Harry Potter couldn't sleep.
The wind rattled the windows of Number Four, and the old pipes moaned faintly in the walls, but the storm was not outside tonight.
It was in his mind.
He lay wide-eyed beneath his thin blanket, staring at the ceiling as thoughts twisted and danced in his head like leaves in a whirlwind.
Kyle's words at the park had shaken something loose inside him. Not just confusion—but memory.
A name like Hogwarts. A world of magic. A boy like him, disappearing at eleven and reappearing with strange knowledge and careful words.
It should have been nonsense.
But it wasn't.
Not to Harry.
Because Kyle hadn't mocked him, hadn't smiled like someone enjoying a prank. There was no benefit to his confession. Nothing to gain. No one around to impress. He had spoken as if it were the most natural thing in the world—because to him, it was.
And Harry could still remember that strange flicker of… something… in Kyle's eyes. A light. Like when a match is struck in the dark.
But that wasn't all.
As Harry lay there, a dream stirred at the edges of his mind—an old dream. One he'd had many times before.
A man with a laugh like thunder, who turned into a massive black dog and chased fireflies with him through fields of stars. A motorcycle soaring through the sky. Wind in his face. Arms wrapped around someone strong and warm.
He had told Aunt Petunia about the dream once.
He remembered it clearly now.
She had gone pale.
Not irritated. Not skeptical.
Terrified.
And then she had punished him.
No meals that day. No television for a week. She told him dreams were foolish, and that boys who talked nonsense would be sent to a special school for troubled children.
But Harry wasn't stupid.
He remembered how she had stared at him, knuckles white on the edge of the kitchen sink, eyes distant—as if she were seeing a ghost.
Now, the more he thought about it, the more pieces started to fall into place.
All those times strange things happened—doors locking themselves, Dudley's gang slipping in the mud, the lightning that always seemed to follow his mood—and the Dursleys would scream at him, saying he did it. Saying he was a freak.
He always thought they just hated him.
But what if they knew?
Kyle had said that when someone was born a wizard or witch, their family was told. That meant...
Aunt Petunia knew.
And if she knew, then everything—the silence, the punishments, the fear of anything unusual—suddenly made sense.
Harry sat up in bed.
He glanced across the room, at the empty shelf where books should be. At the taped-over light switch, because Vernon didn't trust Harry to control electricity. At the scratched floor near the cupboard under the stairs.
They didn't fear him.
They feared what he was.
Magic.
Even superhero comics were banned in the house. Not because they were violent or loud—but because they had powers. Harry remembered Vernon ripping up a copy of The Superman when he found it in Dudley's backpack. Said he didn't want "nonsense like that infecting his brain."
Harry thought he just hated imagination.
But maybe… maybe he was scared it was true.
Harry stood up, pacing quietly across the small room, the floorboards cold beneath his feet. He stopped in front of the mirror, stared at his reflection—the lightning bolt scar, the wild black hair, the storm blue eyes.
His eyes sparked faintly in the dark. Just for a moment.
No.
Not imagination.
Harry felt it in his blood now.
He had to know more.
The Dursleys would never tell him. That much was clear. They had buried the truth so deep they couldn't even say the word "magic."
But Kyle knew.
And Kyle was real.
Tomorrow—no, as soon as possible—Harry was going to find him again. He didn't care if he had to run across town or sneak out of the house. He would find Kyle.
Because he needed answers.
And because deep down, he already knew:
He wasn't just strange.
He was something more.
The sun rose early that winter morning, casting golden light across the rooftops of Little Whinging. A crisp breeze rustled the hedges, and the frost on the pavement cracked under Harry's shoes as he stepped outside.
But Harry wasn't just up early—he had purpose.
He moved through the Dursley household like a quiet wind. The dishes clinked softly as he cleaned them with practiced speed, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He wiped the counters, swept the living room, and cut vegetables with sharp, rhythmic motions. Every movement was precise, efficient, and controlled.
He didn't do it out of affection. Nor out of submission.
Harry did it because he was practical. He lived under the Dursleys' roof, and he knew the unspoken rule: as long as he kept the chores done, they had no excuse to shout or lock him in his room.
And Harry refused to feel indebted to people who never gave him anything from the heart.
As Petunia entered the kitchen, blinking at the already gleaming counters and chopped vegetables laid out neatly for lunch, Harry didn't wait for a word of approval—he simply stepped away.
"I'm going out," he said, grabbing his hoodie from the chair.
"Be back by lunch," she said flatly, though her tone lacked its usual venom.
Harry was already out the door.
He ran straight across the neighborhood, long strides devouring the pavement. His new boots pounded against the road as he curved past the post office, around the bakery, and toward a quiet street where the houses had more color, more character.
He slowed only when he reached the low brick wall of Ravi Sharma's house.
The garden out front was full of carefully tended rose bushes, small chili plants, and neat rows of marigolds. Bent over a flowerbed was Mrs. Revati Sharma, dressed in a simple cotton sweater and gloves, humming as she pinched at weeds.
Harry paused to catch his breath, and the moment Revati looked up and saw him, her face lit with a warm smile.
"Well, well," she said in her lyrical accent. "If it isn't my morning thunderstorm. Are you hungry, Harry? I made some poha. Come, I'll heat you a plate."
"Not today, Aunty," Harry said between breaths. "I need to talk to Ravi."
"You always need to talk to Ravi," she said fondly, rising to her feet. "But you always look too thin to be running around like this."
Harry gave her a grin and rushed past the herb planters, straight to the front door. He didn't knock. He never had to.
He pushed it open and jogged upstairs to the second room on the left, where Ravi was very much not awake.
"Oi, rise and suffer," Harry said, flinging the door open.
Ravi groaned and rolled over, his thick blanket cocooned around him. "Harry? It's barely morning, mate."
Harry marched over and shook his shoulder. "Get up. I need to find Kyle Walker's house."
That earned a grunt. "What for?"
"I need to ask him something. Something important."
Ravi rubbed his face, trying to blink the sleep away. "Mate, he lives over on Wrenbridge Lane. Number seven, red door. Same one as last year. You're really going now?"
"Right now."
Harry turned to go, but Ravi mumbled, "Take my bike, then. Saves your legs."
Harry paused. "You sure?"
"I can always go with Mike later," Ravi yawned. "Just bring it back in one piece."
Harry gave him a nod and turned to leave, jogging back downstairs—and found Mrs. Sharma standing at the base of the staircase, holding a small silver plate with a steaming triangle of spiced potato-stuffed paratha and a sweet ladoo beside it.
She raised an eyebrow. "Going out again without breakfast?"
Harry hesitated.
"You think the garden waters itself?" she said, handing him the plate.
He took it with a sheepish smile. "You always say that."
"And I mean it every time." She winked. "Eat. Your loan is getting heavier, Mr. Potter."
Harry laughed and took a quick bite of the paratha. The warm spices filled his mouth with heat and comfort. He always said he wouldn't stay—but Mrs. Sharma made it impossible to leave without at least one bite.
"You really do make the best food," Harry mumbled between mouthfuls.
"I know," she said. "Now go on. But come back when you're done."
With a full stomach and a grateful heart, Harry grabbed the bicycle from the side gate, swung onto the seat, and started pedaling fast.
He didn't stop to admire the streets, or the lights, or the birds flying above.
His eyes were focused.
His legs pushed faster with every turn.
He was going to find Kyle Walker.
And this time, he wouldn't stop until he had answers.
The house on Wrenbridge Lane stood quietly behind a thin veil of morning mist. It wasn't large or particularly fancy—just a two-story red-bricked house with a bright red door and wind chimes that danced gently in the breeze.
Harry stood in front of it, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, nervous.
He had rehearsed dozens of ways to say it. He wanted to ask Kyle about magic, but the words all felt silly in his mouth. "Can you tell me about spells?" or "Is magic real?" sounded like something from a children's cartoon.
But there was no turning back now.
He took a deep breath and knocked.
After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing a kind-faced woman in her mid-thirties with soft eyes and hair pulled into a loose bun. She blinked in surprise at the stranger on her doorstep.
"Yes?"
Harry stood straight. "Um—good morning, Mrs. Walker. My name is Harry Potter. I'm a friend of Kyle's. Is he home?"
The woman called over her shoulder, "Kyle? One of your friends is here!"
A moment later, there was the sharp sound of feet on wooden stairs.
And then Kyle appeared at the landing, blinking down at Harry.
"Harry? How did you find my house?" he asked, descending quickly.
Harry grinned faintly. "I asked Ravi."
Kyle glanced back at his mum, then opened the door wider. "Come in. Let's talk upstairs."
Mrs. Walker's expression shifted instantly—concern flickered behind her eyes, a wariness that she didn't hide fast enough. Her gaze locked on Kyle.
"Kyle…" she said carefully, "should we be—?"
"It's okay, Mum," Kyle interrupted. "Harry's also a wizard."
Mrs. Walker blinked. And then let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders relaxing.
"He doesn't look like an eleven-year-old," she murmured.
"He's not," Kyle said. "He's not Muggle-born like me. Both his parents were magical."
Mrs. Walker nodded once and quietly excused herself to the kitchen.
Harry was still trying to process what just happened as Kyle motioned him upstairs. "Come on. We can talk in my room."
They climbed the stairs, and Kyle led Harry into a small but cozy bedroom covered in posters of both football stars and magical creatures. The shelves were lined with worn paperbacks, and on the desk lay an open book.
Harry froze in the doorway.
The book—thick, bound in green leather—was alive.
Its pages were covered in illustrations, moving ones. A lion-sized creature with horns walked across the page and flicked its tail. Another drawing—a spined blue bird—tilted its head and fluttered its wings.
Harry walked slowly toward it, mouth slightly open. He read the title printed in bold, gold letters:
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
By Newt Scamander
Harry looked up at Kyle. "They're moving."
"Yeah," Kyle said with a grin. "Wizard books do that."
Harry flipped the page. A three-headed snake hissed at him and slithered behind a drawn rock.
This was it.
This was the proof.
Magic was real.
And for the first time in his life, he wasn't crazy.
Over the next hour, Kyle showed him everything. His schoolbooks—A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, The Standard Book of Spells, A History of Magic. His wand, a slim polished piece of ash wood. Even his first-year robes.
Harry sat on the bed, flipping through the history book. "Hogwarts is real. All of it's real."
"Yeah," Kyle said, sitting beside him. "It's incredible. You'd love it there."
"I will," Harry said softly, then looked at Kyle. "Will you take me?"
Kyle blinked. "Take you where?"
"To where you got all this. The books. The robe. The wand."
"You mean Diagon Alley?" Kyle asked.
Harry nodded eagerly. "Yes. I want to see it."
Kyle sat up straighter, his face a mixture of excitement and pride. "I'd love to take you. Are you kidding? Harry Potter—the Harry Potter—wants me to show him Diagon Alley? You'll be recognized the second you step foot on the street."
Harry blinked. "Why? I don't even know anything about this world."
"You will," Kyle said with a grin. "You're already part of it."
Harry closed the book in his hands, heart pounding.
There was a world beyond the Dursleys. A world where he wasn't strange, or a burden, or locked in a cupboard. A world with spells, with magic, with family history that reached back into legend.
And now he would go there.
He would learn everything.
He would find out what it meant to be a wizard.
And one day—he would be the greatest of them all.
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