Harry felt that now-familiar buzz skitter across his skin, as though a low electrical current sparked whenever he touched someone. It had started about six months ago—random tingles that spread like a gentle pulse under his flesh. The Dursleys had sent him to a local GP once, worried he might cost them money if he had some major health problem. The doctors hadn't found anything. Harry still wondered if there was more to it, like it was some… hidden power. Maybe it was just nerves. Either way, the sensation slid over his body now, a pleasant warmth that loosened the tension in his shoulders.

Not that he'd ever dare mention it to Uncle Vernon, who already grumbled about "strange happenings" and "funny business."

"You still feel that weird buzzing?" Hermione asked, noticing him rub at his arm.

Harry nodded, brow furrowing. "Yeah. Wish I knew what it was."

A shadow passed over them as a cloud slid in front of the sun, and Harry shivered at the sudden chill. A moment later, the neighbor's cat, Nagini, dropped into his lap with a soft thump. She began to purr, kneading her paws against Harry's thigh.

Hermione gave a small smile. "Looks like Nagini's gonna miss you."

"Yeah," Harry murmured. "I'll miss her, too."

He stroked the cat's glossy black-and-white fur, feeling Nagini arch contentedly into his touch. The bell on her collar jangled, and she shifted around to find the perfect position. Over the years, Nagini had become a kind of confidante for Harry—someone he could talk to without fear. There were certain things he couldn't discuss even with Hermione, especially once he'd started having those private, heated fantasies at night… imagining a lover's hands on him, the rush of wet heat, the sticky spill of his own sperm when he lost himself in pleasure, quieting his moans so the Dursleys wouldn't bang on the wall.

Nagini, though, never judged. She just listened and purred.

Hermione swallowed hard. Her gaze dropped to her feet again. "I'm gonna miss you, too," she whispered.

Harry gave a playful smirk, trying to lighten the mood. "You, boogerface?"

She scowled. "Don't call me that! I was twelve when that happened!"

He chuckled. "You wiped boogers all over your cheeks on a dare—"

"That you suggested!" she fired back, jabbing a finger into his side.

Harry shrugged, still smiling. "Can't help it if it stuck. Might've been snot, but the name stuck, too."

Hermione stuck her tongue out, then looked away again, expression turning serious. "What about me?" she asked softly.

"What do you mean?"

"When I turn eighteen next year… are you really gonna help me find a place? Or will you be too busy doing your own thing?"

She sounded so unsure, as if the whole world might forget her. The truth was, that happened often around here—people left, promised to keep in touch, but never did. Harry had seen it more times than he cared to remember.

"I won't forget," he said firmly. Another shiver ran through him, that tingle flickering beneath his skin. He thought again of that cheap plastic wand tucked in his bag upstairs. Sometimes, when the tingles were strongest, he had the strange urge to wave that pretend wand around—pure nonsense, he told himself, but the thought persisted.

Hermione rubbed at her arms, as though feeling the same sudden chill. "But… a whole year? Anything could happen. You could meet somebody, fall head over heels… Maybe she wouldn't want me around."

Harry resisted the urge to blush. He could imagine meeting someone—someone who'd kiss him breathless, whisper filthy, exhilarating promises in his ear. The idea thrilled him, a deep ache coiling in his belly as he remembered the nights he spent imagining warm bodies and urgent hands. But still, the thought of abandoning Hermione wasn't an option.

He gently set Nagini aside, the cat hopping off his lap and jingling away into the garden. Then he turned back to Hermione. "I promise," he said, extending his pinky.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, that's so childish."

"Pinky swear," Harry insisted, dead serious.

She hesitated, then locked her little finger around his. "Fine. Pinky swear."

"A year and a day from now," Harry said quietly. "I'll come find you, no matter what. You can stay with me if you want. We'll figure things out."

She squeezed his pinky, then let go, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The sun finally broke from behind the clouds, bathing them once more in warm light. For a moment, they just sat there together on the steps, listening to the soft rustle of the breeze.

Harry felt a tiny spark of hope. He had practically nothing—no money, no place to call home, the Dursleys' scorn at his back—but he had this promise, and it made something in his chest feel less hollow. Even if the future was unclear, at least he wasn't entirely alone.

With that, the two of them stood, Hermione shrugging on her leather jacket. Harry clutched his paper bag of sandwiches, shoulders set. He might not have known how to cast a real spell or harness the tingling magic that prickled under his skin—he still told himself it was probably just nerves—but he had determination, and that would have to be enough for now.

He glanced back at the door. No sign of Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon. It was just as well. They'd probably slam it in his face if he turned back.

Clearing his throat, Harry took one final look at Hermione. "See you soon," he said, voice quiet.

She nodded. "Yeah… see you soon."

They parted ways at the edge of the Dursleys' hedgerow. Harry clutched his bag, heart hammering with an equal mix of fear and anticipation. He couldn't say exactly what lay ahead—only that he felt that strange energy buzzing through him, like something powerful and unexplored just waiting to break free. And for the first time, he dared to hope it might open doors he never even knew existed.

Thank you for reading! If you want to read chapters 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21 right now and discover even more stories, join me on . Your support helps me bring you even more magical adventures!
pa treon .com(slash)lovelab (remove the space)