Alright. This is my first story in this fandom. There are days where I reread the thirty-fourth chapter and imagine the whole series was one fantastical dream imagined by a lonely boy locked in the cupboard under the stairs. I hope this story will be well received.

Also, Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. Not me.

Harry clapped his hands to his mouth to stifle a gasp. He did not want to wake his Uncle.

Thin shoulders heaving, he reached blindly above his head for the fraying string attached to his cupboard's light bulb. With a faint click, dim light flood the cupboard under the stairs that served as his bedroom. The light flickered several times before staying lit.

No longer enclosed in darkness, it was easier for the boy to not think about his dream.

It was not the first time Harry had dreamed about the eerie green light, but he had never done it in such detail.

He had been older in his dream. Seventeen. And fighting against a man who called himself . . . Harry couldn't remember. It was Vol something or other. His dream self had walked into a dark forest at a castle, voluntarily going to his death at the hands of that green light. He remembered that much at least.

Harry had encountered that green light before. It was before he had come to live with the Dursleys.

With a noiselessness developed from years of practice, the ten year old boy dressed, in clothes four times his size, and slipped out of the cupboard.

His relatives abhorred any reminders that they were forced to take in their freak of a nephew, so it was essential that Harry keep quiet. They put him out of the way, by giving him the tiny cupboard under the stairs as a bedroom and dressing him in his overweight cousin's hand me downs.

The only times the Dursleys were glad to have him around was when there were chores that needed to be done.

His Uncle Vernon was the worst of them. The obese man was astonishingly observant when it came to his unwanted nephew. Harry never really had to do much of anything to draw the man's ire. Simply being alive was enough to make him angry.

But that anger was nothing compared to his Uncle's wrath when strange things happened around him. Harry couldn't explain how these things would happen, but like the incident on Dudley's birthday, Harry was to blame when weird things, like vanishing glasses for snake exhibits, occurred.

Given Vernon's proclivity for unlooping his belt when past his anger threshold, Harry tried to give his relatives what they wanted.

It was easier said than done, though. Dudley took perverse pleasure in taunting Harry about his lack of parents and generally doing everything in his power to get him in trouble. If Vernon had eagle eyes when it came to Harry's misdeeds, he was blind as a bat when it concerned his own flesh and blood.

Silence was one of the key rules for surviving at Number Four Privet Drive. "Don't ask questions," his Aunt Petunia was always saying.

Other rules included staying out of his relatives' way. Harry would love to achieve this, but his Aunt was always screaming for him to vacuum or weed the garden. Another was doing Dudley's homework so he would pass school while at the same time making sure to do worse on his own assignments. Harry hated having to appear stupid in school where he was already teased for his baggy clothes and ugly round glasses. He actually liked cooking, so making all the meals for the entire family was enjoyable. Even if he wasn't included, for Harry was only allowed to eat after Vernon and Dudley had had their fill. But he had become rather skilled small bites while he was preparing the food.

Some days, the tiny portions he stole were the only times he'd eat that day. Harry secreted away food to his cupboard whenever possible, but only when he knew the Dursleys wouldn't notice it was missing.

The brunette hurried into the kitchen. He pulled down three frying pans hanging on the rack above the oven and set them on the range, twisting the nobs all the way to the left to ignite the flames and get them heating. He glanced wistfully at the microwave on the counter and grabbed a fourth frying pan. Dudley had thrown a massive fit the last time Harry had served bacon that had been nuked. On that occasion, his fat cousin had overturned the table. Vernon had blistered his hands in hot oil in retaliation and snarled an order to never put their bacon in the microwave again. He had to cook breakfast again with his hands burnt.

He started some oil in the first pan for sausages, filled a filter with Uncle Vernon's plain coffee and let that start brewing, then turned to the refrigerator to grab eggs and milk to start the batter coating bread for French toast. The rest of the eggs he cracked into a second pan to make scrambled eggs.

Harry added an excessive amount of cinnamon to his egg and milk mixture and began soaking and frying the French toast. He whirled about the kitchen, setting the table with plates and utensils, piling on food as it finished cooking. He finally started on the bacon when the rest of breakfast was almost done, knowing that the scent of sizzling bacon would wake his uncle and cousin, both of which would be very unhappy if there was no food on their plates when they dragged themselves downstairs.

He was just sliding several slices of crispy bacon onto his uncle's loaded plate when the man stomped into the room. "Where's my coffee, boy?" he snapped.

"Coming, Uncle Vernon," answered Harry.

"Well, hurry up, then!"

Dudley and Aunt Petunia soon made their way down, the former sitting heavily in his chair and shoving forkfuls of sausages drenched in ketchup and peanut butter into his mouth.

Petunia looked distastefully down her nose at him. "There's a rack of lamb on the bottom shelf for dinner," she sniffed. It was a wonder to Harry that both his cousin and uncle hadn't suffered a heart attack yet.

"Don't just stand there, boy. Go fetch the mail."

'I'm not a bloody dog,' Harry thought. There was a small stack of letters on the doormat and he looked through them curiously.

It was mostly bills and a post card from Uncle Vernon's horrible sister, except for the last letter. That one was for him.

Green eyes widened, stunned. He had never received a letter in is life. Who would be writing to him?

Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald green ink. There was no stamp. Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

Harry stared down at the letter in his hands, feeling a sense of déjà vu. This letter was familiar. He had seen it before but he couldn't place where.

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing? Checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry's head snapped up in surprise. This was exactly how his dream had started, with him receiving a letter from a school for magic.

"Hogwarts," he recalled in a whisper, eyes locked on the crest sealing the letter. Could it be real? Did magic really exist? And he was a wizard?

The boy startled as his uncle yelled once more. He scurried back into the kitchen, mail clenched tightly in one hand. On the way, he slid his letter through the slats of the metal grate on his cupboard door.

The rest of the day, his mind was consumed with thoughts of that letter. He didn't think it could be real. It had to be a hoax, didn't it? Because magic wasn't real. It was just a dream.

But a small part of Harry wanted it to be true, because his dream was full of adventure and excitement and attending a school for magic meant getting away from the Dursleys.

Later, in the safety of his bedroom after his relatives had retired for the night, Harry carefully broke the seal and removed the pages inside.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

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

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Amazement filled Harry. His dream was becoming reality. The proof was in his hands; an acceptance letter to a school for magic. He was a wizard.

He quickly read through the list of school supplies, taking note of the textbooks and other equipment he would need. Then he turned the supply list over so he could write on the reverse side. Harry needed to make a list of everything he could remember from his dream.

In the end, it wasn't much. The list read:

-red and gold tie
-a mirror with an unintelligible inscription
-a red stone
-some blonde git that dressed like a ponce
-snakes
-black hooded creatures that reminded him of Ringwraiths from the Lord of the Rings series he had read
-a portkey (whatever the hell that was)
-lots of dragons
-a creepy graveyard
-a secret army of students
-the words I must not tell lies
-a potions book
-two identical lockets
-camping
-that bright green light speeding towards him

It wasn't a lot of detail. Harry knew he had dreamt of more than the fifteen items on his list, but he couldn't for the life of him remember any more than that. He wished he could remember more, because the majority of his list appeared to be trivial and inconsequential details. The only two things that concerned him was the possibility of encountering dragons and the green light that was a foremost presence in a lot of his dreams.

He supposed the rest of the list would make sense in context.

His only problem right now was getting his hands on an owl so he could reply, and ask for assistance in getting his school things. There certainly wasn't any place in London where he could buy cauldrons and wands.

Harry woke early the next morning, before the sun. He was surprised to find three more letters addressed to him on the doormat, identical to the one he had opened yesterday. Would Hogwarts continue to send letters until he sent them confirmation?

He dropped the letters and hurriedly unbolted the door. If there were more letters here, there must have been owls that delivered them. He hoped to catch one still outside Number 4.

His hunch was right. On the street sign reading Privet Drive perched a tawny owl. Yellow eyes pierced, full of intelligence. Feeling foolish, but unable to think of any way to know if this owl was a post owl, Harry asked, "Are you from Hogwarts?"

Large eyes blinked at him, and the owl hooted. Harry took that as a yes. "Would you deliver a letter for me?"

The owl hooted again. Harry thanked the bird as he ran back to his cupboard to draft a letter to Professor McGonagall.

Dear Professor McGonagall,

I would very much like to attend Hogwarts. I have never heard of magic before and was wondering if it would be possible for you to send directions to the store where I can find the items on the supply list?

Thank you,

Harry Potter

Harry reread it, hoping it sounded professional and not like a little kid was writing it. He took the letter to the owl, which clutched it in its talons, and gave it instructions to give it to Professor McGonagall. The bird gave one last hoot of acknowledgement and took flight.

The brunette watch as the owl soared away, eyes not leaving its figure until the bird was a dark speck in the sky. The arrival of the milkman, collecting the empty milk bottles and dropping off filled ones, meant Harry had to get started on breakfast.

Thousands of miles away from Surrey, hidden in the hills of Scotland, stood a magnificent castle. It was empty at the moment, of bustling students, but the professors remained during the summer months.

Professor Minerva McGonagall frowned, lips thinning, as she read the short letter she had just received. As Deputy Headmistress, sending out the Hogwarts letters was her responsibility. She made personal visits to the potential Muggle-born student in order to explain to their parents and demonstrate a little magic so they did not think the letter to be a trick.

She had known Harry Potter lived with his Muggle relatives, having been present on Privet Drive the regretful night when Albus Dumbledore placed him in their care. Albus had written a letter, tucked into Harry's blanket, so that Lily's sister could explain the truth when it came time for the boy to attend Hogwarts.

Evidently, she had not done so. That bad feeling Minvera had had about the Dursleys returned. She had told Albus they were the worse sort of Muggles imaginable.

She stood briskly, donning an emerald green cloak. It was too late to be calling upon the Dursley household, but she could wait outside in her cat form until a more decent hour.

Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived, could not come to school in September ignorant of who he was.