Far from the towers of Hogwarts, in the cozy, albeit somewhat messy, heart of The Burrow, a small flame of pure admiration burned intensely. Ginny Weasley, just eight years old, was sitting on the bed she shared with her mother on the rare occasions she had a nightmare, the book resting on her lap. Her red hair, so characteristic of the Weasleys, formed a messy frame around her face, illuminated by the faint light of her bedside lamp.
For as long as she could remember, the stories of Harry Potter had been her most precious treasure. Her mother, Molly, had woven the tale of the "Boy Who Lived" with her words, a legendary hero who had defeated the darkness. To Ginny, Harry was a fairy-tale figure, bright and untouchable. That's why the first pages of the book had plunged her into deep confusion. Why did her hero live in such a grey, ordinary place? Why did those people, the Dursleys, treat him with a mix of contempt and fear, as if he were something repulsive? It was something her childish mind, raised in the warmth and bustle of a magical family, couldn't process. A hero shouldn't sleep in a cupboard, she thought.
But the book's magic, its immersive narrative, and the illustrations that seemed to breathe soon captivated her. She set aside her preconceived image and let herself be carried away. She cried, with thick, hot tears that stained her cheeks, when she saw the black-haired baby being abandoned on the cold, hard stone step of number four, Privet Drive. And then, like a dawn after the storm, came Diagon Alley. Her eyes widened like saucers, marveling. The illustrations of the two-story shops, some even three stories high with connecting stairways spanning the street, looked so colorful and crowded with objects and ingredients that wizards saw and bought; the magic seemed to vibrate through the images.
The Hogwarts Express spewing white steam against a sky painted with clouds... it was as if she herself, for the first time, were discovering magic. She felt the same awe, the same joyful disbelief that Harry must have felt.
Beside her, her brother Ron had initially frowned.
"I don't get it," he muttered, his nose wrinkled. "Why do they show Harry like that? He's... he's Harry Potter."
For Ron, the hero was an abstract idea, the vanquisher of You-Know-Who. Seeing him vulnerable, human, was disconcerting. But when the pages took them to the Hogwarts Express and he saw his own name, and his younger sister's, even his mother and older brothers running through King's Cross in one of the images, and then he saw himself—a Ron with red hair and a snub nose, with a smudge of dirt on his cheek—sitting in the compartment with Harry, sharing Pumpkin Pasties and Chocolate Frogs, his skepticism evaporated. A shy smile spread across his face.
"Look, Ginny! That's me!" he whispered, pointing to the illustration where his future self offered a sandwich to a visibly grateful Harry.
Ginny's enthusiasm was contagious. Both became immersed in the story, laughing at the twins' antics on the train, though they seemed a bit different; they weren't quite sure what it was, but they gave off a slightly more reserved, calmer feeling.
They set that thought aside and began speculating about which house they would belong to. They had just reached the moment when the train's loudspeaker announced their arrival at Hogsmeade station when their mother's voice, firm as steel, echoed from downstairs.
"Ron! Ginny! Bed, right now!"
Reluctantly,with muffled complaints and promises to continue reading the next morning, they closed the book.
Ginny placed it carefully on her bedside table, as if it were an object of priceless value, and snuggled under the blankets of her parents' bed; her father wouldn't be home until very late, something about a Muggle car he'd apparently acquired was keeping him busy lately, so she would sleep with her mother tonight. She curled up with a smile, thinking about the book. They had a lot to read, and she felt excited to see Hogwarts, even if it was through a book, and moreover, through Harry Potter's eyes.
---
In the opulent and icy Malfoy Manor, in a bedroom that was, by far, much larger than Ginny's parents' room, Draco Malfoy, aged nine, was lying on his dark green silk four-poster bed. The book lay open before him, its blue and gold cover a vibrant splash of color in the room dominated by emerald and silver tones.
At first, his excitement had been palpable. Harry Potter was a name he managed to read often in the books he was allowed to see due to his age; he often heard it pronounced by his parents with a mix of resigned disdain and a forced acknowledgment of the Potter family's former status.
For Draco, he had become a figure of fascination; being portrayed as a hero who often encountered fierce magical creatures like dragons appealed to him greatly. A book so exquisitely bound, with illustrations rivaling the magical portraits in his own home, seemed like the perfect read.
But as he read, a subtle discomfort began to grow in his chest. Why was Harry with Muggles? The word itself had a bitter taste in his mind, conditioned by his father's disparaging comments. Why were they treating him like... like a servant? It didn't fit the image of the hero he had constructed. He felt confused and, though he wouldn't admit it, a little disappointed.
However, the magic of Diagon Alley rescued him. Although he had been there countless times, the book managed to show him the wonder through Harry's eyes.
For a moment, Draco felt the awe of the first time again; magic ceased to be something mundane and became a miracle once more. And then, the climactic moment: he saw himself.
There he was, in Madame Malkin's shop, with his platinum blonde hair perfectly styled and his slightly upturned nose. His heart raced. It was him! He was going to meet Harry Potter!
But the scene didn't unfold as he had expected. He saw how his words, which in his mind were completely normal, made the boy think poorly of him.
He saw the black-haired boy's furrowed brow, the silent rejection. A pang of worry, sharp and unexpected, pierced his chest. What if it happened the same way in real life? The idea felt unbearable.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, shaking his head. "It's just a book," he murmured to himself, his voice a little shaky. "Just a silly story. Harry must be in a magical mansion somewhere, reading this and laughing too." But the image of his book-self being unconsciously rejected left him with a feeling of emptiness and sadness.
He decided that the next day he would ask his father to contact the author. Perhaps, with a substantial donation of Galleons, certain passages could be... revised.
The scene on the Hogwarts Express left him even more determined. Although at first, seeing so many parents and children, all wizards and witches, seeing off the students on the great scarlet train left him smiling, this smile disappeared when he saw how he met Harry again in his compartment and this time, in the book, recognizing him as Harry Potter and wanting to shake his hand as a sign of friendship, he was rejected.
He began to think about what he would say to his father the next day to get this modified. If he was going to be in the book, he should at least be friends with Harry Potter; in his opinion, it was a reasonable price.
At that moment, the door opened without a sound and an elderly house-elf, with skin so wrinkled it looked like parchment and enormous, sad ears, bowed in the doorway.
"Young Master Draco must rest now," - he said in a crackly voice. "Mistress Narcissa sends her love and says to rest well."
Draco, distracted by his thoughts, didn't even look at the elf. He just waved his hand impatiently.
"Fine,fine. Go away."
The elf vanished with a soft pop.Draco closed the book with a sigh, placing it carefully on his bedside table before turning off the light and sinking into a bed that suddenly felt too large and silent.
—
The silence, heavy and laden with the book's revelations, settled in the Headmaster's office after the professors had left.
The oak door closed with a soft click, isolating Albus Dumbledore from the outside world. Only the familiar sounds remained: the dying crackle of the fire in the hearth, Fawkes's soft purring, now deeply asleep on his perch, and the almost imperceptible whisper of the portraits, who were now commenting amongst themselves, their voices showing they were more than grateful to be part of the ongoing gossip.
Dumbledore did not move from his seat. He remained there, his long fingers interlaced on the desk, his gaze lost in a distant point beyond the lenses of his half-moon spectacles. The usual twinkle, that spark of youthful curiosity that always seemed to animate his blue eyes, had gone out, replaced by a deep sorrow. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, he brought his hand to the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and immersed himself in the turbulent ocean of his thoughts.
Just moments ago, he had discussed the book's events with his Heads of House. It had initially shown little Harry's life in the Muggle world, then gradually added color and light by showing magic through the child's eyes. The heaviness he felt had lifted over time. He thought the boy was strong; despite his experiences, he showed resilience and an ability to move forward and improve. He showed curiosity about his surroundings, and what filled Dumbledore's heart with both sadness and affection the most was his excitement about meeting new people and creating new friendships.
He himself had truly believed, eight years ago, that the child would be cared for and loved by that family. He had dismissed Minerva's warnings as simply a bad day for the family. In his mind, everyone has bad days, and in his opinion, if Lily Evans, the kind and good-hearted girl, was the result of her parents' excellent upbringing, then her sister, Petunia, couldn't be much different. But it seemed he was wrong.
Arabella Figg was his lookout on Harry's side, but she only reported magical sightings around number four, Privet Drive—hence the many Kneazle cats, domestic creatures very sensitive to magic—and being a Squib, she couldn't have seen the mistreatment the boy suffered within the walls of that house.
Dumbledore's sigh echoed in the stillness. He regretted that decision. Not placing some safeguard for the child's care regarding Muggle situations was another fleeting thought that crossed his mind, and he felt even more bitter.
He opened his eyes, and his gaze fell upon the book, now resting, harmless and yet so dangerous, in a corner of his desk. He recalled the discussion with the professors. They had concluded that the book, from the arrival at Hogwarts onwards, would follow Harry's adventures in his first year. That was good, as in their opinions, nothing too out of place could happen with them as protection inside the castle.
He himself had said that tomorrow, first thing, he would go to the Dursley house to fix Harry's situation, and to accompany him, he had asked Filius and Minerva to come along. Minerva had agreed before he finished the sentence, while Filius, who had never been to Harry's address, had shown enthusiasm about going.
With a final sigh, he rose slowly from his desk and walked to his bookshelf. With a gentle movement of his hands, he placed the Sorting Hat on top of the shelf.
"Good night, old friend" - he murmured.
The Hat, which also seemed to feel tired, wished him good night in return with a thread of a hoarse voice. Dumbledore then turned to approach Fawkes; he gently stroked the phoenix's golden feathers, who only emitted a soft, sleepy trill. Finally, he nodded towards the portraits of the headmasters, who, understanding it was time to rest, fell silent and returned the gesture almost in unison.
Satisfied, Albus Dumbledore headed towards his private chambers. Tomorrow would be a long day, and he would need all his energy for what was to come.
"Oof... I'm getting far too old for this"- he sighed and let out one last comment, before closing the door to his room behind him.