The September chill had settled deeper into Privet Drive, the air sharp with the promise of winter. Inside the Dursley house, the cupboard under the stairs remained a stifling prison, its walls seeming to close in tighter each day. Harry Potter's frail six-year-old body, lay on the thin mattress, his mind a whirlwind of calculations and questions. A week had passed since he'd awakened in this world, and while he'd mapped the house and its dangers, the world beyond its walls remained a mystery. He needed knowledge—about this place, its rules, and the magic he vaguely recalled from the Harry Potter story. But knowledge required freedom, and freedom was something the Dursleys denied him.
He'd pieced together a troubling truth from past memories: the Dursleys had pulled him from school months ago, after a series of inexplicable incidents—books floating, a teacher's wig turning blue, a bully's shoes sticking to the floor. "Freakishness," Petunia had called it, her voice dripping with venom. Vernon had roared about reputations, and that was that.
No more school.
No more chances to learn, to escape the cupboard even for a few hours.
The realization burned in his chest, not just for the lost opportunity but for the deliberate cruelty. They wanted him ignorant, invisible, broken. But he was not going to give up. He'd find a way.
The house was quiet this morning, the Dursleys distracted by a rare event: Dudley's school play, a garish production of The Pied Piper. Vernon was at work, his absence a small relief, but Petunia and Dudley were in the living room, rehearsing lines. Harry seized the moment, slipping out of the cupboard. The hallway was dim, the floral wallpaper curling at the edges, and the air carried the faint scent of lavender from Petunia's air freshener. He paused, listening. Petunia's voice, sharp and impatient, corrected Dudley's stumbling delivery. Perfect. They'd be occupied for a while.
He crept toward the living room, not to enter but to pass by. The doorway revealed a familiar scene: the sagging sofa, the bulky television now silent, and Dudley standing on a makeshift stage of cushions, a striped scarf draped over his shoulders. Petunia sat on an armchair, her posture rigid, a script clutched in her hands. The carpet was littered with Dudley's toys, and the heavy brown curtains cast the room in a muted glow. Harry's eyes lingered on a bookshelf in the corner, one he'd noted during his first week but hadn't dared approach. It held Vernon's collection—mostly outdated manuals and self-help books, but also a few practical texts he'd glimpsed: mathematics, basic science, even a guide to local history. Knowledge, right there, if he could reach it.
His heart raced, not from fear but from a sudden, fierce hunger. He needed to know, to understand this world and prepare for whatever lay ahead—Hogwarts, magic, deadly events. As the thought took root, a strange warmth pulsed in his chest, like a spark igniting. The air around him shimmered faintly, and in the living room, Petunia's voice faltered mid-sentence. She blinked, her eyes glazing over, and Dudley slumped onto the sofa, muttering about being tired. Harry froze, his breath catching. This wasn't normal. It was… magic. His magic, reacting to his desire to learn undisturbed.
He didn't question it. The opportunity was too rare. He darted to the bookshelf, his bare feet silent on the faded green carpet. The shelf was tall, its wood scratched and dusty, and the books were crammed haphazardly. He scanned the titles, his programmer's mind prioritizing utility. Basic Algebra caught his eye—a slim, dog-eared paperback with a cracked spine. Math was universal, a foundation for logic and systems, critical for whatever learning lay in his future. He pulled it out, the pages yellowed but intact. Next, Introduction to Physics, a hefty tome with a faded cover. Mechanics, energy, forces—these could translate to magic, especially if it followed rules like code he remembers from before. He tucked it under his arm.
A third book, Medieval History, seemed less obvious but vital. If he was to navigate this world, he needed context—geography, culture, anything that might hint at the wizarding world's edges. The book was thin, and it smelled of old ink. Finally, he grabbed Practical Gardening, not for the Dursleys' sake but for survival. Plants could mean food, remedies, or even camouflage. He'd seen enough in the garden to know it might matter.
The stack was heavy for his weakened arms, but he clutched it tightly, retreating to the hallway. The warmth in his chest faded, and from the living room, Petunia's voice snapped back to life, scolding Dudley for slouching. Whatever he'd done—accidental magic, he was sure—had bought him just enough time. He slipped into the cupboard, closing the door softly. The cramped space was unchanged: the lumpy mattress, the splintered floorboards, the faint metallic tang of the bucket. But now, it held treasure. He hid the books under the mattress, next to his notebook and Game Boy parts, and allowed himself a small, fierce smile. The Dursleys thought they'd caged him. They were wrong.
The rest of the day was a blur of chores—scrubbing the kitchen floor, weeding the garden, dodging Dudley's taunts. But his mind was elsewhere, itching to crack open the books. That night, when the house fell silent, he pulled out Basic Algebra by the sliver of moonlight through the cupboard's high window. The pages were dense with equations, but his instincts hummed. Variables, functions, patterns—these were his language, even if the symbols were simpler than code. He traced the problems with his finger, solving them mentally, his hunger for knowledge sharper than the ache in his stomach.
Over the next few days, he carved out moments to read, always when the Dursleys were distracted. Petunia's obsession with the play continued, and Vernon's long hours at the drill company left gaps in their vigilance. Harry noticed his magic stirring each time he focused on learning, subtle but undeniable. Once, while reaching for Introduction to Physics during Dudley's nap, the living room clock slowed, its ticks stretching into seconds. Another time, as he studied Surrey: A Local History in the cupboard, the kitchen radio blared static, pulling Petunia's attention. The magic wasn't conscious—he couldn't control it—but it bent the world just enough to protect his pursuit.
The physics book was a revelation. Concepts like force, momentum, and energy sparked ideas about magic. If spells were like programs, they'd need inputs and outputs, maybe even conservation laws. He didn't know the rules yet, but he'd learn them, just as he'd learned to code. The history book offered practical insights: maps of endland, mentions of old estates that felt vaguely magical, and references to "odd" local legends. At the end of the history book was some local materials. He memorized street names, bus routes, anything that might help if he needed to run. Practical Gardening was slower going, but he noted edible plants and basic herbal remedies, filing them away for survival.
He didn't keep detailed diary entries like before, but he jotted quick notes in his notebook: observations about the Dursleys' patterns, new resources (a pencil stub, a plastic bag for hiding food), and questions about magic. Why did it react to his need to learn? Was it tied to the Harry Potter story? He added a single goal: Find more books, gather more knowledge, especially about magic. School was out of reach, but knowledge wasn't.
By the week's end, he ventured beyond the house, driven by the need to understand his surroundings. Petunia sent him to the corner shop for milk, a rare errand. He stepped onto Privet Drive, the September air biting at his exposed arms. The street was as he'd seen through the fence: identical brick houses, their windows glinting under a cloudy sky. Lawns were manicured, flowerbeds bursting with late blooms—marigolds, chrysanthemums, all colors the Dursleys' garden lacked. A postman cycled by, his bag rattling, and a dog barked from a nearby yard. The air smelled of petrol and cut grass, and the distant hum of traffic carried from the main road.
The shop was a five-minute walk, past a park where children screamed on swings and a bus stop with a faded timetable. He memorized the layout: the park's exits, the bus routes, the alleys between houses. The shop itself was a cramped, fluorescent-lit box, its shelves stuffed with canned goods, snacks, and magazines. The floor was scuffed linoleum, and a bell jingled as he entered. Behind the counter, an elderly man with thick glasses read a newspaper, barely glancing up. Harry grabbed the milk from a humming fridge, but his eyes roamed the magazine rack. A science journal caught his attention—articles on astronomy, basic chemistry. He couldn't steal it, not with the shopkeeper watching, but he noted the title. Knowledge, even glimpsed, was progress.
Back at the house, he handed Petunia the milk, enduring her sneer about his slowness. But the trip had been worth it. He'd seen the world outside, mapped a fraction of it, and felt his magic stir again, a faint pulse when he'd lingered by the magazine rack. It was protecting his quest, or maybe responding to it. Either way, it was his.
In the cupboard that night, he sat with Introduction to Physics, the equations glowing in his mind like lines of code. He was still a prisoner, still hungry, still alone. But he was learning, building a foundation for whatever came next—Hogwarts. The Dursleys could lock him away, but they couldn't cage his mind. He'd rewrite his world, one stolen page at a time.
[Word Count: 1601]
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Hope you are enjoying the story during this starting phase. I will be making a little speed up on his life in the coming chapter, nothing too fast but a little more than it is going on right now.
He will be improving overall and will have some form of understanding regarding the changes that is present in this Alternate Universe of Harry Potter.
Let me know in the comments if you have something to add to this story or any part of this story that needs some clarification.