Chapter 2
For the rest of the summer, Harry spent most of his time locked in his cupboard, but for the first time in his life, he didn’t mind. Each time Aunt Petunia allowed him out for chores, he worked quickly, eager to return to his small, cramped space and dive back into the books.
After confirming that the strange box and the books within were truly only visible to him, he felt a sense of relief. The Dursleys couldn’t take the books away from him, even if they wanted to. They had no idea what was hidden right under their noses.
Every night, Harry would pull out his small flashlight and read under the covers. He started with the first book, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, and was immediately swept away into an entirely different world. A world of magic. A world where a boy with his exact name discovered he was a wizard and was whisked off to a magical school called Hogwarts.
The more Harry read, the more unbelievable it seemed. This other Harry—the one in the books—was brave, strong, and had friends who cared about him. He went on adventures, faced danger, and defeated evil. In the book Harry had faced trolls, played Quidditch, and even encountered a dark wizard who wanted to kill him.
As Harry read each page, he found himself wishing, just for a moment, that he could be that Harry. The one who wasn’t stuck in a cupboard, unloved and unwanted. He would close his eyes and imagine stepping onto the grounds of Hogwarts, seeing the castle towers, and meeting the characters from the stories—Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, and Hagrid. He imagined what it would feel like to belong somewhere, to have a family that didn’t despise him.
But then, reality would creep back in. The Harry Potter in the books had friends, magic, and a place to call home. He—the Harry Potter who was currently huddled under a blanket with a flashlight—was still stuck in his cupboard under the stairs, where the only magic was making sure he stayed out of the Dursleys’ way.
Even so, the books became his escape. Each night he would read through another story, discovering more about this magical world. He learned about classes like Potions and Transfiguration, the different houses at Hogwarts, and magical creatures he could only dream of.
When he finished the first book, he immediately grabbed the second, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The adventures continued, with the book version of himself uncovering hidden secrets, battling a monstrous creature, and facing dark magic.
It was strange. Harry didn’t know what to think about the fact that these books seemed to know so much about him. The coincidences were too bizarre. A boy named Harry Potter, living with awful relatives, who one day discovers he’s special. It felt almost like a dream, but the weight of the book in his hands told him it was real, at least in the world of words.
As the days passed, he devoured more and more of the books. The stories became his lifeline. When the Dursleys mistreated him, when they shouted or shoved him back into his cupboard after chores, he would retreat into the pages. For a few hours, he could pretend he wasn’t in the cupboard at all. He was at Hogwarts, with friends by his side, learning magic, flying on broomsticks, and solving mysteries.
But as magical as the books were, a question lingered in the back of his mind, gnawing at him more and more as the summer dragged on: Why him?
Why had someone left these books in his cupboard? And why did they seem to know so much about his life?
Harry didn’t have answers. All he knew was that somehow, these books were meant for him, and they offered him something he had never had before: hope. The hope that maybe—just maybe—there was more to his life than living under the stairs. Maybe one day, he too would discover something extraordinary about himself, something that would change his life forever.
And so, night after night, Harry continued reading, waiting, and hoping.
…
With the end of summer came the start of the school year, but it wasn’t much better than life at Number 4, Privet Drive. Dudley’s gang made sure of that. Their favorite pastime, Harry Hunting, continued as usual, and Harry had long since learned how to avoid them, slipping through corridors and darting behind fences. But school, for all its troubles, did provide Harry with something valuable: supplies.
Despite the Dursleys’ best efforts to pretend Harry didn’t exist, they were forced to buy him school materials—if only to avoid raising the suspicions of nosy neighbors or teachers. So, with his patched-up clothes and broken shoes, Harry found himself in possession of a few second-hand textbooks, notebooks, and other school supplies.
It wasn’t much, but it was something. And Harry made the most of it. One notebook, in particular, had been borrowed from Dudley, who had too many to notice anyway. Harry had no spare of his own, so he used it to plan.
He couldn’t help it—there was a small, persistent voice in the back of his mind that kept whispering, What if the books are about you?
It was absurd, of course. But the books were invisible to the Dursleys, as if protected by some magic only Harry could see. And they told the story of a boy with the same name, with a lightning-shaped scar, who learned that his parents didn’t die in a car crash, as Aunt Petunia had always insisted, but were murdered by a dark wizard named Voldemort.
Harry had the same scar.
He tried to convince himself it was all just coincidence, but deep down, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there was something more to it. As he flipped through the pages of the books, one by one, reading about magic and danger, his thoughts often drifted to his parents—Lily and James Potter. The way the characters in the books spoke about them filled Harry with an overwhelming sense of loss, even though he’d never truly known them. He was said to have his mother’s green eyes, but the rest of him was the spitting image of his father, James.
The Dursleys never spoke of them, except in bitter, dismissive tones. Aunt Petunia, in particular, seemed to enjoy telling Harry that they’d died in a "drunken car crash" and that he was lucky she took him in at all. But the books said otherwise. The books claimed they died protecting him from Voldemort.
There were nights when Harry couldn't stop the tears from spilling over as he read about them—about how they were brave and loved him more than anything. But even as he mourned them, he knew one thing: there was no changing the past. His parents were gone, and he was stuck with the Dursleys.
Still, there was something in the books that stirred inside Harry. Something he hadn’t felt before—hope.
While Harry couldn't change the fate of his parents, he realized there was more at stake. The books spoke of others—people who could still be saved. Sirius Black, his godfather, wrongfully imprisoned in Azkaban. Remus Lupin, a friend of his parents, who suffered because of his condition. Cedric Diggory, an innocent boy whose life was cut short. Fred Weasley, who brought laughter to everyone but met a tragic end. Professor Dumbledore, who seemed invincible but died for the greater good. And even Professor Snape, a man who Harry thought was nothing but cruel but was, in the end, a hero.
They all died because of Voldemort or in the fight against him.
Harry’s mind raced. He couldn’t stop what had already happened, but if the books truly were about his future, maybe—just maybe—he could do something to change what was coming. There were so many lives at stake, and he couldn’t bear the thought of standing by and letting them perish if there was even the smallest chance he could stop it.
His hand hovered over the notebook, and then, slowly, he began to write.
He started planning.
If the future was anything like the books, he needed to be ready. He needed to know who these people were, what they meant to him, and what he could do to help them. The books had given him a glimpse into a world of magic and danger, but they also showed him something more—a world where he wasn’t alone.
If there was even a small possibility that this world was real, that the people in the books were waiting for him somewhere out there, then he had to be ready. Because if Harry had learned one thing from reading those stories, it was this:
He didn’t just want to be the boy who lived—he wanted to be the boy who made a difference.