The day had started out like any other, that is, with a face-full of dust in the cramped cupboard under the stairs where Mr Harry Potter of Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey lived. Fresh off a grounding for a mysterious incident involving a boa constrictor at the London Zoo, Harry was enjoying his newfound freedom, as much as one could enjoy anything while living with the Dursleys.

Extended visits from Dudley's gang had Harry spending much of his spare time wandering the neighbourhood. Harry spent most of these walks dreaming of the end of summer when he would depart to Stonewall High and, for the first time in his life, be separated from Dudley (who would be attending Uncle Uncle Vernon's old private school, Smeltings). In fact, Dudley had been trying on his new Smelting knickerbockers (much to the pride and joy of his parents) and smacking his Smeltings stick about when it all began.

"Get the mail, Dudley."

"Make Harry get it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Make Dudley get it."

"Poke him with your Smeltings stick, Dudley."

This, for Harry, was more than enough incentive to dart towards the front door to carry out his assigned task. There were only three letters, a slow day, which Harry absent-mindedly flipped through. Atop the pile was an uninviting photo of white cliffs on a rainy day, a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge who was vacationing in the Isle of Wight. Under it was a boring brown envelope that looked like a bill, and finally a letter addressed to – Harry?

In all of his near eleven years with the Dursleys, Harry had never once been written to. And now, suddenly, a letter had appeared at the Dursleys doorstep, just as Harry had the night his parents were killed in an automobile accident.

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

Turning the heavy, yellowish parchment over with trembling hands, Harry spied a coat of arms – featuring a lion, eagle, badger and snake surrounding a large H – inside a purple wax seal. In the other room, Uncle Vernon urged Harry to speed up the process. What followed was nothing short of bizarre.

Upon discovering Harry's letter (which Harry admitted he had been silly not to hide), Uncle Vernon's face went the greyish white of old porridge, as he clumsily called out to Aunt Petunia. Harry's Aunt had a very similar reaction, although she appeared far closer to fainting than imitating one of Harry's least favourite breakfast meals.

Suddenly, both Harry and Dudley were being screamed at to leave the room, much to Harry's dismay. He protested and declared ownership of the letter, but to no avail; Uncle Vernon had it now.

Outside, in the hall where they had been exiled, Harry and Dudley eavesdropped on the conversation that followed.

As Aunt Petunia wondered how "they" could possibly know where Harry slept, Uncle Vernon suggested that "they" were spying on the house, even following them around. He then declared that they would simply ignore the letter, pretend it didn't exist. Aunt Petunia half-heartedly protested, to which Uncle Vernon swore he would not "have one" in the house.

"One what?" Dudley whispered dumbly to Harry, as if his cousin had any more information on the matter than he did. Harry ignored him and continued listening, but that was it.

Harry stormed angrily to the cupboard under the stairs, the exact place the letter had been addressed to. He collapsed onto the bed, curling into a ball of frustration and anger. Why would Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia keep his letter away from him? And why did they talk in code? Harry was intrigued, desperate to discover who "they" were. "They" sounded dangerous, like some sort of secret spy agency that was watching the Dursley's every move. Could that have been what the 'H' stood for? Her Majesty's Secret Service? Perhaps they wanted to whisk Harry away to a mountain complex somewhere and train him to become the next James Bond...

Harry's fantasies of dangerous missions in Switzerland and Italy carried him off into a nap, interrupted only when Uncle Vernon arrived home from work that evening and Harry approached him about the letter, receiving a very, very odd reply.

"Your aunt and I have been thinking," he began, as if the words were like vinegar in his mouth, "you're really getting a bit big for this cupboard. We think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom."

"Why?" said Harry.

"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff upstairs, now."

And so, by the end of the night, Harry had moved into what was formerly the room dedicated to the many toys and broken objects that didn't fit into Dudley's bedroom, granting Harry more space than he'd ever had in his life. Whatever this letter was, it had thrown Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia into a spin. First they were worried someone was watching the house, and now Harry had been provided with a bedroom of his own? Were they scared that whoever "they" were would be dissatisfied with Harry's living arrangements? The whole situation grew in mystery with every waking moment.

As Harry stretched out on the bed, he mused that although yesterday he'd have loved a bedroom of his own, today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with the letter than up here without it.

The following morning, at breakfast, the strangeness continued. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia appeared to be treating Harry with more kindness than they had usually allowed. Aunt Petunia's disgusted gaze had been replaced with the back of her head, her eyes not daring lock with Harry's. Uncle Vernon nervously read the paper and largely ignored his bacon and eggs, a rare sight from the neckless man.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon appeared doubly on edge.

"Go and get the mail please, Dudley."

"Make Harry go and get it."

"Dudley..."

"What?"

"Get the ruddy mail!"

With an aggravated sigh, Dudley pouted all the way to the front door, where he let out a cry.

"There's another one!"

The process from the day beforehand had repeated almost identically. Harry and Dudley were sent out of the room while Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia frantically discussed what to do. Although Harry suspected that Aunt Petunia did not agree, Uncle Vernon made it clear that they would stay the course and continue ignoring the letters from H. Harry, however, had spied the new letter and noticed one significant change; where yesterday had read 'The Cupboard under the Stairs', today it was replaced with 'The Smallest Bedroom'.

Whoever H was, they knew Harry had moved, and were almost definitely watching the house.

In his bedroom, Harry paced around and felt the anger once again building up inside of him. He had to outwit the Dursleys and find a way to get to the morning post before them. Before long, he had his plan.

The following morning, Harry awoke at six o'clock and quietly got dressed, careful not to make too much noise and wake the Dursleys. Without turning on any lights, he crept downstairs, on his way to the front door to sneak outside and catch the postman before he

Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat – something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do.

He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap.

Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink.

"I want -" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didn't go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

Under no circumstances was he going to let Harry get a hold of the letter he was after.

What transpired in the days that followed was nothing short of chaotic.

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. Unable to force themselves through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and some were even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.

On Saturday, twenty-four letters arrived, rolled up and hidden inside two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window.

That night, as Harry walked downstairs quietly in the hopes of stealing a slice of fruitcake, he passed the living room to see Uncle Vernon sitting in front of the fireplace, gleefully dumping Harry's letters.

Filled with an uncontrollable rage, Harry bolted for the front door and tore it open, storming angrily across the lawn and down Privet Drive.

Harry's walks usually took place in the morning, or early afternoon, and never this late in the day. The last traces of the sun were disappearing over the horizon, and the streetlights had come on. What had started as a rage-fuelled walkout had quickly turned into a fear-inspiring walk through the neighbourhood. Harry didn't know anyone personally who had had a bad experience, but he'd seen the afternoon news enough times to know this was a terrible idea.

He had nearly completely looped back around to 4 Privet Drive when a voice called out to him.

"Oi, four eyes, what are ya doin' out s'late?"

Harry turned to see four boys, no younger than sixteen, crossing the street to approach him. He was too far away from the Dursley's house to make a run for it; he had to try and talk his way out.

So, naturally, he kept his mouth shut.

"I'm talkin' t'ya" the ringleader, sporting an oversized Wanderers kit, said menacingly.

"I...I...I was just going for a walk" Harry managed.

"Jus' goin' for a walk, ey? Not smart, lad. Don' cha know it's dangerous out, innit?" he said, seeking responses from the rest of his group. They all nodded drolly.

'Where's ya house, then?" the ringleader asked, feigning concern.

Desperately, and filled with panic, Harry pointed at the house closest to him, taking much of the joy out of the ringleader's eyes.

Sensing hesitancy from Harry, he challenged him.

"Go on, then. Go home."

Harry had dreaded this. Slowly, he turned towards the unfamiliar house and stumbled up the driveway clumsily. When it came time to turn towards the front door, Harry turned on his heels and mustered all the energy he could into bolting in the direction of 4 Privet Drive.

"He's makin' a break for it. Nab 'im!" he heard the ringleader shout.

Running as fast as he could, Harry turned his neck to see the wolf on the ringleader's shirt get closer and closer.

"I gotcha now, ya little prick" the ringleader shouted, his arms wrapping around Harry and lifting him into the air.

Harry's shoulder burned as he was thrown hard onto the grass lawn of the nearest house and kicked sharply in the ribs, making him curl up into a ball and wheeze.

"That was for lyin'!" the ringleader announced, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder and rolling him onto his back. "And this is because I don't like ya."

Harry opened his eyes fast enough to see the fast fly towards his face, sending his jaw rollicking sidewards and making it feel tremendously out of place.

As his goons laughed, the ringleader gave Harry one final kick – this time to the spine – before walking away, satisfied with the beating he'd dished to this ten year old.

After a few minutes of heavy breathing, and spitting out the blood that trickled from his cut lip, Harry weakly got to his knees, and then to his feet. Slowly, painfully, he trudged home to Number 4, Privet Drive.

When he opened the door, he saw that all of the lights were off and the Dursleys had gone to bed. Trying to keep as quiet as possible, Harry closed the door and moved up the staircase, resisting the urge to groan every time one of his ribs ached.

He had only been in his bedroom for a handful of nights, but it was already providing him with a much better sleep than he had ever received in the cupboard under the stairs. Tonight, Harry was particularly grateful for the room change, as he shuddered at the thought of being cramped in the cupboard the way he was feeling.

As he took off his dirty clothes and shifted into his pyjamas, crawling into bed, Harry thought back on the night and how helpless he was. Not just with the beating he'd received, but with everything. Those letters were addressed to him, they belonged to him, and yet he was seemingly the only one who didn't know what it all meant. And these people that were watching them, clearly they had given up and abandoned their pursuit of Harry, otherwise they would've intervened when Harry was attacked in the neighbourhood.

Harry felt a hot tear run down his face as he clenched his fists and curled into a ball. He felt like such a weak, defenceless, stupid child, with a life that would never go anywhere. Surely it all had to stop somewhere, he wouldn't be subjected to this forever. Surely...

He kept his fists clenched as he drifted off into sleep with a mixture of anger and sorrow plaguing his mind, as Surrey prepared for a night more remarkable than the time a half-giant flew across the sky on a motorbike, a little baby wrapped up in his arms, and landed on Privet Drive.