After Harry tore open the yellowed envelope, he barely had time to unfold the parchment inside before Uncle Vernon snatched it away with a rough hand.
The moment Uncle Vernon read its contents, he looked as if he'd seen a ghost. Pale and shaken, he bolted for the kitchen to find Aunt Petunia.
For perhaps the first time in their lives, the Dursleys denied Dudley something he wanted—Dudley was dying to see what a letter addressed to Harry looked like.
Harry was just as baffled, but his curiosity only grew. He was sure Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were hiding something from him. Why else would they be whispering furtively in the kitchen about being "watched" and "those people keeping an eye on us"?
Those people… who were they? Harry burned to know.
"That letter's mine!" Harry declared stubbornly that evening when Uncle Vernon returned from work.
"Hah! No one writes to you. Must've been a mistake with the address!" Uncle Vernon huffed.
"It said 'The Cupboard Under the Stairs'—that's my letter!" Harry shot back, refusing to be fooled.
"Well, you don't live there anymore! Pack your things—you're moving to the small bedroom upstairs!" Uncle Vernon barked.
…
For the next six days, Uncle Vernon went completely round the twist. He tried everything to intercept the letters meant for Harry. No matter how Harry tried, he couldn't even get his hands on a single corner of an envelope.
At first, the letters just came through the post, waiting in the mailbox. After Uncle Vernon collected a few, he nailed the mailbox shut.
But the next day, even more letters came—slipped through cracks in the door, wedged into window frames, even hidden inside the raw eggs Aunt Petunia cracked open for breakfast.
Once, three or four dozen letters swooped in from the fireplace like a swarm of bats.
That was the last straw. Uncle Vernon finally snapped.
In a desperate bid to escape the relentless flood of letters, he packed the family into the car and drove for hours to a faraway city, checking them into a dingy hotel.
It was pointless. The very next morning, the landlady told them the front desk had received a hundred letters, all addressed to Harry Potter.
Driven mad by fear and anger, Uncle Vernon then rowed them for hours across stormy seas to a lonely rock out in the ocean, where they took shelter in the only ramshackle hut perched atop the waves.
Now, Harry lay curled beneath a thin, tattered, and damp blanket on a patch of floor that was only just flat enough to sleep on.
Outside, a violent storm battered the hut.
"No one could possibly send me a letter now," Harry thought, a little forlorn, as he listened to the wind and rain.
…
That night, Harry couldn't sleep. He was desperate to know what those letters said—but more than that, he was waiting for midnight.
Because once tonight was over, he'd be eleven years old.
He glanced at Dudley's wristwatch, watching the seconds crawl toward midnight.
With a finger, Harry traced the outline of a birthday cake in the thick dust on the floor, and wrote: "Happy Birthday Harry Potter."
The storm raged on, wind howling through the cracks.
Harry kept his eyes on the watch, silently counting down.
Five… four… three… two… one.
"Happy birthday, Harry Potter," he whispered to himself.
For some reason, a smile tugged at his lips as he said it.
Storms, bullies, loneliness—none of it could stop him from growing up. No one could take this birthday away from him, even if he was the only one who remembered it.
Even if he was the only one to say "Happy birthday."
And then, just as the clock struck midnight, Harry heard voices outside, muffled by the wind and rain.
One voice was young, almost childish. The other was deep and booming, the kind that could only belong to someone enormous.
"Sure, the storm's got atmosphere, but this weather is absolutely miserable," the child's voice grumbled.
"I've no idea why they picked this place. That Dursley boy really knows how to choose a spot," replied the deep voice.
"By the way, how did the school even know they'd end up here? I'm really curious," the child mused.
"Beats me. I just followed the address on the acceptance letter. See? Sea, hut on a rock, sleeping on the floor… this must be it," the big voice rumbled.
"Poor birthday boy. Sleeping on the floor—what a way to spend your special day," the child sighed.
Harry's eyes grew wide as he listened. He could guess who those two were talking about.
"Alright, enough chit-chat. Let's get inside and warm up!" the child said impatiently.
"Right, I'll knock," the deep voice replied.
"Knock? Just break it down! Let me do it!" the child insisted.
A moment later, there was a heavy thud as something slammed against the hut's wooden door.
But the door didn't budge.
Harry hesitated, wondering if he should go open it.
"Okay, without my wand and sword, I can't handle this door. Your turn," the child said, sounding frustrated. "But remember, we agreed—I get to go in first!"
"No problem. Stand back," the deep voice answered.
What followed was a thunderous crash, as if a giant hammer had struck the door. The whole hut shook.
There was no doubt—the deep voice belonged to someone enormous.
All this racket, of course, woke everyone else in the hut.
Uncle Vernon scrambled for his rifle, shouting out the door, "Don't come in! I've got a gun! I really will shoot!"
There was a brief silence outside. Then another crash.
With a screech of splintering wood, the door's hinges gave way, and with a final bang, the door crashed to the floor.
The scene that followed would be burned into Harry's memory for the rest of his life—
A boy strode in, dressed in black robes, a red-and-gold scarf around his neck, a long sword strapped to his back, and a slender silver-gray wand twirling in his hand.
The storm wind swept into the hut, whipping his robes and hair into wild disarray.
But there was a faint, enigmatic smile on his lips.
He looked straight at the stunned Harry, and the first words out of his mouth were:
"Harry Potter, are you ready to step into another world?"
For countless nights to come, Harry would remember that moment—those words would fill his heart with a fierce, burning joy that brought tears to his eyes.
He wasn't sad. He was elated.
There was no helicopter like in his dreams, no grand proclamations. But to Harry, this was the coolest thing he'd ever seen.
Was he ready to go to another world?
He didn't know.
But he was ready to follow this boy—ready to step into something new.
——Dimensional Wall——
Truth be told, I've been picturing this scene for ages. I thought I could make it impossibly cool, but in the end, this is what I managed. As long as the feeling comes through, that's enough—don't expect too much from me; this is about as good as it gets.
Enough rambling. On to the next chapter. Time to become a two-chapter beast.
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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