Harry James Potter curled up on the edge of his bed, brooding. The smallest room in the house was larger than his cupboard of about ten years, but it was not a big improvement overall. And now he would gladly exchange the room with his cupboard any time, just to sate his indignant, vindictive curiosity. He had been getting strange letters in thick yellowish paper and emerald-green ink since three days ago, which multiplied rapidly each day. Who was the sender? (Who was that insistant in talking to him?) And what did the letter contain? (A horrible prank?)

He must find out. He must not give up. He must not fail. There must be a way.

He might just as well start from now. From the glow-in-the-dark table clock he had managed to repair yesterday, he knew that it was approaching dawn soon. If he was fast enough, he would be able to snag a copy of the letter…

Five minutes later saw the scrawny boy back in the room, pale and panting. He had succeeded in sneaking down the stairs, and it had taken even less time than when he was creeping along the darkened hall afterwards. But then his foot landed on something soft and hairy; he squeaked, and a heavy grunt of surprise sounded from the object his foot had just squished. It was his uncle, Vernon Dursley. And of course, his engrained self preservation kicking in, Harry swiftly fled back to his bedroom even when his uncle was groping for the light switch.

There must be another way…

What would he do if not, though? Stew? No, Aunt Petunia would not allow him that luxury. And Uncle Vernon, too, would likely get the hard evidence he needed to pin Harry as the culprit of his early awakening. It would be a very bad move… But then what?

The ten-year-old rocked back and forth on the edge of his bed, ignoring the crieking and groaning of the rickety frame, and the bony springs digging into his bum and heels. Someone had written to him. He had been written to! It was the first time in his life, and accompanying the fact was a mixture between happiness and loss. (After all, if he could not get to any of the copies, and therefore reading what the person said in it, he might just as well have never received any letter addressed especially to him.)

05:45

Harry lay down and pulled the tattered blanket over him. He hated waiting, but now it was all that he could do. Aunt Petunia's shrill voice would be demanding for his presence in the kitchen soon enough. He might just as well try to catch up with the sleep that had so far eluded him.

If only it were so easy… The image of the unopened letter and its many copies afterwards taunted him, tantelising him.

Harry dreamt of being drowned in a pool of parchment letters, and the Dursleys watching and mocking.