Chapter One: The Boy with the Impossible Mind
The storm over Privet Drive was not natural.
Lightning twisted in spirals. Rain drifted upward, tracing invisible glyphs in the air. And thunder echoed
with impossible rhythm—like the heartbeat of a slumbering beast.
Inside Number Four, a boy with messy black hair and eyes brighter than emeralds sat in a cupboard
under the stairs—reading. Not a children's story, not a comic, but a faded book titled "The Theory of
Magical Resonance in Non-Wand Spellcasting."
Harry James Potter didn't know where the book had come from. One morning it was just there, resting
beside him like it had always belonged. No one else could see it. Aunt Petunia vacuumed right through
it one afternoon and blinked like she'd forgotten something. She had.
That was the thing about Harry: oddities clung to him.
By age three, he'd spoken in a language neither Dursleys nor books could explain—later identified by a
dream-voice as Arithmantic Proto-Runes. At five, he began rearranging chessboards mid-game without
touching them. At seven, he fashioned a magical lens from broken glass and heat. Magic came to him
unbidden—not just spells, but the truth of it. Its nature. Its rhythm.
And it wasn't only magic. He understood everything faster. Words fell into place like he was
remembering, not learning. Mathematics, history, chemistry—child's play. His mind was a forge, and
magic was its fire.
Yet no one noticed. Or they refused to. The Dursleys called it freakishness. Teachers wrote concerned
notes that never led to action. And Harry? He just waited. Something was coming. He knew it. Like the
slow intake of breath before a shout.
And then came the letters.