Harry managed to restrain himself for a moment, but in the end he couldn't help letting out a low laugh as he sat on the wooden plank that could barely be called a "bed."
By Merlin's bow ties… Headmaster Black was dead!
Phineas Nigellus Black had been, without question, the most despised headmaster in the entire history of Hogwarts.
How despised? Two students who had never met could become instant friends simply by mentioning Headmaster Black. There had even been a saying at Hogwarts: If you hate Headmaster Black, then we are brothers.
Harry shook his head, pushing the memories aside, and reread the letter in his hands.
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry:Albus Dumbledore(Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Grand Sorcerer of the Order of Merlin)
Dear Mr. Potter,We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed you will find a list of the books and equipment required.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your reply by owl no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,Minerva McGonagallDeputy Headmistress
Harry turned the letter over in his fingers, lost in thought.
At that time, he had no connection to the wizarding world—and, naturally, no owl. Buying one in Diagon Alley would be impossible for someone without a single Galleon to his name, living with relatives who barely tolerated him.
He glanced at the enclosed list. Too many textbooks. All expensive. Not to mention the wand.
A century ago, when he had studied at Hogwarts, it had been Deputy Headmistress Matilda Weasley who kindly covered his initial expenses and helped him apply for a Hogwarts scholarship.
Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyelids.
Perhaps… he could borrow some money.
Back then, Dark Wizards had been far more numerous, and—ironically—they often paid generously after certain "practice sessions" involving spells.
But the thought made his hands clench.
His parents had been killed by a powerful Dark Wizard.
From Petunia's earlier expression, it was clear she knew little more than that. And under the International Statute of Secrecy, that was likely the extent of what a Muggle could know.
Harry had no intention of pressing Aunt Petunia for answers. The truth lay within the wizarding world—and that was where he would seek it.
Just then, a hesitant knock sounded at the door.
When he opened it, Aunt Petunia stood there with a complicated expression.
"What is it, Aunt?" Harry asked politely.
"When I opened the door earlier… there was an owl sitting on the letterbox," she said, pausing. "I mean—a real owl."
There was impatience in her tone, but also something else, carefully concealed.
"I think it was the one that delivered your letter. Lily—your mother—used an owl to send letters to her friends. You may need it to send your reply."
"Thank you, Aunt Petunia. I understand," Harry said with a faint smile. "Would you mind preparing something to eat?"
Her expression darkened, but she turned and walked away without another word.
After she left, Harry took out some paper and a pen from beneath the bed and wrote a polite reply to Hogwarts. When he stepped out of the cupboard, he was surprised to find two bowls placed beside the door: one filled with water, the other with sliced sausages.
"Thank you," he murmured, spotting his aunt cleaning the hallway.
He picked up the plate, slipped two slices into his mouth, and devoured them before heading outside.
The owl was perched atop the Dursleys' letterbox, one foot tucked into its soft feathers.
"Hello," Harry said as he approached. "Are you my post owl?"
"Coo—coo," the owl replied.
"Thank you for your hard work. If you don't mind, please have some water… and something to eat."
Harry gently stroked the owl's head. It lowered its foot, stretched its neck, and eyed the bowl of sausages with a surprisingly human expression—
Disgust.
It then drank some water, spread its wings, and hooted twice.
Harry sighed. "Cumberland sausages are quite good. It's a shame you don't like them."
The owl took the letter, beat its wings, and flew away from Privet Drive—a place where good food was never served.
"Being picky isn't good for an owl," Harry muttered, finishing the remaining sausages himself.
Back inside the house, Harry went to the kitchen, snapped his fingers, and transformed the empty basin beneath the sink into a small wooden stool. He climbed onto it, washed the dishes, neatly put everything away, and returned to the cupboard.
He didn't have to wait long.
That very afternoon, someone sent by Hogwarts arrived to fetch him—just as Matilda Weasley had done a century earlier.
"I'm looking for you, you—freak!"
Aunt Petunia banged angrily on the cupboard door, stopping herself just short of finishing the insult as she recalled her husband's fate that morning.
The cupboard door opened.
The face she saw was the same as it had been years ago—calm, proud, and infuriatingly confident.
"Freak!" she spat, turning on her heel and storming off.
Harry blinked, bewildered.
Muggles, he thought with a sigh.
A century ago, Muggles had been far more resilient than the Dursleys.
At the front door, he was met by an enormous, shaggy head nearly wedged into the doorframe.
"Oh… Harry…"
The man's eyes immediately filled with tears.
"The last time I saw you, you were just a baby… Sorry, I'm a bit too big to fit through this door."
Despite the man's intimidating size, Harry felt a genuine warmth radiating from him.
"Hello. I'm Harry—Harry Potter," he said politely. "Do you know me?"
"Course I do," the man replied, wiping his hands on his coat. "Rubeus Hagrid. I'm the one who brought you here."
Hagrid studied Harry's face closely.
"Blimey… you look just like your dad," he said softly. "But those eyes—you've got your mother's eyes."
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