Chapter 3

Harry's POV

The sun was just beginning to rise, casting faint golden hues through the small crack beneath the cupboard door. Dust motes drifted lazily in the thin beam of light, swirling softly in the stale air. I lay on the thin mattress, my hands folded beneath my head, staring at the narrow wooden panels above me. The cupboard beneath the stairs had been my prison for as long as I could remember—a small, suffocating box with barely enough room for me to stretch my legs.

But while the Dursleys saw it as a place to hide their unwanted burden, to me, it had become a sanctuary. It was where I trained in secret, pushing the limits of my magical reserves further with each passing year. The once-feeble embers of my power had grown into a steady flame, smoldering quietly beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

In the beginning, it had been slow. My young body was frail, too small and weak to contain the magic that had once belonged to Merlin Wyllt. At five years old, I could barely sustain a continuous stream of power before my limbs would tremble from the strain. But I was patient. Every night, once the Dursleys were asleep, I would close my eyes and dive deep into the ancient wellspring of my magic, pulling carefully at the threads of power buried beneath layers of mortality.

By the time I turned six, I was able to channel basic spells without a wand. I practiced wandless levitation by floating tiny objects—paperclips, buttons, and even a small spoon I'd nicked from the kitchen. As my control improved, I began manipulating the elements. I could summon small flickers of flame at my fingertips, shape thin ribbons of water, and stir faint breezes indoors without opening a window.

But it wasn't just my control that grew—it was my reserves. Magic was like a muscle, and with constant use, it grew stronger. I could feel the well of magic inside me expanding bit by bit, day by day. By seven, I could maintain a continuous flow of magic for nearly an hour before fatigue set in.

I trained with a relentless focus, ignoring the ache in my limbs or the occasional burn of overdrawn magic. When my fingers trembled from exertion, I pushed on. When my head pounded from magical exhaustion, I kept going. I knew the risks of pushing a young body too far, but I also knew the rewards. With each surge of power, my connection to my old strength grew clearer.

By eight, my magical capacity rivaled that of most adult wizards. I could cast complex illusions without effort, weaving realistic, multi-layered mirages. I conjured golden mist to shroud myself from sight and could even create localized silencing wards that blanketed sound within a small radius. I practiced defensive shields, creating faint barriers of golden light strong enough to deflect low-level spells.

By nine, I was delving deeper into elemental magic. Fire, water, wind, and earth all bent to my will with growing ease. I could summon flames large enough to engulf a room, though I often held back, wary of alerting the Dursleys. With a thought, I could twist the air currents around me into faint gusts, strong enough to send a book flying across the room. My magical endurance stretched, allowing me to maintain complex spells for hours before feeling the strain.

And by ten, I was strong enough to rival seasoned wizards. My wards could repel most magical attacks, my elemental control was fluid and instinctive, and my reserves were vast—far larger than they had any right to be in a child of my age. Though I was still far from my former glory, I could feel it—the old power, the essence of Merlin Wyllt—slumbering beneath the surface, stirring more with each passing day.

But magic wasn't the only thing I nurtured during those years.

There was Hermione.

The girl I had met in the park when I was five. I still remembered the first time I saw her, cross-legged on the grass, muttering to herself in frustration over a textbook's inaccuracy. Her passion for knowledge, her fierce determination, and her unwillingness to accept anything at face value had drawn me in. From that day on, we met regularly at the park. It became our unspoken ritual.

At first, our friendship was built on quiet conversations. We talked about the stars, about books we had read, and about the odd facts we collected in our young minds. She would ask me endless questions, her eyes lighting up with curiosity every time I shared some obscure piece of knowledge. I enjoyed the way she listened, her sharp mind piecing together every detail, never missing a beat.

But as the years passed, our bond deepened.

By the time we were seven, we were nearly inseparable. We would spend entire afternoons sprawled on the grass, trading facts and stories. She was the only one I had ever met who could match my thirst for knowledge. I marveled at the way her mind worked—the way she dissected information, cross-referenced it, and questioned everything. She was brilliant, and she didn't even know it yet.

At eight, we started helping each other with schoolwork, though she hardly needed the help. She devoured books at a rate that put even me to shame. When we weren't debating over historical events or solving complex math problems for fun, we would venture into imaginary worlds we created. She would describe the adventures of brave explorers and cunning detectives, while I told her of mythical beasts and enchanted lands.

She didn't know it then, but many of the creatures I described were real—the dragons, the krakens, the phoenixes. They weren't figments of my imagination. They were part of my old life. But I never told her.

By nine, our friendship was as natural as breathing. We could speak for hours or sit in comfortable silence, enjoying each other's company. She trusted me implicitly, and I knew with certainty that she would always have my back.

And though she never said it outright, I knew she felt the same.

We were different, she and I. She had her loving parents, who doted on her, while I returned each night to a family that would barely glance in my direction. And yet, when I sat with her, none of that mattered. With Hermione, I felt like a normal child—free from the burdens of my past and the destiny that awaited me. She made me laugh, made me think, and gave me the rare comfort of knowing that I wasn't alone.

And then there were my Muggle academics.

By the time I was eight, I had left the rest of my classmates behind. School was almost too easy, and I often had to hold back to avoid drawing attention to myself. Math, science, and history came naturally. I could solve complex equations in my head faster than my teachers could on paper. My essays were articulate and well-researched, often earning praise from even the strictest teachers.

By nine, I was excelling in nearly every subject. My vocabulary and reading comprehension were far beyond my age group, and my teachers began recommending me for advanced programs. I was frequently asked to help other students, and though I didn't particularly enjoy it, I obliged when it was expected.

But it wasn't just academics—I was physically fit as well. Though I didn't actively train in Muggle sports, my magical conditioning made my body far stronger than it should have been. I was faster, more agile, and stronger than most boys my age. My reflexes were sharp, honed by the magic flowing through me, and my hand-eye coordination was nearly perfect.

By the time the summer of 1991 arrived, I was prepared for what was to come. My magical reserves were vast and controlled, my knowledge both magical and Muggle was leagues ahead of my peers, and I had a friendship that was genuine and unwavering.

I knew the day was fast approaching—the day when the wizarding world would come knocking, searching for the Boy Who Lived. They had no idea what awaited them.

Because when they came, they wouldn't find a scared little boy.

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I stood barefoot on the cold wooden floor of the cupboard beneath the stairs, stretching the stiffness from my limbs. The thin mattress was still warm from where I had lain, though the rest of the tiny space was uncomfortably chilly. The faint light streaming from the crack beneath the door illuminated a small, creased paper I had been scribbling on the night before—another complex rune sequence I was experimenting with.

The morning was still quiet. I could hear the faint snores of Uncle Vernon and the heavy breathing of Dudley from upstairs. Aunt Petunia would be up soon, rushing about the kitchen with her usual manic obsession with cleanliness. The house was always unnaturally quiet in these early moments—before the shouting, before the glares, before the casual cruelty began.

I let out a slow breath, running my fingers through my untamed hair. My magic buzzed faintly beneath my skin, as it always did—a warm, comforting hum just beneath the surface. It had been years since I had worried about my control slipping. My mastery was such that I could manipulate my magic with effortless precision.

Still, I was not prepared for the faint flutter that ran through me when I heard the faint plop of something landing on the front mat.

I blinked, my gaze sharpening. That was unusual. The mailman wasn't due for another hour, and the Dursleys rarely received post early. I tilted my head, sensing a faint magical signature on the object lying beyond the cupboard door. It was subtle—barely a flicker—but unmistakably magical. My magic stirred in recognition.

Footsteps thundered overhead. I heard Dudley's heavy plodding, followed by the telltale squeak of the staircase as he rushed down. A moment later, he let out a loud, stupid laugh and shouted, "Dad! There's something for Harry!"

I froze.

Something for me?

That was unheard of. I never received letters. The Dursleys had made sure of that. They intercepted anything addressed to me, usually burning or discarding it without a second thought. Yet this one had made it through.

I waited, listening carefully as Vernon's heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs. His voice was sharp and irritable, probably thinking it was some charity sending post for the 'freak.'

I heard the tearing of paper. Then there was silence.

A very sharp, tense silence.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS?!" Uncle Vernon's bellow rattled the walls.

Aunt Petunia let out a high-pitched gasp, her voice shrill with something far beyond mere annoyance. Panic, perhaps?

Dudley, ever the dull-witted fool, whined, "What? What is it, Dad?"

I took that as my cue. Slowly, I pushed the cupboard door open, my bare feet padding silently on the wooden floor. I walked into the living room just as Vernon's face turned an ugly shade of purple. His meaty hands were clenched around a thick, yellowish envelope with a wax seal.

The Hogwarts crest.

I recognized it instantly, and for a heartbeat, I stilled.

Hogwarts…

A rush of old memories surged through my mind, hitting me with the force of a breaking wave. I stared at the familiar crest, and for a fleeting moment, my surroundings blurred.

Alnwick Castle.

A sprawling fortress built of stone, with towering battlements and majestic turrets piercing the grey sky. I remembered it vividly—every curve of its stonework, every banner that once flew from its towers. It had been mine once. A mere outpost of my domain, but one I had been particularly fond of. Its halls had once rung with the laughter of knights and mages, and its grounds had held more secrets than the British Isles had ever known.

And then, there were them.

The four.

Godric. Helga. Rowena. Salazar.

My apprentices. My students. My friends.

I had found them scattered across the land, each brimming with raw potential but burdened with limited knowledge. I had guided them, shaped them, and taught them. It had been Godric who convinced me to part with Alnwick. With his characteristic Gryffindor charm and fierce sense of justice, he had insisted it was time to create a bastion of knowledge—a school where magical children would be taught and nurtured.

I had agreed.

I had given them the castle. Given them my blessing.

"We shall name it Hogwarts," Rowena had declared with her sharp, scholarly smile. "For the great hogs and wild worts that roam the northern forests."

It had been a jest. And yet, the name had stuck.

I remembered standing on the tallest tower of the castle as they affixed their crest upon the great doors—the lion, the badger, the eagle, and the serpent—symbolic of their vision and their separate ideals. It had been a proud moment, though bittersweet. They were ready to step out of my shadow, forging their own path.

When I had left, they had promised to protect it. To teach future generations. To keep the flame of magic alive.

And now, nearly a thousand years later, here it was. Their school. Still standing. Still calling.

A faint tremor ran through my fingers.

I blinked, my gaze returning to the present. Vernon's face was still flushed with fury, his pudgy fingers gripping the letter so tightly the edges crumpled.

"Give it here," I said softly.

Vernon's head snapped toward me, his small, piggish eyes bulging. "What did you say?"

I didn't repeat myself. I simply extended my hand.

His face darkened further. "You'll do no such thing! There's no bloody school for freaks! You hear me? You're not going anywhere!" He thrust the letter into Aunt Petunia's hands. "Burn it."

Her thin fingers trembled slightly as she stared at the parchment, her face pale and tight. She knew. She knew what this was. Her bloodless lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't move. Her bony fingers clutched the letter tightly, too tightly.

She doesn't want to burn it…

My eyes narrowed slightly.

"Give me the letter." My voice was calm, measured.

"No!" Vernon barked. "I won't have you going off to some—you'll stay here and be grateful!" His face contorted with rage. "You'll do as you're told, boy!"

I stared at him, my face impassive. Slowly, I took a step forward. The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath my feet.

"Give. Me. The. Letter."

My voice was quiet, but something in my tone made the room still. The hairs on the back of Aunt Petunia's neck rose. I could feel the faint shimmer of magic in the air—a subtle, warning pulse beneath my skin. The atmosphere thickened ever so slightly, and for the first time in his life, Vernon Dursley looked afraid.

His eyes widened, his mouth opening slightly, but no sound came out.

Petunia's knuckles were white as she clutched the letter. Her breath came in short, shallow pants, but she didn't move.

I took another step, closing the distance. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in slightly.

"Now," I said softly, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

Petunia's hands shook violently. Her eyes met mine—wide and terrified. For a moment, she looked at me not with contempt, but with fear.

She thrust the letter into my hands, her breath shuddering from her lips.

I took it without breaking eye contact. Slowly, deliberately, I turned and walked back toward the cupboard, feeling their gazes boring into my back.

Once inside, I slid the door shut and stared down at the thick envelope, my fingers brushing over the familiar wax seal.

Hogwarts.

The school my apprentices had built.

And now, nearly a thousand years later, they were calling me back.

I sat cross-legged on the thin mattress of my cupboard, my fingers tracing the thick parchment of the Hogwarts acceptance letter. The dim light filtering through the gap beneath the door illuminated the elegant, flowing script, but I had long since committed every word to memory.

I turned the letter over once more, running my thumb over the wax seal, feeling the faint shimmer of magic woven into it. A simple enchantment, meant only to verify the recipient's magical heritage, but still a quaint little charm by modern standards. In my time, magic like this was commonplace—basic, even. Yet here it was now, still lingering through the ages, a surviving relic of my apprentices' legacy.

They would be proud, I thought softly. The school endured.

I sat there in silence, letting the quiet minutes stretch, staring at the letter. It was strange. The knowledge that I would soon be walking the halls of a place my students had built, now ancient and weathered by time, stirred something deep within me—a strange blend of longing and nostalgia, tinged with the sting of time lost.

I was drawn from my thoughts by the dull, distant thump of something heavy hitting the ground outside the house.

I stilled.

Another heavy thud followed, this one closer—almost deliberate. A rhythmic, deliberate pounding that reverberated faintly through the floorboards.

The front door rattled violently, nearly shaking off its hinges.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

I rose from the mattress, my movements fluid and unhurried, and made my way toward the door. From the other side, I heard Uncle Vernon's angry spluttering as he stomped toward the entrance.

"WHO THE BLOODY HELL IS POUNDING ON MY DOOR AT THIS HOUR?!" Vernon roared, his voice vibrating with fury.

He threw the door open with all the gracelessness of a rhinoceros, and I heard the sharp gasp that tore from Aunt Petunia's throat.

I stepped silently from my cupboard, my eyes landing on the towering figure standing in the doorway.

Rubeus Hagrid.

The half-giant filled the entire frame, his enormous form blocking out the faint sliver of moonlight. His tangled mane of wild hair and beard framed his broad face, and his beetle-black eyes glimmered with a gentle, almost hesitant kindness as he gazed down at Vernon, utterly unfazed by the man's blustering.

"Evenin'," Hagrid greeted in his thick, gravelly voice. He doffed his enormous moleskin coat and smiled a crooked smile that nearly split his face in two. "Sorry 'bout the door. Didn't mean ter shake it clean off."

Vernon's mouth worked soundlessly. His eyes bulged like a toad's, flicking between the enormous man and the faint glimmer of magic clinging to him.

"W-Who the devil are you?!" Vernon finally sputtered, his voice high-pitched with panic.

Hagrid gave a nonchalant shrug, as if he hadn't just nearly knocked the door off its hinges. "Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper o' Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."

At the mention of Hogwarts, Petunia made a strangled sound, her bony hands flying to her mouth. Vernon went pale.

Hagrid ignored them both.

He looked past the trembling Muggles, his dark eyes falling on me. For the briefest of moments, he stilled. His smile faltered, and his eyes widened slightly.

Recognition flashed through his eyes—surprise, disbelief.

And then, as his eyes met mine, he saw something else.

Not the skinny, malnourished boy the Dursleys had tried to break. No. His keen half-giant instincts, tied deeply to nature magic, sensed the depth of the magic thrumming beneath my skin—the ancient power woven into my very being.

He knew I was powerful, though he couldn't possibly understand how.

"'Arry," he whispered softly, the name almost reverent.

I smiled faintly. "Hello, Hagrid."

The big man's eyes widened further. His gaze was sharp, searching my face intently, as though he were looking for something. For a moment, he simply stared at me.

And I knew why.

He remembers.

Hagrid was the only wizard who had seen me the night my parents died. The only wizard aside from Dumbledore himself. Ten years might have passed, but I had not forgotten. And neither, it seemed, had Hagrid.

I could still see it in my mind—the rain-drenched night in Godric's Hollow. The shattered house. The lingering remnants of death magic clinging to the broken timbers. And Hagrid's large, calloused hands as he had cradled me in his arms, gently brushing soot from my face, his eyes red-rimmed from crying.

I remembered the way he had held me, ever so carefully, as though afraid I might break.

And I remembered the sadness in his eyes.

A lesser man would have looked at me then and seen nothing but an orphaned child. But not Hagrid. He had felt the lingering residue of my magic. He hadn't understood it, but he had sensed it.

And now, as he stared at me once again, he knew he was seeing something far beyond the child he had carried away that night.

"Blimey," Hagrid breathed. "Yeh look just like yer mum." His voice was soft, almost hoarse. "But… but yeh've got yer dad's eyes."

I smiled faintly, feeling the warmth in his words. "You said that once before," I murmured.

Hagrid blinked, startled. His bushy brows knitted together. "I… I did?"

I simply nodded.

For a moment, he stared at me in bewilderment. And then, suddenly, his face crumpled into a broad, beaming smile.

"Blimey, look at yeh!" he rumbled happily. "All grown up an' ready fer Hogwarts!"

I stepped toward him, feeling the faint warmth in my chest at the sight of him.

And for the first time in years, I saw genuine kindness directed at me.

Not pity. Not condescension. Just simple, honest kindness.

"C'mon, 'Arry," Hagrid grinned, clapping me lightly on the shoulder (though it still nearly sent me sprawling). "We got a lot ter do today."

I glanced at the Dursleys. Petunia's face was bone-white, her lips pressed so tightly together they had nearly vanished. Vernon looked like he was going to explode, his face puce with rage, though his voice was momentarily stolen by sheer disbelief.

I turned back to Hagrid, ignoring the Dursleys entirely. "Let's go."

And with that, I stepped out of the house and into the cool morning air.

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Anyways, let me know what you all think.

Remember spread Love, not Hate.

With that Author-Kun is signing off.