Long before he became the boy who would change the world, Harry Porter was simply a curious child with shining green eyes and a wild imagination that could outmatch any spell.
He lived with his parents, James and Lily Porter, in a cozy brick house at the edge of Willowmere Village, a quiet magical town tucked between silver hills and whispering woods. Their home looked ordinary from afar—smoke rising from a chimney, a cat sleeping by the porch—but anyone who walked closer could see the truth. The roses in the garden hummed softly when touched, the mail carried itself to the table, and the teapot whistled cheerful tunes while pouring itself into cups.
Harry loved every bit of it.He loved how the candles never burned out, how his mother's laughter made the air sparkle, and how his father could summon books from across the room with a flick of his wrist. Magic, to Harry, was everywhere—woven into the world like sunlight.
Every morning he'd run barefoot into the yard, chasing the fluttering paper birds that delivered the day's letters. Sometimes he'd sit by the pond, watching ripples form into shapes—faces, creatures, constellations. He'd talk to them, imagining they were his friends from faraway lands.
His parents adored his curiosity. James taught him stories of courage and adventure, while Lily filled his days with warmth and wonder. The house was always alive—spells humming in the walls, soft laughter echoing through the evenings, and the smell of cinnamon and charm dust in the air.
But for all the joy and enchantment around him, Harry often felt something quietly out of reach.When his mother levitated a basket or his father mended a broken vase with a whisper, Harry would watch with wide eyes—part awe, part longing. He tried to copy them sometimes, waving his small wooden stick like a wand, whispering the words he had overheard. Nothing happened, of course, but he never stopped trying.
Sometimes, late at night, he'd sneak out of bed and sit by his window. The stars above Willowmere shimmered brighter than any lantern, and Harry would whisper to them softly, asking questions no one else could answer.
"When will I be like them?" he'd ask."When will the magic listen to me?"
The stars twinkled gently, but they never replied.
And so, as the candles dimmed and the house fell silent, little Harry Porter drifted to sleep under a sky full of secrets—dreaming of the day he would finally do his first spell.
Because, though the world saw him as a child of great promise,Harry Porter had never been able to use magic.