As far as anyone else could see, life was perfectly normal for Harry Potter.
He went to school, he played football, he walked home on his own, and he laughed with his friends in the corridors. The teachers liked him—polite, athletic, respectful. The students liked him—fast, funny, and quick to back his teammates.
But when the bell rang at the end of the day and the others went home to warm houses, hot food, and smiling parents, Harry walked back to Number Four, where he was little more than a tolerated inconvenience.
There were no birthday parties for Harry.
No stockings or garlands with his name. No wrapped boxes beneath the tree.
No gifts. No cake. No kind words.
And yet, Harry never sulked.
Because instead of waiting for someone else to give him what he wanted… Harry decided he'd give it to himself.
It was early December now, and frost had begun to settle on the windows of Surrey. Christmas lights blinked across fences and porches like distant stars. The town was humming with the buzz of the holidays, but Harry's focus was sharp.
He wanted a new pair of football shoes.
Real ones.
The kind with grip soles, shock pads, and the proper ankle support—not the cheap plastic pair that tore at the seams or the muddy ones left behind by Dudley last summer.
But shoes—real ones—meant money.
And money was something Harry Potter never had.
So, he found ways to earn it.
He raked leaves in Mrs. Beecham's garden.
He cleaned bird droppings from Mr. Porter's car.
He swept driveways, carried groceries, and once even spent two hours untangling a neighbor's string lights for five pounds.
It added up slowly. A coin here, a note there.
And he didn't keep a single bit of it on him.
After the first time Uncle Vernon found a five-pound note tucked beneath Harry's mattress and confiscated it for "roof rent," Harry never took the risk again.
Instead, he gave it all to Mark, his teammate.
"You sure about this, mate?" Mark had asked the first time, holding the folded bills like they were made of glass. "You know I'd never nick it or anything, but—shouldn't you keep it somewhere?"
Harry shook his head. "If my uncle finds it, it's gone. Better with you."
Mark hesitated, then nodded. "I'll keep it in my old trophy box. No one never find it there."
"Thanks."
From then on, every bit of cash Harry earned went straight to Mark after practice.
They had an understanding.
School continued without fuss. Tests came and went. Lessons dragged. But Harry was always full of energy—his teammates joked that he had lightning in his legs. Even teachers, who normally scolded footballers for slacking, never had much to say about Harry. He wasn't brilliant, but he never failed.
More importantly, he tried.
Every afternoon, he worked—sometimes in the cold, sometimes with blistered hands—and he'd hand off the money to Mark, who updated him weekly.
"You're close," Mark said one afternoon as they sat under the football bleachers. "Forty-five pounds. That'll cover the pair we saw last week."
Harry nodded, heart pounding. "Just one more weekend."
And so that Saturday, Harry rose before dawn. He slipped out of Number Four in silence, carrying a bucket and sponge. He washed three cars before noon, raked leaves from three more driveways, and helped an elderly couple carry their Christmas decorations from the attic.
His hands were raw. His knees ached.
But his mind was locked on one thing:
Those shoes.
He returned late in the afternoon to meet Mark, who handed him the final update.
"Sixty quid, just like you said," Mark grinned. "You're set."
Harry stared at the notes, warm and creased from Mark's coat pocket. They looked beautiful.
"I can finally buy them," Harry whispered, unable to stop the smile from blooming across his face.
"And I'm coming with you," Mark said. "You're not picking the ugly ones. You need something cool. Like black and gold."
Harry laughed. "Deal."
That night, Harry lay in his small bed, staring up at the ceiling. Cold air seeped through the drafty window. The only decoration in his room was a paper snowflake one of the younger kids at school had given him.
But Harry didn't need lights or gifts or trees.
Because this year, he had something better.
Something earned.
Something his.
And somewhere, high above the clouds of Surrey, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.
Christmas morning broke cold and clear on Privet Drive. Frost glittered on the hedges like spilled diamonds, and chimneys puffed white into the sky. Inside Number Four, the Dursley household stirred with the predictable clatter of wrapping paper and the artificial cheer of Petunia's seasonal playlist humming through the kitchen radio.
Dudley Dursley was already up, tearing through ribbons like a ravenous beast. The living room was littered with boxes, bows, and packaging peanuts. A stack of presents sat in a mountain beneath the glowing plastic tree—nearly all of them tagged To: Dudley.
As usual.
Two neatly wrapped boxes—one for Vernon, one for Petunia—sat to the side like afterthoughts.
Harry watched from the doorway, arms crossed, still in his old pajamas.
He had expected nothing.
But then—
"OI!" Dudley shouted, elbow-deep in a box of remote-control cars. "What's this?"
He yanked out a package from the base of the tree, wrapped in modest green paper with a small silver bow.
There was a tag.
Dudley squinted. "It says Harry Potter."
The room went still.
Vernon blinked. "What?"
Dudley held it up like it might explode. "It has Harry's name on it!"
Harry stepped forward and took the package before Dudley could tear it open. His heart was pounding.
"Give it here," Vernon barked, his eyes narrowing. "That can't be yours."
"It is," Harry said firmly, for once not flinching. "It's a gift from the football team. From my friends."
He said it quickly. If Vernon ever found out Harry had bought it himself, there would be shouting—and punishment.
"That's Dudley's tree," Vernon growled. "His Christmas. You're lucky we let you watch from the corner."
"Then let me have this," Harry said, fingers tightening on the package. "Just this."
Vernon took a step forward. "Give it to Dudley."
Petunia said nothing, though her lips thinned with worry.
Harry held the box closer to his chest.
"Fine," he said. "I'll open it now."
And before Vernon could respond, Harry tore the wrapping paper free, revealing a plain shoebox. He lifted the lid—and inside sat a gleaming pair of sports shoes.
Black and gold. Sleek. Real leather. High-ankle support.
Dudley frowned. "Those won't fit me."
Harry smirked. "Exactly."
He could almost see Vernon working through the problem. He didn't want Harry to have the gift—but he certainly didn't want to waste it on someone who couldn't use it.
Finally, the big man snorted. "Fine. Keep your shoes. But don't expect anything else today."
Harry nodded. "I won't."
But inside, he was glowing.
That evening, the Dursleys prepared their traditional Christmas feast—roast turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and more trimmings than Harry could name. Usually, he would be given scraps later, once the plates were cleared.
But this year, there were guests.
Mr. Dorring, Vernon's co-worker from Grunnings, and his wife had been invited. And Vernon, who prided himself on his public image, wanted to present a picture of harmony and success.
"Go change into proper clothes," he told Harry. "And comb your hair."
Harry stared at him. "What?"
"You heard me," Vernon said stiffly. "You'll eat with us. You'll be on your best behavior, and you'll smile when spoken to. That's all."
Harry didn't argue. He vanished upstairs and returned a few minutes later in his best shirt and jeans—clean and presentable.
At the table, he was polite. He said "please" and "thank you." He helped pass dishes and even made small talk when Mr. Dorring asked about football.
The food was warm. The conversation was light.
For once, no one glared at him. No one snapped at him. No one made him feel like he didn't belong.
He ate until he was full. And then a little more.
And when the guests left with cheerful goodbyes, and Petunia started cleaning up, Harry slipped quietly back to his room, his belly full, his heart calm, and his new shoes tucked safely under the bed.
It wasn't much.
But it was his.
And as the stars blinked to life above Number Four, a soft breeze rustled the windowpane. The sky was clear. The air was calm.
And for the first time in years, Christmas had felt like Christmas.
The sky above the public playground was a soft winter blue, with the last traces of frost melting into dew. Even though school was out for the holidays, the field was alive with motion.
Harry and his teammates from Little Whinging Secondary had gathered near the rusted goalposts. They didn't have uniforms today—just mismatched sweatshirts, boots, and fire in their lungs. They couldn't afford to take time off. The match against Jubilee Public School was coming up fast, and they had to win. It wasn't just pride on the line—it was reputation.
"Spread out wide!" Ravi shouted, jogging backwards as he clapped his hands. "Keep your formation clean! Mark, you're cutting too early again!"
Harry sprinted down the wing, ball at his feet, weaving through cones with sharp, precise touches. His new black-and-gold boots gleamed under the pale sunlight, gripping the frozen ground like they were made for it.
They practiced for nearly an hour—passing drills, corner shots, scrimmage rounds—and every player gave their all.
Then, while they were catching their breath during a break, Harry saw someone approaching across the frost-covered grass.
A boy.
Familiar.
He wore a long coat, sleeves slightly too short, his dark hair tousled. There was something different about him—an older look in his eyes, a calmness in his step.
"Kyle?" Mark blinked, standing up straighter. "Kyle Walker?"
Heads turned. Everyone paused.
"Kyle!" Ravi called out, half-laughing. "Where the hell have you been, mate?"
Kyle grinned as he reached the group. "Hey, boys. Long time."
Harry stood slowly. Kyle Walker. The team's old goalie. Brilliant reflexes. Always calm under pressure. Last year's MVP.
Harry remembered watching him train—never missing a single practice, always staying late, always encouraging the younger kids. Harry had admired him before he ever joined the team.
"You disappeared last spring," Harry said, wiping sweat from his brow. "No word. Just gone."
Kyle shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, sorry about that. I had to… switch schools. Sort of a last-minute thing."
"Why?, You were doing just fine here." Craig asked, tossing him a ball.
Kyle caught it, bounced it on his knee a few times, then passed it back. "This one is with very different priorities."
They laughed, but Kyle's smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
Still, he joined the scrimmage, diving for saves, shouting encouragements, cracking jokes. For a while, it felt like he had never left.
But after practice, as the sun began to dip low behind the trees, Kyle pulled Harry aside near the edge of the pitch.
"Hey," he said, voice lower. "Can we talk? Just the two of us?"
Harry blinked. "Uh… sure?"
They walked a little away from the others, toward the empty benches near the fencing.
"What's up?" Harry asked, grabbing a water bottle from his bag.
Kyle looked around—checked both ways, eyes sharp. "Just don't laugh at what I'm about to say."
"Now I have to laugh," Harry joked.
Kyle exhaled. "I go to Hogwarts."
Harry snorted. "What?"
"I'm serious."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "That's a real school?"
"It is. But it's not... normal. It's a school for magic."
Harry stared at him, the half-smile frozen on his face. "Come again?"
"I'm a wizard, Harry."
Silence.
Then: "Are you sure you're okay, mate?"
"I know it sounds mad," Kyle said quickly. "But it's real. I'm not supposed to talk about it with non-magical people—but you're Harry Potter. That changes things."
Harry laughed again, more nervously now. "You've lost me."
Kyle frowned. "You really don't know?"
"Know what?"
"Your name. Everyone in our world knows it. You're famous, Harry. Legendary, even. You're the one who—" Kyle hesitated. "Look… just tell me. What were your parents' names?"
Harry blinked. "James and Lily Potter. Why?"
Kyle exhaled, visibly relieved. "Then you're him. I thought maybe I had the wrong guy. I mean… you don't have glasses, and your eyes are blue—everyone said they were green. But you've got the scar, right?"
Harry's expression turned guarded. "What about my scar?"
Kyle nodded. "Then it's true. You're the Harry Potter. The boy who—"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Harry said firmly.
Kyle rubbed his hands together, nervous now. "Okay. Listen. There's a whole world out there—a hidden world. Magic. Wands. Castles. Creatures. And you're part of it, Harry. You're—well, you're kind of a big deal."
Harry stared, silent.
Kyle continued, his voice softer. "I can't explain everything now. But when you turn eleven—your letter will come. It'll explain everything. Just… wait. And when it comes, go."
Harry's mind spun. A hidden world. Magic. Famous?
"Why would I be famous?" he asked finally.
Kyle hesitated again. "Because of what happened to your parents. And... because of what didn't happen to you."
They stood in silence, the winter wind brushing through their hair.
Harry looked up at the sky. Clouds parted for a moment, revealing a shaft of sunlight. A soft warmth ran through him—not quite understanding, but feeling something deeper shift.
"Kyle," he said slowly, "I think you might be crazy."
"Maybe," Kyle replied with a grin. "But soon, you'll find out I'm not."
And with that, Kyle clapped him on the shoulder and turned to walk off, vanishing down the path with a confident stride.
Harry stood alone, the echo of Kyle's words crackling in his ears like distant thunder.
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