Getting there was easy. One simply headed to the town of Little Whinging, found the street of Privet Drive, and headed to the second to last house on the right hand side. Once there, one would head inside the house and enter a living room, to the right of which was a staircase, and under this staircase was a cupboard.

Now all of this may sound insignificant to one looking in from the outside. But, to the boy, in the cupboard, under the staircase, to the right of the living room, inside the house that sat second to last on the right hand side of the street called Privet Drive, in the town of Little Whinging, it was his whole world.

Harry Potter, of Number 4, Privet Drive, slept peacefully enough, given his situation. That is, of course, until a sharp tapping came noisily into existence on the outside of his cupboard door.

"Wake up boy!" came the shrill voice of his aunt, Petunia. "Breakfast needs to be made before Vernon and Dudley wake up," she added with three additional raps on the cupboard.

Harry sat up sleepily, taking no notice of the spider that, having taken up residence on his chest, was suddenly sent tumbling down to the sheets below.

"Are you up yet?" she shrilled in a rather loud whisper, sounding much more like a deflating bicycle horn than a woman.

Harry yawned, "Nearly up Aunt Petunia," slipped from his mouth as he stretched.

A furious sigh was heard, "Well hop to it boy! We've only got an hour before Vernon's alarm goes off! I expect Dudders will be hungry as ever what with it being his special day!" She finished this on a whimsical note as she thought of her son Dudley.

Dudley Dursley was a mountain of a boy, and while Mrs. Dursley likened him to a baby angel, Harry likened him to a baby manatee. At ten, no eleven, years old, the boy resembled a parade balloon more than a child, pudginess bulging through every opening in whatever grey fabrics he'd decided to wear that day.

Another furious rap and a shrill, "Boy!" brought Harry from his musing as Mrs. Dursley's, already limited, patience ran out.

"I'm up now," chimed Harry as he dusted off hand-me-down shirt he'd been given to wear. He opened his cupboard inward and stepped out into the living room of Number 4 Privet Drive. Immediately, he was greeted with the angry face of his aunt Petunia.

As far as women go, Petunia Dursley would never win a sash and a beauty competition. With her thin neck, long face, grey Sunday dress, and false finger nails, she looked more likely to take "Best Kept Vulture" than "Miss London."

"You," she began, "are to fix a large breakfast for your uncle and cousin," she spoke low and slow, as though speaking to an infant on why they shouldn't bite an electrical cord. "I'll expect it done in an hour and so help me if there is any funny business!" She trailed off, leaving the implied threat to hang in the air like the smell of old cabbage.

Harry had only just taken the last of the bacon from the stove when he heard the familiar sound of His uncle Vernon's alarm clock. Seeing that his time was almost up, as surely it would take Uncle Vernon only minutes to wake up his sleeping son and make his way down to the kitchen, Harry quickly pilfered three glasses from the cabinet and filled them. One with coffee, for Uncle Vernon, one with tea, for Aunt Petunia, and the last with orange juice, for Dudley.

He then quickly took his spot at the far end of the table at least three feet from any of the other seats. He hadn't a plate of food or a cup of drink to be seen. He wasn't to eat with the Dursley Family; he was to eat once the family had left the table.

The kitchen door, as though wanting to keep the boy's thoughts from wandering to dark places, swung open and a rather plump man wearing grey and white striped pajamas stepped through. Beady brown eyes looking out from beneath bushy eyebrows scanned the room and found Harry, sitting exactly as he should be.

"Boy," grunted his uncle from behind his magnificent mustache in greeting before sitting at the opposite end of the table from Harry.

Harry needn't, nor did he have time to, respond as the kitchen door swung open to reveal what appeared to be a pig walking upright. This pig was his cousin, Dudley. And today was Dudley's eleventh birthday, a fact Aunt Petunia refused to let him forget as she trailed behind Dudley, carrying a birthday banner in one hand, and a birthday cake in the other.

As his aunt and uncle began to sing birthday tidings to Dudley, Harry was distracted by the sound of the doorbell, signaling the morning's post. And, as was routine, he excused himself to retrieve it.

Stooping down to pick up the deliveries, Harry silently flicked through them to see what had arrived, a favorite pass-time of his.

A brown, official looking, envelope that more than likely contained the power bill, a check for Uncle Vernon from his drilling company, a plain white envelope that smelled of hairspray and wet dog, No doubt a birthday card from Aunt Marge, thought Harry, quickly flicking to the next item.

This item was intriguing. It wasn't the old looking envelope that caught the young Potter's eye, or the wax seal that held it close. It wasn't even the nearly unnatural shade of green that comprised the ink the address was written in. No, what caught Harry Potter's eye was to whom the letter was addressed…

Mr. H. J. Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs

Number Four Privet Drive

Little Whinging

He never received post. This was not normal.

This thought stopped Harry cold. This is not normal. He thought to himself again. If my Aunt and Uncle see this it'll be gone before I know it. And so, with this in mind, Harry slipped the letter through the blinds on his cupboard door as he made his way back to the kitchen. He silently swore to himself to read it tonight while his relatives were sleeping.

Finally reentering the kitchen he was greeted with an obviously annoyed Dudley, having just counted his mountain range of presents and finding it lacking, the laughing visage of Uncle Vernon as the man guffawed about how is son wanted "his money's worth," and the worried face of Aunt Petunia as she was finishing up on the telephone.

"Vernon," she began, a tone of disappointment darkened her words, "that was Mrs. Figg. She's broken her leg and can't take the boy."

Uncle Vernon's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to connect points A and B. "Why the bloody hell not?" he ground out, "a busted up leg doesn't keep her from simply watching the boy. It's not as if she'd have to change his nappies!" Vernon growled out the last sentence, obviously unhappy.

"She's in the hospital Vernon!" snapped his aunt. "She doesn't want the boy alone at her house anymore than we do here!"

"E-excuse me..?" mumbled Harry, his first words since exiting his cupboard sounded low and weak. "But why did you need someone to look after me today?"

It was as though someone had muted the Dursleys, that is until Vernon spoke, his voice low, and threatening, "Firstly, I never gave you permission to speak, boy." Harry flinched at this, in the excitement he had forgotten the house rules, forgotten that he was only to speak when spoken to or when in his cupboard. "Secondly, we need something to do with you while we take our Dudley to the zoo today."

Harry fidgeted awkwardly, trying his best to portray that he had a suggestion.

His uncle's eyes narrowed on him, "What is it boy?" spat the man, "Got something to say?"

"Y-yes sir," managed Harry, building his courage, "you could lock me in my cupboard, so I can't destroy the house. I'll even go without breakfast or lunch!" Harry sounded almost pleading, and while normally this would have been suspicious in the mind of Vernon Dursley, today was his son's birthday. And he'd be damned before he let his freak of a nephew destroy the special day.

His face contorted, struggling to find the answer when he finally sputtered out, "Fine!" Slipping another piece of bacon under his mustache, he ordered Harry to his cupboard.

And there he sat, in the cupboard, hiding his letter until he knew for sure that his relatives were gone. He listened as the laughing Dudley stomped down the stairs to meet his scrawny friend, Piers Polkis. He listened as Uncle Vernon took his keys from the shelf next to the cupboard. And finally he listened as his relatives left the house, piled into their car, and drove away.

This was it. Harry's mouth went dry as he pulled his letter from behind his pillow. Taking a moment to look it over before tearing into it, he took in the letter. The envelope was a natural shade of paper, looking like an older newspaper. The wax seal that held the letter close was unable to be made out in the low light of the cupboard.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Harry tore the envelope open and slipped the letter from its confines. Hands shaking, Harry unfurled the letter and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

If he hadn't known any better, Harry would have thought this to be a sick joke, played on him by the Dursleys. But he did know better. They could tolerate a joke no more than they could tolerate him. So Harry was left with one of three choices. Either someone other than the Dursley's were cruel enough to play this kind of joke on him, the sender had made a mistake and the letter was not meant for him, or perhaps, just perhaps, this was all true and he really was a w- a wi-. He couldn't even bring himself to think the word. But I must! He thought to himself, If I'm to believe this then I must overcome. Harry steadied himself and said aloud, "Perhaps I am a wizard…"

That night, once the Dursleys had returned, let him out of his cupboard, and after listening to Dudley complains, quite loudly, that the largest snake in the zoo was a stick in the mud, Harry pilfered a pen and a piece of paper from the phone-side notepad. He had decided, he would reply tonight!

Luckily for young Harry, his uncle never locked him in his cupboard at night, unless he was in trouble. So, that night he sat out to write his letter.

Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,

While I don't quite know how I could have been accepted to your school, having never heard of it before today, I would like to attend very much.

On the school book list, I'm afraid I may need help, as I have neither money nor any idea on how to find such items. I wouldn't know where to begin looking for a pewter cauldron!

And what do you mean "owl?" Is that a wizard term for the post? I have so many questions Sir and I hope you will be able to answer them.

Sincerely,

Harry James Potter

Harry folded the letter in half and quickly jotted down the sending address of:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

He then, quietly as he could, snuck out of his cupboard and tiptoed through the living room, pausing every couple of steps to listen for Uncle Vernon's noisy snores.

Reaching the door harry grabbed the nob and turned, he felt a resistance and feared the door was locked but no sooner had he felt that fear had the resistance vanished. Deciding that his uncle had only locked it half-way by mistake, Harry made a note to lock it back on his way back inside.

Stepping quickly across the cold surface of the concrete walkway, it took Harry mere moments to reach the postbox. No sooner than he had though, he realized he had two deadly problems with his plan. First was that he couldn't send this through the postbox! What would the carrier think? What if Uncle Vernon found the letter before it was taken? Second, and less important if one were to ask Harry, was that he had forgotten stamps anyway. Quickly noting that he could ask Mrs. Figg when he was sent to her on Sunday while his relatives went to church, Harry turned around.

A flurry of quiet noises sounded as soon as his back was turned, looking behind him he saw a beautiful creature, it stood nearly 70cm tall, was brown with black flecks, had two horn-like feathers atop its head and two calculating orange eyes. Harry recognized this creature and a smiled split across his face, "An owl!" he whispered excitedly.

He approached the owl slowly with his letter, which it looked at expectedly. But instead of reaching out with the letter, as the owl was so accustomed, the boy reached out with his other hand. Unsure of what to do, it simply stood there as the boy's fingers reached the owl. After a second or two it realized two things, it was being petted, and it really liked being petted. But, all nice things must come to an end, so the owl stretched its head toward the letter and clicked its beak.

As though woken up from a dream, Harry quickly remembered his letter. "You can take this for me?" he quietly asked the owl.

The owl gave him a look that seemed to ask, 'Why would you think I couldn't?' It then stretched out its leg, upon which was a tube. Rolling up his letter, the boy slipped it into the owls carrying case and, giving the owl a final scratch behind its wing, backed away, giving the owl enough room to spread its wings and take off.

Waiting a moment to watch the creature fly, Harry quickly remembered that his goose would be cooked if his uncle found him outside in the middle of the night. And so with his letter sent, and a bounce in his step, Harry Potter made his way back into Number 4 Privet Drive, witches, wizards, and magic on his mind.