The morning sun had barely risen when Harry woke to find something peculiar had happened in his cupboard. The small space, usually thick with dust and shadows, seemed to shimmer with an odd sort of light. Harry blinked, adjusting his tape-mended glasses, and realized that the strange glow was coming from his own hands. The same energy he'd felt when unlocking the cupboard door was now visible, if only for a moment, before fading away like morning mist.
"Up! Get up! Now!" Aunt Petunia's shrill voice shattered his concentration, and the shimmer vanished entirely.
Harry sighed and pulled himself from his cot, careful to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. As he made his way to the kitchen, the familiar sounds of Dudley thundering down the stairs echoed through the house, accompanied by the usual shower of dust and spiders from above.
But today felt different. Something in the air seemed charged with possibility.
The pile of post lay waiting by the front door, and as Harry bent to collect it, his heart nearly stopped. There, between a brown envelope that looked like a bill and a postcard from Aunt Marge, was a letter addressed 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.
Harry's fingers tingled as he touched the envelope, that same strange energy surging through him once again. Before he could open it, however, Dudley's voice rang out:
"Dad! Dad! Harry's got something!"
What followed was chaos. Uncle Vernon snatched the letter from Harry's hands, his face turning several interesting shades of purple as he read the address. Aunt Petunia peered over his shoulder and made a sound like a mouse being trodden on.
"P-P-Petunia!" Uncle Vernon gasped. "Look at the address - how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?"
"Watching - spying - might be following us," muttered Aunt Petunia wildly.
Harry stood rooted to the spot, that familiar anger building inside him again. This time, though, it felt different - more focused, more controlled. The light fixtures above began to flicker ever so slightly.
"I want to read my letter," he said quietly, but there was a new strength in his voice that made both his aunt and uncle glance at him sharply.
"No," said Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter into his jacket pocket. "It wasn't meant for you. It was delivered here by mistake."
"It had my cupboard on it," Harry insisted, and this time, the lights flickered more noticeably. A glass on the kitchen counter vibrated slightly.
Uncle Vernon's face darkened. "CUPBOARD! NOW!"
But Harry didn't move. The strange energy was coursing through him now, making the air feel thick and heavy. "That letter was addressed to me," he said again, his green eyes seeming to glow in the dimming light. "I want to read it."
Something in his voice must have frightened Uncle Vernon, because the large man took a step backward, clutching the letter more tightly. "I said no! And that's final!"
The light bulb above them exploded with a sharp pop, showering the kitchen with tiny fragments of glass. Aunt Petunia screamed, Dudley dove under the table, and Uncle Vernon's face went from purple to white in an instant.
Harry felt the power drain from him suddenly, leaving him feeling oddly empty. He knew he should feel scared or guilty about what had just happened, but instead, he felt... satisfied. For just a moment, he had made them feel what he felt every day - powerless and afraid.
That evening, Harry lay in his cupboard, listening to Uncle Vernon drilling something to his door - presumably to stop more letters from coming through. But Harry wasn't worried. Something told him that whoever had sent that letter wouldn't give up so easily. And neither would he.
As he drifted off to sleep, Harry smiled in the darkness. The letter might have been taken from him, but it had given him something far more valuable - proof that someone out there knew who he was, where he was, and perhaps even what he could do. Someone who might have answers about the strange power growing inside him.
The next morning would bring more surprises, but for now, Harry Potter, the boy who could make lights explode and doors unlock themselves, closed his eyes and dreamed of emerald-green ink and endless possibilities.
The next morning arrived with an unusual sound - Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps creaking down the stairs before dawn. Harry lay awake in his cupboard, listening intently. Through the slats in his door, he could see his uncle's large shadow moving about in the dim light of early morning.
Then came a sudden ripping sound from the direction of the front door.
"Ha!" Uncle Vernon exclaimed triumphantly. "That'll show them!"
Harry's curiosity got the better of him. Focusing his energy like he had before, he carefully unlocked his cupboard door and peered out. Uncle Vernon stood by the mail slot, looking absurdly pleased with himself. Torn pieces of what looked like three or four letters - all addressed in that same emerald-green ink - lay scattered at his feet.
Throughout breakfast, Uncle Vernon seemed unusually cheerful, even humming "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as he spread marmalade on his newspapers. Harry watched him carefully, that familiar energy simmering just beneath his skin. He noticed how his uncle's hands shook slightly whenever their eyes met, how Aunt Petunia kept glancing nervously at the light fixtures.
But their apparent victory was short-lived.
By mid-morning, letters began appearing in the most extraordinary places. They were pushed under the door, slipped through the sides, and even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom. With each new letter, Uncle Vernon's face grew redder, and the strange power within Harry grew stronger.
"No post on Sundays," Uncle Vernon reminded them all cheerfully at breakfast the next morning, spreading marmalade on his newspapers. "No damn letters today—"
Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney and caught him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air, trying to catch one.
"Out! OUT!" Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall.
But this time, something different happened. As Harry's body hit the floor, that familiar energy exploded out of him like a shock wave. Every letter in the room suddenly froze in mid-air, hanging suspended like leaves caught in an invisible wind. The Dursleys stood transfixed, their faces masks of horror.
For one glorious moment, Harry felt completely in control. The letters hovering around him seemed to respond to his will, dancing in the air like emerald-inked butterflies. He reached out toward the nearest one, his fingers trembling with anticipation.
Then Uncle Vernon's bellow shattered his concentration.
"That's IT!" he shouted, pulling great tufts out of his mustache. "We're going away! Far away! Where they can't find us!"
"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully that afternoon.
Harry sat in his cupboard, his mind racing. The letters wanted to reach him - that much was clear. And whatever power lived inside him wanted to help them succeed. He could feel it growing stronger with each passing hour, responding to his desire to know what those letters contained.
That night, as the Dursleys rushed around packing bags and boarding up windows, Harry lay awake, his hand pressed against the cupboard wall. He could feel the energy pulsing through him, more controlled now, more purposeful. Somewhere out there, someone was trying desperately to reach him. And despite Uncle Vernon's best efforts, Harry knew with absolute certainty that they would succeed.
Tomorrow would bring more chaos, more letters, more displays of Uncle Vernon's increasing madness. But Harry Potter, the boy who could make letters dance in the air, wasn't afraid anymore. He was ready for whatever came next.
As he drifted off to sleep, the last thing he saw was a glowing green envelope materializing beside his pillow, only to fade away like a dream as his eyes closed.
The following morning, the Dursleys' frantic packing continued, and the atmosphere in number four, Privet Drive, crackled with tension. Harry awoke to the sound of pots and pans clattering in the kitchen, the rat-a-tat of Uncle Vernon banging against the cabinets as he tried to find room for enough clothes to last a lifetime.
"Why can't we throw out some of this junk?" Aunt Petunia's voice was strained, and Harry could envision her stress-induced frown tightening as she held up a faded flower-patterned vase. "We need space for Dudley's things!"
"Nothing is too good for our Dudley," Uncle Vernon replied, his voice determined. "We'll be on an island somewhere, far away from those letters. No one will find us there!"
Harry listened from his cupboard, feeling a powerful mix of excitement and impatience. Could it be? Perhaps they were truly going away where the letters couldn't reach him. But that fading glimmer of hope battled against the growing certainty that whoever was sending those letters wouldn't give up easily.
By the time Uncle Vernon grabbed Harry's arm and shoved him toward the door with a gruff, "Hurry up, boy!" Harry could barely contain his eagerness. Perhaps at last, he'd be free of the Dursleys' rule - free from their accusations of being "abnormal."
The family piled into the car, and Harry sat squished between Dudley and Piers in the backseat. Uncle Vernon drove erratically, glancing nervously at the rearview mirror as though each passing car might somehow be a courier of bad news. Aunt Petunia, clutching her shopping bag, nervously scanned the roadside, her eyes never lingering on Harry for long.
"Where are we going?" Harry finally asked, his voice low, but the weight of expectation behind the words hung heavy in the air.
"None of your business!" Uncle Vernon's sharp reply shut him down, but Harry ignored the sting of it.
Yet deep within him, that familiar current surged again—the energy that propelled him past his fear and into a state of resolve. He pushed down on that energy, grounding it, and focused on the idea of the letters reaching him. Somewhere beyond his knowledge, there were answers that awaited him.
As they drove for what felt like hours, the landscape turned blustery and unfamiliar. Trees and hedges whipped past in a blur. Soon after, Uncle Vernon turned down a deserted road, leading them to a tiny shack on the very edge of the sea. There was no sign of civilization; only crashing waves and furious winds that howled around them.
"This'll do," he said, panting slightly, as they piled out of the car. "No one will find us here. No letters, no freaks."
Harry squinted at the sky, where dark clouds rolled and churned ominously overhead. But deep down, he felt a strange comfort in this wild place. He could almost sense the letters scrambling to reach him, no matter how far he might try to escape.
The Dursleys made their way inside the shack, grumbling about how terrible it was, but Harry wasn't listening. He was focused inward, feeling that current of power fluttering against skin; he understood that something was going to happen, something significant and perhaps even wonderful.
The afternoon wore on, the rain starting to lash at the windows as the wind howled outside. Hours passed, and Harry's excitement grew nearly unbearable. He wasn't sure how, but he knew his letter was coming. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones.