Chapter One

The Stolen Letter

It all began, innocuously enough, when I was made to clean out Dudley's second bedroom.

I had shuffled everything to one side and started binning everything I could, beginning with broken toys and electronics and moving on to old books and papers. Over a decade of rubbish and toss-aways were strewn about carelessly, old course assignments and grade reports. And of course, books. They looked to be the only unmolested items in the room.

Halfway through the third box of old papers, I found something that made my eyes widen in shock: a letter for me. I'd never received post, not even those rude messages the libraries sent out—And yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly that there could be no mistake:

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp on the crumpled, yellowish parchment.

Turning the envelope over, I saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

I vaguely remembered holding this strange envelope years ago, only to see it snatched out of my hands before I could open it. Vernon had said it was addressed to me by mistake so he'd burned it.

So that's what you did with it, old man... How'd you manage to convince yourself this wasn't my letter? It has the cupboard on the address and everything...

Somebody, at some point, had actually sent me a letter! Cracking the seal with a grateful flourish, I pulled out the letter and read:

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,

Deputy Headmistress

A sense of absurd anticlimax crashed down over my gratefulness, shattering it spectacularly.

What sort of joke is this? School of Witchcraft? What sort of crap name is Hogwarts, and how could I have gotten an owl to tell Minerva McGonagall that I'd've liked to attend? Owls can't even talk, can they? Maybe a parrot or something...but an owl? How would I even go about catching an owl, and where would I send it?

I glanced over the list of books and equipment, and my scowl deepened. Dragon hide gloves...a wand...a size 2 pewter cauldron...where would I even begin looking for such ridiculous books? At least I wasn't allowed a broomstick—that would've been a tricky piece of kit to acquire; I doubted they were talking about the kind Aunt Petunia used to knock me about...

The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. I was already a student at Stonewall High, and I was very nearly fourteen years old; it had been years since this letter had been taken from me.

I found myself furious.

Who was this Minerva McGonagall? And why hadn't Minerva followed up when she didn't receive my well-trained owl that told her to be expecting my robe-wearing, cauldron-stirring self on September 1?

And more importantly...why on earth was I taking this so seriously? It had to be a prank.

Frowning down at the emerald-green scrawl and shaking my head at my gullibility, I tucked the letter into my math book and crawled back into my cupboard. I tried not to focus on the fact that tomorrow would be Monday, and I'd have to return to school.

I dreamed of flying motorcycles.

If Stonewall High had been a prison, then I would've been firmly entrenched in the violent offenders' ward—for a traffic violation.

I endured the conspicuous glares and hushed whispers with thinly-veiled irritation. I was almost used to it by now; I'd had to wear Dudley's dyed hand-me-downs until I'd worked up enough ire to learn to sew. I'd cut and stitched together the tattered clothes myself, and though I was far from accomplished, I didn't get stared at quite so thoroughly since making my last adjustments.

It was also getting easier to endure our daily lectures on personal responsibility and planning for the future, surrounded as I was by big, stupid students, ignoring as best I could the extraordinarily sharp pencils being hurled at me. Even with my recent growth spurt, my chest might've been only slightly wider than one of Dudley's legs.

Finally noticing all the snickering and pencil-hurling, Mr. Mason slammed his yardstick down on the table with a sharp thwack! and bellowed, "Listen up! This program is the last window of opportunity you'll have, children! This class—and my good graces—are the only things between you and St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys!"

The oft-repeated line was good for a laugh from most of the other students, but I didn't think it was the least bit funny—I was only in this stupid program because of my rotten relatives.

Three years ago, when I passed through the double-doors on my first day at Stonewall High, certain circumstances had worked against me from the very start: I had been wearing what looked to be bits of old elephant skin. Coupled with Petunia's favorite haircut—shaving me nearly bald except for my bangs, which she left "to hide that horrible scar"—the Dursleys had reassured the school that I was worth bullying, and daily beatings had begun shortly thereafter.

The fact that I had to have been the speckiest, scrawniest first-year in all of England was just the light dusting of powdered sugar on top of the sundae, and within two weeks I'd been called up to the headmaster's office for "long-term disciplinary action." According to various less-than-reputable sources, that could mean suspension, expulsion or public execution.

My relatives were invited to discuss the situation with us, and they promptly made it worse.

"Do your worst," Vernon had told the headmaster agreeably, "we'd like nothing more than for you to beat some discipline into him. He's always causing trouble at home—talking back and lazing about. You've got to stamp that nonsense out of them while they're still young, you know."

And it only went faster downhill from there. The following week I was transferred to the Delinquent Reformation Program—the public education system's last chance for my generation's future criminals. It was held in a smaller building on the east side of the grounds, away from the main building—which contained my generation's future victims.

On the very first Monday of classes in the DRP, a boy named Timothy Stanton had taken a liking to me. He wasn't particularly fast or smart or strong, but since he'd hit puberty early he was a head taller than I was. He displayed his affection by punching me on the nose and pushing me headfirst into a pillar supporting the entryway.

After I'd collapsed, he stepped on my stomach and found the strangled squeak I made hilarious. So hilarious, in fact, that he stepped on my stomach twice more before lunch. Shortly after that, I had peed blood for the first time—peeing blood is one of those activities which never get any easier with practice.

I suffered under his gracious hospitality all day, and took the opportunity to thank him after school. He'd just left the DRP building, and I'd been waiting for him with a present: I'd nicked a small manor stone from the grounds during lunch, and it had been weighing down my book bag ever since.

The second his abnormally large body cleared the doorway, I shouted, "Oi, Tim!" and swung my bag at him, clipping the side of his surprised face and sending him crashing to the pavement.

Nobody even breathed while I stared down at the barely-conscious boy, everyone melted away like hot wax from a flame. They'd all looked frightened of me—frightened of the knobbliest little first year.

And then I was gasping for air, laughing so hard that I couldn't stand straight. Tim moaned at the loud noise, rolling to his side and clutching at his temples feebly.

I had learned something important just then; humans were fragile animals. No matter how much one resembled a gorilla, it didn't take much at all to hurt them. A well-aimed rock, a length of wood, even a fork nicked from the lunch room—or in this case, a makeshift flail.

And despite this delicateness, we counted among our numbers the most powerful animals on the planet.

One of the key characteristics that distinguished humans among the thousand thousands of Earth's creatures, and certain humans above others, was their ability to use tools. From the first caveman with a crudely-hewn spear to James Bond and his technical gadgetry, humans triumphed over one another by using tools and a dash of old-fashioned ingenuity.

The other key characteristic, given more to prominent historical figures and less to the nameless masses, was an unconquerable human spirit. It was our drive to live—and to fight hard for that life. Some people were content to flow through life, gently giving in to death with some variation of "it was my time to go." Other people—the ones historians tended to write their books about—would claw and bite for every breath of air.

That sunny September day, with a stilled pool of fellow delinquents surrounding me and my fallen foe, I embraced those characteristics fully: if I was going to keep my head above water in this ocean full of sharks, I was going to have to strap on some massive fins and start kicking.

And I'd been kicking ever since.

I never gave up an inch; I never stayed down when I got knocked about. I just spat out the blood, wiped my mouth and attacked right back. It kept me from getting into a lot more fights—most people weren't looking for a good brawl, after all. They just wanted to release some pent-up aggression on someone who wasn't going to be much of a challenge. It was a power issue, not any sort of need for a fight between equals.

Not that I won all those fights, or even most of them—I looked even more specky than ever before, now that all the normal, peaceful students in my class had been supplanted by the largest, hairiest boys in Stonewall. But these large, hairy classmates learned quickly: that skinny boy in the corner with the bright green eyes...that was Harry Potter—and if they wanted a piece of him...they'd better be ready to bleed for it.

After another encounter with Tim—in which he'd thoughtfully sanded down the splinters on my cafeteria chair with my face—I borrowed a hacksaw from the metal shop across the grounds and cut off the grips of his shiny new bicycle's handlebars while it was chained to the rack.

I thought it was a tasteful and understated modification. Just being there when he saw my handiwork, watching as his face turned the color of old porridge, was worth the beating I got for it.

I kept those two short lengths of metal I'd cut off, finding that they were quite useful in a scrap: I'd grip one in each hand and they braced my fists, making my punches hurt more.

I had learned a lot over the last three years, and most of my lessons had been in pugilism. The rest of my education had been learning how to stay conscious while my classmates learned the same lessons I had.

The Delinquent Reformation Program was only afforded one building with three rooms and a cafeteria. The first three years were together in the smallest classroom, and even as a third year I was one of the shortest students in the room. We had weekly packets of actual coursework to do, which were given out by year, and we always ended each day with an impassioned lecture on precisely why we were doomed to become the wasted sediment of our meticulously filtered society.

The lecture ended, as usual, with the erupting cheers of the future gritty residue, and I stayed after, as usual, to attempt to persuade Mr. Mason to transfer me back to the standard program. I didn't want to turn into sediment.

He would never agree to transfer me back, of course, but the day I stopped fighting it was the day I started dying inside.

There was only one day of classes left before Summer Hols, and I was very much looking forward to eight idyllic weeks away from these incomparably brutish children. They were all so singly focused on causing each other pain—I felt less educated every day I attended class.

The DRP building was on the East side of the grounds, but we still had to walk past the main building on our way out the gate each day. Normally, this was nothing out of the ordinary.

Today, however, I was met with the sight of something less-than-ordinary: A group of tall boys from the main building were huddled around a short, reedy girl who looked terrified out of her wits. From the stripes on their ties, I could tell they were in their last year at Stonewall. They were probably doing something stupid for a send-off.

It was late enough in the day that most of the students had already left, but more than a few teachers were still around; they'd break it up eventually. I did my best to ignore it and kept walking toward the gate. It was probably just a bit of fun.

I heard a shrill shriek, and my head whipped around of its own accord—one of the boys had grabbed her bag, which she'd been gripping tightly, so another boy had started yanking on her hair to separate them.

I could feel the skin on my knuckles stretching tight around my shaking fists, my eyes narrowed to slits.

I was cross with the girl for making herself an easy target, of course; walking around alone and being unaware of her surroundings, but I was absolutely livid with the older students. They'd dumped her bag out on the grass, and the girl was just sitting where she'd been knocked down, crying pathetically. One of them started grinding his foot into her bag.

I really wished she wouldn't cry: crying girls terrified me. Girls in general terrified me, because there weren't any in the DRP—and because I was in the DRP, girls tended to be just as terrified of me.

I hadn't said more than ten words to any girl in my entire life, and Aunt Petunia didn't count as a girl. I had no idea what to do or say around them; I just got more and more agitated. And nothing on earth made me more incredibly agitated than a shaking, sobbing girl.

But seeing innocent people treated with such cruelty caused something cold to twist inside of me. I always got swept away by my strange sense of duty at times like these. I knew it was useless to fight against the tide that was crashing against me, pushing me toward this conflict that was so obviously none of my business.

I called it my 'saving people thing', and it had caused me a colossal amount of grief over the years. I'd had plenty of quiet days whose peace had been shattered simply because of my stupid inability to let things lie—if I saw it happening, and knew it shouldn't be happening, I couldn't help but try to stop it from happening. And there were a lot of things that shouldn't be happening, but happened in the DRP all the same.

So that's your idea of fun, is it? I jogged over to the group of boys with as much enthusiasm as I could fake. "Oi! That looks like fun, mates, let me help you out!"

Several of the older students frowned in confusion, until I drew close enough for them to make out the shiny black lapel pin that designated me as a member of the iniquitous Delinquent Reformation Program. Everyone at Stonewall knew the sort of blokes that were sent there, and a few of them smirked as I budged into the circle.

With a conspiring wink to the older students, I watched the wisplike girl stare up at my lapel pin with renewed horror stretching across her pale face. "In the DRP, there's something special we do to people this scrawny. Watch carefully, mates..."

Digging around in my sloppily-stitched trouser pockets, I found the lengths of Tim's handlebars and gripped them tightly in my hands.

I'd already dropped two of the boys before the other four realized what was happening, and punched a third one hard in the chest as he lunged at me. I felt my arm quiver and nearly buckle under the combined force of our momentums, and the boy curled inward with a hoarse, gasping breath as he crashed to the grass.

The other three took off running toward the gate as I shouted vulgarities after them. Those cowards left the rest of their gang behind. I wonder what I should do to them...maybe tie their trousers around their ankles?

Before I could decide what to do with the moaning students on the ground, the thin girl burst into tears, wailing at the top of her lungs. I winced and turned to face her, my rage swiftly being replaced with unreserved panic.

"Right, erm...I'll help you pick your books up and all, just..." I tucked my handlebars back into my pockets, grimacing at how extraordinarily shrill and loud this tiny thing's voice was—and how it wouldn't stop. "Could you just...look, stop crying! Please...I can't...just stop...oh, sod it!"

Abandoning the books, I turned and ran back towards my own bag as fast as I could. I snatched it up without breaking pace and dashed along the hedge toward the gate. I just couldn't deal with crying girls.

The next morning I was met at the gate by the deputy headmaster, who guided me firmly by the shoulder into the headmaster's office. The headmaster was a short, balding man by the name of Robert Saxton, and he wore his brown tweed suit every single day, no matter how hot it got.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter, do sit down," the man said pleasantly, though I knew from long experience that his perpetually soft voice had nothing to do with the words that came out of his mouth.

"Yes, Sir. What is it this time?" I asked morosely as I threw myself into the chair across from the headmaster's desk. The last day of term, and I had to start off on a sour note.

"I've been informed by several students that you deliberately provoked a fight yesterday after school, with our normal students, no less, and caused serious injuries to three of them. Would you say that is an accurate summary of yesterday afternoon's events?" the balding man smiled at me placidly.

I bristled at that, hearing my voice get louder of its own accord, "I didn't start anything! They were bullying some little girl, and I can't stand for that sort of thing!"

"Oh, come now, Mr. Potter. You're in the DRP, and you honestly expect me to believe that you were trying to protect some girl?"

My face heated uncomfortably, noticing the implied accusation that I was not only a bully, but a liar as well. I hated being called a liar. "It's the truth!" I scowled, "And I never wanted to be in your stupid reformation program in the first place!"

The headmaster shook his head in amusement, "Well? What do you think, William?"

I thought it curious that the Mr. Saxton was looking over my shoulder. I whirled around and startled when I realized there had been a boy sitting in the back corner of the room the entire time. I recognized him from yesterday on the field; he was the one who had dumped out the girl's bag. "You!" I snapped accusatorily.

William talked over me, a smug smirk on his face. "Yeah, Dad, that's him. He dumped that girl's bag out for laughs, and he nearly put Pete and Nick in the hospital when they tried to stop him. We're not in the DRP like him and the rest of those thugs, so fighting with us is forbidden. He's a menace; he should be expelled!"

My mouth hung open in shock as my stomach plummeted through the floor. Dad? Oh, hell.

Smiling widely now, Robert said, "My son is a boy of uncompromising principles, Mr. Potter, unlike you. He doesn't lie, and he certainly doesn't bully little girls. I'm afraid that I have no choice but to agree with his assessment: Since the students you assaulted were indeed students of the main building, you have committed an unpardonable offense. Mr. Potter, you are hereby expelled from this school and banned from the grounds."

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but I couldn't think of a single thing that stood a chance of making this disappear. My mouth shut with an audible click and instead I focused on trying to burn holes in Mr. Saxton's shiny, balding head with my eyes.

"I'll be informing your parents of your withdrawal from the school by noon today. I wish you the best of luck in life, Mr. Potter. You are free to go." With a curt nod to the deputy headmaster, he turned his attention back to the papers on his desk with that stupid, stupid smile still stuck to his face.

I shot to my feet and glared at the boy, and then whirled around to face his father. Of all the rotten luck! "Instead of wishing me luck, you could've just listened to me when I first came here. And they're not my parents!" I bit off the last few words, grabbing my books and trudging out the door.

That's it. That is IT!

I stomped each step loudly on the way down as I stewed in the absurd injustice I'd just suffered, not bothering to wait for the deputy headmaster to 'escort' me off of the grounds.

With Stonewall closing its doors to me, there was nowhere left for me to go except St. Brutus's—a quaint little Institution just a stone's throw away from the river Styx. From the stories Vernon had told me, I half-expected the headmaster there to have red skin, horns and a pitchfork.

Anywhere but there.

Anywhere...

A mad idea had taken root in my head just then.

Instead of turning right out of the gate to head back to Privet Drive, I set off left toward the post office. I still wasn't sure what to think of that strange letter, but I was certainly willing to take the risk—even if it turned out to be nothing more than someone's idea of a clever prank.

What do I have to lose, anyway? Respect? Never had any. Pride? Stomped out of me by second year.

I didn't have the foggiest idea how to go about catching an owl, much less training one to say, "Still got a spot for Harry Potter? And perhaps a dead mouse or two for me? I'm knackered...hoot!" but I was going to start by trying to send a reply through the postal service. Despite my doubts, I was going to write this Albus Dumbledore. Surely—if there was a Hogwarts—I would be welcomed with open arms to take my rightful place inside its venerable halls.

I hadn't the foggiest idea where to get most of the items on that ridiculous list of his, nor did I have any money to buy such items. And of course, I couldn't afford the tuition at Hogwarts, even if I did have everything I needed. But I had to convince him to let me in regardless.

I'd beg and grovel pathetically if I had to, but first I'd try to reason with him. He was a wizard; he should appreciate an articulate, logical argument:

As Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore's prime concern should be the overall well-being of his dear pupils.

If Harry Potter isn't allowed to attend Hogwarts for any reason—such as a complete lack of books, equipment and tuition—then Harry Potter will be forced to beat one of Albus Dumbledore's dear pupils half to death, and take their books, equipment and tuition.

Therefore, logically, Albus Dumbledore's prime concern should be allowing Harry Potter to attend Hogwarts.

QED.

QE-bleedin'-D.

I cracked my knuckles as I neared my goal, determined to make this Dumbledore fellow see how positively uninspiring Hogwarts had been these past three years without me. He seemed like a reasonable chap...

Vernon was waiting for me in the living room when I finally showed up at Number 4 Privet Drive. He had a disturbingly happy smile on his face as I crossed over the threshold, and intercepted me before I could reach the sanctity of my cupboard.

"You, boy, are grounded forever," he sang. Someone must've rang him with the news of my expulsion. "And in eight short weeks, you'll be attending St. Brutus's. I finally have an excuse to send you somewhere proper. Have I told you their school motto? 'If you spare the rod, you spoil the child.' Isn't that just marvelous, Petunia? Now there's a place that knows a thing or two about discipline!"

Even though he sounded ecstatic, and half of him probably was, I could see his face coloring deeper and deeper shades, finally settling somewhere between plum and puce. Angry veins throbbed in his temples as his beady eyes narrowed. No doubt he was wondering if the neighbors knew yet. He jerked his eyes sharply toward the stairs, and I saw the motion so often that I knew precisely what it meant:

"Go—cupboard—stay—no meals."

I clenched my jaw and threw my bookbag into my cupboard, following closely after it; I knew the routine by now. I hunched over and sat on my bed, careful not to knock my head against the ceiling. I'd gotten too tall to even sit up straight in my small room under the stairs, and I had to sleep in a fetal position at night to keep my legs off of the cold floor. Another year in here and I'd be permanently hunched over.

I watched Vernon slam my door shut and heard the double locks sliding into place as he started humming merrily. "You'll have chores each day, and you won't eat 'til they're finished. If you sneak out: no food. If you talk back: no food. If you even think about complaining: no food."

I rubbed my nearly-bald-except-for-my-bangs head in frustration as I exhaled sharply. How much worse can this day get?

Vernon's beady eyes appeared at the slit in the top of the door, "Also, Marge will be visiting in a few days and I promise you, boy, that you'll have nothing but bread crusts and drain water for the rest of the summer if you step even one toe out of line while she's here. D'you hear me? Not one toe out of line!"

I bit back the angry retort that was nearly out of my mouth already, knowing that I wouldn't get anything at all to eat tomorrow unless I stayed quiet through supper. My stomach groaned mutinously.

Of course.

The days passed by in a blur of mindless chores, backaches and blisters.

Marge's visit was uneventful, despite her customary defamation of my looks, my career opportunities and my breeding. As a token of his gratitude, Vernon had given me increasingly worthless chores: I'd turned over the flower bed twice already, and the past three days I'd been digging holes in the backyard and then filling them right back in.

By the end of the second week, I'd written Hogwarts off as a hoax and bitterly hoped that they got a good laugh out of my brilliant reasoning skills.

But seventeen days into my punishment, I received another letter addressed to me. I crammed it into my pocket and took the rest of the post back to the table, then bounced back to my cupboard with barely restrained enthusiasm.

It was the same yellowish parchment with the same green ink and purple wax seal. There was no stamp on this one, either. It made me even more sceptical, but I didn't see the harm in opening it. Would it be a letter of acceptance, an apology or just a written affirmation that some stupid berk had been taking the mickey?

I felt dizzy with anticipation as I broke the wax seal and tipped out the envelope.

A train ticket for King's Cross station fell into my aching, dirt-stained hand. I was to take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven o'clock. Looked like logic prevailed, I knew the headmaster would see it my—

Hang on.

Platform nine and three-quarters?

I felt a sharp pinch of frustration forming between my eyes.

But this ticket looks so authentic! Why would anybody go through so much trouble just to have a laugh at my expense? I'll bet it would even get me past the ticket barrier...

With a defeated sigh, I recalled that my only other option was St. Brutus's. Even if there was no Hogwarts, even if there was no platform nine and three-quarters—I'd take the train from any platform at all, so long as it led away from this pit of despair.

The Dursleys would never have driven me anywhere but a lock-up, so asking them for a lift was right out. I'd have to leave a few days early and go on foot, but it wouldn't take more than two days at a good clip.

As I stared down at the ticket in my trembling hands, I felt an electric tingle crawling under my skin; if I was lucky, this summer would be the last time I'd ever have to see my rotten relatives.

Come the twenty-ninth of August, I'd be heading to London.

It hadn't taken any convincing at all to keep Petunia from shaving my head over the summer holiday. This was not due to any maternal, nurturing conviction; rather, she knew I'd have a better chance of heatstroke if my hair was longer. Fortunately, it also meant I had a nearly-respectable head of hair by the time I had to leave.

No amount of struggling could make my hair lay flat, however, and I caught Petunia narrowing her eyes at my hair several times, perhaps wishing it could cut itself if she glared hard enough. I hoped I could set out before she decided the benefit of leaving my hair alone—potential heatstroke—was no longer worth the cost, which was having me look nearly-respectable.

Over the last month, I had nicked a few essentials from around the house for the trip. Mostly dried food and supplies that I'd found in Dudley's second bedroom, and a coat hanger from Petunia's closet to open my cupboard door. I'd taken my cousin's old poncho from primary school, which was still large enough to double as a tent if I folded it over some rope, and I'd also liberated his old racing bike while my relatives were out celebrating Vernon's latest deal at Grunning's.

I'd moved the schedule forward one day because of that, and couldn't wipe the grin off of my face no matter how many times I had to fill in that damnable hole in the backyard. The bike was hidden in the long hedge at the end of the street, tires patched and inflated. I just hoped the brakes still worked properly—I didn't know how to patch those.

With two spare changes of clothes, Dudley's poncho and some snacks for the trip, I'd already stuffed my small pack to capacity.

The night before my grand exit, I wrote a short note to the Dursleys expressing everything I had left unsaid all these years:

Dear Dursleys,

I know you were looking forward to sending me off to St. Brutus's in a week, but I've reached an epiphany—I'd rather be anywhere else. I'm not sure where, yet; I suppose I'll just keep going 'til I find something worth stopping for.

With any luck, I'll never see you again. Hope you're as happy about that as I am.

Cheers,

Harry Potter

At five o'clock the next morning, I poked the hooked end of the coat hanger out from the slits in my cupboard door. It didn't take more than three minutes of scratching around to locate the deadbolt knobs and jerk them loose.

After pulling on my least-tattered jeans and nicking Dudley's lunch meat from the refrigerator, I snatched up my rucksack, crept silently out the front door and shut it as quietly as I could.

Even if Hogwarts didn't exist, I wouldn't turn around and head home with my tail tucked between my legs. No matter what I found at platform nine and three-quarters, I didn't plan on ever coming back to Privet Drive.

I pulled Dudley's old racing bicycle out of the hedge at the end of the street, tugged a tangled vine free of the front tire, and set off toward London.

I didn't look back.

On the bicycle it only took me 'til noon to reach London, but it was after dusk before I managed to locate King's Cross station. City people, I'd found, were notoriously disinterested in the woes of passersby. The rain had begun pattering incessantly against the asphalt, nearly drenching me in the time it took me to don Dudley's old poncho, and I hadn't any money to rent a room.

I slept sitting against the wall in a nearby alley that night, gratified that I'd thought to bring some protection from the hammering rain and fervently hoping that this wasn't all some foul prank.

After finally rising from my fitful night's sleep, I washed myself as best I could at the sink in the men's loo. I'd washed myself in enough sinks that I had gotten pretty quick about it, and the soap was free. I found my ticket in the front pouch of my pack and made my way through the ticket barrier, stowing my poncho and shaking out my sopping hair.

It was a good thing I'd come so early, because—as expected—I couldn't see a platform nine and three-quarters anywhere. There was a big plastic number nine on one platform, a dividing barrier between the two, and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, nothing at all.

I set my jaw, feeling my mulish pride start to kick. I'm not going anywhere. I've got 'til eleven o'clock to see if this stupid platform exists, and I'm not leaving until I'm on that train or I've missed it!

The hours stretched on as I sat against the wall, staring broodingly at platforms nine and ten and wondering if there were any other students coming. How big could a school of witchcraft and wizardry really be? Wizards had to be rare; otherwise they'd be splashed all over the papers, wouldn't they? What if there were only a dozen students in the whole of Europe who had received letters like mine, and Hogwarts was really just a small boarding house for the most extraordinary sort of people?

The question that nagged at me the most: how could I be any sort of exceptional? Even if there was a Hogwarts, how could I have any place in it?

At ten minutes to eleven o'clock, my patience all but worn through, I finally spotted my first glimpse of odd.

I noticed a cluster of chattering teenagers—all pushing overloaded trolleys—walking straight toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Two of the teenagers had cages perched precariously atop their trunks.

And, wonder upon wonders, those cages contained owls.

The coincidence was far too improbable. I shot to my feet and chased after them, wondering if I should call out and get their attention. But what would I say?

Just as they reached the barrier, a crowd of tourists swarmed in front of me and by the time the last backpack cleared away, they'd vanished. I stared at the spot where they'd been headed, but I saw no swinging trapdoors. It was still the same barrier it had been before.

I was thoroughly confused.

As I swallowed back curses, a line formed to my left composed mostly of redheads. Strange words like 'omnioculars' and 'quidditch' were being thrown about, and I felt that my best chances of getting through that barrier lay with copying them.

They were marching, one at a time, into the barrier between platforms nine and ten. I very nearly punched myself. Of course it would be something mad like that.

Since there was already a queue for that side of the barrier wall, I strode to the next face of the barrier—like picking the next line at the greengrocer's—and marched into it straightaway.

A dull crack!...blinding, shuddering pain...spinning unsteadiness...and warm, muddled laughter...

That can't be right.

I blinked harshly and shook my head to clear it of the hazy vertigo that always followed a good blow to the head, and realized that someone—a girl, from the sound of it—really was laughing at me.

The well-worn pavement was cold and wet under my back. I could feel several new scrapes and a decent lump forming on my forehead—just what I needed on the first day of my new life. I raised my head awkwardly to find the inconsiderate source of such enjoyment.

"Oi!" I snapped, rolling to my side. I felt my blood start to flow again as I sucked in a quick breath and tried to gather my wobbly feet under me, annoyance and embarrassment warring for dominance. "Not my most impressive performance, I know, but d'you really have to rub it in?"

I felt the world start to tilt, and braced myself as I spilled to the ground again. I moaned in as manly a tone as I could manage as my eyes screwed shut.

I guess I'll just lay here for a few moments, then, and hope she goes away.

But she didn't go away, apparently, because the next moment I was being guided slowly up against a wall. I angled against the cold barrier gingerly, still quite dazed.

"Erm, sorry—I thought you did that on purpose...of course you'd be offended. Are you all right, then?" One of the hands left my shoulder and pressed delicately against my forehead, and the warmth of it sent a shiver down my entire body. "Does that hurt?"

I felt twice as dizzy as I'd been the moment before. What's this strange scent...something flowery...I'm supposed to be angry right now...but what was I angry about? Hmm...

"Hey, are you all right? Don't go to sleep just now, I think that's bad for head injuries..." the hand insistently shook my shoulder. I batted at it halfheartedly, too distracted to care. I felt my fringe of hair swept up for a short second, and the hands stilled.

Before I could find my voice, I felt delicate fingers nudging along my forehead—she'd found my scar, apparently.

"Nothing hurts at all," I heard myself mumbling, "I feel a bit like I'm floating, actually..."

"Are you..." I heard her repeat, tracing her finger along my lightning-shaped scar.

Growing up in my situation—with the Dursleys and the boys-only DRP—I'd never had anyone reach out and touch me like this, being so tender with me. It felt strangely intimate, with her fingers softly probing my oldest scar and my newest lump. I had to at least see who this strange girl was.

Blinking unfocusedly, I found a pale, freckled face topped with the reddest hair I had ever seen. She didn't seem to have noticed that my eyes were open; her entire focus was on my forehead. I'd always been singularly proud of my lightning-shaped scar, but I felt oddly self-conscious from how intently she was staring at it.

Not only that, but this was both the longest conversation and the most physical contact I'd ever had with a girl. She was a lot cuter than I had been expecting, and the way she was staring at me, like a cat with a new ball of yarn...

My dizziness might not have been entirely from running into that barrier anymore.

Her eyes finally drifted down to mine, and the skin beneath her dusting of freckles started glowing bright red as her hand froze mid-prod.

I blinked at her silently.

"So you're okay?" she asked after she'd snatched her hand back and stared at several faraway bricks discerningly.

"Mmm? Yeah..." I agreed dazedly. Why did I think girls were so terrifying? This one isn't so bad. She seems...yeah. She seems...

"Okay...I'm going to go through the barrier now. It's open just on this side; you can't get in anyplace else."

"Okay..."

"Right. Well...nice meeting you. Bye."

"Yeah..."

And then she slipped from my field of vision. I leaned my head back until it knocked against the barrier and stared vacantly at the ceiling for several long seconds.

Hm...

Wasn't there something I was supposed to be doing just now...

Realization twisted my gut. Panicked, I bolted upright and caught myself against the wall. She laughed at me so harshly, and she would've just left me there to miss the train! How cruel! Now I see that harpy for what she really is!

I wasn't quite sure what I was so angry about, but I knew that anger was far more comfortable to deal with than the pleasant haziness that still suffused my senses.

I snatched up my rucksack and rounded the corner, throwing myself headlong into the barrier between platforms nine and ten with all the recklessness that I had managed the first time.

This time I sailed straight through with no resistance.

A scarlet steam engine waited next to a platform packed with people, and I found myself grinning so widely that it hurt my cheeks. It's real...it's all real...there's a Hogwarts and an Albus Dumbledore! And there are size 2 pewter cauldrons and dragon hide gloves and owls that can talk and broomsticks! And I'm never going to set one foot inside St. Brutus's!

Unable to quell the triumphant shout that erupted from my chest, I ignored the sidelong glances and whispers and stole past the chattering crowds and the cats of every color. I had to get on the Hogwarts Express as fast as I could. The irrational bit of my brain insisted on reaching it before I had to blink, which might've caused the train to disappear again.

And there were so many wizards and witches! I had been worried about there only being a dozen or so, but there had to be one hundred people still milling about on the platform, and more hanging out of the compartment windows chatting with people outside. They'd all looked so normal that I hadn't thought anything of it, but they must've been capable of turning me into a teacup for knocking past them so abruptly.

I wove through the crowd to the back of the train and found the last empty compartment available, jumping the steps up to the train door. I locked myself in and threw the shutters closed, and then tried to convince myself that I wasn't hiding from any irritated wizards—I just stood a better chance of surviving the trip to Hogwarts if nobody saw me.

Several long minutes later, I felt the train shift under me as it began to move. I heard shouted goodbyes and I'll-owl-you-soons from the platform, and then houses began flashing past the window. I felt a thrill of excitement so strong that I took to pacing the short compartment.

Despite my fears, despite my lack of money and books and equipment and clothes, despite my lack of any plan beyond "show up and beg," the future felt as bright as a cloudless day. A grin stretched across my face as the train hurtled onward.

I didn't know what I was going to—but it had to be better than what I was leaving behind.