Harry woke to the sound of heavy stomping on the stairs and Dudley's shrill, demanding shout echoing through the house.
"WAKE UP...!"
With a quiet sigh, Harry pushed himself upright. As he did, his gaze drifted to the small mirror fixed beside him—and he froze. Those eyes. Deep emerald. Beautiful. And unmistakably inhuman.
"That's… going to be a problem," he muttered.
Focusing instinctively, Harry willed the change away. To his amazement, the vertical slits in his pupils smoothed out, reshaping themselves into perfectly normal circular pupils. The color remained rich green, but now there was nothing overtly unnatural about them.
"Good," he said softly. "That's manageable." He slipped out of the cupboard and headed into the kitchen.
The moment he stepped inside, Dudley saw him. The boy's mouth fell open. Harry looked… different. Taller. Straighter. His face sharper, cleaner, almost striking. Gone was the scrawny, sickly child Dudley was used to bullying. For a long second, Dudley simply stared, stunned into silence.
Vernon, buried behind his newspaper, noticed nothing. Petunia continued fussing over the stove—until Dudley found his voice.
"M-Mum… Dad…" he stammered, pointing. "L-Look at him!" Both adults turned. The reaction was immediate.
Vernon's newspaper slipped from his fingers. Petunia let out a sharp gasp, hand flying to her mouth.
"What—what happened to you?" Petunia shrieked, her voice rising an octave. "How can you look like that overnight?! What did you do?!"
Vernon's face darkened with unease. "Boy," he said slowly, warily, "what kind of freakish nonsense have you been up to now?"
The questions came fast after that—sharp, overlapping, frantic. Petunia's voice grew shriller by the second, her fear barely disguised as outrage. Vernon looked less angry than unsettled, his eyes flicking over Harry as if expecting him to sprout fangs.
Something inside Harry snapped. "Enough," he said. His voice wasn't loud—but it carried killing intent.
The room went cold.
As his irritation surged, his control slipped for just a moment. Harry's eyes shifted, pupils narrowing into serpentine slits. An invisible pressure washed outward from him, heavy and suffocating. Fear. Pure, instinctive fear.
Petunia's breath hitched. Dudley whimpered, stumbling back a step. Vernon's face drained of color as a shiver ran straight down his spine, locking him in place. None of them could speak. None of them could move.
Harry stared at them calmly, his gaze cold and unwavering. Then—realizing what he was doing—he reined it in. The pressure vanished. His eyes returned to normal.
Silence crashed back into the kitchen.
Harry exhaled slowly. "…Don't shout at me," he said quietly.
"Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon," he said evenly. "There are things we need to talk about. Important things. About my parents. About my legacy. And about what I am." The words landed heavily in the silent kitchen.
Without waiting for permission, Harry walked to the dining table and pulled out a chair, sitting down with composed confidence. He looked at the three of them—Petunia pale and rigid, Vernon stiff with unease, Dudley wide-eyed and silent.
Harry raised his hand and made a small, deliberate gesture toward the empty chairs. "Sit." It wasn't a command spoken loudly—but it carried weight.
After a moment of hesitation, Petunia sat first. Vernon followed stiffly, Dudley sliding into his seat last, still staring at Harry as if he were looking at a stranger.
Harry folded his hands on the table.
"I know what I am," he said quietly. "Last night, something happened. Memories that were… suppressed came back to me. Things that were hidden, deliberately or otherwise." Harry said lying through this teeth.
Petunia's fingers tightened around the edge of the table. "So," Harry continued, his gaze steady, "I want to hear the truth. From you. Not half-answers. Not excuses."
For several long seconds, no one spoke. Then Petunia's shoulders sagged. She began to talk.
She told him about Lily—about Hogwarts, magic, and the world she had despised and feared. She spoke of James, of the war, and of the night his parents died and also told that she know about his parents death from Dumbledore letter. Her voice wavered as she admitted why Harry had been brought to them—and why she had never been able to look at him without resentment.
When she finished, the kitchen felt colder. Harry listened without interruption knowing the whole truth it didn't affect him. When she finally fell silent, he nodded once.
"Thank you," he said. Vernon looked as though he wanted to say something sharp—but hesitated.
Harry didn't give him the chance and continued what he wanted to say."I received my Hogwarts letter yesterday," Harry said calmly.
Both adults stiffened.
"You—what?" Petunia breathed.
Vernon's face flushed red. "You're not going to that—"
Harry lifted his eyes.
Vernon stopped mid-sentence, his mouth snapping shut as if an invisible hand had clamped it closed. Petunia flinched, instinctively shrinking back.
"I've already replied," Harry continued evenly. "I told them I'm ready to attend."
Silence followed.
"I'll be leaving soon," Harry added. "And I won't be coming back."
Something strange happened then—Vernon's anger deflated, replaced by something closer to relief. Petunia looked conflicted, her sharp edges dulling as she processed his words.
Neither of them knew what to say.
Harry pushed his chair back and stood.
"I'm going out," he said. "I'll be back late." No one stopped him.
He walked out of the house, the door closing softly behind him, leaving the Dursleys seated at the table—stunned, unsettled, and painfully aware that the boy they had controlled for a decade was gone.
Harry stepped into the open air, breathing deeply. With the house behind him and the air cool against his skin, Harry made his decision.
A library.
If there was one place that could truly take advantage of his enhanced mind, it was there.
He set off at a brisk pace, his stride confident and purposeful. Within minutes, he reached the local library—a modest brick building, quiet and unassuming from the outside. Pushing the doors open, he stepped inside and was greeted by the scent of paper, ink, and dust.
Harry paused.
Rows upon rows of books stretched before him. It wasn't enormous by wizarding standards, but for a small town like Little Whinging, it was impressive—nearly a thousand books covering history, science, literature, philosophy, mathematics, and languages.
His lips curved upward. "Perfect." He didn't waste time.
Harry began pulling books from the shelves one after another, reading with astonishing speed. Pages flipped rapidly beneath his fingers, words imprinting themselves flawlessly into his mind. Once finished, he returned each book neatly to its place before moving on to the next.
Hour after hour passed.
History blurred into science. Science into literature. Literature into philosophy. His hypermind worked relentlessly, categorizing, cross-referencing, understanding. Concepts that once took weeks to grasp now settled into clarity within minutes.
By afternoon, he had already finished more than a hundred books. By evening, nearly two hundred.
The elderly female librarian watched him from behind the counter, her expression shifting between confusion and disbelief. At first, she had been ready to scold him—until she noticed that he wasn't damaging the books, wasn't skimming randomly, and wasn't causing any disturbance. He read calmly, methodically, and with unsettling focus. Eventually, she simply stared. Children his age don't do that, she thought.
Still, she said nothing. Harry was polite, quiet, and—she reluctantly admitted—easy on the eyes in a way that made him seem older than ten. Whatever strange obsession he had with reading, it was harmless.
When the announcement for closing time echoed through the library, Harry finally stopped. He returned the last book to its shelf and exhaled slowly.
His mind felt… full. Not overwhelmed—but enriched.
He had absorbed centuries of human knowledge in a single day. Mathematics, physics, chemistry, philosophy. He had mastered languages effortlessly—English, French, German, Spanish, Latin, and several others—understanding not just vocabulary, but structure, nuance, and history.
It felt like living multiple lifetimes in a single afternoon. Satisfied, Harry left the library and began the walk back to Privet Drive, the sunset casting long shadows across the pavement.
When he entered the house, the living room fell silent. Petunia paused mid-motion. Vernon lowered his newspaper. Dudley froze with a snack halfway to his mouth.
All three stared at Harry. He met their gazes calmly, offering no explanation.
Harry turned toward the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and sat down without a word. His dinner sat waiting on the table—untouched and long gone cold. He looked at it for a moment, expression unreadable.
Then he raised a finger. "Calefacio," he murmured softly. There was no flash, no noise—just a gentle shimmer of heat. Steam rose faintly from the plate as the food warmed evenly, as if it had just been served.
Harry began to eat. The room was silent. Petunia's hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the counter. Vernon stared at the plate as though it might leap up and attack him. Dudley swallowed nervously, suddenly finding his appetite gone. Finally, Petunia spoke, her voice careful and thin.
"How… how did you do that?" she asked. "You didn't use a wand. And you haven't even gone to Hogwarts yet. You're not supposed to know spells."
Harry didn't look up as he replied.
"It's just a simple spell," he said calmly. "From memories that were suppressed before."
That was all. No explanation. No reassurance. Petunia exchanged a frightened glance with Vernon, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat but said nothing. Whatever anger they once felt had long since curdled into unease.
Harry finished his meal in silence, wiped his mouth, and stood.
Without another word, he carried the plate to the sink, then turned and walked back toward the cupboard beneath the stairs. He slipped inside and closed the door gently behind him.
In the kitchen, the Dursleys remained frozen, the faint warmth from the plate lingering like a reminder.
For the next five days, life settled into an uneasy routine.
Harry woke up, ate quietly at the table with the Dursleys, and then left for the library. From morning until evening, he read—relentlessly—absorbing knowledge at a pace no one could comprehend. When dusk fell, he returned home, ate whatever dinner awaited him, and retreated back into the cupboard to sleep.
No shouting. No punishments. No interference.
The incident in the kitchen had changed something fundamental. The Dursleys no longer treated Harry like an inconvenience—they treated him like something unknown. And unknown things were best left alone.
---
Then came July 31st. Harry's birthday.
At exactly 12:00 a.m., he slept peacefully beneath the stairs—until the night exploded.
BOOM!
The front door was torn from its hinges with a thunderous crash, wood splintering as it slammed against the wall. The entire house shook.
Harry's eyes snapped open.
Shouts echoed through the hallway. Footsteps thundered. Vernon emerged from the bedroom gripping a gun with shaking hands, Petunia pale behind him, Dudley whimpering as he clutched her arm.
"What in the name of—?!" Vernon barked. Harry stepped out of the cupboard, silent and alert.
Then they saw him.
A giant of a man squeezed through the ruined doorway, ducking his head beneath the frame as if the house itself were too small to contain him. He was massive—broad as a wardrobe, shoulders like boulders, tangled hair and beard framing a face rough but not cruel. Each step he took made the floorboards creak in protest.
Vernon raised the gun. "S-Stay back!"
The giant barely glanced at it.
His eyes—dark, sharp, and unexpectedly kind—swept across the room until they landed on Harry.
And then he smiled.
"Well now," the giant said in a deep, rumbling voice that filled the house, "I was wonderin' when I'd finally find yeh."
Harry met his gaze calmly, emerald eyes steady focusing on Hagrid. The moment Vernon realized who the giant had come for, panic twisted into desperation.
"You—you can't have the boy!" Vernon shouted, raising the gun with shaking hands and pointing it straight at the intruder. "He's staying here!"
Petunia, pale but fierce, stepped forward as well. "He's our responsibility!" she cried, though fear quavered beneath her words.
Harry blinked, genuinely stunned. This… is new. But he composed himself quickly, face returning to calm neutrality.
The giant's gaze dropped slowly to the gun. His brows furrowed—not in fear, but mild irritation. With a casual motion, he reached out and grabbed the barrel.
Metal screeched. In one smooth movement, he bent the gun upward like it was made of tin, the barrel curling uselessly toward the ceiling.
Vernon let out a strangled sound and staggered back, staring at the ruined weapon in disbelief.
"Now then," the giant said calmly, brushing his hands together, "that's no way ter greet a guest."
He turned his attention fully to Harry, his sternness melting into something warmer—almost fond.
"Blimey… it's been a long time," he rumbled. "Las' time I saw yeh, yeh were just a little thing. Didn't even know who yeh were yet."
Harry listened quietly as the man spoke—about how he'd seen him as a baby, and about his legacy and his parents what they were. Much of it matched what Harry already knew, but hearing it spoken aloud carried a different weight.
Then the giant suddenly looked embarrassed. "Ah—nearly forgot," he said, rummaging through his coat. "Brought yeh somethin. Happy Birthday Harry "
He pulled out a slightly squashed box and opened it to reveal a cake, pink icing smeared but heartfelt. Written crookedly across the top were the words: HAPPEE BIRTHDAE HARRY
Harry's lips twitched despite himself.
"Thank you," he said sincerely.
Even though he already knew exactly who stood before him, Harry tilted his head slightly and asked, politely and calmly, "Before we continue… may I know who you are?"
The giant beamed, clearly pleased.
"Ah nearly forgot to introduce myself I am Rubeus Hagrid," he said proudly. "Keeper of Keys an' Grounds at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft an' Wizardry."
Harry met his gaze and nodded.
"It's nice to meet you, Professor Hagrid."
At that, Hagrid's eyes widened in surprise—then he let out a booming laugh that shook the walls.
"Professor, eh not really I am just a caretaker."
Behind them, the Dursleys stood frozen, fear and confusion written across their faces.