Admission Notice

Harry had restrained himself for as long as he could, but in the end, he couldn't help it. Sitting on what barely passed for a "bed," he burst into laughter.

By Merlin's bowtie—Headmaster Black, he's dead!

Phineas Nigellus Black had been, without question, the most detested headmaster in the history of Hogwarts.

How despised was he? Two complete strangers could instantly bond over their mutual loathing of him.

There was even an old saying at Hogwarts: "If you hate Headmaster Black, we're practically family."

Shaking his head at the memory, Harry redirected his focus to the letter in his hands.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(President of the International Confederation of Wizards, Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot, First-Class 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 is a list of required books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress

An owl reply?

Harry instinctively rubbed the letter between his fingers. At this point in his life, the wizarding world was a complete mystery to him. He didn't even own an owl.

If he went to Diagon Alley to purchase one, he'd be out of luck—he was penniless.

He scanned the list of required supplies. The number of textbooks alone was staggering, and their cost was far beyond his means. And then there was the wand…

A century ago, when he first attended Hogwarts, Deputy Headmistress Mathilda Weasley had kindly covered his expenses and helped him apply for a scholarship.

Removing his glasses, Harry rubbed his eyes.

Maybe… borrow some money from the Dark Wizards?

A hundred years ago, Dark Wizards had been everywhere. Harry had often used them for spell practice—and acquired quite a few Galleons in the process.

Well then, Uncle Vernon could drive him to the Leaky Cauldron.

But Dark Wizards…

Harry clenched the letter tightly in his hand.

It seemed his parents had been killed by a powerful Dark Wizard.

Aunt Petunia, as far as he could tell, knew very little. The Statute of Secrecy ensured that Muggles rarely learned anything about wizards.

He decided against asking her. Instead, he'd get answers from the wizarding world itself.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door.

Aunt Petunia stood there, her expression conflicted.

"What is it, Aunt?" Harry asked politely.

"When I opened the door earlier, there was an owl—yes, an owl—on the mailbox," Aunt Petunia said irritably. Yet beneath the irritation, Harry detected another emotion.

"I think it delivered your letter. Back when Lily—your mother—was around, she used owls for her letters too. You might need it to send a reply."

"Thank you, Aunt. Could you prepare some food for it?" Harry said with a faint smile.

Aunt Petunia's face twisted in displeasure, but she turned and left.

Once she was gone, Harry retrieved a pen and paper from under his bed and composed a reply.

To his surprise, when he stepped out of his room, he found a bowl of sliced sausages and another of water set near the door.

"Thank you," he said softly. Aunt Petunia, tidying up nearby, didn't respond but glanced briefly in his direction.

Carrying the food outside, Harry approached the owl perched on the mailbox. Its feathers shone in the sunlight, making it look like a small golden statue.

"Hello," Harry greeted. "Are you my postman?"

"Hoo hoo," the owl replied.

"Thanks for your hard work. Have some water and food, if you'd like."

The owl eyed the sausages with what could only be described as disdain—so human-like that Harry almost laughed.

It ignored the food, sipped water from the bowl, flapped its wings, and hooted twice.

"I see," Harry said with a shrug. "But these Cumberland sausages are top-notch. Your loss."

The owl hooted again, grabbed the letter, and soared into the sky, leaving Harry standing in the Dursleys' sausage-free yard.

"Picky eater," Harry muttered, finishing the sausages himself.

Back inside, Harry was washing dishes when a loud knock came at the front door.

"Someone's here for you! Freak—"

Aunt Petunia's voice cut through the house, sharp and venomous. She hesitated, recalling her husband's humiliating experience earlier when he had briefly floated in midair. Swallowing the rest of her insult, she stormed off.

Harry emerged from the cupboard under the stairs, his expression calm but guarded.

At the door, a large, furry head loomed, filling the entire frame.

"Oh, Harry…"

The figure's deep voice quivered with emotion as tears began to well up in its eyes.

"The last time I saw you, you were just a baby… Sorry, I'm a bit too big to fit through this door…"

The giant figure's sincerity radiated warmth, and despite its overwhelming size, Harry felt no threat.

"Hello, I'm Harry—Harry Potter. Do you know me?"

"Know you? Of course I do!" the figure exclaimed, wiping its eyes with an enormous sleeve. "I'm Rubeus Hagrid. It was me who brought you here all those years ago."

Hagrid studied Harry closely, his nose twitching.

"Blimey, you're the spitting image of your dad… And those eyes—you've got your mum's eyes…"