An Innocent Response
The next morning, Harry was in an unusually good mood.
Aunt Petunia didn’t trust it.
She watched him suspiciously as he poured himself a bowl of off-brand cereal and hummed under his breath like someone who definitely wasn’t plotting anything at all. Her eyes narrowed. Vernon grunted behind his newspaper, and Dudley was too busy whining about having to eat “gross flakes” instead of bacon to notice.
Perfect.
Harry chewed slowly, casually. Inside, he was running probability models.
Someone magical had found him. They’d sent him a letter. The Dursleys had tried to squash it under the weight of their paranoia—and failed spectacularly. The letter had somehow still reached him, even addressed to his cupboard. Either the sender was an exceptionally thorough stalker, or they had magical means of observation.
Harry was leaning toward magic. Just barely.
But even so—you didn’t reply to strange, reality-breaking invitations by immediately saying “Yes, please!” Especially when said invitation came via fireplace.
He wasn’t an idiot.
Which meant it was time to test the sender.
After breakfast, Harry returned to his cupboard and began crafting a reply. Not with panic, not with desperation. With performance.
If someone was watching… let them see what they expected.
He dug around until he found a nearly dried-up felt pen and an old envelope addressed to “Mr. Dursley,” which he carefully flipped inside out and smoothed flat.
Then, channeling every ounce of childish handwriting he’d ever seen Dudley fake for school notes, he began.
Dear Whoever You Are,
I think you’ve made a mistake.
Or this is a prank. If it is, it’s very mean.
I am not a wizard. I am eleven. I don’t even have a cat, let alone an owl, and I’ve never met anyone with a wand. (Unless chopsticks count. Do they?)
I do not go to wizard school. I go to Stonewall Primary, and I’m not even very good at math, so I don’t think I would be good at spells.
Also, I live with my aunt and uncle and cousin, who are all very normal and don’t like jokes.
So, thank you for the letter, but I think you have the wrong Harry Potter.
Please don’t send any more birds.
Sincerely,
Harry J. Potter
(Definitely Not A Wizard)
He reread the letter twice, adjusting the phrasing to sound just the right amount of confused. Not too clever. Not too stupid. Just eleven-year-old enough to be believable.
The sarcasm nearly leaked through in a few spots. He revised those.
He wanted to bait a response. Not scare them off.
Once finished, he folded the letter neatly, slipped it into the envelope, and crept outside with the excuse of taking out the bin. He stood in the backyard, glancing up at the gray morning sky.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s see if you’re as clever as you are persistent.”
He didn’t know if the letter needed an owl to be sent—but the original hadn’t arrived by normal means. It had appeared. So maybe this one just needed to be... offered?
He set the letter on the garden table, anchored it with a rock, and went back inside.
And then he waited.
It was gone by midday.
He checked casually—just wandered outside with a glass of water like a bored kid trying to escape chores—and found the letter simply missing.
No wind. No smudge. Just… gone. Except for a singe Feather on the ground
Harry’s eyebrows lifted.
Well then.
Someone was listening.
He spent the rest of the day cataloging possibilities. He made a mental chart: prank vs. real magic, friendly vs. hostile, stupid vs. manipulative.
He wasn’t ready to put anyone in a box just yet.
He also began preparing questions, in case someone showed up in person.
He wanted to be ready for any of the following:
A Hogwarts recruiter with robes and sparkles and zero concept of child safety.
A wizard bureaucrat with a clipboard and a headache.
Or, worst of all, someone who thought they were saving him.
He hated being saved.
That night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling of his cupboard.
He didn’t know what kind of world he was about to enter.
But he did know this: whoever was on the other side of that letter… they weren’t just sending him invitations. They were playing a game.
And Harry Potter had just made his first move