Chapter 3
Harry spent the autumn and winter rereading the books, going through them carefully, marking everything he thought might be important. He had a growing sense that they weren’t just fantasy—they were somehow connected to him, to his future. The biggest event in recent months had been an incident during one of Dudley’s gang’s Harry Hunting games. While trying to escape, Harry had somehow ended up on the roof of the school without any idea how he got there
Uncle Vernon had been furious when Harry tried to explain what happened. He had come up with the most logical excuse he could—that the wind must have caught him or something. But Vernon didn’t want to hear it and locked Harry in his cupboard as punishment.
But Harry didn’t care. The books had mentioned something just like this, where the Harry in the story accidentally made things happen—like ending up on the roof of a building or making glass vanish at the zoo. These small details only strengthened Harry’s belief that the books were, indeed, describing his future.
Determined to be prepared, Harry spent every spare moment meticulously organizing everything he read. He used one of Dudley’s old notebooks to write down every character in the books, giving each person their own page. On these pages, he listed everything he knew about them—whether they were friend or foe, any important facts, and how they were connected to him. He wrote down details about Hagrid, Professor McGonagall, Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, and even dark figures like Voldemort and the Death Eaters.
Once he finished organizing the characters, Harry moved on to the events described in the books. He meticulously created a timeline, noting all the key moments and paying close attention to dates and details. He started with Dudley’s birthday, June 23rd.
According to the books, the letters began arriving during the summer and in the following days, the letters would continue to arrive in increasingly creative ways, causing Uncle Vernon to panic. Even if books didn’t give exact dates Uncle Vernon would make them leave the house on Sunday so by going back he could pinpoint the exact date.
One thing that seemed almost too unreal was the mention of his own vault in Gringotts, the goblin-run bank. The idea that he had money, stored safely in a magical vault, felt impossible. There were moments when Harry wondered if he could sneak into London and find out for himself whether Diagon Alley really existed. After all, the books told him exactly where it was.
But how could he get there? He had no money for a bus or train ticket, and the magical methods of travel he read about—like the Knight Bus—required a wand or other magical things he didn’t have. Even if he did manage to reach Diagon Alley, he wasn’t sure if it would be wise to buy his school supplies early. If the Dursleys found out, they’d surely make his life even harder or even find a way to prevent him from going to Hogwarts.
The same went for the letter from Hogwarts. Even if Harry managed to intercept it before Uncle Vernon, how would he send his reply? Wizards used owls to deliver their mail, but Harry didn’t know if he could find a mail-delivering owl on Privet Drive. Could he send a letter through the regular post instead? He didn’t have any money for stamps, but maybe magical letters didn’t need them?
In the end, Harry decided that the best plan was to let things happen as close to the timeline in the books as possible. If the books were predicting his future, he needed to stay patient and let the events unfold naturally. He didn’t want to risk altering anything and making his life with the Dursleys even worse.
However, one thing still nagged at Harry’s mind—Mrs. Figg. If the books were to be believed, she wasn’t just the strange old woman who lived nearby and took care of him occasionally. In the books, Mrs. Figg was a Squib, someone born into a wizarding family who couldn’t do magic but knew all about the wizarding world.
The idea was tempting. Could she be his connection to the magical world? Should he ask her? But what if he was wrong? What if she had no idea what he was talking about, and word got back to the Dursleys?
The more Harry thought about the books, the more questions piled up in his mind. He knew he needed to be careful, especially when it came to Mrs. Figg. What if she didn’t want to help him? Worse, what if she started asking questions—how did he know she was a Squib? How did he know about the wizarding world at all? Harry couldn’t afford to give anything away. The books had no mention of invisible books that described the future. Sure, there were prophecies, but those were stored in the Department of Mysteries. Full books about his life? That seemed beyond even the wildest magic he had read about.
Harry’s fourth year at Hogwarts, for example, took up an entire thick volume—double the size of the previous book. Reading it in secret under the Dursleys’ noses had taken him almost three weeks.
Still, Harry was determined to remain cautious. The next time Aunt Petunia sent him to Mrs. Figg’s, maybe he’d find some proof of the magical world she was connected to. She was the only link to the wizarding world that he had in the neighborhood, and he couldn’t ignore the possibility that she knew more than she let on. He’d keep an eye out for anything unusual, anything that could confirm what the books had told him.
But as spring approached, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that time was running out. His birthday—his eleventh birthday—was getting closer, and according to the books, that was when everything would change. He still didn’t have a concrete plan, and the more he tried to make sense of what was in the books, the more confused he became. There were so many things that didn’t add up.
For one, book Harry seemed so uninterested in learning. How could that be? Harry, stuck under the stairs all his life, had always loved learning, even though the Dursleys hated when he did better in school than Dudley. But in the books, his future self barely seemed to care about studying magic, only doing the bare minimum. He had evil dark Lord after him but Harry still couldn’t understand it—how could anyone not be excited about learning magic?
And then there was the matter of friends. Harry had always longed for real friends, but even though Ron and Hermione were his best friends in the books, there were so many other people at Hogwarts. How was it possible that he seemed to know so little about the other students in his year? His notes on some of the characters were frustratingly empty.
For example, Millicent Bulstrode—a Slytherin, cat owner and seems to be friends with Pansy—was briefly mentioned by Ron, who called her ugly, and later as part of Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad. But aside from that, there was nothing. And it wasn’t just the Slytherins. Even students from his own house, like Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, Parvati Patil, and Lavender Brown, barely appeared in his notes. Lavender, who, according to the books, had died in the Battle of Hogwarts—how was it possible that he had spent six years at school with these people, and yet knew so little about them?
The lack of information puzzled Harry. It seemed like Book Harry never tried to find out more about them. Take Neville, for instance. Book-Harry had learned about his parents’ tragic fate by accident. How could his future self not have been curious enough to dig into the details of the war that he was supposed to be a center of? Why didn’t he go to the library and ask questions? Hermione found so much there; she always managed to uncover important information.
And then there was the issue of secrecy. The books made it clear that people were always trying to hide things from him—whether it was Dumbledore, Snape, or even his friends at times. Harry was determined not to let that happen in real life. If these books really were showing his future, he would need to be more proactive. He wouldn’t let important details slip by him.
But the more Harry thought about it, the more certain he became—the books didn’t describe everything. He didn’t know what the criteria were, but slowly, a strange certainty began to grow inside him.
The books were incomplete.
They gave him glimpses, outlines of what might come, but not every detail was there. And if that was true, then there were gaps—things the books didn’t or couldn’t show him. He would have to fill in those gaps himself, navigating between what he knew and what was still unknown.
…
Barely a week later, Aunt Petunia, who had been growing suspicious of Harry’s lack of resistance to being locked in the cupboard for months, sent him off to Mrs. Figg's again. She had searched his cupboard more than once during the winter, probably trying to figure out why Harry seemed so unbothered by the confinement. But, as always, she hadn’t seen the box of books, nor had she noticed the notebook Harry had hidden beneath a loose floorboard.
As Harry trudged down the street toward Mrs. Figg’s house, he tried to calm his racing thoughts. He had decided it was time to gather information. If Mrs. Figg was really connected to the wizarding world, he might be able to spot something—anything—that would prove the books were real.
When Harry arrived, Mrs. Figg greeted him at the door, her frizzy gray hair and cardigan the same as always. Her house smelled like it always did, too—of old furniture and cats. So many cats. They brushed up against Harry’s legs, meowing softly as Mrs. Figg ushered him inside.
“Come on, Harry, come in. I’ve just put on some tea,” she said, giving him a once-over like she always did. “Dudley giving you trouble again?”
“Not today,” Harry replied, glancing around the room, his eyes scanning the shelves for anything that might stand out. There were framed photographs of her cats, knick-knacks, and the usual faded wallpaper. Nothing seemed out of place.
He settled onto the sofa, and one of the cats, Mr. Tibbles, jumped up onto his lap. Mrs. Figg disappeared into the kitchen to fetch the tea, leaving Harry with a few moments to quietly explore with his eyes.
The living room was cluttered, as always, with old newspapers and cat toys strewn about. But Harry noticed something new—a bookshelf in the corner. It looked just like any other, but one of the books seemed... different. It was thicker than the others, with a dark leather binding that didn’t quite fit with Mrs. Figg’s usual collection of gardening and knitting books.
Harry’s curiosity piqued. Could it be something magical?
Before he could get a closer look, Mrs. Figg returned, carrying a tray with mismatched cups of tea and some stale biscuits. She sat down in her usual chair and smiled at him kindly.
“Go on, have some,” she said, pouring the tea. “You look like you could use it.”
Harry took a cup, careful not to seem too eager. He sipped the tea, trying to figure out how to approach the subject without raising suspicion. Mrs. Figg seemed like her usual self, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she might be hiding something—after all, the books said she was a Squib.
Trying to be as polite as possible, Harry asked Mrs. Figg about her cats, shared the latest of Dudley’s ridiculous ideas, and engaged in the most proper conversation he could manage about the weather. Mrs. Figg seemed content enough with the small talk, though she gave him the occasional odd glance, as if suspecting there was something on his mind.
Finally, she stood up to go into the kitchen. “I’ll fetch us some more biscuits,” she said, her slippers shuffling across the floor.
This was exactly the moment Harry had been waiting for. As soon as she disappeared through the door, he leaped up from his seat and darted over to the bookshelf. His heart pounded as he grabbed the thick book that had stood out earlier—the one with the dark leather binding. The title, embossed in gold letters, read A History of Magic.
Harry’s breath caught in his throat. This was it—proof.
He quickly opened the book to a random page, his fingers trembling slightly as he turned the musty old paper. His eyes scanned the text until a sentence caught his attention:
"Most celebrated of these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps, Godric's Hollow, the West Country village where the great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where Bowman Wright, Wizarding smith, forged the first Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of the names of ancient magical families…”
Harry’s mind raced. Godric's Hollow… wasn’t that where his parents had lived? He remembered reading something about it in the books. The idea that his own history might be tied to such a famous place was overwhelming. He wanted to keep reading, to absorb every word about the magical world he had only seen glimpses of in the books under his bed.
But he didn’t have time. Mrs. Figg could return at any moment.
With great reluctance, Harry closed the book and carefully slid it back into its place on the shelf. His heart was still hammering in his chest as he moved quickly to sit back on the couch, just as the sound of Mrs. Figg’s footsteps echoed from the hallway. She reappeared a moment later, balancing a tray of stale biscuits and fresh tea.
“You seem a bit quiet today, Harry,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly as she set the tray down. “Something on your mind?”
Harry forced a smile and shook his head, trying to look as innocent as possible. “No, nothing really,” he lied, still reeling from what he’d just discovered.
Mrs. Figg studied him for a moment longer before she seemed to accept his answer. “Well, you’re a good boy for keeping me company,” she said, settling into her chair again and picking up her tea.
Harry kept the conversation going, but his mind was elsewhere. A History of Magic had confirmed what he had suspected all along—Mrs. Figg knew about the magical world. Not only that, but it also confirmed what Harry had begun to believe: magic was real.
That brief glimpse into the book had given him more than he’d ever expected to find in her house. It was a small victory, but an important one. It was the proof he needed to solidify everything the mysterious books had been telling him.
As soon as he left Mrs. Figg’s house and returned to Privet Drive, Harry knew what he had to do—he needed a plan. Not just for himself, but for the wizarding world and for the people who would suffer or die because of the events he now knew were coming.
Harry Potter, the poor orphan who lived in the cupboard under the stairs, was not just a forgotten boy. He was the Boy Who Lived. And he was a wizard.