The Choice.
The candle sputtered, its wax pooling onto the wooden desk as Harry traced the elegant script of the letter.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
The words blurred as he read them again.
Witchcraft.
His fingers curled slightly around the parchment. He had heard the word before. It was whispered in warning, spoken of in hushed voices among the nuns. Witchcraft was unnatural. It was deception, temptation—a thing that led good souls astray.
And yet…
A school.
A place where children like him learned magic. A place that already knew his name.
Harry swallowed, his eyes flickering to the wax seal again. The crest. The four animals. Hogwarts.
This was real.
Something cold twisted in his stomach.
What should he do?
The nuns would not understand.
They were kind—strict, but kind. They had taken him in when no one else would. They gave him food, taught him prayers, offered him a life of quiet devotion.
But if they knew… if they even suspected…
Harry shivered. He had seen the way they spoke of evil things, the way they clutched their rosaries when the priest read of demons and the devil’s temptations.
They wouldn’t want him to go.
They might not even let him stay.
The thought left a tightness in his chest, a familiar weight he couldn’t shake.
He couldn’t tell them.
But he couldn’t ignore the letter, either.
His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the second parchment—the one meant for his reply.
He dipped his quill into the ink, hesitating only once before writing in careful, slanted letters.
To Professor McGonagall,
I have received your letter. I would like to know more, but the nuns who take care of me would not approve of witchcraft. They would stop me from going.
What should I do?
Harry Potter
The moment the ink dried, a sharp knock sounded at the window.
Harry’s breath caught.
Slowly, he turned.
A large owl sat perched outside, its amber eyes watching him unblinking. Its feathers ruffled against the wind, and it clicked its beak impatiently.
Harry hesitated, then rose from his chair. The air in the room was still. Too still.
He moved carefully, his bare feet silent against the cold stone floor.
The owl didn’t move as he unlatched the window.
It only held out its leg.
Harry swallowed, then carefully tied the letter to its outstretched limb.
The moment the knot was secure, the owl took off.
Harry watched as it vanished into the early morning sky.
Then, slowly, his eyes drifted toward the door.
It was still open.
And in the darkness beyond, something was watching.