Chapter Text
Since Harry could remember, living with the Dursleys had meant learning to read their faces, their tells, the smallest signs that he was about to be in trouble. Because if he was dull and stubborn, it would have never made him survive in their house for long.
He had gotten so proficient in face reading, and understanding smallest of gestures or body language, that not only Dursleys, he was able to see through almost all other hostile adults and children he met.
He might even have been better than most professional face readers; at the very least, he would never have had any trouble giving people a tarot reading without a deck, simply because he could smell trouble from miles away at a single glance.
His situation had always demanded agile thinking and quick learning, forcing him to develop a wisdom far beyond his age.
It was strange, and disturbing to know so much, but people made it easy, most were unguarded in front of Harry, and their reactions, their habits, their troubles... were not difficult to understand.
But to survive, instinct alone had never been enough. Harry had to be self-taught; he had to observe even the people he hated most, like the Dursleys, because that meant he could eat one more bite at night and not go hungry. When people were desperate, their potential became something almost limitless, and Harry had long since learned to use his desperation to his advantage.
He even had notes on the Dursleys, notes he hoped they would never find. He kept clear records of the smallest details. Like his uncle’s moustache would twitch when he got angry. His aunt’s lips would go thin when she found Harry particularly annoying. His cousin’s eyes would go wide when he was planning to attack him.
Harry had learned these things the way other children learned their games, from scratch, by trying to play and survive, since for him, losing had meant going hungry, or being forced to weed the gardens in the middle of a summer afternoon, when the sun was at its hottest.
Since he had begun to observe, he had found that knowledge came in many forms and shades. Knowing how to read a face was knowledge. Learning more about himself was knowledge. Even knowing how to drop the right hint to soothe Dudley’s temper was knowledge, and knowledge had saved his arse time and time again.
It had taken him a long time to understand that even if he stayed indoors, his skin would never turn the same shade as the Dursleys’. He would just never belong in their family. Because he was not a Dursley. His skin must have been inherited from his father, since Harry had always been a shade darker than them.
So Harry had understood that he needed more knowledge if he wanted to gain the upper hand in various situations. And not make a fool of himself.
But Harry had still been fallible, and there had been times when he lost against his own peculiarity, like what had happened at the shopping mall yesterday.
He hadn’t meant for the plush toy to suddenly harden and hurt Dudley as he punched it, but his pained cries and the store owner’s relieved eyes had almost made up for Harry’s mistake. It had been bizarre and interesting. Unfortunately, for his uncle, it had also been one of the worst things Harry could have done.
Even if Harry never believed he did it, his uncle believed he did it, and that was the end of discussion. All weird things that ever happened around Harry were his fault, he had to be responsible for it even if he didn't want to. That was the rule.
At present, he lay awake in the dark cupboard under the stairs, staring at the faint line of light beneath the door. He wished he had a watch on him, or that the walls weren’t so endlessly dull.
Sometimes the silence was so defeaning, Harry's thoughts overtook him completely, and Harry hated being in his own mind, it was not a good place when there wasn't some new information running through.
Since he had learned to count, he had counted every crack, every hole, every scratch across the walls and the floor. So it would be incredibly dull to count them all over again.
Besides, all the books he had, had already been read and marked. Harry could have repeated them word for word if asked.
Time mattered when you lived with the Dursleys. If he went to the kitchen too early, he risked being caught, but if he waited too long, there would be nothing left to eat.
Harry had developed a system over the years, which repeated itself over and over again, numbing him to his core.
First came the television turning off, then his Uncle's heavy footsteps up the stairs, then the pipes rattled when Aunt Petunia used the bathroom, after which came silence when they fell asleep.
Only then was it safe for him to go out and have something to eat.
Harry counted slowly in his head, measuring the minutes the way he had learned to measure everything else. Ten years with the Dursleys had taught him that depending on other people was a mistake.
Ten long years.
A long time to stay in the cupboard and survive the Dursleys, Harry would say.
The Dursleys had said his parents had died in a car crash, but Harry had always felt it was some sort of lie—or perhaps even a cover-up—because he had tried many times to remember it. Sometimes, during the long hours trapped in his cupboard, he would close his eyes and force his mind backwards, searching for something—anything.
But what came to him instead was always the same strange image: a flash of green light and a sharp, burning pain on his forehead.
Harry assumed that must have been the crash, although he had never seen a car accident that involved green light. Over the years, he had learned not to ask about it.
Asking questions annoyed the Dursleys, and Harry had quickly discovered that silence was safer than curiosity. Still, curiosity was difficult to stop entirely.
There were no photographs of his parents anywhere in the house and that was a fact.
When he had been younger, he used to imagine some unknown relative arriving to take him away from Privet Drive. But after years passed without anyone coming, Harry stopped expecting rescue. Because expectations led to disappointment.
He thought, better to rely on yourself than others.
At school things were simpler.
Everyone knew that Dudley’s gang hated Harry Potter, and nobody wanted Dudley’s gang to hate them too. So they stayed clear of Harry whenever he approached them, and nobody dared to befriend Harry against all odds.
Harry didn’t mind very much. He used to, he wasn't going to lie, but after a few rejections he became numb to the sting.
Friends required trust, and Harry had learned early on that trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford to share with just anyone. Instead, he watched others, learned from them and put away all his expectations.
The next day, Harry was lucky enough to be ignored in some corner while everyone else ate, their attention fixed on their own plates and conversation. It was the sort of quiet neglect he preferred, with no loud yelling, since it was always directed at him, and no sudden demands, since it was always meant for him.
Just as he was beginning to feel pleased about getting to eat the leftover cake, already reaching for it in small, careful movements, everyone heard the click of the letterbox and the soft flop of letters landing on the doormat.
“Get the post, Dudley,” said his uncle from behind his newspaper, he didn't like to be disturbed while he read his articles, similarly, his aunt also preferred to eat in silence and wouldn't be the one to get up in the middle. And while Dudley was his parents' little sun, he was utterly useless. So in the end, Harry would have to go and get the mail. It was the norm.
“Make Harry get it.”
There it was.
“Get the post, Harry.”
Harry sighed internally, and didn’t even bother arguing, arguments were pointless; they always ended the same way. So without another word Harry slipped past everyone and walked towards the front door, the area dim with windows closed. But Harry didn't need too much light to see things, he had adjusted rather well after living in the cupboard for so long.
Three things lay on the doormat, and his eyesight was still sharp enough to notice something strange almost immediately.
There was a standard postcard with bright seaside colours, almost certainly from Marge Dursley, who was holidaying on the Isle of Wight.
Then there was a thin brown envelope, the sort Uncle Vernon usually called “bills.”
And then there lay the strangeness, an ancient-looking letter at the bottom.
Harry bent down slowly, observing carefully, because even if it was half covered by the others, he still recognised that it was a letter with his name on it.
He stared at it.
Stared, and didn’t touch, because he didn’t want to hope.
For a moment, his mind refused to process what he was seeing.
No one had ever written to him before.
Not once in his entire life.
But before long, Harry's impulse won, and he instinctively picked it up carefully, as though it might disappear if he moved too quickly.
Who would write to him?
He had no friends, and certainly no relatives that the Dursleys acknowledged.
He wasn’t even registered at the library anymore, which meant he couldn’t possibly be receiving one of the angry notices they sent about overdue books.
Yet the envelope was unmistakably addressed to him.
Mr H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
Harry frowned slightly, his alarm rising when he read the whole thing.
The address was precise, a little too precise. Whoever had written this knew exactly where he slept, and that didn't bode well for him. Was this a prank from Dudley and his gang? He wouldn't put it past them, but... they were all just a bunch of overgrown baby monsters, certainly not creative enough to pull such a terrifying prank on him. The quality of paper used for the letter was no joke, and Harry had touched many kinds of paper from the books he read at the library, even the most expensive ones weren't usually this thick, fine and shimmery.
What alarmed him though was the fact that the person who send this to him addressed it to the cupboard under the stairs, most people assumed Harry had a bedroom somewhere upstairs. Even the postman wouldn't know about the cupboard. Not even the infamous Marge Dursley knew about his actual situation at home. And his Uncle and Aunt would never speak of his cupboard to another person because that would damage their reputation.
Harry turned the envelope over in his hands, studying it more carefully.
It was thick parchment, heavy and yellowish, nothing like the thin paper used for normal letters. The ink was deep emerald green, written in neat, confident strokes. The handwriting unknown and cursive, very fancy lettering, not a print, and certainly not something the Dursleys could copy.
There was no stamp, Harry made sure to check, which again made him hesitate.
Without a stamp, how had it been delivered?
His eyes moved to the back of the envelope.
A seal of purple wax held it closed, and pressed into the wax was a coat of arms, a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.
Harry stared at it, curiosity already beginning to replace his surprise and suspicion.
Four animals, possibly symbols, and the letter H could stand for a name or maybe a place.
Before he could examine it further though, his uncle shouted from the kitchen for him to be quick. “Hurry up, boy! What are you doing, checking for letter-bombs?” then he chuckled at his own joke, like it was funny.
Harry never found it funny, his uncle's jokes. Carefully, before Dudley could snatch the letters as he sometimes did, Harry slipped the envelope into his baggy shirt, tucking the edge into his waistband to hold it in place, then he went to his uncle, and gave the rest of the letters to him.
Only later, sitting cross-legged on his narrow bed in the safety of his cupboard, did he look at it properly under the dim light of the small bulb, every instinct telling him that this letter mattered.
Carefully, almost methodically, he slid one finger beneath the edge of the parchment and began to open it. Inside was a letter written in neat, formal script.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Holder of the Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards)
Dear Mr Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Harry read the letter once.
Then twice.
And then a third time, a little slower to really get all the details.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY.
Harry could understand that this letter was supposed to be from some fictional school called Hogwarts which focused on witchcraft and wizardry, something out of fairytales and stories.
Harry was shocked, but his shock was not as intense as his disbelief.
Harry had read those stories as well, fairytales, but usually the witches were the evil ones and the fairies were the good ones. But Harry didn’t really care about good or evil. His focus was entirely on the fact that this particular letter was addressed to him, which meant he was invited, and that, in turn, meant he was eligible. And if being evil meant he could be part of something, meant being invited to a place that wanted him, then he was in.
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Yes. Harry read that three times, and his disbelief still wouldn't go away.
But after a long silence which seemed to be louder than the loudest of buzz, Harry finally snapped out of it, and quickly recalled all the strange things that had happened to him throughout his life which he couldn't place, or was called a freak for.
There were too many to count, some he had forgotten because he was too young to remember, but a few were easier to recall, their memory still sharp because they were so recent.
The first one had happened just a few months back, when his hair had grown back overnight after his aunt had nearly shaved him bald.
Then, just a few weeks ago, he had somehow found himself on a rooftop while running from Dudley.
And day before yesterday, at the shopping mall, he had made the plush toy hard as a brick wall.
Something like witchcraft would have explained these things rather neatly, but Harry had the distinct sense that he was still missing the right word for it.
What interested Harry the most in the letter was the final line. We await your owl by no later than 31st July.
Wasn't it until his birthday then. Today was July 24th.
Harry lowered the letter, and was thoughtful. It said they awaited his owl, not letter, but what exactly did it mean. Did he have to buy an owl and send it to them, or send a letter via an owl?
“An owl,” he murmured, he had never owned an owl and the Dursleys certainly did not own one either.
But as he folded the parchment carefully, a memory surfaced, belonging to a house which was always a clutter, and smelled faintly of cabbage and cats.
Mrs. Figg seemed to keep a dusty grey owl in her kitchen, trapped in a white cage which was the only beautiful thing in the entire house. And Harry remembered it vividly because it was the only odd thing in the house full of cats, cat stuff and cat food.
Harry slowly smiled to himself for the first time in months.
Mrs. Figg had an owl, he might as well go find her and ask for her help.
~
The next afternoon he walked to Mrs. Figg’s house as he sometimes did when Aunt Petunia wanted him out of the way.
Harry craned his neck to peak inside, and was delighted when he noticed the owl from the kitchen window. The owl was still there, and it sat on a perch beside the window, blinking its golden eyes at him.
Mrs. Figg opened the door before Harry could run up to look closer, looking mildly annoyed when harry gave her a grin.
"Mrs. Figg, can I borrow your owl for a while? I need its help."
Mrs. Figg looked startled, blinking at him before her gaze swept over him in quick, assessing passes. “You’re eleven this year, aren’t you?”
Harry nodded.
"Want to send a letter or parcel?"
"Letter," he replied crisply.
“Hmm.” She exhaled through her nose and stepped back, holding the door open. “Then you’d best come in. No point gawping out here.” She then turned her head slightly toward the kitchen. “Write your letter and tie it to her leg. Owls know their business. She’ll take it where it needs to go.”
Harry was surprised and suspected she knew more than she was saying, but he didn’t press the matter. He remained quiet as he took out a small piece of paper and a pen, then sat down on her couch and began to write carefully.
Dear Professor McGonagall,
I accept my place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
He hesitated a moment, then added, However, I do not currently have the required books and equipment. I would appreciate a list of what is needed, along with guidance on where these may be obtained locally. If there are standard suppliers or approved sources, please advise.
I would also like clarification on how to reach the school. I will make the necessary arrangements and travel accordingly with my guardian.
Your sincerely
Harry Potter
Harry had read enough that his letter sounded measured and professional, but there were also lies woven into it. He wasn’t going to go with his guardian, but he had to say it, otherwise, if the school sent someone to come to him, his aunt and uncle would never let him go. He had a feeling they would do everything they could to hinder his path to freedom.
He then read the letter once again, nodded to himself, rolled it up and tied it to the owl's leg as it flapped out of its cage by itself and perched on his arm to accomodate Harry.
Harry was simply amazed.
He had never looked at an owl up so close before, and it was really big, big enough to make him bleed if it pecked.
Mrs. Figg opened the window next, and the bird launched itself out in a powerful sweep of its wings. Even so, it flew in complete silence, and something about that quietness reminded Harry of his own situation, that same strange feeling of being out of place.
Yes, he was at Mrs. Figg's place, and she helped him deliver a message by an owl. It was bizarre, but it was, indeed, reality.
"Erm..." he started to get nervous, wanting to say something, but the old woman shooed him out instead, not caring about what he had to say, "Get out boy, I am busy."
It was close enough to, "Don't ask, keep quiet and mind your own business." And Harry did as he was told, not bothering to argue or raise questions.
~
Three days of waiting, three days of questioning himself and three days of pondering after, Harry finally recived a response to his owl. This time Harry took the letter immediately and hid it in his clothes before anyone else could see it.
In the silence of his cupboard, he opened the second letter he received from Hogwarts.
The letter was crisp, clear, and went as follows.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Holder of the Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards)
Dear Mr Potter,
We have received your letter of acceptance and are pleased to confirm your place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry beginning this coming September.
As you indicated that you may be unfamiliar with certain customs of the Magical Community, we have enclosed several instructions to assist you in obtaining your school supplies. (Please review the previous letter carefully; you may have missed the list of books, uniform, and equipment needed, listed on the second page.)
Your books and equipment may be purchased in Diagon Alley, the principal shopping district for witches and wizards in Britain. To reach Diagon Alley, several options are available; you may choose the one most suitable for you and your guardian(s). (See page 3 for detailed instructions.)
Within Diagon Alley, you will find several establishments where your required items may be obtained, including Flourish and Blotts for textbooks, Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions for school robes, and Ollivanders, where you will be fitted for a wand.
Should you require access to your family vault, you may visit Gringotts Wizarding Bank, which will be able to assist you.
Term begins on 1st September. Students will depart for Hogwarts from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on the Hogwarts Express, which leaves at eleven o’clock in the morning. Additional instructions regarding Platform Nine and Three-Quarters are provided on Page 2; these will assist you when heading to the location with your guardian, as non-magical people (Muggles) tend to get lost in magical areas.
If you encounter any difficulty, you may write to us again. Alternatively, if you prefer, we may send someone to collect you.
We look forward to welcoming you to Hogwarts.
Yours sincerely,
Professor M. McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
The letter contained detailed instructions on almost everything, and also guided him on what he may have missed in the previous letter.
Harry hadn’t known how he had overlooked such an important list, but when he looked at the first letter again, he noticed that a page had been stuck together so closely that it made the letter appear to be just a single sheet of good-quality paper. Harry had to use a bit of saliva to separate the pages, and there he found the detailed list he had missed.
It was truly... a wonderful and curious thing.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Uniform
First-year students will require:
1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags.
Set Books
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
Other Equipment
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS
Harry found them all very interesting, but first he had to get to Diagon Alley before he could really get his hands on the listed items.
The instructions in the second letter were enough for him to plan to leave Privet Drive and head to his destination.
Harry just couldn't believe he would be finally leaving Privet Drive.
His curiosity was egging his thirst for knowledge, and his time seemed to suddenly be ticking as a new adventure awaited him.
Magical Community.
Magic.
It sounded as magical as it was named.
Yes, Harry had not considered it before. It was magic, the word he had been looking for, now everything would make more sense.
There was still a small part of him that thought the whole situation might be a bad joke by the Dursleys, a warning meant to discourage him from even entertaining thoughts of freedom. But another part of him wanted it to be true, and wished he could stop doubting that it might be real.
~
To reach a place called Diagon Alley, Harry had chosen to go through an establishment known as the Leaky Cauldron in London, as it seemed the easier and less troublesome route for him.
Harry had read the directions several times by now, and the parchment seemed to be getting frayed on the edges with how frequently he read through it. Then he folded the parchment and hid it beneath his mattress.
Harry hoped in his heart that he wouldn't have to return to this wretched place again, he would rather sleep in a trash bin than come back to this house.
However, for everything to go smoothly, Harry had to do some planning first.
He had learned early that adults rarely helped him. If something needed doing, he had to figure it out himself. He didn’t expect the Dursleys to lift a hand for him, and he had already decided to leave at an opportune moment, slipping away to avoid being locked up by them, because they were petty enough to do it if they found out of his escape. So he approached the problem the way he approached everything else: one step at a time.
His first step would be to calm the Dursleys when they discovered his departure. What if they called the police on him? Harry was still a child.
So he would leave a letter for them, explaining his exchange with Hogwarts and his intention to leave by himself, assuring them that he would not trouble them any further. He would also give himself a few hours’ head start by leaving during the day, excusing himself to the library so they would not think to check on him until sunset.
His second step was to worry about money.
Harry sat cross-legged on the thin mattress and began to make a mental list. Traveling to London required transport, and transport required money.
The Dursleys had never given him much, but over the years he had managed to gather a few odd coins—change left on the kitchen counter, a handful of birthday coins from Mrs. Figg, and once even fifty pence that had slipped from Dudley’s pocket. Harry wasn’t a thief, but even servants were paid, and he considered it his share for all the years he had effectively served them.
He kept the coins hidden inside an old sock beneath a loose floorboard in the cupboard. So he pulled them out and counted them again, carefully.
It was not much, but was enough for a bus and a train ticket if he was careful.
It wasn’t much, but it would be enough for a bus and a train ticket if he was careful.
As for the cost of books and uniform, he would attempt to visit his family vault. The letter had mentioned Gringotts Wizarding Bank and a “family vault.” Apparently, his parents had left him money somewhere, though he didn’t know much beyond that. Gringotts was certainly not a place his uncle and aunt would ever dare to enter.
To be honest, Harry was glad they couldn’t take anything from it. They didn’t deserve a single coin after the way they had treated him.
Step three was to set the route.
Harry had visited the local library several times as he grew up, mostly because the Dursleys were happy to have him somewhere else, and also because he enjoyed the silence and the old books. They gave him a sense of confidence, a quiet assurance that he could be better than Dudley and the other children who looked down on him. Knowledge was power, something many failed to understand how to use.
He had spent a lot of time studying geography and history, as well as about war and territory and even maps, because they held a lot of information about any civilization and its culture.
Now, all of his knowledge would come in handy, as it was very easy to reconstruct the journey in his mind.
1. Walk from Privet Drive to the bus stop.
2. Take the bus to the local train station.
3. Buy a ticket to London.
4. Follow the directions in McGonagall’s letter to the Leaky Cauldron.
5. Avoid concerned adults and those who got too curious.
The bus schedules were posted at the bus stop, and Harry had read them before. His memory was quite strong, could even be called photographic memory, but Harry wouldn't be too sure.
Step four was the most important to him. He had to prepare what to say if someone asked him questions along the way, or when he needed to request something.
Harry realized the most difficult part of the entire trip would not be finding Leaky Cauldron. It would be buying the train ticket, and making his journey uninterrupted.
Adults asked questions, and Harry had learned that the hard way.
If a teacher, local resident, or bus driver noticed him alone, the questions usually followed the same pattern:
Where are your parents?
Why are you alone?
Who told you to come here?
Answering incorrectly meant attention, attention meant adults talking to other adults, that usually ended badly for Harry and Harry didn't want trouble.
If someone asked why he was travelling alone, he could say he was meeting family in London, or that his aunt or grandmother was already waiting nearby. If necessary, he would improvise a relative to satisfy their questions. Hopefully, that would be enough to avoid raising alarms or drawing the authorities into it.
Step Five was Finding the Leaky Cauldron without getting lost. This part interested Harry the most.
If wizards wanted privacy, the simplest solution would be something ordinary people simply overlooked.
The letter had said the pub might appear “unremarkable to the non-magical eye,” and that concealment magic was used to ensure non-magical people would pass it by without noticing anything unusual.
So Harry would have to walk slowly along the street and observe carefully. If people’s reactions seemed odd around a particular building, that would likely be the one.
Observation solved many problems.
Step Six: Supplies
Harry reread the list of shops mentioned.
Flourish and Blotts
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions
Ollivanders
He imagined them like sections of a market street, so once he reached Diagon Alley, the rest should be straightforward, especially after visiting Gringotts.
Harry was particularly curious about the wand shop. If magic had rules, the wand must play an important role, for in fairytales, fairies did magic with a wand.
His last step was the Seventh one, a number Harry found lucky.
It was about finding Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Harry had paused on it the longest.
King’s Cross Station had platforms numbered very clearly.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
But nine and three-quarters suggested something in between, a hidden platform, as mentioned in the letter.
Harry’s lips twitched slightly.
Whoever designed the wizaprding world seemed fond of puzzles and hiding in between.
In two days, Harry decided, he would go to London, alone.
If the magical community truly existed, he would find it. And when he did, he intended to understand it as best as he possibly could. He had no desire to be caught off guard or placed at the mercy of things or people he did not understand. Knowledge, to him, meant being able to recognise danger early, avoid unnecessary attention, and prevent himself from being pushed into situations he could not control.
~
Harry did not sleep much the night before he was planning to leave.
He was worried about the journey even if he never mentioned it to anyone, who would he share his thoughts with anyway, it was just him, his cupboard and his creepy insect friends.
~
The morning Harry left, the Dursleys assumed he was going to the library, since he took his pass with him.
Harry didn't dare to act oddly and took all of his money in his oversized pocket, daring to look back at his aunt one last time before he left her property.
He took a direct bus to the train station, ignoring the conductor who eyed him intently but, thankfully, did not question him. After a journey of nearly an hour and a half, Harry finally reached the station.
He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything the entire time, afraid of wasting time needing the toilet. His nerves had remained tight and coiled throughout the trip.
Along the way, he endured a few suspicious glances from nosy adults, and even a pregnant woman who looked at him with a strange sort of pity. Harry didn’t particularly like attention, but he didn’t mind when people showed concern either, it just wasn’t something he needed today.
He was on a mission, and if anything, he would have preferred to be ignored, or even dismissed outright for his untidy appearance, which bordered on that of a beggar.
The train station was busy, busier than many places Harry had seen, and everything was strangely novel for him, even the train tracks. The books almost didn't do justice to the majesty of transportation called Train. The station itself was so beautiful, loud but beautiful, Harry felt it sounded like freedom.
People came and went constantly, as some bought tickets from a large counter desk, while others used their free time to read newspapers or magazines.
People were talking as they sat, suitcases rolling over the floor, announcements echoing overhead, as everyone looked like they knew exactly where they were going, or what they were doing.
In comparison, Harry didn’t know anything, he was too unfamiliar.
But he had learned a long time ago that looking lost only made things worse.
Harry found the counter and waited in line, his hands shoved into the pockets of his oversized trousers so no one would see them trembling.
“Next.”
The woman called loudly from behind the glass, barely glancing at him when his turn came.
Harry cleared his throat before speaking crisply. “One ticket to London, please.”
“Single or return?” she asked automatically, already reaching toward the machine.
Harry froze for half a second. He hadn’t thought about that. He quickly recounted what he knew about ticketing systems and seemed to grasp what it meant a few seconds later. But it was enough for the lady to repeat herself, "Single or return?"
“Single,” he said quickly.
The woman nodded and tapped a few keys and the printer whirred beside her.
“It is Three pounds twenty. Off-peak train leaves in about twenty minutes,” she said, sliding a small orange ticket under the glass.
Harry blinked in surprise, then quickly pushed a few coins through the gap.
She counted the money without much interest, handed him his change, and moved on.
“Next.”
No questions.
No suspicion.
She was really nice.
Harry stepped away from the counter quickly, clutching the ticket so tightly the thin paper began to crinkle.
He noticed people glancing up at a large black departure boards hanging from the ceiling, so he followed their gaze, and saw rows of letters and numbers flickering and changed on the board.
London… London… London…
There.
London – Platform 4 – Departure 10:25
Harry glanced down at his ticket just to be sure.
Platform four.
Good.
He slipped the ticket into his pocket and followed the flow of people moving toward a wide corridor where a large sign hung from the ceiling.
Platforms 1–5 →
Harry walked quickly but not too quickly, running attracted attention. Since he was quick on his feet, he soon reached the end of the corridor, where stood a set of ticket barriers. Adults tapped their tickets against small machines and the gates swung open.
Harry watched three people do it before he too stepping forward himself. Sadly, his first attempt missed the sensor, and Harry drew a frustrated sigh, uneasy.
The man behind him shifted impatiently on the third try, which made Harry impatient as well. He tried again and again, but it didn't work, then a hand reached out from behind, and the person tapped Harry's ticket a little slower than Harry would.
The machine beeped immediately and the barrier clicked open.
Harry slipped past before it could change its mind, and turned to thank the person who helped, but the man didn't seem to really care, as he left in a hurry, his figure rushed.
Harry stared after him, feeling odd that someone would help without being an arse to him first. In any case, Harry was grateful for the help, as he followed the signs until number 4 appeared above one of the platforms.
A long train waited there, doors open, as people climbed aboard. Harry stopped for a moment at the edge, staring with wide eyes.
For ten years he had lived in the cupboard under the stairs, learning quietly how to survive by watching, listening, and never trusting that anyone would help him. Now he had a ticket, a train, and somewhere to go.
It was a very good feeling.
Unreal even.
After Harry had settled in, he found himself sitting next to a woman who was resting with her eyes closed, the seats opposite them were empty, so Harry relaxed a little, he had been too tense the entire time. But after the train started moving, leaving the station slowly, and picking up speed, Harry suddenly remembered something he had forgotten.
Ticket inspectors.
He had seen them in films Aunt Petunia sometimes watched, men in dark uniforms walking slowly through the train, stopping beside each passenger and asking to see their ticket.
Harry’s hand slipped into his pocket where the thin paper ticket was folded. What if they asked questions? What if they noticed he was a child traveling alone?
He imagined the inspector frowning, asking where his parents were, asking why he was going to London by himself, and it made him worried.
But then he glanced sideways, at the sleeping woman, and felt reassured again. If anyone asked… maybe they would assume she was with him.
Adults seemed to do that sometimes, assume things without really looking too deep or going into details, they were rarely ever vigilant.
Harry kept the ticket ready in his pocket, just in case, but the inspector never came.
The train rattled steadily along the tracks, stopping at a few stations before moving on again. People got on, others got off, and no one paid any attention to the small, thin boy sitting quietly next to the woman.
By the time the train finally pulled into the station in London, Harry felt a strange mix of things twisting in his chest, wonder, excitement, and something that felt almost like anticipation.
It had been a long time since he felt anticipation for something.
~
The London station was particularly enormous.
Glass and iron stretched high above the platforms, and crowds of people hurried in every direction. For a moment Harry felt very small standing among them.
But he didn’t panic.
He had already learned from earlier, and now he felt more confident.
Most of the crowd was simply following the signs above, heading toward the exit.
So he did the same, just like at the previous train station, and he had already mapped out everything as the details sat in the back of his mind for later use.
Soon he reached a row of ticket barriers where passengers fed their tickets into small machines before leaving the platform.
Harry hesitated only a few seconds, before copying the old woman in front of him.
He pushed the ticket into the slot, and the machine swallowed it, beeped, and the barrier swung open.
Harry stepped through quickly.
No one stopped him, no one asked questions and a moment later he was standing outside the station, in the middle of London, full of people and organised chaos.
Giddy, Harry took out the Hogwarts letter, which stated the directions he had already read many times, but he still needed to check it again, just to make sure.
Atleast his mission was halfway through.
London was loud and crowded, but Harry was good at moving unnoticed. Years of avoiding Dudley’s gang had taught him that, so he went unnoticed on the streets and few would stare at him or care about him, unlike what he usually expected at home. There, people were more nosy, but here, people just didn't seem to care.
Harry found this crowd a little apathetic, but it suited him well, so it didn't matter. He had heard his uncle say that Major cities were full of all kinds of people, and nobody cared about others because they were too busy wiping their own noses. As offensive as his retelling had been, it was accurate.
Eventually, Harry found himself getting exhausted. It had taken him nearly half an hour of walking to get here, but he was nowhere close.
The buildings looked older here, the road busier, but with less pedestrians and more traffic, it seemed to be juncture of some kind.
Harry stood on the pavement for a moment, watching the traffic rush past. Cars, buses, and the occasional black cab moved steadily along the street.
He counted what he was left with, and briefly wondered if it would be enough for a cad ride.
He hoped it would be enough.
He remembered seeing people in films raising their hands to stop taxis, so he tried it as well. Being short, he had to jump several times in order to catch attention.
After a moment, one of the black cabs slowed and pulled up beside the curb. The window rolled down and a middle-aged driver leaned slightly toward him.
“Where to, young man?” the driver asked, amused.
Harry quickly unfolded the letter, “Er, could you take me here?” he said, holding the parchment up. The driver squinted at it for a moment.
“Ah, right,” he said. “Hop in.”
Harry rushed to climb into the back seat, the door shutting with a heavy click, the inside smelled faintly of old leather and peppermint gum, which the driver was chewing.
The cab pulled back into traffic and for a few minutes the driver said nothing, focusing on the road. Then he glanced at Harry through the rearview mirror.
“Visiting family, are ya?”
Harry nodded. “Yes,” he said. “My aunt moved there just last month.”
“Posh locality, that.." the driver mused, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to look at Harry, and Harry felt a little ashamed to admit that he looked nothing like a rich kid...
The driver hummed a slow tune to himself, then after a few minutes followed with a curious question, "first time in London then?”
“No, I have come here several times, just... not the same place,” he admitted quietly, hoping he sounded honest.
The driver chuckled, “Big place, London. Easy to get lost if ya don’t know it.”
Harry nodded, though the driver couldn’t see it. “I almost did when I first came here,” Harry said.
“Well, you made it this far by yourself,” the driver replied. “That’s something.”
Harry decided the driver was not bad, only, if he was a child kidnapper of some sort, Harry would be in big trouble, but well... Harry was really too tired to care about it. He would think of something when he was really kidnapped.
They drove on for several minutes after that, the city sliding past the windows in a blur of shops, traffic lights, and crowded streets. Harry sat very still, his hands folded tightly around the letter in his lap.
He watched everything, every street sign, every turn. Just in case he needed to remember how to get back, if everything turned out to be just his imagination or a big joke. At least he got to see London, Dudley wasn't as lucky yet.
Eventually the cab slowed to a stop.
“Here we are,” the driver said, pulling over to the curb. “That’s the number just there.” The driver was pointing at a tall building, which was like a landmark next to a cozy street, where Harry actually wanted to go.
Harry leaned forward, spotting the an old sign that read Leady Cauldron not far off. “Yes… that’s it.” He said to himself, feeling breathless. But then he frowned.
Really, that pub was right there... easy to find. A little too easy. Wasn't it mentioned to be difficult to spot even by a magical being?
In a blur, he counted the left over money, said a nice goodbye and fumbled with the door before climbing out of the cab and heading straight to the Leaky.
