Harry had always been an early riser. His clairvoyance, a constant hum in the back of his mind, kept him aware of his surroundings even in sleep. It was a useful ability, one that had saved him from countless ambushes by Dudley and his gang. But this morning, something was different. As the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in his cupboard door, his awareness pinged—a presence outside, perched atop the letterbox. An owl.
Harry frowned. Owls weren’t uncommon in Little Whinging, but they didn’t usually linger on letterboxes. And they certainly didn’t carry envelopes in their beaks. Curiosity piqued, Harry slipped out of his cupboard, moving silently through the house. The Dursleys were still asleep, their snores echoing down the hallway. He opened the front door just enough to slip through, the cool morning air brushing against his face.
The owl watched him with unblinking eyes, its head tilted slightly as if assessing him. Harry hesitated, then reached out and took the envelope. The moment his fingers touched it, his heart skipped a beat. The address was written in emerald-green ink, and it was addressed to him—but not just to him. It was addressed to Harry Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.
Harry’s breath hitched. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he felt as though the ground had dropped out from under him. Someone knew. Someone knew where he lived, where he slept, what he was. His mind raced, his abilities flaring to life. Reduced Presence, Environmental Camouflage, Unnoticed Presence in Memories—all of them useless against an enemy he couldn’t see, couldn’t predict. He bolted back into the house, his heart pounding, and shut himself in his cupboard.
For the first time in years, Harry felt truly afraid. Not of the Dursleys, not of Dudley’s fists or Uncle Vernon’s shouts, but of something far more dangerous. Something that could see him, even when he was invisible. Something that knew his secrets.
His mind screamed at him to hide, to disappear, to become untraceable. And then, as if answering his desperate plea, he heard it—a soft ding, like the chime of a bell, echoing in his mind. It was a sound he had come to recognize, one that signaled the arrival of a new ability. His Ability Tracker, a mental interface he had developed to keep track of his growing powers, flared to life. Words appeared in his mind, crisp and clear:
New Ability Unlocked: Shroud
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Description: Hide from magical divination or divining devices.
Effect: Renders the user undetectable by magical tracking or scrying methods.
Harry’s breath slowed as the panic ebbed away. He focused on the ability, feeling its edges, testing its limits. It was like wrapping himself in a cloak of shadows, one that would keep him safe from whatever—or whoever—was out there. But as he calmed down, another thought struck him. The description mentioned magical divination. Magic. Was that what this was? Was that what he was?
He glanced at his Ability Tracker, the mental list that cataloged his powers. It was a skill he had developed out of necessity, a way to keep track of his growing abilities and determine if he needed anything new. The list was extensive now, each ability neatly labeled and described:
Reduced Presence: Become unnoticeable to others.
Emotional Masking: Suppress or hide emotions.
Environmental Camouflage: Blend into surroundings.
Unnoticed Presence in Memories: Erase presence from others’ memories.
Clairvoyance: Expanded perception.
Superior Understanding: Comprehend complex concepts with ease.
Shroud: Hide from magical divination or divining devices.
Harry looked down at the envelope in his hands. The green ink shimmered faintly in the dim light of the cupboard. Taking a deep breath, he opened it. Inside was a letter, written on thick, expensive parchment. The words seemed to leap off the page:
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
Harry stared at the letter, his mind racing. A school for witchcraft and wizardry. Magic. It was real. All of it—the owls, the envelopes, the strange abilities he’d always had—it was real. And he wasn’t alone.
For a moment, he felt a surge of pure, unbridled joy. This was it. This was his way out. A chance to leave the Dursleys behind, to step into a world where he belonged. But then, the doubts crept in. What if it was a trick? What if someone was playing a cruel joke on him? What if he wasn’t really special, just delusional?
He pushed the doubts aside. The letter was too detailed, too precise to be a prank. And the abilities he’d developed—they weren’t normal. They couldn’t be. This was real. This was his chance.
As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the cracks in his cupboard door, Harry allowed himself a small, hopeful smile. The world was bigger than he’d ever imagined, and he was ready to step into it.