The lawnmower droned beneath Harry's hands as he pushed it across the Dursleys' meticulously manicured lawn. Sweat trickled down his brow, and he paused to wipe it away with the back of his hand. Through the open window, he could hear the frenetic beeping of Dudley's latest video game.
"Boy!" Aunt Petunia's shrill voice cut through the air. "Don't forget to trim around the flowerbeds when you're done!"
Harry sighed. "Yes, Aunt Petunia," he called back, forcing his voice to remain neutral.
As he resumed mowing, Harry's mind wandered. The repetitive task allowed his thoughts to drift, as they often did, to a world beyond Privet Drive. What lay out there, beyond the neat rows of identical houses and perfectly trimmed hedges?
The sound of the back door opening startled him from his reverie. Uncle Vernon's bulky frame filled the doorway.
"When you're finished with the lawn," he barked, "I want you to clean the gutters. And mind you don't make a mess!"
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry replied automatically, his shoulders slumping slightly.
As his uncle waddled back inside, Harry's gaze drifted to the sky. A plane soared overhead, leaving a white trail in its wake. Where was it going? What would it be like to be on it, flying away from here?
The daydream was short-lived as the lawnmower sputtered, reminding Harry of his task. He pushed on, the smell of freshly cut grass filling his nostrils. It was a pleasant scent, but today it only served to remind him of his confinement.
"I wonder what it's like," he murmured to himself, "to wake up and decide your own day. To explore, to learn, to... just be."
As he finished the lawn and moved on to the flowerbeds, Harry's mind continued to wander. He imagined himself walking down unfamiliar streets, meeting new people, discovering... something. Anything different from the monotony of Privet Drive.
The sun beat down on his back as he worked, a constant reminder of the long day ahead. Yet even as he resigned himself to his chores, a small part of Harry refused to let go of that spark of curiosity, that hunger for something more.
Harry wiped the sweat from his brow, his hands smudged with dirt from tending to Aunt Petunia's prized roses. As he stood up, stretching his back, he caught sight of his neighbor, Mrs. Figg, struggling with her groceries.
"Need a hand, Mrs. Figg?" Harry called out, grateful for any excuse to take a break.
The old woman smiled warmly. "Oh, Harry, dear. That would be lovely, thank you."
As Harry helped her unload her car, Mrs. Figg chatted amiably. "How are you getting on at school, dear? I hear you're quite the bright spark."
Harry shrugged, a hint of pride creeping into his voice despite his attempt at modesty. "I do alright, I suppose. The teachers seem to think I'm smart."
"And what do the Dursleys think of that?" Mrs. Figg asked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.
Harry's face fell slightly. "They don't really care, to be honest. As long as I'm not causing trouble, they're not bothered."
Mrs. Figg clucked sympathetically. "Well, I think it's wonderful. What subjects do you enjoy most?"
A genuine smile lit up Harry's face. "Oh, maths and science, definitely. There's something about the logic of it all, you know? How everything fits together like a puzzle. And the experiments in science class – they're brilliant. It's like magic, really, seeing how things work."
Mrs. Figg's eyebrows rose slightly at the word 'magic', but Harry didn't notice, lost in his enthusiasm.
"Did you know," he continued, eyes shining, "that there are more stars in the universe than grains of sand on all the beaches on Earth? It's mind-boggling, isn't it? Makes you wonder what else is out there, waiting to be discovered."
As they finished unloading the groceries, Harry's thoughts drifted to his latest science project. "I've been working on this experiment about plant growth. It's fascinating how different conditions affect..."
He trailed off, suddenly aware of how long he'd been talking. "Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble on."
Mrs. Figg patted his arm affectionately. "Not at all, dear. It's wonderful to see such curiosity. You keep that spark alive, Harry. Who knows where it might lead you?"
As Harry walked back to the Dursleys', he felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the summer heat. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine a future filled with discovery and learning, far beyond the confines of Privet Drive.
Harry's daydreams of scientific discovery were disrupted by an all-too-familiar sight: an unfamiliar car parked in the Dursleys' driveway. It was routine for Uncle Vernon to have guests, but something about this visit felt different. As he neared the house, he noticed the man stepping out of the vehicle was dressed in an unusual manner.
"Blimey," Harry murmured under his breath, his green eyes widening behind his round glasses. The visitor wore a long, flowing robe of deep purple that shimmered slightly in the sunlight—a style not commonly seen in Little Whinging.
Intrigued, Harry quickened his pace, reaching the front door just as Aunt Petunia opened it to receive the oddly-dressed guest.
"Ah, Mr. Shacklebolt," Petunia greeted, her voice unnaturally high and strained. "Do come in. Vernon's just in the living room."
As Harry slipped inside behind the visitor, he couldn't help but notice Aunt Petunia's eyes flickering nervously between the man and himself.
"And this must be young Harry," the man said, his deep voice warm and friendly as he turned to face the boy.
Harry nodded, unsure of what to say. Visitors like this appeared every six months or so, always dressed in either these strange robes or in formal attire that seemed decades out of date. However, this was the first time this man called Kingsley was the one to make the visit.
"Yes, yes," Aunt Petunia interrupted hurriedly. "Harry, go to your room. Mr. Shacklebolt is here to speak with your uncle and me."
As Harry trudged up the stairs, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. These peculiar visitors always asked to talk to him, never Dudley. It made no sense. Why would they be interested in him and not his cousin?
From his small room, Harry could hear muffled voices downstairs. He pressed his ear against the floor, straining to catch any words, but they remained frustratingly indistinct.
"What are they talking about?" he wondered aloud, his mind racing with possibilities. "And why do they always want to see me?"
The mystery of these visits had plagued Harry for years. Each time, he was called down for a brief conversation that felt more like an inspection. The visitors would ask him odd questions about his life, his health, his happiness. It all seemed so... official, yet utterly bizarre.
As the muffled conversation continued downstairs, Harry flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. "There's got to be more to this," he mused, his analytical mind trying to piece together the puzzle. "But what?"
The sound of footsteps on the stairs jolted Harry from his thoughts. He sat up quickly, heart racing with anticipation and a touch of anxiety. What new questions would this strange, robed visitor have for him this time?
A gentle knock sounded on Harry's door. "Come in," he called, straightening his oversized hand-me-down shirt.
The door swung open, and standing in the threshold was a tall, dark-skinned man with a cleanly shaven head. He sported a single gold hoop earring that caught the light as he stepped into the room. Clad in flowing purple robes that billowed around him, he carried himself with an aura of quiet authority that seemed to command the space effortlessly.
"Hello, Harry," the man said, his deep voice warm and reassuring. "I'm here to have a little chat with you. May I sit?" He gestured to Harry's desk chair.
Harry nodded, studying the stranger intently. "Of course, sir. But... who are you exactly?"
The man's warm smile greeted Harry as he settled comfortably into the chair. "I'm here to check in on you, Harry," he began, flipping open a worn notebook and clicking his pen. "So, how have things been going for you lately?" Harry furrowed his brow thoughtfully. He was familiar with these visits, the routine questions, and the official air that surrounded them. However, what puzzled him were the social worker's peculiar attire and the air of secrecy that lingered around their interactions. Choosing his words carefully, Harry responded, "I'm... alright, I suppose. Just the usual."
"And how would you describe 'always', Harry?" the man probed gently.
Harry's mind raced. Should he mention the chores? Dudley's bullying? He settled for a half-truth. "It's... okay. I do my part around the house. I go to school. Nothing special, really."
The man nodded, jotting something in his notebook. "I see. And your aunt and uncle, how do they treat you?"
The social worker's pen paused mid-sentence, his gaze softening. "Harry, it's important for you to feel safe and loved in your home," he said gently.
Harry shrugged, not sure how to respond. He had never really thought about it before. Growing up with the Dursleys, he had learned to push down any feelings of loneliness or longing for affection. It was just how things were.
But as the man's kind eyes continued to study him, Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness in his chest. "I guess I don't really feel either," he admitted quietly.
The social worker nodded sympathetically. "That must be difficult for you," he said. "Do you have anyone else in your life who makes you feel safe and loved? A friend or a teacher perhaps?"
Harry shook his head, feeling a pang of envy towards those who did have someone like that in their lives. He had always been on his own, an outsider at school and invisible at home.
The man leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "Well Harry," he began kindly, "everyone deserves to have people who care for them and make them feel valued."
Harry couldn't help but scoff slightly at that statement. It seemed impossible for him to even imagine having such people in his life.
"But I do want you to know," the man continued firmly, locking eyes with Harry once again, "that there are people out there who care about you and want what's best for you."
Harry felt a flicker of hope ignite inside him at those words. Maybe there was more out there for him than just the Dursleys' suffocating grip on his life.
"Thank... Thank you," Harry mumbled, feeling grateful yet unsure of what this meant for him.
The social worker smiled warmly at him before closing his notebook and standing up from the chair. "Take care, Harry," he said.
Later that evening Harry sat cross-legged on his bed, palms outstretched. With a subtle flick of his wrist, the scattered pencils on his desk began to rise, hovering inches above the surface. A small smile tugged at his lips as he guided them through the air, arranging them neatly in a row.
"Brilliant," he murmured, his green eyes gleaming with pride. He glanced towards the closed door, listening for any sign of the Dursleys. Satisfied with the silence, he turned his attention to a dusty shelf.
With a gentle wave of his hand, the layer of grime seemed to lift off the wood, dissipating into nothingness. Harry's grin widened. "Much better."
He leaned back, lost in thought. It had taken months of careful practice to refine these abilities, slowly introducing them into his daily chores. At first, he'd only dared use them when he was absolutely certain he was alone. A quick dust-banishing here, a bit of telekinetic dish-stacking there.
"You're getting sloppy, boy!" Uncle Vernon's voice boomed in his memory. "How'd you manage to clean the entire living room in ten minutes?"
Harry's stomach had dropped. "I... I'm just getting faster, Uncle Vernon," he'd stammered.
His uncle had narrowed his eyes suspiciously but couldn't find fault with the impeccable results.
A car horn blared outside, jolting Harry from his reverie. His mind drifted back to that first, startling discovery of his abilities. He'd been nine, cowering in the school playground as Dudley and his gang closed in...
The memory washed over him, vivid and intense. He could feel the rough bark of the tree against his back, smell the damp earth beneath his feet. Dudley's meaty fist was raised, ready to strike.
"Leave me alone!" Harry had cried, squeezing his eyes shut.
A rush of warmth had surged through him, like an electric current. When he opened his eyes, Dudley and his friends were sprawled on the ground, meters away, looking dazed and confused.
Harry blinked, coming back to the present. He flexed his fingers, marveling at the power that flowed through them. "I won't let them hurt me again," he whispered, a mixture of wonder and determination in his voice. "But I can't let anyone know. Not yet."
The warm afternoon sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, casting a golden glow over Harry as he diligently scrubbed the dishes in Aunt Petunia's pristine sink. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Casting a quick glance towards the doorway, he subtly twitched his fingers. A gentle stream of water flowed from the tap, swirling around the plates and glasses with precision, far more effective than his manual washing.
The sound of raised voices drifted through an open door, catching his attention. Harry inched closer, careful to remain out of sight.
"So you found a place like we promised to Dudders for his eleventh birthday!" Aunt Petunia's shrill tone carried clearly.
"You're right, pet," Uncle Vernon rumbled. "Made a reservation at that seaside resort you've been eyeing"
Harry's heart sank. He knew what was coming next.
"Oh, Vernon, that's perfect!" Aunt Petunia squealed. "But what about... you know..." Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. "The boy?"
There was a moment of silence before Uncle Vernon grunted, "We'll leave him with old Figg, as usual. No need to spoil Dudley's big day with his... oddness."
Harry stepped back from the window, a familiar ache settling in his chest. He shouldn't be surprised, he told himself. It was always like this. Still, a small part of him had hoped...
"It's fine," he whispered, more to convince himself than anything. "I prefer cats to Dudley's tantrums anyway."
As he resumed watering, Harry's mind drifted to his own upcoming birthday. He'd be eleven too, not that anyone would celebrate. A bitter laugh escaped him. "Happy birthday to me," he sang under his breath, "Alone again, naturally."
Harry was just finishing up the last of the weeding when Aunt Petunia's shrill voice pierced the air. "Boy! Come here this instant!"
With a sigh, Harry dusted off his hands and made his way into the house. He found Aunt Petunia standing in the kitchen, her lips pursed in their usual expression of disapproval.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia?" Harry asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.
She sniffed, looking down her nose at him. "We're going on holiday for Dudley's birthday. You'll be staying with Mrs. Figg."
Harry nodded, unsurprised. "For how long?"
"Two weeks," she replied curtly. "And don't you dare cause any trouble. Mrs. Figg is doing us a favor by taking you in."
Harry bit back a retort. Instead, he asked, "When do you leave?"
"Tomorrow morning," Aunt Petunia said. "Now go pack your things. And mind you don't forget anything – I won't be leaving a spare key."
As Harry turned to go, a thought struck him. "Aunt Petunia? My birthday is during those two weeks. I was wondering if—"
"If what?" she snapped. "You'll get your usual. Now stop dawdling and pack!"
Harry retreated to his small room, his shoulders slumping. He should have known better than to ask. As he began to gather his meager belongings, he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to have a real birthday celebration, with cake and presents and people who actually cared.
"At least Mrs. Figg's cats seem to like me," he murmured to himself, folding a pair of Dudley's old, oversized jeans. "That's something, I suppose."
Harry trudged down Privet Drive, his worn backpack slung over one shoulder as Aunt Petunia marched briskly ahead. The summer heat shimmered off the pavement, making the short walk to Mrs. Figg's house feel longer than usual.
"Here we are," Aunt Petunia announced, rapping sharply on the door. "Now remember, behave yourself."
The door creaked open, revealing Mrs. Figg's kind, wrinkled face. "Hello, Harry dear," she said warmly. "Come in, come in."
As Harry stepped inside, the familiar scent of cabbage and cat food wafted over him. He wrinkled his nose slightly but managed a polite smile. "Thanks for having me, Mrs. Figg."
Aunt Petunia's lips thinned as she addressed Mrs. Figg. "We appreciate you taking him again. You know how we can't trust him alone in the house, and it's such a bother to bring him along on our outings."
Harry's cheeks burned with embarrassment, but he kept his eyes fixed on the faded carpet.
Mrs. Figg clucked her tongue. "It's no trouble at all. Harry's always welcome here."
As Aunt Petunia rattled off a list of instructions, Harry's mind wandered. This wasn't the first time he'd been left with Mrs. Figg – far from it. Every time the Dursleys had a dinner party, a weekend away, or any sort of family outing, he found himself shipped off to the cabbage-scented house down the street.
"...and make sure he does his chores," Aunt Petunia was saying. "We don't want him getting lazy."
"Oh, I'm sure we'll find plenty to keep him occupied," Mrs. Figg replied, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Won't we, Harry?"
Harry looked up, surprised to be addressed directly. "Er, yes, of course."
As Aunt Petunia finally left, Harry felt a curious mix of relief and apprehension settle over him. Mrs. Figg was kind, certainly, but her house was so... different from what he was used to.
"Well then," Mrs. Figg said, closing the door. "Let's get you settled in, shall we? I've made up the spare room for you."
"Thanks," Harry mumbled, following her up the narrow staircase. He couldn't help but think that even a musty spare room was an improvement over sharing Dudley's cluttered bedroom at the Dursleys'..
"I know it's not much," Mrs. Figg said apologetically as they entered the small bedroom. "But I hope you'll be comfortable here."
Harry looked around, taking in the faded floral wallpaper and the slightly lumpy bed. Despite its shabbiness, the room felt... welcoming. "It's great, Mrs. Figg. Really."
She beamed at him. "I'm glad you think so. Now, how about some tea and biscuits? You must be parched after that walk in the heat."
As they made their way back downstairs, Harry felt a small smile tugging at his lips. It wasn't a perfect situation, but maybe these two weeks wouldn't be so bad after all.
Harry set his small bag down on the bed in the spare room, taking in the faded floral curtains and the slightly musty smell. Despite its worn appearance, the room felt cozy. As he unpacked his meager belongings, a fluffy tabby cat sauntered in, eyeing him curiously.
"Hello there," Harry said softly, reaching out to scratch behind its ears. The cat purred contentedly, then hopped onto the bed, curling up on the patchwork quilt. Harry couldn't help but smile. "I suppose you're my roommate, then?"
As night fell, Harry found himself pleasantly surprised by the warmth of several cats that had decided to join him on the bed. Their soft fur and gentle purring were oddly comforting, a stark contrast to the cold silence of his cupboard at the Dursleys'.
The next morning, Harry woke to the enticing smell of pancakes wafting up the stairs. Confused, he made his way down to the kitchen, where he found Mrs. Figg bustling about, a colorful party hat perched atop her grey hair.
"Happy birthday, Harry!" she exclaimed, beaming at him. "I hope you like pancakes!"
Harry blinked in surprise. "You... you remembered my birthday?"
"Of course, dear. Now sit down and tuck in," Mrs. Figg said, placing a stack of golden pancakes in front of him.
As they ate, Harry couldn't help but feel a warmth spreading through his chest. He was so engrossed in this unexpected celebration that he almost missed the tapping at the window.
Mrs. Figg looked up. "Oh, the post's here," she said casually, getting up to open the window.
Harry's jaw dropped as a large barn owl swooped in, dropping a letter on the table before perching on the back of a chair. Mrs. Figg acted as if this was perfectly normal, even offering the bird a bit of bacon.
"Mrs. Figg," Harry said slowly, his analytical mind racing to make sense of the situation. "Is that... an owl? Delivering mail?"
Mrs. Figg chuckled, unfazed by the awe in Harry's voice. "Yes, it is indeed. And that letter there is for you."
Harry carefully picked up the letter, his fingers trembling with excitement. It was addressed to him, Harry Potter, at Mrs. Figg's address.
Harry stared at the letter on the table, his mind whirling with questions. The thick parchment envelope was addressed in emerald-green ink:
Mr. H. Potter
The Spare Bedroom
4 Wisteria Walk
Little Whinging
Surrey
"Go on, dear," Mrs. Figg encouraged, noticing his hesitation. "It's for you. Open it."
With trembling fingers, Harry broke the purple wax seal bearing an ornate coat of arms. He pulled out the letter and began to read aloud:
"HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress"
Harry looked up, his green eyes wide with disbelief. "Mrs. Figg, is this... is this real?"
Mrs. Figg smiled gently. "Yes, Harry. It's very real. You're a wizard."
"A wizard?" Harry echoed, his analytical mind struggling to process this information. "But that's... that's impossible. Magic isn't real."
"Oh, but it is," Mrs. Figg said, leaning forward. "The wizarding world exists alongside our own, hidden from most people's eyes. Your parents were wizards too, Harry. Very talented ones."
Harry's heart raced. "My parents? They were... like me?"
Mrs. Figg nodded, her eyes twinkling. "Oh yes, they were extraordinary. Your mother, Lily, was brilliant at Charms and Potions. And your father, James, was a natural at Transfiguration. They were Head Boy and Girl in their final year at Hogwarts."
Harry leaned forward, drinking in every word. "What else can you tell me about them?"
Mrs. Figg's smile turned wistful. "I'm afraid I didn't know them very well personally, dear. But I do remember how kind they were, always ready with a smile or a helping hand. And they loved you fiercely, Harry. Never doubt that."
Harry felt a lump form in his throat. He'd never heard anyone speak about his parents like this before. The Dursleys had always brushed off his questions or told him lies about their deaths.
"But how do you know all this?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued. "Are you... are you a witch too?"
Mrs. Figg chuckled. "No, dear. I'm what they call a Squib - born into a magical family but without magic myself"
Harry's mind reeled with this new information. "So you've known about magic all along? And about me?"
"Indeed I have," Mrs. Figg confirmed. "But it wasn't my place to tell you. That honor belonged to Hogwarts." She gestured to the letter. "Now, why don't you read the rest? There's more to discover."
With trembling hands, Harry pulled out the second piece of parchment and began to read:
"HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM
First-year students will require:
1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)
5. One set of crystal phials (for potion brewing)
6. One cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
7. One set of brass scales
8. Dragonhide gloves (for Magical Biology and Herbology)
11. One pair of protective goggles (for Potions)
11. One set of self-stirring rods (various sizes)
12. One collapsible brass microscope (for examining magical specimens)
13. One set of enchanted pruning shears (for Magical Biology and Herbology)
14. One pack of self-cleaning quills and color-changing ink
15. One set of unbreakable glass beakers (for potion experiments)
Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags.
COURSE BOOKS
OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 set of basic potion ingredients (including wolfsbane, gillyweed, and powdered unicorn horn)
1 pair of dragonhide boots (for outdoor classes)
1 magical first aid kit (including dittany and essence of murtlap)
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
Charms: A Practical Approach by Selene Enchant
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Societies and Their Influence by Celestina Wisewood
Harry's mind whirled with questions, each one tumbling out faster than the last. "But how will I pay for this? Where do I even get magical supplies? And how am I supposed to reply by owl?" He glanced around the room, half-expecting to see a convenient bird perched nearby.
Mrs. Figg chuckled warmly. "One thing at a time, dear. As for expenses, I believe your parents left you a vault at Gringotts – that's the wizarding bank. But I'm not entirely sure about the details." She frowned slightly, tapping her chin. "The supplies, now... those you'd find in Diagon Alley, a hidden magical shopping district in London."
Harry's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "A hidden magical district? How does that even work? Is it some kind of quantum pocket dimension?"
"Oh, goodness," Mrs. Figg said, looking a bit flustered. "I'm afraid that's beyond my understanding, Harry. There's so much I'm not certain about when it comes to the finer points of magic."
Harry nodded, his mind already racing with theories and possibilities. He glanced at the letter again. "So, about replying..."
Mrs. Figg stood up suddenly. "Ah, yes! I think it's best if we get some proper help with all of this. I'll just call Professor Dumbledore – he's the headmaster, you know."
"Call him?" Harry asked, looking around for a phone. "How?"
With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, Mrs. Figg beckoned Harry to follow her to the fireplace. She reached for a small pot on the mantel. "This, Harry, is Floo powder. It's how wizards communicate and travel through fireplaces."
Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Through fireplaces? That's... incredibly impractical and yet fascinating at the same time."
Mrs. Figg laughed. "Magic often is, dear. Now, watch closely."
Mrs. Figg tossed a pinch of the glittering powder into the fireplace, and Harry gasped as the flames turned a brilliant emerald green. She leaned forward, speaking clearly into the fire, "Albus Dumbledore's office, Hogwarts."
Harry watched in amazement as an elderly man's face appeared in the flames, complete with half-moon spectacles and a long silver beard. The man's piercing blue eyes twinkled as they settled on Harry.
"Ah, Arabella," the man said, his voice warm and jovial. "I see young Mr. Potter has received his letter. How delightful!"
Mrs. Figg nodded. "Indeed, Albus. But I'm afraid I'm not equipped to answer all of Harry's questions about Hogwarts and the magical world. I was hoping you might be able to send someone to assist?"
Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Of course, of course. I believe Minerva would be the perfect person for this task. She can visit tomorrow and address any concerns Harry might have."
Harry's mind whirled with questions. Who was Minerva? How did this fireplace communication work? And why did Dumbledore seem to know who he was?
"That would be most helpful, Albus," Mrs. Figg replied. "Thank you."
As the green flames faded, Mrs. Figg turned to Harry. "Now then, let's get that reply sent, shall we? The owl that delivered your letter should still be waiting outside."
Harry nodded, still processing everything he'd just witnessed. "So I just... write a letter back?"
"Precisely," Mrs. Figg smiled. "Just a simple note accepting your place at Hogwarts will do. Then we'll send it off with the owl."
After penning a quick response, Harry followed Mrs. Figg outside. The tawny owl was perched on a nearby fence post, looking rather impatient. Harry carefully tied his reply to its leg, and with a soft hoot, the bird took off into the evening sky.
Back inside, Harry excused himself to the guest room, his mind buzzing with excitement and confusion. He flopped onto the bed, pulling out his Hogwarts letter once more. As he re-read the words, a smile crept across his face. Whatever this new world held, he was ready to embrace it.